Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When Colin walks into the tastefully appointed entryway of Lilac Grove, he very nearly turns around and walks right back out.

Why are there so many people here? Where the hell did they all come from? How can there possibly be enough canapés on Earth to feed them all?

God, he can already hear the small talk and the fake laughter and the obsequious flattery, and now he’s getting all sweaty with dread. Or maybe that’s just from the thick wool of the suit jacket that Kate and Anthony insisted he go with tonight. He personally had advocated for the bedazzled crop top that Ben made him wear to Pride last year, but they vetoed it, for some reason. Some people just don’t understand the importance of taking fashion risks.

It's a good thing Colin was able to convince (exorbitantly bribe) that pissy wanker Dominic to squeeze in their booking on a night the restaurant would normally be closed, because if the chosen venue had been any smaller, people would be packed so tight they’d be involuntarily getting to second base with each other. And there is literally only one person in the vicinity he wants to do that with, and she’s currently holding court by the hors d’oeuvres making small talk with Eloise.

And standing next to her boyfriend, which sends a jolt of panic through Colin’s body when he thinks about what he’s come here to do. It shouldn’t, because he knew Fuckface McFeathers would be here and he spent a lengthy pre-event shower devising plans to get Penelope alone so he can, you know, rip his beating heart out of his chest and place it in her tiny little hand to do what she will with it. No big deal.

But still, Colin isn’t exactly Mr. Confrontation. This whole thing is…kind of a lot.

Especially because God, Penelope looks so fucking good, Colin’s in real danger of fainting like a harlequin maiden right here on the spot. She’s wearing this pretty pale blue dress that’s stippled with sequins, and her hair is gorgeous and curly and free, save for a few pieces that are artfully pinned up by those same jeweled hair clips that had sent him into a spiral all those weeks ago. She’s perfect. She’s so incredibly, irrefutably perfect that he can already feel his body responding in ways it really shouldn’t right now, lest he accidentally violate a bunch of unsuspecting wealthy geriatrics.

He's going to die. He’s doing to die, and all that will be left of him for the authorities to find is a sad puddle of jizz on the floor.

What a charming image, he thinks, grabbing two glasses of bubbly from a passing waiter’s tray and downing them in one go. He’s arrived at the “double fisting champagne” portion of the evening a little sooner than anticipated, but he’s nothing if not adaptable.

“There he is, the man of the hour,” booms Anthony’s voice from behind him, and he claps Colin on the shoulder so hard that Colin has to suppress a wince. He’s beyond pleased that the two of them are on much better terms now, but dear God, he’s going to need his brother to take the testosterone down to at least a six in his presence.

“Isn’t that Mum, actually?”

Anthony tilts his head. “Mum’s the man of the hour?”

“Absolutely she is,” Colin replies easily. “Our mother’s power is too potent to be confined by something as insignificant as gender.”

“Hmm. I can’t argue with you there,” Anthony says thoughtfully, glancing over at their mother, who’s masterfully navigating the crowd like the world class mingler she is. “God, she’s terrifying, isn’t she?”

Colin sighs fondly. “She sure is,” he says. He can’t possibly fathom wanting to spend your own birthday generating small talk with these crusty high society vultures, but his mother has always gracefully accepted what it means to have the amount of money they have and what it takes to actually do something good with it—namely, maintaining fruitful connections with other rich people who are a lot less keen to part with even the smallest fraction of their fortunes. She understands her role, and she executes it better than anyone.

Colin may not want her lifestyle, because enduring conversations with these particular people drains him of his life force like he’s a character in the world’s most boring, low-stakes video game. But he admires her calmness, her certainty, with a clawing kind of desperation.

“So how are you feeling?” Anthony asks him, pulling him out of his reverie and looking him up and down. “You look good. You look loose.”

Colin feels so tense he thinks he might actually pull a muscle just by standing still, but he can’t bear to dim any of Anthony’s excitement, because it’s kind of adorable.

“I’m good,” he says vaguely, hoping it’s enough to derail any further questions. “Did you guys have to choose this particular suit, though? I’m sweating my balls off in this thing. Like, I have a major swamp ass situation brewing here.”

Anthony gives him a look so withering, Colin almost wants to capture it on film.

“When you talk to Penelope,” Anthony starts slowly, in a tone not unlike the one he uses with little Augie. “I wouldn’t lead with that.”

Colin immediately bursts out laughing, and he can’t help but a relax just a little bit when Anthony gives him a small grin in return. Even though he still feels like he’s vibrating at a frequency high enough to pulverize cement, it also warms him from the inside that they can be like this together now. Not for the first time since the morning before, he vows to himself to never let things with Anthony get that bad again for as long as he lives.

“Ant,” he says softly, his typical urge to keep things light flagging in the face of his fear. “What if she doesn’t want me like that? What if…what if this is a huge mistake?”

It’s almost amusing, watching his brother’s face immediately revert to the seriousness Colin is used to, like someone turned a dial on the back of his head or something.

“Colin,” he says firmly, forcing Colin to look him straight in the eye with his gaze, the same way he used to when he was admonishing him for not abiding by the family chore wheel. “You’re my brother, and I love you, and I say this with all the respect in the world. But you’re being an idiot.”

Colin frowns. “Hey—”

“That girl loves you, and has since before those sweaty balls of yours even dropped,” Anthony continues. Colin grimaces and opens his mouth to contest that point, but he’s too distracted by the rather revolting mental picture. “And you love her, yes?”

“Yes, but—”

“And you want to be with her?”

“Of course, but—”

“Well then it’s time to sack up and finally let yourselves have what you want!” Anthony exclaims, squeezing Colin’s shoulders with feeling. “I mean it, buddy. Sack the fuck up.”

Once again, Colin finds himself feeling both bewildered and weirdly motivated by Anthony’s forceful little speech. Maybe…maybe he can do this? Is it possible?

“Right,” he mutters, taking a deep breath and exhaling loudly through his nose. “Okay. Yes. I will…do that. The, uh, sacking up, I mean.”

“Good.”

Colin steps back and considers his brother for a moment. “Another solid pep talk, Ant. I’m impressed,” he says, nodding his approval. “Had a lot more testicle stuff than I would’ve expected, but you really made it work.”

Anthony tilts his head in thanks, smiling at him more affectionately than should probably be possible, considering the subject matter. “You brought the sweaty ball talk on yourself, bro. I just work with what I’m given.”

Though he walks away from his brother’s successful little support session with more determination in his step, he’s an imperfect man who still finds himself in need of some more liquid courage. After a quick glance to make sure Anthony isn’t still monitoring his movements, he slinks his way over to the bar, masterfully ducking and dodging the party’s nosiest, most unpleasant guests like he’s MI-5 (and hah, he totally could have been a field agent, so suck rocks, Gregory). As he waits for the bartender to assemble his gin and tonic, he finds himself wishing he had access to headphones so he could crank his Col’s Pump-Up Jams, Vol. 1 playlist and keep himself hyped up enough to, you know, change the entire course of his life, whatever.

That playlist mostly consists of Beyoncé and RuPaul, to Penelope’s delight and Ben’s endless amusement, but whatever. Colin dares anyone to listen to “Call Me Mother” and not feel at least a little like they could grab the world by the balls.

Jesus Christ, he has got to stop thinking about testicles.

He’s halfway through his drink—and halfway through his attempt to recite the entirety of “Alien Superstar” in his head from memory—when he feels another tap on his shoulder from behind him. Though, thankfully, this one is a lot gentler than Anthony’s, which Colin suspects might have registered on the Richter scale.

He’s fully expecting to see another member of his family ready to razz him, so he thinks he’s allowed the awkward, high-pitched little yelp he lets out when he turns around and his gaze meets the sharp, judgmental eyes of Agatha Danbury, standing there in a sparkly, blood-red evening gown and holding her trademark cane in a way that isn’t overtly threatening, but somehow feels like it is? Could it be that she’s the scariest person in the world, actually?

“Er,” he says, very intelligently.

Agatha’s face doesn’t even change, like she anticipated his idiocy and has decided to ignore it. It’s almost comforting.

“Mr. Bridgerton,” she says, and it’s not really a greeting, per se, but it’s also not a direct insult, for which Colin is grateful. “You’re looking well. If a little…sweaty.” Her eyes give away just enough amusement to make Colin feel a little less like jumping out of the nearest window, but not enough to put him at ease. Which is exactly what she was aiming for, he’s sure. God, he’d admire it so much if he wasn’t so frightened.

“Hah,” he laughs weakly, and it takes everything in him not to wipe at the moisture beading along his brow. That would just be sad. “Yeah, uh, I’m good. I mean, other than the, uh. The aforementioned sweat. I’m a pretty sweaty guy, historically. How are y—”

“I received your proposal,” she says, cutting him off. He spends one nanosecond feeling relieved that she stymied any continued rambling about sweat, before what she said actually registers in his brain and his entire body freezes up so fast he almost drops his drink.

How, in his infinite capacity for anxiety, had he somehow forgotten that she would be at this event? When he quite literally just sent her his stupid fucking book proposal in haze of misplaced drunken confidence? Well, he wouldn’t call it confidence, exactly—he vaguely remembers screaming like Macaulay Culkin in Home Alone as he hit “send” on the email—but still, he had clearly allowed his thoughts of Penelope and his feelings for Penelope and his forthcoming confession of said feelings for Penelope to take over his mind, at the expense of everything else. And now, that “everything else” has caught up to him in a big way. In record time, really. Colin’s almost impressed with himself.

He swallows a mouthful of air and tries to will his own sweat glands into submission. Predictably, they pay him little mind.

“Oh?” he asks, and yes, this is the way. Super cool, super chill, like it doesn’t even matter if she read it or not. You’re totally selling this, he thinks.

…approximately one second before he attempts to casually lean against the bar like the super cool, super chill guy he is, and his elbow misses its target and he almost brains himself on the countertop.

Nailed it.

“Slippery,” he says stupidly, like he’s sharing some deeply concerning news with her. “Someone should, uh…wipe that down, am I ri—”

“Normally I wouldn’t bother reading a proposal that preliminary,” Agatha mercifully cuts him off again, and he silently thanks the universe, while simultaneously begging it for the sweet release of death. “That kind of drudgery is typically reserved for my little army of dim-witted assistants.”

Well, that doesn’t sound great. But he can’t exactly be surprised by this outcome, can he? He’s known all along that there was a snowball’s chance in hell that anything substantive could come of this little pipe dream, so really, if there was never any chance of this working out to begin with, he can’t be too upset when it doesn’t, right? That’s a healthy way to look at this situation, yes?

Fuck.

He sighs. “Listen, I’m really sorry I wasted your time,” he says, face flushing hot with shame. “It’s stupid to think—I knew it was dumb, but I just thought—”

“But I have to say, I’m quite glad that I took a chance on yours.”

Oh fuck, there it i—wait, what?

“What?”

The corner of her mouth quirks up—there’s no way she could be this amused and also be fucking with him, right? Like, that expression can’t possibly precede devastating news, could it? For that to be the case, she’d have to be some kind of sociopath who toys with people’s emotions for the sheer enjoyment of it…and there’s no way that could be true…could it?

Colin gulps again.

“At first it was just because Violet’s a dear friend and I was…curious,” Agatha says, and her eyes are so shrewd and so knowing that he’s sure she can read his mind, which is currently just screaming please don’t be mean to me! at full volume over and over again. “But I started to skim that piece you included, about that artist, and I’ll admit…you hooked me. And I am a very, very hard woman to hook.”

It really says something about how terrified he is in this moment that his brain barely even registers the innuendo, though he can tell by her perfectly arched eyebrow that she only said it to throw him even further off balance. He’s got to say, she may not be a full-fledged sociopath, but the supervillain tendencies are definitely there. He only prays she continues to use her powers for good.

“Oh,” he murmurs, near speechless. “I, um. Thank you?”

Agatha looks at him curiously, almost like she’s seeing something in him for the first time that she’s surprised by—though what that could be, Colin has no idea.

“You certainly have a way with words, Mr. Bridgerton,” she says, studying him with her razor-sharp gaze as his heart attempts to beat out of his chest. “I can’t quite put my finger on it, but there’s just something about what you sent me. A…raw humanity, perhaps. It wasn’t what I expected.”

