Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Penelope had somewhat forgotten what London smelled like. The moment the airport doors slid open, it hit her—damp winter air, the faint bitterness of exhaust, the scent of rain-soaked pavement that always clung to the city. It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t Paris with its lazy patisseries. It was simply London, her London, the place she had spent years trying to leave so she could finally become herself.

She hadn’t expected the city to welcome her back so quietly.

The cold nipped at her plump cheeks as she wrestled her suitcase outside. One of the wheels squeaked—loudly, embarrassingly—every few feet. A sharp, repetitive chirp that echoed her own internal discomfort: out of place, out of rhythm, not quite fitting the way she once had.

“Brilliant,” she tugged it harder. The wheel responded with a dramatic squeeeeak.

She’d changed abroad. She’d grown. She’d survived deadlines, lonely train rides, and many, many nights eating cheap takeout on unfamiliar kitchen counters while editing manuscripts. She had become, in many ways, “adult Penelope.” Independent. Capable. Self-sufficient. Yet here she was, dragging an old suitcase through Heathrow like a lost child.

Everything was supposed to click into place, wasn’t it? Instead, she felt like an unknown polygon trying to fit into a shape she’d once called home.

Her eyes scanned the waiting crowd—families holding signs, couples kissing dramatically, tired businessmen with phones pressed to their ears.

“PEN! PENELOPE FEATHERINGTON!”

Eloise Bridgerton slammed into her with a hug so powerful her bones rattled.

Penelope laughed—high, breathy, uncontrollable. “El! You’re going to break me!”

“Good!” Eloise pulled back just enough to squeeze her shoulders. “You deserve to be broken for leaving me for two years. Twenty four months, Pen! Do you know how many mediocre intellectual conversations I suffered because you weren’t here to balance them out?”

“I missed you, luv.”

The words felt heavier than they should. She had missed Eloise. Terribly. And yet… seeing her best friend now—slightly older, somewhat calmer, wearing a confidence that wasn’t there before—Penelope felt a strange pang. She changed. Of course she had. People grow. People evolve. The world moves on whether you’re present or not.

Penelope swallowed.

Eloise tugged on her arm excitedly. “Come on, the others are—oh.” Her friend’s voice softened.

She didn’t need to turn to know who stood behind her for she felt him before she heard him.

“Pen?”

Her heart lurched.

Colin Bridgerton stood a few paces away, hands tucked in his coat pockets, scarf messily looped around his neck like he’d rushed out the door and didn’t bother fixing it. Snowflakes clung to his hair, melting slowly. He looked… older. Broader. More grounded. More—

Oh no. Her stomach dipped.

Because the version of him in her memories—boyish, endearing, frustratingly oblivious—was gone. This Colin looked at her differently. Carefully. Like he wasn’t sure whether to hug her or hold his breath.

“Hello,” she said, voice soft.

"Hi," his smile warmed instantly, slow and steady. “Welcome home.”

Two words, and she nearly dissolved.

He stepped closer. “Long flight?”

“Ninety minutes is always long,” she whispered.

Eloise intervened with a clap of her hands. “Right! Let’s get moving before Penelope collapses right here on the pavement from emotional overload.”

Penelope rolled her eyes. “What? I’m perfectly fine—”

Her suitcase wheel squeaked.

Colin’s eyebrow lifted. “Need help?”

“No, it's okay,” she said a little too quickly. “I got it.” It was automatic—the instinct to refuse help, to stand on her own, to prove she wasn’t the fragile Penelope of years ago.

Colin gave her that gentle look she hated because it made her feel seen. “I know you can do it. Doesn’t mean you have to.”

And then, before she could argue, he quietly took the handle from her hand. He didn’t make a show of it. Didn’t say anything else. Just walked beside her, wheeling it effortlessly.

Penelope opened her mouth to protest again—out of habit, out of stubbornness—but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, she said, softer than she meant to, “Thank you.”

He smiled without looking at her. “Anytime.”

Stop it, heart. We talked about this. We said we outgrew him.

But her heart did not want to listen.

Inside the car, Eloise was bouncing in her seat. “So, Pen, while you’ve been off gallivanting in le pays de la baguette et des croissants—” she gestured dramatically toward France—“you’ve learned to speak French, oui?”

“Just a little. Enough to survive conversations at cafes and bargain at markets. I thought I might teach you a few phrases while I’m here.”

"Yes!!" Eloise said, nearly rolling the words off her tongue. “Teach me!”

“Okay, basic greetings,” Penelope said, pulling her scarf tighter around her neck. “‘Bonjour’—hello in the daytime. Repeat after me.”

“Bonjour,” Eloise attempted.