“You mean a bunch of posh drivel about Michelin-star restaurants and white man condescension about the value of viewing other cultures from the safe distance of my luxury chalet?” he says before he can stop himself. It requires a monumental effort not to slap a hand over his own mouth in horror.

To his shock and amazement, Agatha throws her head back and lets out a hearty laugh. Like a legitimate, full-bodied belly laugh, with feeling. Colin can do nothing but stare at her in awe, because he’s been at family and society functions with her multiple times a year for pretty much his entire life, and he’s never, never seen her do that with anyone but his mother.

“Precisely,” she says, and her smile feels a lot less evaluating and a lot more genuine, now. Colin feels his guts unclench a little bit. Maybe…maybe she actually doesn’t think he’s a huge joke? For all his previous contemplation of what it might be like to pursue a book contract, he never once considered this possibility.

He gives her a wobbly smile back, hoping his expression doesn’t look quite as deranged as it feels on his face. “So, um, what does that mean, exactly?” he asks tentatively. If he was fidgeting any harder, he’s pretty sure it would qualify as a cardio workout.

“It means that I’d like to set up a meeting to discuss this further,” she says, paying his nervous twitching no mind. Colin almost faints on the spot.

Holy shit. Holy shit!

“Holy shit,” he blurts out, and he really does slap a hand over his mouth this time. Agatha just looks at him like he’s a particularly amusing seven-year-old, which he supposes is pretty generous, all things considered.

“I can’t promise anything, of course,” she continues. “You’re not particularly well-known on your own, but you have the right name, and I think you have the talent. I have a feeling there’s enough potential here to make it worth my while.”

The look she gives him says, very clearly, “you will make this worth my while and not make me regret this,” but he can’t even fear for his life too much because what the bloody fuck is happening?

“I…wow,” he manages to rasp out. “That’s…that’s incredible. More than I ever thought was possible, really. Jesus. Thank you so much, Mrs. Danbury.”

She gives him a funny look. “Boy, you’ve been calling me Agatha since you were about the height of this cane,” she says, brandishing it at him in a way that seems benign on the surface, but there’s just something that will always feel threatening about that thing. Colin’s not convinced there isn’t some sort of Kingsman-esque weaponry hiding inside, waiting for Agatha to press a well-concealed button on the handle.

He shrugs. “You wield a lot of power over my future,” he replies. “Felt like a good moment for unnecessary deference.”

Agatha considers him for a moment, then nods slowly, like she’s begrudgingly impressed. “Good call,” she concedes. “Keep following that instinct, actually.”

He gives her a mock salute. “Aye aye, captain,” he says, immediately wishing he could travel back in time by five seconds and stop himself from saying it. The look she gives him communicates a very clear message of “easy, freak, we’re not that tight”—to which he snaps his mouth shut before he can embarrass himself out of a possible book contract through the sheer force of his awkwardness.

“My people will be in touch to set up that meeting,” she says after a very judgmental beat. At least his stupid mouth didn’t ruin everything. A win!

But then Agatha turns to walk away, and his mouth is acting of its own accord before he can stop it.

“Wait!” he calls out, halting her in her tracks. She turns to look at him—with more curiosity in her eyes than anything, though annoyance isn’t far behind—and he suddenly knows, with perfect clarity, exactly what he needs to tell her.

“I’m so grateful that you’d be willing to consider taking a chance on me…to the point where I’m genuinely wondering if this is all a dream or if you’ve maybe lost your mi—” He clocks her expression and immediately swallows the rest of that sentence. “Erm. Not that there’s anything wrong with your mind. It’s a very good mind—a great mind, actually. Sharp as a steel—”

“Does this have a point?”

Oh God, here comes the panic. “Yes!” he says, taking a deep breath to center himself. With his stupidity, it’s a fucking miracle he’s even able to tie his shoes sometimes. “Yes. My point is, I’m honored to even be considered, and I really, really hope I get to work with you, like…you have no idea. But if you’re looking to publish a book written by someone in this room, it isn’t me you should be talking to.”

Agatha raises an eyebrow. “No?”

Colin shakes his head. “You should be talking to Penelope. Uh, Penelope Featherington, that is.”

“Oh?”

“She’s working on a novel and she hasn’t let me read it yet, but she’s the best writer I’ve ever met and probably the best in the entire galaxy, so I know for a fact it’s amazing,” he barrels on quickly, because the words are bubbling up almost faster than he can say them. “I’d bet my life on it, in fact. She’s…she’s witty, and bold, and real, and it causes me actual physical pain to watch her toil away at a job that doesn’t deserve her when she should be a fucking New York Times bestselling household name. Like, it pains me so much I think I may have developed an ulcer because of it—the amount I spend on antacids, you don’t wanna know. She’s been hesitating to send you anything because she’s got it in that beautiful head of hers that she’s not good enough or some such nonsense, and I just need you to know that her work is more than worth your time. Just read what she’s written, just give it a chance, and I know you’ll see it, too. Just…please. You won’t regret it, I promise.”

If Agatha is shocked by his dramatic little monologue, she keeps it admirably under wraps. She’s silent for a few moments, just leveling that impassive, assessing gaze at him, pinning him to the bar like a butterfly under glass.

“And if I said that we only have the bandwidth to consider one of you right now, you’d give up your chance for her?” she finally asks.

It’s supposed to be a difficult question, Colin supposes. One intended to really make him think hard about his future, about what he’d be willing to sacrifice for what he wants. But the truth is, he’s never been asked anything that’s so simple, so crystal clear in all his life.

“Yes,” he says definitively. It feels remarkably good to do it.

Another beat of silence passes, and whatever Agatha is searching for on his face, what she finds apparently makes her smile.

“That was quite an impassioned speech, Mr. Bridgerton,” she says calmly. He can’t help but gulp, because damn, her intimidation factor is back a thousand-fold. “But I fear it’s unnecessary. Your friend sent me her manuscript a week ago and we already have a meeting on the books.”

Holy—what?

“What?”

“We’re going to start negotiations with her,” Agatha continues, once again ignoring him. “But between you and me, we will be publishing her book. Because you’re right, of course. She is very good.”

Holy shit, she actually sent her draft in. She did it. A wave of pure, surprised elation hits his body so hard, his knees almost buckle. He knew it—he knew if she just took the plunge, put herself out there, that good things awaited her, and now that it’s finally happening he feels like he could burst out of his own skin with the sheer joy of it all. And what’s most surprising—though perhaps it shouldn’t be—is how much his overwhelming pride and happiness at this news absolutely fucking dwarfs what he felt when Agatha told him she liked his work. Like, it’s not even in the same solar system.

God, he’s so in love with Penelope—has been so in love with her—it’s actually bonkers. He should be tried at The Hague for not seeing it sooner.

“That’s—that’s fantastic!” he exclaims, very nearly putting his hand on Agatha’s shoulder in his excitement until she not-so-subtly moves her cane into a defensive position in front of her body. Colin drops his hand immediately, because he’s not about to test out his Kingsman theory right now. Not today.

…next time, though. He’s perfectly willing to be sworn to secrecy for his country or whatever, but he’s gotta know for sure.

“Yes, well, Miss Featherington has a real knack for writing romance that really…resonates,” Agatha says knowingly, like she’s trying to hint at something Colin should be picking up on. Which is weird, but he’s far too hung up on her words to give it much thought, because he had no idea Penelope was writing a romance novel. And oh God, why does that make him feel things? “She’ll make an excellent addition to our roster.”

Colin nods so vigorously, he pulls about seven different muscles in his neck. “She absolutely will.”

“As will you.”

His mouth drops open. Very ill-timed, since he doubts it makes him look particularly intelligent.

“You mean—both of us?”

“Oh, I suppose we still need to cross the T’s and dot the I’s,” she says offhandedly, waving dismissively. “And I’ll need you to write a little more before we come to a final arrangement, but my gut feels good about you and I’m old, Mr. Bridgerton. At a certain point, I learned to listen to it.”

So they both get to…at the same time? Together? Could it be that this book, that this…is actually the thing, for him? He knew it was Penelope’s thing, of course, and ever since the night they kissed he thought that Penelope was his thing. But maybe…this is, too.

Maybe it’s their thing.

“I—wow,” he says, suddenly choked up at that little personal revelation. It’s taking an insane about of willpower not to start openly weeping in Agatha’s presence right now. “Just…thank you. Thank you so much.”

The corner of her mouth quirks up in what he suspects is fondness—or he hopes, anyway. “You can thank me by working hard,” she says. She shifts her gaze out to the crowd, and when he follows it, his eyes land on Penelope, still resplendent and luminous and everything that’s right in the world. Agatha hums to herself. “She’s lucky to have such a good friend, you know.”

He shakes his head, his eyes never leaving Penelope’s form as she speaks animatedly to Hyacinth about something. "I'm the lucky one,” he murmurs.

“And how long have you been in love with her?”

Colin chokes, ripping his eyes away from Penelope and fixing them back on Agatha, who’s looking predictably smug. “What, I—that is, I mean—”

“Oh, I neither need nor desire the whole wretched story, boy. I just wanted to confirm it.”

“But—how did you—”

She winks at him. “I listen to my gut, remember?”

Jesus Christ, she’s good. No wonder she’s best friends with his mother.

He chuckles helplessly, because what else can he do? Deny it? He can’t be bothered at this point, and there’s no way in hell he could ever manage to convincingly lie to this woman. It’s important to accept one’s limitations in life.

“Right. Well. Your gut is alarmingly perceptive.”

Agatha glances over at Penelope again. “Don’t let that one get away,” she says, turning to give Colin a pointed look. “That lump of unbaked bread dough she walked in here with tonight looks like he’s had a stick lodged up his ass since the Blair administration.”

Colin laughs so hard, he cries a little bit.

“Hah, yes, well, I certainly will keep your advice about…hemorrhoid ointment…in mind, Aunt Rita. If you’ll excuse m—”

“And don’t push too hard when you have to go, or you’ll end up like my Harry here,” Aunt Rita drones on, gesturing to the shockingly old man beside her. Husband number three, Colin thinks? The man is so withered and frail—and apparently riddled with hemorrhoids—it’s a wonder they didn’t wheel him into the restaurant in an iron lung. “If it’s not happening, try again later, that’s what I always say!”

Sweet Christ. Colin would rather suffer a thousand hemorrhoids than continue this conversation for a second longer, but he doesn’t know how to say that without sounding insensitive to old Harry’s…problems. His ass problems.

He catches a flash of sparkle in his periphery and the urgent tug in his belly intensifies, because Penelope is right there and he’s got to talk to her. He’s got to talk to her right fucking now. It’s actually what he was on his way to do when he was instantly waylaid by Aunt Rita and her ancient husband, who for all Colin knows is actually already dead and being paraded around this party Weekend at Bernie’s-style.

In fact, he’s been trying to talk to Penelope for a fucking hour now, and every time he spots an opening to pull her aside, steels his nerve, and makes a beeline towards her, he’s been intercepted by some distant relative or one of the waitstaff or some random acquaintance from his school days, and honestly? He really just needs it all to stop. He needs everyone to clear a path for him like he’s fucking Moses parting the Red Sea, because yes, he’s nervous as hell, but at this point, every moment he’s alive and still hasn’t told her he loves her is unbearable agony. Every second he looks her way and can’t get to her feels like the universe is taking a cheese grater to his soul.

Ugh. Good thing he’s a travel writer—clearly, he needs to leave the romantic turns of phrase to Penelope.

“Hey, Aunt Rita, I’d love to keep talking about this—who doesn’t love a spirited and lengthy discussion about the anus, am I right? But I really need to run. There’s an urgent matter I’ve got to attend to.”

“Ah,” Rita says knowingly. “Can’t fight it when nature calls, can we?”

“Right, right,” Colin says hurriedly. “Wait, wait?”

“Remember, don’t push too hard!”

Did she—does she think…?

Eh, fuck it, man. Whatever works.

“Will do,” he chirps, already walking away at breakneck speed. “Stay strong, Harry!” he calls over his shoulder.

The faint, pained gurgle he hears could be a thank you, or it could be Harry’s final breath. Colin doesn’t stick around long enough to find out.

Okay, now that he’s finally escaped from that hell, where has Penelope gone? He swears he literally just saw her standing with Hyacinth by the giant ice sculpture of a swan—tacky, in Colin’s opinion, though he’d never say so to Kate since he values his genitals—so she can’t have gotten far, right? He’s the tallest in his family by a good few inches but he still needs to stand on his toes to survey his surroundings, desperately searching for that familiar shock of red hair.

Scanning, scanning…aha! There she is. Damn it, she’s with Birdman, Colin notes with some disappointment, and it looks like they’re headed towards…

Oh.

He watches helplessly from a distance as the two of them take to the small, Parque dance floor at the center of the room, and Penelope wraps her arms around Alfie’s neck as he pulls her close by her waist. The fact that she can reach Alfie’s neck much more comfortably than she could Colin’s when they danced, when they…anyway. It makes him sadder than it should, probably.

He feels…God. Like he’s been sucker-punched in the gut, the wind completely knocked out of him.

He can’t tell her now, can he? She looks so pretty and happy and content in the arms of her highly accomplished hipster boyfriend, enjoying the party she worked so hard on…how can he possibly ruin that for her with the same selfish bullshit that’s been driving a wedge between them for weeks now? How could he possibly have thought he had a chance?

He falters, eyeing the exit like it holds the key to all his problems and blinking back the tears already welling in his eyes. He can’t do this, he can’t stay here, he can’t—

“Colin, dear?”

He turns around to find his mother standing there, her face twisted with concern.

He wipes his eyes hastily. “Oh, hi, Mum,” he says, sniffling a little, to his humiliation. He tries to play it off with a strategic cough. “Happy birthday. Are you enjoying this quaint little gathering?”

“Don’t I always?” she asks mildly, though the worry on her face doesn’t abate one bit, unfortunately.

Colin snorts. “Very diplomatic response,” he notes. “Impressive.”

His mother doesn’t even dignify his sad attempt at banter with a reply, but instead steps closer and puts a comforting hand on his shoulder, the gleam of her beaded lavender dress reflecting the warm party lighting hanging above.

“Are you alright, dear?” she asks, peering into his eyes like she knows she’ll find the answer there, regardless of the words that ultimately come out of his mouth. And the depressing thing is, she’s not wrong. Despite his best efforts, he’s always been an open book, his emotions right there on his sleeve, his vulnerabilities laid bare and easy to exploit. He’s tried very hard to stop hating this part of himself—over the years, Penelope has helped him understand that his sensitivity is actually a strength, rather than a weakness—and for the most part, he’s succeeded. But it’s times like this when he still wishes he could summon Anthony’s stoicism or Ben’s cool detachment. Sometimes he still wonders if life would be easier if he was more like them.

“I’m fine,” he says, not quite meeting her gaze because if he does, it’s game over. He’ll crumble. “Just spoke to Aunt Rita, actually, so the whole family owes me a debt that I’m not sure can ever be fully repaid. When did she become so obsessed with bowel movements?”

It’s a big swing, but to her credit, his mother’s face barely shifts at all. “When she started gold digging ninety-year-olds who frequently shit their diapers,” she says without missing a beat.

“Mum!”

“Colin,” she says firmly, and the shocked smile falls off his face, fast. “I mean it. Are you alright?”

Oh fuck it all, he can feel his bottom lip start wobbling. Call in the confetti cannons and the dancing lobsters—he’s officially pathetic.

“I…” he croaks, opening and closing his mouth, trying to find words—any words. A lie, the truth, fucking anything. But all he can manage to do is look over at Penelope, dancing under the lights.

Dancing with a man who isn’t him.

He doesn’t have to see it to know that his mother has followed his gaze. And when he finally does look back at her, it’s all there, in her eyes. She knows. She knows everything.

Maybe he should be upset about that, but instead, he finds himself overcome with a surge of affection and gratitude for her in that moment. That she doesn’t have to make him say it.

“Oh, darling,” she murmurs, reaching up to lovingly brush one of his tears away with her thumb, a faint smile on her face. The kind of smile that clearly indicates that she’s known a lot more than Colin thought, and probably for longer than Colin himself did. He can’t even muster up the strength to be surprised about that, because Anthony was right—their mother is a little terrifying.

Man, if she and Agatha ever considered switching teams in their golden years, they’d be the most terrifying power couple the world has ever known. They could bring down regimes.

He inhales a shaky breath, not totally sure what he’s going to say until it’s coming out of his mouth. “You always said that…that you and Dad were friends.” His eyes are immediately drawn back to Penelope, like magnets, and he doesn’t bother fighting it. “You know…before.”

His mother hums in the affirmative. “We were,” she says. “The best of friends.”

The warm and wonderful thought of it makes Colin want to smile, too. And also cry more. Seems like just about everything is conspiring to make his bitch ass cry, these days.

He watches as Alfie spins Penelope around, clearly taking her by surprise. The little peal of laughter it pulls out of her makes Colin’s chest ache.

“How did…how did you know?” he whispers. “That you both felt the same?”

When he turns back to look at his mother, her smile has become wider, and a calm serenity has settled on her face. She takes both of his hands in hers firmly, demanding his full attention for what she has to say next. He holds his breath.

“Because he was brave enough to ask me.”

Oh.

He lets out his breath, and the inevitable rightness of her words washes over him like a benediction. It was a monumental risk for his father to put his closest friendship on the line for the chance at something more…for the chance at the ultimate, most divine happiness. But that risk was worth it, wasn’t it? And if he hadn’t taken it…

Colin has spent so long feeling utterly helpless—a sad little dinghy caught in the chaos of a roiling, stormy sea, being tossed this way and that. Struggling to build a career he can take real pride in. Powerless to manage his family’s lofty expectations of him, and his own shame at not meeting them. And more recently, at the mercy of a once-in-a-lifetime kind of love that he didn’t even know existed inside him until it could no longer be contained.

But he’s not helpless. He’s not.

He doesn’t have to stand idly by, paralyzed with inaction and pissing away his best chances at the life he wants. He can do this. He can take control. He can risk it all.

He can fucking sack up.

And if she doesn’t return his feelings? Holy fucking God, it would hurt like a motherfucker. It would hurt so bad. It would hurt more than just about anything, probably, but if his love is unreciprocated and she’d rather be with the penguin man…so be it. He’ll go home, lick his wounds, and fucking deal with it. And one day, he’ll be okay, because he’ll know in his bones that it was a risk he had to take.

Because she’s worth it. She’s worth everything.

“I need to go,” he says distractedly, letting go of his mother’s hands and stepping back. “I’ve got to—”

“I know, dear,” she says, and her smile is pure radiance.

And that’s how he finds himself pushing through the crowd like a fucking boss and walking directly towards Penelope and Alfie on the dance floor, drawing more than a few alarmed eyes his way as he strides up to the couple with purpose. To be fair, the unhinged, manic gleam in his eye is probably somewhat off-putting. He’d be a little scared of him, too.

“Colin!” Penelope squeaks, her whole body startling when she suddenly sees him standing like a foot away from her. He probably could have approached them a little more deftly and a little less like a serial killer, but it’s too late now. “What are you—”

“I need to talk to you.”

She looks around, flustered, and he can’t quite make out if she’s more confused, embarrassed, or irritated, but they’re definitely all in the mix. It’s a potent brew, and he tries very hard not to let it dampen his newfound confidence.

“Can it wait?” she asks, her lips pursing in a frown that’s prettier than it has any right to be. Holy hell, he wants to kiss her so badly, it’s insane. “We’re kind of—”

“Actually, it can’t wait. I’m sorry, Pen, but I just…I have to tell you something. Please.”

He looks deep into her blue eyes and begs her silently, tries to convey the sheer magnitude of his desperation, implores her see just how important this is to him. And, miraculously, her eyes seem to soften the tiniest fraction in response, like his message was actually received somehow, and his heart pounds with anticipation.

She gulps. “I…” she starts quietly, seemingly frozen in place. Their eyes remain locked on each other, like neither of them can bear to break their gaze—Colin knows he sure as shit couldn’t look away from her if he tried. He never wants to look away from her again, wants to drink her in and taste her mouth and never let her go. “Colin, I…”

“Ahem.”

Oh shit, right. Fucking Alfie.

The interruption shatters their epic mind meld immediately—Penelope’s eyes widen in realization and snap away to look at her boyfriend, shocking Colin out of his trance in the process. He feels a little flare of irritation spark in his chest, but hand to God, he will not be an asshole like he was last time. He’ll keep his cool. He won’t give that pretentious, blond-bearded twat—who’s wearing a brown tweed jacket with elbow patches like he’s cosplaying Dead Poets Society, Jesus Christ—the satisfaction tonight.

“I just need to talk to her for a few minutes,” Colin says with as much calm as he can muster. See? He’s capable of being an adult sometimes. It’s totally a thing that can happen, when he really puts his mind to it.

Alfie raises his eyebrows—quite dickishly, in Colin’s opinion. God, this dude sucks.

“Of course, you do.”

That flare of irritation in Colin’s chest ignites into a full-fledged fire almost instantly. So much for keeping his cool…adulthood was nice, for the three seconds it lasted.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he demands peevishly.

Penelope had been looking between the two of them like she wasn’t sure who to be more annoyed with, but her frown deepens a little at Alfie’s words.

“It’s really no trouble,” she says to him, placating, tentatively stepping out of his embrace. “I’ll only be a minute, really—”

Alfie visibly scoffs, this time. “Of course, you will,” he says, voice edgy with sarcasm and sharp with frustration. Colin’s feelings take a turn for the murderous—seriously, what the fuck is with this guy? Like, sure, technically Colin wants to talk to Penelope so he can, you know, declare his undying love for her and ultimately steal her from Alfie in the process. But Alfie couldn’t possibly know that!

…okay, so maybe Colin doesn’t necessarily have much reason to be offended here. But regardless, none of this gives that knobhead the right to take that shitty tone with Penelope, that’s for fucking sure.

Penelope’s expression is halfway between panicked and furious—shouldn’t be as good a look on her as it is, really, but Colin is also currently having to tamp down mild sexual feelings about her eyelashes while this argument unfolds, so. He’s never claimed to be a perfect man.

“Alfie, what—there’s no reason to—” she pleads, but that douchenozzle is having none of it, apparently.

“No, no, you go ahead,” Alfie snipes, taking a big step back and drawing even more attention from the ravenous busybodies around them, who Colin had conveniently forgotten about. Why can’t they just mind their business? Oh God, why is someone filming this on their phone? And why is it definitely Hyacinth? “You two clearly have a lot you need to work out, so I’ll just…I’ll just go.”

With that, Alfie turns on his heel and storms off the dance floor, leaving a stunned Penelope and an unpleasant waft of whatever all-natural patchouli deodorant he probably wears in his wake. Of course he doesn’t even have the common decency to wear toxic chemicals like a normal person, Colin thinks spitefully.

“What the—Alfie, wait!” Penelope calls after him, turning like she actually intends to follow him, which is just not—that’s not the plan, Colin has things to say, she can’t—

“Pen, don’t bo—”

“No!” she cuts him off firmly, holding her hand up to keep him from coming any closer—and wow, that hurts like a motherfucker. “Not now, I can’t…I can’t with you, right now. Did you have to—fuck. I—I have to go.”

She’s running away from him before another protest can even form on his lips, and his heart, just…sinks. He watches her scurry in the direction that Alfie had fled and disappear into the crowd, and he finds himself completely unable to move, uncaring about how pathetic he looks, or how many eyes are currently staring at him and cataloguing that sad fact. Let them look. Come one, come all, come witness the tragic majesty of the big lovelorn idiot, cursed with the monstrous ability to never get anything right! His family should sell tickets so the general public can watch his fuckups unfold in person. He could livestream them, even—really cultivate a global audience. If he’s going to ruin his life at every turn, he should at least be able to monetize the process with ads for questionable diet supplements.

He has no idea how long he just stands there in the middle of the dance floor, eyes glassy and body numb, before his sister brings him back to reality.

“Hey, idiot!” Eloise exclaims, snapping her fingers in front of his face. “What the hell did you say to her?”

Despite his maudlin thoughts, he immediately feels indignant—his natural reflex to one of his siblings yelling at him. Life finds a way, he supposes.

“I didn’t say anything!” he shouts back. “I just said I wanted to talk to her, and then that prat got all huffy about it and stormed off, and she went after him. I…she just seemed so upset, I couldn’t—”

“Well they just had a big row outside, and now she’s leaving—”

“She’s what?”