“Très bien,” Penelope said, patting her shoulder. “Now ‘Bonsoir’—hello in the evening, like when you arrive at a party. You wouldn’t use it for the morning, or everyone will think you’re odd.”

“Bonsoir,” Eloise repeated, dramatically bowing her head. “Like a lady at a ball! How do I look, love?”

Penelope laughed so hard the car jostled. She hadn’t realized how much she had missed these small, ridiculous moments with her best friend—teaching foreign phrases, feeling like a teenager again, if only for a little while.

As she glanced out the window, she felt the tug of another presence. Colin's. He took the wheel of Eloise's car for the time being. He was quiet, seemingly observing, or waiting for a perfect opportunity to butt in their conversation. Though, knowing El, she had hogged all the time. Eventually, Colin put the car on neutral and got off first. As he stepped onto the kerbside outside the Bridgerton home, he leaned down to Penelope’s window. “Let me know if you want help unpacking later,” he said quietly. The offer was simple. Innocent. Yet it made something in her chest flutter violently, because Colin had always been her soft spot, her foolishness, her almost. And she had worked very, very hard overseas to steel herself against wanting things she couldn’t have.

Penelope, ever hyper-independent, gave the only answer she could manage: “I’ll manage on my own.”

He nodded once but the disappointment—quiet and real—flickered briefly in his eyes. “Of course,” he said. “See you the soonest. And Pen, don’t be a stranger.”

The words landed harder than she expected. Don’t be a stranger. It was casual. Kind. Familiar. But to Penelope, it felt like a rust in the armor. A reminder that even across miles and months apart, someone still noticed her absence—and still wanted more than the polite independence she projected.

She blinked rapidly, trying to swallow the prickling sensation behind her ribs. It wasn’t that she didn’t care what he thought—she did. It was the way he said it, as though he expected her to come back into his orbit willingly, without question.

He stepped back.

Eloise pulled shifted to drive.

Penelope watched him in the side mirror until he disappeared from sight. 

She gripped the seatbelt, inhaling sharply. I am fine, she told herself. I’ve been fine.

At the Featherington home, everything felt in disarray.

Penelope's room was exactly as she left it though—same posters, same bookshelf arrangement, same half-burned vanilla candle on her desk. But she felt like she was stepping into someone else’s life, a museum exhibit called Before She Left. She unpacked mechanically. Clothes. Pastries. Journals. Notebooks filled with scribbled ideas from cafes and polaroids she took while trying to find pieces of herself.

She placed them on her shelves and stepped back. It was odd for they didn’t look like they belonged with her old stuff.

A knock on her door pulled her out of her spiral. Her mother peeked in with a warm, practiced smile. “Dinner’s ready, sweetheart. I asked our cook to make your favorite dishes.”

Penelope nodded. “I'll be down in a few minutes.”

Dinner was familiar but distant. Philippa teased her like no time had passed, Prudence stole potatoes off her plate with the same shamelessness as always, and her mother asked polite questions about her blossoming writing career. Penelope answered each one with practiced ease, the way she always had. But it felt like a performance.

Afterward, she escaped upstairs, sinking into her bed with a sigh. London was supposed to feel like slipping into an old sweater. Easy. Comfy. Snug. Instead, it felt like she’d outgrown the sleeves.

Was she overthinking it? Probably. It had only been a few hours since her return. She shouldn’t be so quick to judge.

Suddenly, her phone lit up.

Colin: Hey Pen, if you need anything. Anything at all. I’m here.

Penelope stared at the words for a long time. She started typing, erased a few words, then typed again.

Finally, she sent:

Penelope: Thanks Col. I’m okay. Just tired.

A second later:

Colin: Of course. Rest well, Pen.

Pen. Her name, shortened the way only he ever said it. Soft. Familiar. Dangerous.

Penelope set her phone aside and closed her eyes. A sudden thump against her window made her jump. She hadn’t expected anyone to be outside, especially not at this hour. Curiosity, though, won. She crept to the window, toes quiet against the floorboards, and peeked through the edge of the curtain.

Her breath caught.

It was Colin.

He stood there, the garden light illuminating his face.

“Penelope?”

It hit her like a memory she hadn’t realized she was still carrying. They had done this before—late-night friendly conversations under the moonlight, secrets shared while the world slept. Here he was, doing the exact same thing. Years apart.

Instinctively, she ducked behind the curtain, hoping the movement hadn’t been noticed. Too late, the slight sway of the fabric betrayed her. She froze, chest tight, praying he hadn’t seen.

His eyes lifted slowly toward her window. A small, knowing smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

He had seen her.

She had seen him.