“I have no idea what they fought about, but it looked bad…pretty sure Hyacinth hid behind a potted plant and recorded most of it, though, so—”

“Oh Jesus, should someone talk to Hy about this? Like, that’s just not oka—”

“Colin, you giant ball bag, go after her!”

He startles, a bolt of existential fear zipping through his veins. Eloise is right. She’s right! Enough with all these people, and their obstacles, and his own pathetic waffling. He can’t let her slip between his fingers...he has to go, he has to tell her, or fucking die trying. And after everything he’s been through tonight, dying seems like a terrifyingly legitimate possibility.

“Fuck!” he says succinctly, already jogging towards the exit. When he reaches the door, he turns back around for a second. “Ball bag, really? Have you been talking to An—”

“Go!”

Right, right, not important right now.

He sprints out the door and into the chilly silence of the car park, looking around frantically for Penelope and praying he’s not too late. Did that bellend drive her home? Is she walking to the tube station? Is she—

It’s then that he spots her near the street, looking at her phone and tapping her high-heeled foot impatiently. Colin sends up a quiet thanks to the heavens that it’s a Saturday night and the long-suffering Uber drivers of London are probably all stuck in horrendous traffic right now.

“Pen!” he calls out, and ugh, he really wishes he didn’t already sound so out of breath. He can’t imagine it makes him appear like a particularly appealing specimen with which to mate, just biologically speaking.

He’s going to need to renew that gym membership, he realizes resignedly. Damn it.

She looks over, and her exasperated expression is doing everything in its power to deter him. But he’s a man possessed and he will not be deterred, no ma’am, even if the anger on her face makes a sizeable part of him quake in fear.

It’s not not his dick, but that’s his business.

“Not now, Colin,” she says irritably. She rolls her eyes, but as he gets closer, he can also see that there are tears running down her cheeks, and oh God, he feels so many feelings right now. Concern for her…rage at the penguin fucker…shame that he may have contributed to her pain, that he keeps mucking things up so badly.

“Are you okay?” he pants, coming to a stop in front of her. He wants to reach out and touch, to pull her into an embrace, but he knows quite well that he’d be risking life and limb to do so, so instead he just…hovers. Breathing hard, like a weirdo.

She rolls her eyes again, and there’s a lot more sass in it this time. He’s not sure whether to derive comfort from that or not.

“No, I’m not bloody fucking okay!” she spits. Well, there’s that answer. “Me and Alfie just…and now you’re…Colin, I told you we could talk when I was ready. I just needed a little time—”

“I know,” he says quickly, stomach churning with guilt. “I know that, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry about that, and for interrupting you guys…but I just. I need to talk to you. Please.”

Penelope sighs. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Please.”

“Colin—”

“Just let me drive you home,” he begs, losing hope with every desperate word. He just needs to secure a few minutes alone with her, so he can make sure she’s okay and so he can say his piece, and he swears, he won’t push for anything further. He’ll give her as much space and time as she needs. More, if that’s what she wants.

She tilts her head in confusion. “You drove here?” she asks.

“Uh, yeah. Just in case El kept her word and got completely shit-faced.”

Actually, the more salient reason he drove was because he was already sweating in his suit before he left his flat, and he couldn’t risk getting even sweatier on a crowded weekend tube ride. But he doesn’t think that’s important right now, or that a recap of his full-body perspiration issues is information that Penelope would even want to be privy to, because ew.

She looks at him critically for another moment, before sighing again, shoulders deflating.

“Fine,” she says flatly. Her voice makes it quite clear that just because she’s capitulating on this, it very much does not mean she’s any less angry with him. It’s truly a sad state of affairs that Colin still counts this as a win. “Just need to cancel my Uber. Let…” she peers at her phone again. “…Ronny off the hook.”

“Brave Ronny,” Colin says, the impulse to joke with her simply too strong to fight. “We honor your sacrifice.”

He thinks he sees Penelope’s mouth quirk up just the tiniest bit against her will, but he can’t be sure. “Ronny was only a minute away, you know,” she says. “This is going to tank my Uber rating.”

The mischief that has crept into her voice makes Colin’s heart soar with hope. “He wouldn’t do that,” he says, trying very hard not to smile so he doesn’t spook her any more than he already has. “Not our Ronny.”

She huffs out a reluctant laugh. “You’re right,” she replies. “If there’s one thing I know about Ronny, it’s that he isn’t one to hold a grudge.”

Colin does smile then, pleased and relieved when she immediately returns it, even if hers is weaker than his. “Great guy, that Ronny. Think I’m going to make him best man at my wedding.”

For some reason, that particular quip causes the smile to slide right off her face, and he feels his own dim in response, his nerves resuming their icy grip on his innards. He tries very hard not to be shaken by it, but their banter usually has to be stopped by other people, once they get on a roll. The fact that she cut it off before they could wear out the bit long past its natural death is something that just feels wrong, on a cellular level.

“Let’s just go,” she sighs, and he can do nothing but lead her to his car in silence, his growing anxiety making his hands tremble and his gut roil.

They open the very creaky doors of his ancient forest green Mercedes and climb in. It’s a miracle it’s still in operation, quite frankly—something Penelope says every time she rides in it, though she’s apparently too miffed to bother doing so right now. The car was already elderly when he bought her used from a neighbor of his, and she was the first thing he ever purchased solely with money he had made with his work, without dipping into his inheritance. Which seems kind of pointless and juvenile, now—it was and remains a pathetically small act of defiance that did absolutely nothing to change how rich his family is or how much privilege their money affords him—but it had felt important at the time. Back then, he hadn’t even bothered to give her a name, because he wasn’t sure that she would make it longer than six months and he didn’t want to get attached.

Now, he’s not convinced she won’t outlive him. He wouldn’t be surprised if she was the only thing to survive the inevitable nuclear winter, along with the cockroaches.

The awkward silence is…oppressive, to say the least, so he preoccupies himself by turning the ignition and pulling out of the car park, straight into the very traffic he had thanked the universe for not minutes earlier. When he hits bumper-to-bumper gridlock, he sneaks a nervous glance at Penelope, expecting to see irritation at the hold-up—he suspects she’s thinking that she would have preferred to brave this mayhem with Ronny, instead. But to his abject horror, he sees that there are fresh tears welling in her eyes.

Colin’s heart clenches, and instantly, his nerves melt away entirely in the face of her distress.

“Oh, Pen,” he murmurs, reaching over to brush her arm in what he hopes she’ll receive as the comforting gesture it was intended to be. “What happened?”

That pulls an ugly, sardonic laugh from her, and uh oh. Seems Colin just did the conversational equivalent of slipping on a banana peel, once again.

“What happened?” she repeats testily. “You want to know what happened? Fine. Alfie dumped me.”

Correction: Slipping on a banana peel and falling face first into meat grinder.

But also, what? That idiot, that wanker, that absolute fucking prick, did what?

“He dumped you?” Colin sputters incredulously, because seriously—what fucking right does that boring beige bitch have to dump the most beautiful and smart and magnetic woman in the entire universe? It defies the laws of the natural world! It’s an international travesty of unprecedented proportions! “How could—”

“And you know what?” Penelope continues, ignoring him completely. “It might not have even been so bad, because the depressing thing is that I didn’t even really care that much, when he did it. Isn’t that horrible? I think I was relieved, or something, because I think I’ve known all along that we didn’t fit, and he was kind of pretentious and he was shit in bed and he didn’t understand any of my Drag Race references and what kind of a life is that, I ask you?”

“No kind of life at all!” Colin interjects, but Penelope barely hears him.

“And it didn’t feel great, but I’ve been dumped before! I could have handled it, it would have been fine, except you know what he said? Do you know what this motherfucker said to me, out there on the street, where thankfully no one could hear us—”

“—is now a bad time to say that Hyacinth was definitely filming you?”

“He said he couldn’t do this anymore, because he was…because…because the two of us clearly…have feelings for each other.”

Colin’s stomach flips.

“You mean…”

She rolls her eyes again in frustration, which only causes her tears to spill over and down her cheeks. She looks miserable, and Colin feels his own eyes sting at the sight.

“That’s right,” she says. “He thought that you and I have, like, some unspoken thing. He thought, for some completely unfathomable reason, that you actually…that you…that you’re…”

“That I’m what?” he murmurs.

She huffs in irritation. “You know, that you’re…”

She can’t seem to say it. But Colin…Colin’s been ready to say it all night.

“That I’m in love with you?”

Hearing him say it aloud apparently cracks something in her, because she sinks into the passenger seat like her strings have been cut, her face contorted with an emotion Colin can’t quite name. “Yeah,” she says quietly, her eyes staring determinedly out the window like she can’t bear to look at him.

But it’s okay, because he’s looking at her. He’s looking at Penelope, and he feels his entire body warm with everything he feels for her—the overwhelming love, the tender admiration, the unstoppable attraction. He lets himself feel it all as much as he possibly can for a brief, sustaining moment, and takes a big, deep breath.

“And what if I am?”

He sees her eyebrows furrow in confusion, and she does whip her head around to look at him then. “What if you’re what?”

Inhale, exhale. “What if I am in love with you?”

A few beats of silence, and her frown deepens. “But…but you’re not.”

Well, no one said that this was going to be easy.

The cars in front of them finally start moving again, but Colin welcomes the distraction for his eyes, because maybe if he’s forced to look at the road ahead while he talks, he can manage to get out everything he needs to say without chickening out. Hopefully without driving them into a fire hydrant.

“I…I am, Pen,” he says wetly, voice thick with the emotion already clogging his throat before he’s even begun. “It’s what I’ve been trying to tell you all night. It’s…true. It’s all true. Well, I actually don’t know everything that wanker said to you—and fuck him, by the way—but he was right to be suspicious of me, because these past few weeks, I…well fuck, I’ve been a total fucking mess, haven’t I? Because I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you for one second, not since…not since we kissed, and probably even before that. I can’t stop thinking about how much I…how much I want to be with you, how I’ll probably die if I can’t kiss you again, how the only thing that would give my shitty life any meaning is to be near you and to make you happy until we’re as wrinkled as Old Harry—still need to tell you about him, by the way—and I know I’ve been stupid and thoughtless and weird and I’m sorry. I’ll never stop apologizing for how I’ve acted, not if you don’t want me to, but…seeing you with that peng—with that man just made me mental. Like…even I couldn’t stand me, you don’t even know. And it hurt so fucking bad but I really didn’t intend to ruin it for you…but fuck, I think I did anyway. I know I’m the dumbest boy in school and I’m sorry for everything I put you through with the stupid wingman shit and with Alfie, but…I’m not sorry about my feelings for you, Pen. I could never be sorry for that.”

He pauses for a moment, steeling himself. He doesn’t look at her. He can’t yet, not until he finishes.

“The truth is, I’ve been lost for so, so long, wandering this entire bloody planet to find some kind of direction, trying to find some version of myself that was enough. And for a while, I couldn’t see a way out, but I…I think I can now. I don’t think I’m lost anymore, Pen. I can’t be, not with you. I…I love you. God, I’m so fucking in love with you, and I have been for so fucking long. And it’s okay if you don’t feel the same, I swear. I swear to you, I’ll take anything you want to give me, anything at all. And if that’s only friendship…then I’ll still be the luckiest bastard who ever lived. Because you’re the most important person in my life, Pen, and I love you. No matter what happens, I love you.”

He's not at all surprised to find that his entire face is sodden with tears by the time he finishes talking—crying is basically his brand now, might as well lean into it. He takes a massive breath, because holy shit, is he short on oxygen. Who knew he was even capable of stringing together so many words in a row? He thought he was a talker before, but this was like, final boss level yapping.

But no matter what…he did it. He fucking did it. Everything he wanted, needed to say to her, for all these weeks and months. Regardless of the outcome, he feels…lighter. Physically, emotionally, in all the ways. He’s so elated to have finally confessed, he could actually start laughing with joy right now if Penelope wouldn’t be (rightfully) concerned and immediately have him institutionalized.

Which…right. Penelope. Whose reaction he hasn’t yet gauged. Who hasn’t said a single word since he wrapped his Oscar-worthy monologue.

Oh fuck, that’s not good, is it? That feels…very bad.

With his heart lodged somewhere near his trachea, he tentatively glances over at her. Her eyes are wide and distant, and her expression is…well. Honestly, he has no fucking idea how to read her face right now. She’s definitely not sobbing tears of the most sublime happiness, which certainly would have been ideal…but she doesn’t seem angry or upset, either. She seems…kind of dumbfounded, if anything?

“Pen,” he croaks weakly. “Please…please say something.”

She remains quiet for several more moments. Oh no, did he break her? Is she composing a polite rejection in her head right now? She once told him she could draft and edit things visually in her mind, like that girl in The Queen’s Gambit who could play chess on the ceiling. Only, like, with commas and shit (and, you know, without the drugs).

God, she’s so fucking sexy.

But none of that matters now, when he’s cut his soul open for her viewing pleasure, and she still hasn’t said anything, and oh my God why the fuck hasn’t she said anything?

Just when he’s completely given up hope, she finally speaks.

“You’re an idiot.”

Well. That’s not exactly promising.

“…oh,” he says, and it comes out just as miserable as he feels. “Pen, I—”

“You’re such a fucking idiot.”

She could have whipped out a rusty dagger and stabbed him twenty times in his chest cavity and it probably would have hurt less.

“I know. I’m sorry, okay? I promise, I can be normal, I won’t make it weird, I—”

“You’re a fucking idiot if you still somehow can’t see that I’ve been completely fucking in love with you since I was thirteen.”

…what.

What?

What—how—she—did she—

Holy shit holy shit holy shit holy SHIT—

“I…wha—”

He can’t form a full word. He’s incapable of even thinking something akin to human language, let alone speaking it.

Is he dead? He’s dead, right? Is spontaneous brain death a thing? Is it possible to hear something so life-changing that you just flat-line right there on the spot?

“It’s so fucking embarrassing, really,” she continues, for which he’s grateful because if he tried to talk any more right now, he’s pretty sure he’d just make Chewbacca noises. “I’ve been so humiliatingly gone on you since before I even understood what it meant to love someone, and I tried to tell myself that it was just a goofy crush because…because you were funny and kind and everything that I…when my house was so…”

“Pen,” he whispers, tears running down his face so freely now he can taste the salt in his mouth.

“And I told myself that you were just a friend and that was enough, but I…I had hoped…” He can hear her own tears thickening her voice as she tries to get her story out, and all he wants to do is stop the car in the middle of the road and hold her tight. “And then you said that you would never—that you wouldn’t want me—”

Oh fuck. Oh no. No no no no no—

“I didn’t mean it,” he sobs, desperate for her to understand the depth of his mistake, of the colossal fuckup that will never stop haunting him. “Please, you…it was never true, not then and not now. I was a fucking coward who didn’t deserve you and I was so afraid to let anyone but you see me, and I—”

“It’s okay, Colin,” she says softly. The gentle understanding in her tone would probably make him weep if he wasn’t weeping already. “You know I forgave you for that a long time ago. But…after, I tried to move on, because you were my best friend and I was…content with that. I had to be content with that. When I asked you to…to kiss me, that night, I told myself it was just me trying to say goodbye to my delusions. Get closure or something—which, Christ, sounds even stupider when I say it out loud.”

“It’s not stupid,” Colin murmurs. To think she was going through all this while he was too busy being socked in the nose by his own feelings…no wonder she looked so sad. No wonder she ran away from him like that, while he just stood there like a jackass and had his epiphany, totally oblivious.

“It was,” she says, sniffling. “Because I’m the fucking idiot, Colin. Because I couldn’t just be content with what we had, not really. I couldn’t just enjoy mediocre dates with some random bloke like a normal person, I couldn’t even look at him without my stupid brain telling me all the ways he wasn’t you. I couldn’t stop any of it—barely tried, to be honest. It’s pathetic, but…I don’t know what I am, who I am, without the part of me that loves you. And at this point, I…I don’t really want to find out.”

Colin’s breath catches.

She…she…

She loves him.

She loves him.

She loves him.

By some miracle, through some benevolent cosmic force, she actually loves him back. The sheer wonder of it—of actually being loved by her, of knowing that despite his flaws, despite his failures, she’s been his, all this time—washes over him. It feels like the sweet warmth of the sun on his face, the salt of the sea on his tongue, the earthy, ink-and-paper smell of a new book.

It feels like home.

And just as that realization hits him right between the eyes, he also realizes they’ve finally arrived at Penelope and Eloise’s flat.

There’s a space open right in front of their building, so he pulls the car into it wordlessly and turns off the engine, the stillness of the quiet street enveloping them, the tension between them hanging in the air.

For a moment, they both sit there in silence. For a moment, Colin pauses to let potential energy gather in his limbs.

“Pen,” he says lowly, tightly. “I really want to kiss you right now.”

He hears her quick intake of breath at his words, and he waits.

Finally, she whispers a soft “please,” and Colin can hold himself back no longer.

And it seems neither can she, because when their lips meet for the second time, it’s with equal fervor and frenzy. There’s no gradual ramp-up—it’s just desperate, sucking kisses that lay bare how much and how long they’ve both wanted this, how long they’ve waited for each other.

He sinks his hands into her hair and moans helplessly into her mouth at every brush of their lips, feels her musical whimpers vibrate on his tongue and straight to his dick. He feels her soft hands tenderly caress his jaw, his cheeks, his ears, and then slide into his now-messy curls, nails scratching lightly at his scalp in a way that makes him shiver all over.

Finally, he thinks as he tries in vain to pull her closer over the gear shift, running his tongue along the seam of her mouth until she opens up sweetly for him, until they both groan at the wet, warm feel of each other. Finally.

They kiss, and kiss, and kiss, until he’s so turned on, so drunk on her, so hard for her, he feels a completely unfamiliar buzz under his skin, a longing in his chest so strong he thinks it might kill him. He worries he might pass out if he doesn’t get some air, so he grudgingly rips his mouth away from hers to trail wet kisses down her neck, breathing in her familiar scent into his lungs and hearing her full-throated gasps and moans, unimpeded by his own mouth, which is so visceral and so hot he thinks he might implode into himself like a dying star.

He licks a trail up to her ear, and feels her quake against his mouth.

“You smell so good,” he breathes into her skin, and he didn’t intend to say that, exactly, but it comes out anyway because he can’t think of anything truer right now. But if her soft whimper is any indication, she didn’t really mind it so much.

“Colin,” she gasps as he takes her earlobe into his mouth, which is something he’s always done with women mostly because it just seemed like the thing to do—but now, he’s driven solely by an overwhelming need to taste every inch of her skin, to feel every part of her with his lips and tongue and teeth. It’s vaguely foreign, this feeling, but in this moment, it comes to him as naturally as breathing.

“What do you want?” he murmurs. He’d do anything, at this point. Anything she wanted him to do to her. Anything she wanted to do to him.

Instead of responding with words, Penelope reaches for one of his hands and pulls it up to—oh God, she pulls it up to one of her tits and covers it with her own, encouraging him to…to touch, to squeeze…

“Fuck,” he curses right as she yanks his lips back to hers, licking inside and moaning as he palms her, as he brings up his other hand to do the same to her other breast. Jesus fucking Christ, even through her clothes and bra, her tits are perfect. Even through the thick layers of fabric, he can feel how big they are, how pillowy soft they’ll be in his hands, how the exquisite gravity of them will drive him insane when she’s writhing on top of him. Just the thought of them bare and free and full makes him want to rut against her with abandon, makes him feel like he could come just like this, hands on her clothed breasts and whining into her mouth.

He always knew he was a boob guy, but these…these aren’t just any boobs. These boobs are something special, they’re on a totally different plane. Dear God, he loves them so much and he hasn’t even seen them yet.

Which suddenly makes him very desperate to change that. He slides his hand up to trace the neckline of her pretty dress and feels that there’s enough give to pull it down a little, so he yanks himself away from her mouth again and looks at her questioningly, hoping she’ll be able to read his mind again.

She nods frantically, and he feels a little extra glow inside him that has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with the knowledge that they’re going to be so, so good together.

They know each other, inside and out. And he can’t wait to unlock this final piece of her, to find out exactly how they’ll fit.

Holding his breath, he slides a sleeve down her creamy shoulder and pulls the top of her dress downward until one of her tits is half-bare for him, and he can’t help it, he groans at the sight of her—dress askew, hair messy, eyes dilated, panting with need. He can’t imagine he looks much more put together than she does, but he also can’t imagine he could ever be half as sexy as she is in her disheveled state. He doubts anyone could.

“Col—” she starts, but before she can get his whole name out he’s already going to town on her, laying biting, open-mouthed kisses across her chest, feeling the softness of her skin under his tongue. The sound she makes when he grazes the very edge of her dress, where it holds taut and prevents him from seeing everything, is probably the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard. All other humans should stop making sounds now, probably. The best one has already been discovered, and no one’s going to top it.

He moves over to pull her other sleeve down so he can heap attention on her other breast, and she pants harshly, a low moan caught in her throat.

“Yeah,” he mumbles nonsensically into her cleavage—he has no idea why, really. Maybe because he feels the need to let her know that he’s as overwhelmed as she is just by getting to touch her in this way, or maybe because he’s simply losing his fucking mind over her tits. Very valid, in Colin’s opinion.

She runs her hand through his hair again, but this time, she grabs hold of it and tugs his head away from her chest, which makes him whine so pitifully, the sharpness of the embarrassment is just enough to stop him from coming.

“Need you,” she says as she trains her heavy-lidded gaze on his drooling, slack-jawed face. He has literally no idea what she sees that could possibly be sexually appealing, because he feels like he must look like a complete buffoon at this point—but she must like it well enough because she pulls him into another sloppy, open-mouthed kiss like she can’t help herself. Maybe they’re both a little insane, right now.

God, he needs her, too. He needs her right fucking now.

But how?

Why is his stupid, ancient car so fucking small and cramped? Why is there this annoying ass console and gear shift keeping him from getting closer to her? Why even have a gear shift, anyway? Aren’t they supposed to have flying cars and robot chauffeurs by now?

But then, a thought occurs to him.

Later, he’ll internally debate whether this was the greatest idea he’s ever had, or the most unhinged. Later, he’ll wonder how the laws of physics even allowed it to take place without inflicting grievous bodily injury upon his person. Later, he’ll thank the universe that this didn’t result in the both of them being hauled off to spend the night in jail.

“Fuck it,” he says, springing into action before his brain can catch up with his body. He pushes himself out of his seat and, honest to God, he has no idea how he manages it, but he actually swings his leg up and hoists himself over the console between them, until he’s practically straddling Penelope in the passenger’s seat.

Oh, it’s not comfortable, by any means—one of his legs is still balanced precariously on the armrest and the other is crammed painfully up against Penelope’s door. And, shockingly, he wasn’t totally smooth about it, either—he definitely knocked his knee against the steering wheel—fucking ouch—and he thinks he might have honked the horn with his ass, though he can’t say for sure because of the blood rushing in his ears.

But none of it even matters, because there she is, under him. Ready for him.

“Colin,” she says, her initial surprise at his antics quickly melting right back into lust, because she really is just as insane as he is, isn’t she? God, he loves her so much.

He leans down to kiss her heatedly, tongue immediately tangling with hers in a way that has his dick throbbing, which he’s pretty sure she can feel at this point. But there’s no time to worry about dick-related matters right now, because he knows exactly what he wants to do in this moment, and his dick definitely isn’t involved.

Slowly, he moves his hand down—over the tantalizing curve of her breast, into the supple nip of her waist, down where the skirt of her dress is now bunched up underneath her, messy and creased from their frantic making out. It’s a tight fit down there, but he sends a telepathic thanks to Penelope that she chose to wear a short dress tonight—he doesn’t know if it will work, but he’s not convinced they can’t reach full telepathy sooner or later. He gathers the fabric in his hand and lifts it higher, revealing more and more of the smooth, soft skin of her pretty pale legs. He hears himself breathing hard at the sight, like he can’t quite believe this is happening. And it’s true—he really, really can’t, but he’s not one to question his own luck.

“Is this okay?” he leans down and rasps into her ear, reveling in the little shiver it stirs in her.

“Please,” she sighs, spreading her legs as wide as she can get them. Which unfortunately isn’t really all that wide, because they’re kind of trapped between his own ridiculously long legs, not to mention the door and the armrest—but Colin is bendy, resourceful, and very motivated. It’ll be enough, he’ll make sure of that.

His heartbeat is loud in his ears as he slides his hand up her leg until he finds the apex of her thighs, where she’s warm and soft and, oh God, wet. He can feel how wet she is through her knickers, and he immediately has to pump the brakes, pause everything, because this tangible evidence of how turned on she is has him back on the razor’s edge of coming with alarming speed.

“God,” he moans under his breath, gulping down air in a sad and futile attempt to calm down. “You’re so…fuck, Pen. You’re so fucking wet, I—”

She pants around a dangerous little smile, which is so hot it is absolutely not helping his situation at all. “Mmhm,” she hums affirmatively, pulling Colin down by his hair again—oh fuck—so she can murmur directly in his ear and ruin his fucking life. “Always wet for you.”

Colin’s not a proud man—he moans, and it’s loud. “Jesus fucking Christ, woman,” he hisses, though he can’t quite stop himself from letting his fingers brush against her again, stroking along her seam through the thin fabric. “Do you want me dead?”

Her smile this time is less devilish and more genuinely amused, even as she gasps and writhes at his light, teasing touches. “Waited—ah—a long time for this,” she says, her voice gravelly and so, so sexy. “Call it payback.”

Oh, he’ll show her payback. He’ll show her real good.

With renewed determination, he moves her knickers to the side and just fucking goes for it.

“Oh,” she gasps, her body arching up beautifully as he slides his fingers against her with nothing in the way, fucking finally, and his eyes drink her in greedily as she throws her head back and takes desperate, open-mouthed breaths. He can’t wait to catalog every little response, every twitch, every sound, until he knows everything there is to know about what gets her off, until he knows even more than she does. He’s going to devote himself to the craft of making Penelope come until he’s a world-renowned master in the art, until they award him the top prize at some esteemed international sex convention.

He's going to do that, he swears he will—but right here, now, they’re both too desperate for a whole lot of finesse, and in this position, his wrist is on borrowed time before it really starts cramping up.

So with that in mind, he leans down to capture Penelope’s lips in a fierce kiss just as he slides a finger right into her with no preamble. Her low, surprised moan is muffled against his mouth, but the way she paws at him desperately—his face, his shoulders, his hair—more than makes up for it.

She’s so worked up that his finger glides inside her with no resistance, and just knowing that he got her to this state is so incredible that he feels dizzy for a second. He wastes no time in fucking her with it, going as deep as he can and giving her a firsthand—hah!—demonstration of just how much bigger his hands are than hers.

“Fuck,” she whines, panting softly into his mouth as he curls his finger upward, starts thumbing her clit in time with his movements.

But he’s a greedy, greedy boy who wants more than that, so he goes for broke and slides a second finger in, barely giving her time to adjust, unrelenting in his deep, rhythmic strokes inside her because he knows, on some primal level, that she wants it this way.

“Oh fuck,” she moans loudly, tightening her grip in his hair.

There we go.

He doesn’t let up, watching her face avidly as she falls apart, breathing in time with her, fixating on every surge of her pleasure like it’s his own. He’s always preferred giving than receiving in bed, but there’s a part of him that can’t quite believe he could ever feel this good—that this is by far the best sex of his entire life and his dick hasn’t been touched yet. Right now, he feels so shivery and flayed open and raw that he couldn’t care less about his dick, in fact. It might as well not even exist, for all he knows. She feels so fucking good riding his fingers, and then he also feels good that he made her feel good, and it’s this incredible feedback loop he’s never experienced before, didn’t even know was a thing that could happen.

He can feel her fluttering around his digits and hears her breathing pick up, and he thinks she’s got to be close. Oh sweet holy hell, she’s about to come. He’s about to make her come, make her clamp down on him, get his hand all wet—

“Ah, Colin,” she gasps, and he almost passes out at the visual she makes, grinding her hips down onto his fingers as he pumps them into her and cups her clit with the heel of his palm. He can feel her ratchet up, up, up—

He can feel himself babbling horny nonsense in her ear but he has absolutely no idea what he’s saying—some combination of yeah, come on, that’s it, Pen, fuck my hand, there you go—but it’s when he sucks her earlobe into his mouth again that she finally shatters, letting out the huskiest, throatiest groan he’s ever heard and pulsing around him, clutching his hair like a lifeline as she shakes against his body.

It is, without a doubt, unequivocally, the greatest thing that’s ever happened to him.

He lets her ride it out against his hand, kissing her softly all over her face as she comes down—her forehead, her cheeks, her nose, her mouth—buoyant with love for her, so grateful he gets to have her like this he legitimately almost tears up again.

Well. Here’s hoping that Penelope finds crying hot, right?

Her trembling has ceased, so he slowly, gently removes his fingers from her, trying very hard not to groan at the hot rush of slickness that follows. God, that’s so ludicrously hot, it’s actually unfair. Good thing his car has leather seats—but actually, whatever, he’s sure she’s probably seen worse since she was manufactured. A few years after the dawn of man.

Penelope’s breathing slows as they trade sweet, closed-mouth pecks, and when she pulls back, the happy smile on her face quite literally makes Colin’s heart skip a beat.

He grins back dopily, helpless to do anything else.

“Colin?” she murmurs, scratching her nails through the fine hairs on the nape of his neck, which definitely does not make him want to purr like a cat.

“Hmm?” he hums, blissful. Once again, not purring.

Shut up.

“Colin…why didn’t we do this…upstairs?” she asks, furrowing her brow.

Oh.

Oh, uh…right. That is…erm.

“Huh,” he says. For the first time since he climbed on top of her, he takes stock of his own body and their surroundings and…well. One of his legs is asleep and the other hurts like a bitch, and they’re both so incredibly sweaty from the close quarters—but maybe that’s okay because the only thing keeping randos on the street from fucking peering into his car and seeing everything they’re doing is the Titanic-style fog on his windows. Which is kind of hot, actually, but not the point.

“I’ll be honest with you,” he says, very seriously. “That thought literally never occurred to me until this moment.”

They exchange glances for a beat, and then they both burst out laughing at the same time, collapsing in a heap against each other. He hugs her close as they shake his shitty car with the force of their giggles, and Colin thinks that this might be the happiest moment of his life.

That is, he thought it was the happiest moment of his life.

Turns out, that record is shattered not twenty minutes later, when Penelope unhooks her bra and Colin sees her naked tits for the first time.

(In truth, the moment that truly takes that crown is when she told him she loved him, duh, but the tits are a close second. He dares anyone who sees their beauty in person to chastise him for this.)

(Except no, don’t look at them, actually.)

After they stopped laughing like idiots for like three full minutes in the car, it seemed there was an unspoken agreement that they would untangle themselves from their vehicular prison and go upstairs together. To do what, Colin wasn’t quite certain, but he was more than happy to follow her lead. He’s not sure what it says about him that he would have been equally excited to cuddle with her on the couch while they consume trash television as he would have been doing…other stuff, but that’s just the thing, isn’t it? Any time spent with her has always been a delight—a constant comfort in his life, a space where he could let all his weird out, knowing she would never judge him for any of it.

Maybe that’s why his stunted little brain never totally connected the dots about how he truly felt about her before—in the past, the romantic and sexual realms had been so removed from things like comfort and safety for him, they existed in completely different solar systems. Romance and sex were all about displaying the most acceptable version of himself, concealing discomfort, meeting certain expectations. He can see now that it had all been a big performance, a fucking job interview or some shit. It probably doesn’t speak well of him that it took his favorite person in the world planting one on him to make him realize how fucked up that was, that something better was possible, that he could have it all—but as he followed Penelope up the stairs to the flat she shares with Eloise, their hands intertwined, he couldn’t help but be so incredibly grateful that things had unfolded this way.

And then Penelope led him through her quiet flat to her room, shut the door behind them, and pushed him up against it to devour his mouth, and the emotional introspection came to a screeching halt.

Even in heels, she had to really work at it to comfortably align their faces, which made him smile into their kiss—it’s truly incredible how adorable she can be, even as the feeling of her tongue stroking his own had him harder than a diamond again in no time at all. Get you a woman who can do both, et cetera.

Maybe one day, he’ll lift her clean off the ground and hold her against the door while they make out and save her the trouble of standing on her toes—he’s not exactly Mr. Muscles and never has been, but he thinks her surprised squeal would really do it for him. The thought will provide a tremendous amount of incentive when he drags himself back to the gym, anyway.

Lifting her would also make it much easier to grab her ass—which he totally reached down and did anyway, and then groaned into her mouth like he was dying because holy fuck, what an ass it is. Perfect tits, perfect ass…the woman truly has it all. A-plus lady lumps, in the immortal words of Fergie.

He wisely chose not to say that one out loud. There’s being comfortable with your partner, and then there’s going out of your way to ruin the mood.

After several iconic minutes of kissing and feeling each other up—the moment she reached up and squeezed his tit will be seared into his memory forever, because it really had no business feeling that good—she took a few steps backwards, leaving him gawking against the door as she reached back to unzip her dress. It was almost cinematic, how the dress just dropped down her body and pooled at her high-heeled feet in one incredible swoosh, leaving her in just a simple, unadorned black bra and pair of knickers. The sight of which made him stop breathing for a medically alarming number of seconds.

He already knew what she would tell him later—that she hadn’t planned on anything sexual happening that night so she had worn undergarments that were more supportive and utilitarian than beautiful. He’s not sure how he’s going to tell her that he’s pretty sure he likes the plain ones better…that the familiarity, the domesticity of seeing her in them actually made him hot, got him harder. Hopefully he’ll find a way to phrase it that doesn’t make him sound like a complete perv, but he doesn’t have high hopes.

His eyes had drunk in her body before him—gorgeously soft everywhere, pale and freckled and luscious—and he was almost paralyzed with the possibilities, with all the things he wanted to do to that body racing through his mind like the world’s sexiest highlight reel. But then he had clocked the shift in her expression, how her pretty face had contorted with uncertainty, and he realized he had been staring way too long. The idea of her feeling even remotely insecure when she was quite literally the sexiest person in the known universe flooded his body with panic.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said, awed. He knew full well that it probably sounded like a line to her, but there were simply no other words to say in that moment, because they were true.

Thankfully, she seemed to register his sincerity, and a bashful smile took over her face. See? Adorable.

And then she reached back and unhooked her bra, and Colin nearly choked on his own tongue. The woman is trying to assassinate him via her hotness, he’s sure of it now. But what a way to go.

Which brings him to the present, where Penelope’s perfect tits are naked and right there, and he thinks this might be the end of the line for him. He might just perish here, now, a bittersweet death because he will have witnessed perfection with his eyes, but never touched it with his hands. Who gives a bleeding fuck about the Mona Lisa when Penelope’s nipples exist, can he ask? Da Vinci should be ashamed.

“Can you…” Penelope trails off, gesturing at his still very much clothed body. Overly clothed, really, considering the circumstances and also his aforementioned sweat issues, not that she needs to know anything about those. Suddenly, he feels like a complete and utter shithead, just standing here gaping at her like a trout while she bravely disrobed in front of him.

“Fuck, of course,” he says sheepishly, already flinging off his oppressively warm suit jacket. He knows he’ll keep it for sentimental value, at least, but he also kind of wants it to burn in the flames of eternal hell.

It’s when he reaches down to unbuckle his belt that the atmosphere shifts a little, when the air gets a little thicker between them. He’s not sure what it is about the clink of the buckle coming undone that makes it the most sexual component of a man getting undressed, but at the sound, both he and Penelope gulp at almost the same time, and suddenly his throat feels inexplicably dry.

He has no idea what’s about to happen, but he knows it’s about to change his life.

He gets down to just his shirt and briefs, which he realizes too late is kind of an odd order to disrobe. But luckily, Penelope seems into it, biting her lip as she runs her eyes over his now bare legs and feet. Is that a thing for her? He could get on board with that, if she was—he has a feeling he could get on board with just about anything she was into, really. Foot fetishes, bondage, whatever that thing is that Ben was doing in that alley with the shaving cream…

…ew. No thoughts of Ben or any of his siblings are allowed right now, actually.

Colin feels his cheeks heat as he unbuttons his shirt, his fingers shaking a little more than he would like. He’s not that self-conscious, but the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen, his best friend, the love of his life is standing there nearly naked and watching him undress, and he suddenly has no idea how he can possibly measure up—to other men she’s been with, to the image of him she’s had in her head all these years. She’s seen him without a shirt before, of course, and all the accumulating evidence tells him that she still wants to get all up on this, but…

…but then she smiles at him again, loving and bright, and that familiar feeling of comfort washes over him. This is Penelope. She knows him. By some unbelievable twist of fate, she loves him.

He’s safe.

He slides his white dress shirt off his shoulders, and Penelope actually exhales a low moan at the sight of his bare chest like she can’t help it. Which feels a little undeserved but extremely awesome, all things considered.

He feels so awesome, in fact, he strides over to her with more confidence than he has, grips her face, and kisses her as deeply as he can, swallowing her surprised gasp and wasting no time in skimming his hands down her sides and then back up to cup those glorious tits, which feel…holy fuck, they feel amazing. She rips her mouth away from his to whimper as he takes them in hand, lightly tweaking her nipples with his thumbs and feeling them stiffen under his fingers, and he can see with perfect clarity how he’s going to spend his life worshipping them, finding all the little ways he can play with them to drive her insane. Is he having a psychic experience? Is there such a thing as a sexual clairvoyant?

He has no idea if he pushes her or she pulls him back, but they fall onto the bed together like they’ve been doing it for years, his hands going right back to her breasts like homing beacons. He’s only half on top of her, but it’s actually crazy how his big body eclipses her more petite frame—he’s starting to realize just how considerable their size difference is, but the logistical challenges of that are vastly outweighed by how hot he thinks it is, at least if his dick has anything to say about it.

His dick is getting more and more involved in the proceedings as they paw at each other with increasing urgency, the sparks of pleasure he feels as her hands roam reverently along his bare skin almost overwhelming. Penelope drags her nails through his chest hair and ooh, the little pleased hum she makes into his mouth is very, very interesting.

Colin pulls back and raises his eyebrow in a silent question—so you’re into that, huh?—and true to form, she understands him perfectly, smiling and rolling her eyes. Cheeky minx. He huffs a laugh, but it turns into an embarrassing moan when she pinches one of his nipples in retaliation. Well that’s never…happened…before. Her eyes widen in surprise—she had clearly intended for that to be silly instead of sexy, but the curious and calculating look that takes over her face, like she’s filing that information away, makes him shiver.

Luckily, Colin is a Bridgerton and the spirit of competition resides within him like a dormant virus, so he wastes no time before he kisses his way down her neck, drags his tongue across her collarbones, and leans down to suck one of her nipples into his mouth.

“Oh,” Penelope moans loudly, to Colin’s immense satisfaction. She digs her fingers into his hair again and clutches him to her chest, which is hilarious because nothing and no one could pull him away from her tits in this moment. “Bastard.”

He grins around her peak and swirls his tongue in a way that immediately makes her arch off the bed, fuck yeah. For all of his pathological competitive tendencies, he’s never really felt that way towards Penelope, for some reason—but he can certainly get behind this.

Not that he’s exactly a paragon of self-restraint, because he lets out a deeply pathetic whine when she tugs him over to her other nipple by his hair and holds his head firmly in place while he licks and sucks her with gusto. Why is the hair pulling thing so hot?

His dick agrees, apparently, because it’s only now that he realizes that he’s kind of…rutting against the bed. Not enough to really do anything, but enough to show Penelope how much he’s enjoying sucking her tits and exactly how desperate it’s getting him.

“Colin,” she sighs, gently pulling him off her breast. He’s sure he looks as crazy as he feels, messy hair and glassy eyes and drooling mouth as she holds him back from his prize. Some part of him, deep in the recesses of his lizard brain, wants to beg her to let him keep it up until she comes, but an even bigger part wants to do whatever the fuck she wants him to.

He takes a deep, rattling breath, trying to regain some of his composure. “Yeah,” he rasps, sitting back to take in the rest of her, laid out so prettily for him on her sky blue quilt. Fuck, there’s so many places he wants to touch and taste, so many secrets he wants her body to tell him.

She lifts her foot off the bed, and oh, right, she’s still wearing those heels. They’re black and shiny and dangerous-looking up close, and he finds himself inexplicably wishing that she would press one of them against his chest.

Colin’s really learning a lot about himself tonight, it seems.

He takes the hint and carefully, methodically unbuckles her shoe, tossing it off the bed and deciding to give into his sudden and very unexpected urge to kiss the inside of her ankle before setting her leg down on the bed.

Could it be that he’s the one with the foot fetish? Who the hell knows, at this point.

He performs the same treatment on her other leg, and when he’s finished, she cants her hips up slightly, a clear indication that she wants him to—

“Take them off,” she whispers, and all the breath leaves his body. “Please.”

He gulps. “Yeah,” he says lowly. It seems to be the only word he’s capable of saying right now.

With slightly shaking hands, he runs his fingers along the elastic of her knickers, brushing the warm, soft skin underneath and gently pulls them downward, to reveal…

Oh, fuck, he thinks.

“Oh, fuck,” he says.

Unsurprisingly, Penelope just as pretty there as she is everywhere else, and God, she’s visibly wet, shiny and slick along her folds and even a little down her dimpled thighs. He did that. She’s neatly groomed but not bare, and while he’s never had any preference in that department, he finds himself already attached to her red curls, for some reason pleased to see that the fire that kissed the hair on her head, kissed her down there, too.

He feels himself start to drool, suddenly gripped by an overpowering need to put his mouth on her, to drink her from the source and fuck her with his tongue and make her come again, and again, and again. He’s never felt like much of a lothario in bed, he knows his relationship with sex hasn’t always been particularly straightforward, but this, giving head, that is something he knows how to do. And oh God, he wants to eat her out so fucking bad.

He leans down to kiss her stomach, her soft abdomen; starts to drag his hand up the sensitive flesh of her thigh to where she’s warm and wet. This fingers trail through the slickness there, up and up until he’s dragging them along her seam again—hello, old friend, he thinks stupidly, suddenly very happy that he’s apparently pre-verbal right now so there’s no threat of saying it out loud.

Weirdly, he doesn’t think she’d mind too much if he did, though. She might even laugh.

He mindlessly slips two fingers inside her again and they slide in so easily, he exhales a low moan into the crease of her thigh. He takes a deep breath and drinks in a lungful of her scent down here, sweet and musky and perfect, and it makes him feel crazy. Animal.

The moment he leans down to finally lick her clit, though, she pulls his head away. He doesn’t bother trying to hold in his whine, this time, because he wants to taste her, he wants—

“Not…not now,” she pants. To be fair, it sounds like it’s taking just about all her willpower to say it. “Next time, I promise. But I…I need you. Inside.”

Oh.

Oh.

He can’t find the words to respond to her, but he’s pretty sure the way he closes his eyes and breathes deep in a clear attempt not to come on the spot is answer enough.

Finally, after going through his running mental list of tried-and-true boner killers—all while she lovingly petted his hair, which made him want to cry a little bit—he inhales deeply and nods.

He regretfully rolls off her so he can shimmy his briefs down his legs and fling them onto the floor, and the relief that provides for his neglected dick actually catches him off guard. He had been so preoccupied with her, he hadn’t quite realized just how bad it had gotten.

She’s fetching a condom from her bedside table as he crawls back over to her, and that’s when it really sinks in, what he’s about to do. All the fantasies and vague sex dreams in the world could never have prepared him for what it feels like, here on the brink of actually doing it.

He hears a muted gasp and when he looks down, she’s staring at his dick with wide eyes—and dare he say it…a little bit of hunger?

“God, I can’t wait to suck that,” she mutters, seemingly more to herself than to him, and he can’t help it, he lets out a giddy little laugh.

“If it’s any consolation, it can’t wait, either,” he says, and without thinking he reaches down and tuck a wayward curl behind her ear fondly, so in love with her he feels like he can barely contain the feeling inside himself.

She beams at him, radiant in her joy and arousal, and then leans up to bestow a soft kiss on lips.

“Please,” she sighs quietly, pulling away to lay back down on the bed, spreading her legs for him, putting all of her on display.

Jesus tap dancing Christ.

His brain is barely functioning as he rips the foil packet open and slides the condom on—and thank fuck for that, because historically he hasn’t always been the best at opening those under pressure. With all the modern advances in packaging technology, can’t they come up with something a bit less stressful to manage? But suddenly, he’s looking down at his very condomed dick and he can barely remember how it got there.

Another point of proof that he’s actually a wizard. The evidence is really piling up, what can he say.

Colin slowly positions himself over her, his breathing suddenly coming in uneven pants and his arms trembling with need, and when he gazes down at her, he can see his own chaotic swirl of emotions reflected back at him in her clear, blue eyes.

“I love you,” he whispers, brushing a shaking finger along her soft cheek.

Penelope smiles at him serenely, and the butterflies in his belly go quiet.

“I love you,” she whispers back, right before he pushes inside her.

They groan in unison as he enters her slowly, and oh fuck, the exquisite heat of her is already threatening to make him lose his fucking mind. She’s tight, and wet, and hot, and her whimpers are like a symphony in his ears, and he knows immediately, before he’s even fully seated inside her, that this is it. She’s the only one he’ll do this with until the day he dies. He knows it in his blood and guts, in his mind and his heart and his soul, if such a thing even exists.

Nothing compares to this. Nothing ever will. He was made for her and her for him, and the sheer certainty of that fact has tears springing to his eyes before he can stop them.

“Colin,” she murmurs breathily, reaching up to wipe away a tear that had spilled over. He gently grasps her hand and brings it to his mouth to press a kiss to her pulse point.

He smiles, letting her know he’s okay, and then suddenly she’s taken him all the way in to the hilt, and the warm, safe clutch of her…it’s like nothing he’s ever felt before.

He leans down to kiss her soundly while she adjusts to him, needing her to ground him in this moment or he fears he may float away, may leave his body altogether. He pauses for a moment to take stock of all their points of connection—where she’s tight around him, where her silky breasts are pressed into his wiry chest hair, where her plush thighs cradle his hips, where their lips are brushing, where her small hands are caressing his neck and shoulders.

She whimpers into his mouth, perhaps as overcome as he is, and then she’s slowly grinding her hips down in minute little motions, like she can’t help it, like she wants more, like she’s ready.

“Pen,” he groans desperately, and she nods, tightening her legs around him like she’s urging him to move.

He starts rolling his hips shallowly, working up to it, drinking in her hitching breaths and nearly laughing in disbelief over how good this feels. He could come from this easily, and he suspects she could, too, but he knows that’s not what either of them want, or need, right now.

He pulls out nearly all the way, and when he pushes back in, her throaty cry flips some kind of switch inside him. Suddenly he’s pushing himself up on one elbow and reaching down with his other hand to grip her waist so he can thrust in earnest, and oh God, it’s good. It’s so fucking good.

“Fuck, fuck,” he moans, picking up speed and finding a rhythm that sets all his cells on fire, that elicits this sexy little growl from Penelope that he’s never heard before. “Oh God, Pen—”

But he can’t articulate a fully formed thought right now, his brain has been wiped clean, deconstructed down to the studs as he fucks into her over and over again, collecting her sweet little “ah, ah, ah” sounds like they’re precious stones. He leans back to grip her hips harder and feels a low moan rip from this throat when he feels her fuck down onto his dick feverishly, when he sees that this animal fervor has taken over both of them.

“There,” she groans when he hits that sensitive spot inside her. “Right there, Colin, please—”

“Yeah,” he pants, suddenly overcome with a singular focus. Suddenly he doesn’t give a fuck if he even comes at all, all he wants is to make her feel good, all he wants is to feel her contract around him and hear her scream and know it was him who did it.

He fucks her like that, right there, again and again, hears their moans grow louder in tandem.

“Is it good?” he asks desperately, not knowing why but needing to hear her say it.

Her eyes roll back and she nods frantically, digging her nails into the meat of his shoulders, pinpricks of pain that shoot straight to his dick.

“So good,” she says, keening as he picks up the pace again. “So good, Colin.”

He whimpers at her words, body flushing with pleasure. His vision is fuzzy around the edges, his limbs buzzing, his mind stripped down to Penelope, just Penelope—Penelope under him and around him and inside him.

“You’re so good,” she moans, pulling him down so she can breathe it wetly into his ear and make him quiver. “You’re gonna make me come.”

Yes, yes, yes, he is, he’s totally going to do that, he’s going to make her come. He reaches down to stroke her clit as he thrusts into her, determined to make her feel good, desperate to see her face when she falls apart again.

“Ah,” she whines, fucking down harder onto him, starting to lose control of her body. “That’s it, come on, make me come, make me—make m—”

She lets out a loud, low moan as she arches off the bed and clamps down on him, shaking and shaking and shaking, and it’s the sight of her at the height of pleasure that has him hurtling towards the edge of the cliff faster than he can blink. He groans at the picture she makes as she quakes beneath him, at the knowledge that he did that, and he fucks her through it as gently as he can, not wanting to overstimulate her but wanting to prolong this for her as long as possible. He needs to give her everything, needs her to know that he’s good for her, that he’ll always be good for her.

He grinds his thrusts to a halt as her shaking abates. Fuck, he needs to come so badly, but something tells him he should wait for her to tell him how she wants it. That he should leave it in her hands.

She opens her eyes, tired and sated and so, so beautiful, and the love in them takes his breath away.

“Keep going,” she murmurs, hitching a leg around him to pull him further into her.

He doesn’t need to be told twice—he fucks into her again, again, again, and it’s really not going to take much at this point because he feels warm all over, he feels like one giant raw nerve, he feels like every thrust, every touch of their bodies could send him over.

“Pen,” he whines, and suddenly he can’t get her name out of his mouth, he just keeps moaning Pen, Pen, Pen like she’s a lifeline. And maybe she is.

“That’s it,” she breathes, pulling him in for a kiss. “Give it to me.”

Oh—oh—

And with that, he flies apart.

He slams in one final time and comes so hard he sees stars dance at the edges of his vision, groaning uncontrollably at the waves of pleasure ripping through him from deep in his belly and out to his limbs. It goes on and on, seemingly endless, and he sobs into Penelope’s shoulder as his orgasm works through his body, shattering him, wringing him dry.

Well, fuck.

When he comes back to reality, he finds that his face is once again wet with tears, though he has no memory of crying that hard. But he can’t spare the energy to be embarrassed about that, not now, not with his head pillowed on Penelope’s soft chest and her hands carding through his hair, murmuring sweet nothings in his ear. That’s it, I’ve got you, you’re okay.

Not for the first time tonight, he marvels at how good it is with her, how he never even knew it could feel this way. He didn’t know this kind of connection was possible, that sex could be so intense and all-encompassing and exhilarating.

But…it’s her, he supposes. It’s her, and it’s him, and it’s them. It’s fucking magic.

Colin blinks back into reality, and the first thing he does is lean up and kiss her softly. He’ll admit that he almost holds his hand up for a high five, because he personally thinks a zesty high five is deserved for a job extremely well done, but the whole kiss thing seemed more in keeping with the emotionally vulnerable, post-coital vibes they have going on here.

He pulls away, looks into her eyes, and says, very seriously: “Holy shit.”

Penelope nods solemnly. “Holy shit,” she agrees.

“That was…” he starts, struggling to find words. “Wow.”

“It was really wow.”

The need to pull out of her is starting to make itself known, but he really doesn’t want to leave the safety of her embrace just yet. If he snuggles into her a little deeper, no one has to know. Except Penelope, but she doesn’t seem to mind right now. She’s cool like that.

As if to reinforce that point, she leans down, lips brushing his ear.

“Just think,” she says, low and teasing. “We’re gonna do that all the time now.”

Oh sweet Jesus Christ. Holy motherfucking shitballs.

He shakes his head in disbelief. How the hell is this his life now?

“Fuck yeah, we are.”

He lifts his gaze to hers, and she smiles.

Oh, yeah, he thinks. Magic.

“Home, sweet home!”

Colin hears a scoff come from the backseat.

“Did you move to Kent without telling the rest of us?” Eloise asks. “That should be news to Pen.”

Colin rolls his eyes, shielding them from the sun as he steps out of his car. Free at last—old girl’s aircon is decidedly not what it used to be, and it’s hot as balls outside. “No, but ‘mansion, sweet mansion’ doesn’t have quite the same ring to it.”

“The rich—they’re just like us,” Penelope quips, climbing out of the passenger’s seat and smoothing wrinkles out of her dress. She looks so beautiful in it that he doesn’t even care that she’s definitely making fun of him right now.

He hasn’t been here in like three years, but Aubrey Hall stands just as he remembers it, stately and proud, familiar and laden with memories—peals of laughter, scraped knees, sunburns, grass stains. It looks like it always has, but a lot has changed since the last time he was here.  

He glances back over at Penelope, who’s discreetly adjusting the bust of her dress after a long drive. Luckily, not everything has changed.

“Did you bring the swimsuit?” he murmurs into her ear from behind, winding his arms around her midsection. “Please tell me you brought the swimsuit.”

She furrows her brow in confusion. “What swimsuit?”

“Pen!”

She rolls her eyes, smiling despite herself. “Yes, I brought it, you big weirdo. Calm your tits.”

He grins. “Ah, but this is about your tits, my love.”

“Mm, classy.”

“I mean, we could make this about my tits, if you’d like,” he says thoughtfully. “I just don’t know if the polka dots would flatter my figure.”

Penelope looks like she’s considering it, for a moment. “You could always swim naked,” she suggests hopefully.

“Christ, can you two knock it off?” Eloise snipes, pulling her suitcase out of the boot with a little more violence than Colin thinks is warranted. “I was just stuck in a car with you lovebirds for over an hour and I already get more than enough of this torture at home. Do I not deserve a break? I’m on vacation.”

Rude. Colin just cuddles Penelope tighter to his body, sticking his tongue out at his sister like a child. But if he can’t regress to childhood at Aubrey Hall, of all places, what’s in God’s name is the point?

“Oh, you know you’ll miss us at the flat,” Colin says. Her move out date is still about a month away—which means Colin’s move in date is, too—but he’s still a little sad that she won’t be around quite as much. Even though he’s also very, very excited to finally, officially shack up with Penelope for real. Walking around in the nude, having very loud sex…ah, living in sin. He thinks he’ll take to the lifestyle quite well.

“Actually, Phillip’s kids possess about ten times your maturity, and I get to use my noise canceling headphones for something other than drowning out your demented sex wails, so I welcome the darkness.”

“You big softie,” Colin coos. He’ll definitely miss riling her up like this, if nothing else.

“I’ll miss Pen, though,” Eloise says, wiping moisture off her brow. “You sure you want to live with this freak?”

Penelope scrunches her face in thought, and he knows she’s teasing him, but he still squeezes her waist petulantly. This is no laughing matter.

She sighs. “I’m afraid so,” she says, shrugging. “It’s just for the convenience, really. It’s so much easier for us both to just have our unofficial book editors living in the house with us. The tube is such a hassle.”

Colin hums in agreement. “It’s just good business sense. Plus, I’m always on hand when she needs moral support. Long, hot, sweaty moral support—”

“You’re vile and I hate you,” Eloise says, unimpressed. “Stay hot and sweaty all you like, I’m getting out of this bloody heat before my thoughts take a turn for the homicidal.”

As he watches Eloise drag her suitcase into the house, Colin drops his chin to the top Penelope’s head—which isn’t easy because she’s so damn short, but he loves doing it anyway. “Do you think she ever regrets encouraging me to declare my love for you?”

Penelope hums in thought. “Hmm, probably.”

Well Eloise can suck it, because there are no take-backs when it comes to the love of his life. And it’s not like Penelope is wrong—it is very convenient to be in such close proximity as his final draft solidifies and her novel gets closer to the publish date. If he hadn’t basically been living with her, anyway, he’s not sure his book would have ever come together.

He’s also not really sure why he spent all his time in her and Eloise’s shared flat, rather than just having Penelope stay at his. Maybe because he has such fond memories of them fucking for the first time in her room, and he’s very sentimental by nature. Many people would call that a virtue!

“Ah, you guys are here!” Daphne’s face peeks around the front door like she’s on the lookout for someone, and after determining that the coast is clear, she runs up to give them both hugs. Which is sort of one big three-way hug, because Colin doesn’t really want to stop cuddling Penelope just yet. Daphne is remarkably unfazed by it.

“When did you arrive?” Penelope asks her. “You look very put together for someone who just drove here in a hot car with multiple children.”

Daphne laughs. “We got here a couple of hours ago,” she says. “But you’re very sweet.”

“The sweetest,” Colin agrees.

Unlike Eloise, Daphne observes their flirting with nothing less than excessive fondness. No matter how disgustingly in love they act around her, she always just looks so happy for them. It would almost be disturbing, if Colin had any intention of being any less publicly in love with Penelope any time soon. Which he very much doesn’t, so. Daphne can do what she likes.

“Guys, guys,” she whispers loudly, motioning them closer like she’s about to deliver top secret intel. There’s literally no one else outside with them so it’s more than a little weird, but Colin is a messy bitch who lives for drama, so he’s intrigued. “Did you hear that Ben is apparently bringing someone?”

“What?” he and Penelope shout in unison.

“I know!” Daphne exclaims. “That’s what Mum said, anyway, but no one knows who she’s talking about. Is he…seeing anyone? I didn’t think he, you know, did that.”

“Two months ago I saw him type out a Yelp review for a glory hole,” Colin says, shuddering at the memory. “Five stars, in all fairness.”

“Three weeks ago I saw him kiss three people at a club, at the same time,” Penelope chimes in. “Try and work out the geometry of that one.”

Daphne sighs. “You guys are no help, then,” she says, clearly disappointed. “Well, I guess this is shaping up to be quite an interesting trip, eh?”

Christ. The idea of Ben actually dating someone—one person, for an extended period of time—is almost enough to shake Colin’s very belief system. He tries to imagine Ben taking someone out to a moderately priced dinner, and it feels like he’s watching a raccoon walk on its hind legs.

“S’pose so,” Colin agrees. “We’ll have to find a way to test the mettle of this mystery person, whoever they are. Make sure they’re cool enough to hang. Luckily, a little birdie named Greg told me that he may or may not have a new car-related prank in the works for Ben, which may or may not involve marmite. You didn’t hear it from me.”

Penelope perks up in his arms. “Really?”

Daphne plugs her ears. “I can’t be an accessory to whatever this is,” she says, already turning and speedwalking back towards the house. “I’m a mother now!”

“Kinda fucked up to blame being lame on your children, Daph!” he calls after her, but she’s already gone. Oh well.

“So…the plan is to rope Ben’s mystery person into some sort of ill-conceived, marmite-related heist against Ben himself?” Penelope asks, tapping his arm reluctantly so he’ll detangle himself from her. He’s sad to do it, but it is hot as fuck out here and he’s been craving an ice lolly since they left London.

“Pretty much,” he confirms. He grudgingly pulls away from her and they walk over to get their bags from his car. “If they can’t prank, they really have no future here.”

“I can’t fault your logic,” she concedes, struggling a bit to pull her giant suitcase from the boot. Penelope is a notorious over-packer, and Colin finds it endlessly charming, for some reason. Probably because her suitcases aren’t much smaller than she is, most of the time.

He helps her get it out, and she smiles gratefully at him. Like he needs any extra incentive to show off his very toned biceps, thank you very much. That gym membership is really paying off, and is almost bearable when he can drown out all the grunting with Housewives podcasts.

“I’m an excellent judge of character, Pen, you know that,” he says, slamming the boot shut.

“Oh you are, are you?”

“I am!” he declares, indignant. “That’s what makes me an expert wingman, remember?”

Penelope barks out a disbelieving laugh. “You mean the time you tried to be my wingman and it was such an embarrassing flop that you didn’t manage to hook me up with a single guy?”

Well, when you put it like that.

“Not to be the ‘actually’ guy,” he says, throwing an arm around her shoulder as they drag their bags towards the house. “But actually, you could argue that I was a very successful wingman.”

She looks up at him and raises an eyebrow. “Oh really?”

“We-ell…” he sing-songs, stopping them in front of the door and grinning down at her. “You ended up with the right guy, didn’t you?”

The smile that breaks across her face makes his chest ache. All her smiles do that, actually.

“Yeah, I suppose I did.” She shakes her head fondly at his antics—he prefers the word “charm,” personally—and nothing can stop him from leaning in to kiss her right now, even though they can’t linger on the steps too long in case Eloise spots them and starts pelting them with eggs from a nearby window.

“Ah, I knew it,” he says triumphantly, brushing his thumb over her cheek and allowing himself to quietly revel in his love for her all over again, just for a moment. To feel the warm glow of contentment seep into his bones.

“Knew what?”

He leans down and presses a kiss to her forehead.

“I am a fucking genius.”