Penelope let the seconds stretch, heart hammering, unsure if she should call out, run, or stay hidden. When she peeked again moments later, Colin was already gone, leaving the faint echo of her whispered name and the soft imprint of snow on the grass.

Why did he come all the way to see her? Was it because he wanted to chat?

Case and point: He didn't get the chance while at the El's car and it wasn't entirely his fault. His sister, her best friend, took the spotlight.

Penelope's gaze wandered back to her dresser. A small cluster of photographs caught her eye. She picked one up gingerly—the edges worn. One was of her and her sisters, sitting cross-legged on the living room rug, laughter frozen mid-giggle. The notorious redhead Featherington sisters in their element. Another captured her and Eloise on a sunny afternoon in the park, frozen in mid-spin during a spontaneous twirl, hair and skirts flaring like the world had paused just for them. The cutest besties having the time of their lives. The photograph that drew her in the most was a candid of her and Colin. Taken ages ago, it was simple: they were sitting on his mother's garden bench, elbows brushing, eyes meeting, caught in a moment neither had intended anyone to capture. Friends enjoying each other's company. The frame was small and unassuming, but it had always held a quiet significance.

Coming home was supposed to be simple. Joyful. Reassuring. Instead, Penelope felt as though she was peeling back layers she hadn’t even realized she’d grown—layers of independence, distance, self-sufficiency—and it unnerved her how easily Colin’s presence, Eloise’s chatter, London’s air, and even a handful of photographs could slip through the cracks.

She wasn’t ready for this kind of vulnerability. Not again. The holidays always had a way of stirring old feelings, even the ones you swore you’d buried. And yet… Penelope wasn’t sure she was ready for the things that might bloom in the December light. For now, she eased beneath her trusted quilted duvet... the one that had always held the same familiar scent, the same comforting weight. It wasn’t answers or clarity, but it was warm. It was hers.

Today, at least, she was home. Tomorrow, she can face the new day.

Wrapped in that small, steady certainty, she finally drifted off to sleep.

Chapter Text

Philippa and Prudence were already waiting by the front door, bundled in coats that clashed spectacularly with the elegant holiday décor filling every corner of London. Behind them stood Albion Finch and Harry Dankworth—their fiancés—both awkwardly tall, awkwardly cheerful, and awkwardly trying to look useful while holding absolutely nothing.

Penelope observed.

Two fiancés. In her house. Wearing matching Christmas sweaters like they were auditioning for a festive catalogue.

“Penny, there you are,” Philippa said, relieved. “Mum said if we don’t leave now, the shops will be packed.”

“Yeah, but they’ll be packed no matter what,” Penelope said as she zipped up her coat. “Is mum even joining us?”

“She wants to but she can’t. She has to attend to some deliveries with Varley.” Philippa explained.

Prudence smirked, flicking a glance at Harry. “By the way, you shouldn’t carry the bags, Pen. Let the boys do it. They need practice for when they’re husbands.”

“Is that so?”

"Yes, lemme have it," Harry beamed. “I carried nine sacks of birdseed for your mother yesterday.”

Albion nodded sagely. “And I carried six. Mine were bigger.”

Penelope looked confused. “Wait, did you say birdseed? Mum’s into birds now?

"Yes. We have an aviary," Prudence answered.

"We have a what?!" their youngest sister exclaimed.

"Oh, that's cause you haven't gone outside," Philippa rolled her eyes. "Come out of your room and of the main house, Penny. It would do you good."

"Mum only is interested in beginner birds really, or low maintenance... she already has twenty seven parakeets and she's thinking of getting a finch." Prudence explained.

"I told her we're quite easy to care for," Albion jested.

Her older sisters giggled as they stepped out into the winter air—two couples ahead of her, hands intertwined, laughing, leaning into each other as soft snow fell around them. Penelope trailed a step behind trying to digest whatever that was. Her sisters—her chaotic, dramatic, often ridiculous sisters—were now the somewhat steady ones. The calm ones. The mature ones. The paired ones. And here she was… still the single one. The one who initially left and they thought was the first to get a French man. Instead, she came back different or the same… or quite frankly, just confused.

An hour later, they stopped outside a bookstore, and Penelope’s breath caught at the display of journals and hand-stitched notebooks. Something inside her loosened. “I’ll just be a moment,” she said.

Prudence waved her off. “Take your time. Remember, the boys are here to carry everything.”

Penelope ducked into the warm, quiet shop. Ink. Dust. Paper. Her favorite kind of comfort. She drifted to a table stacked with leather-bound journals, fingers brushing their spines. Nostalgia tugged at her chest. She used to pick one or two here with Eloise when they were younger. A deep green booklet with gold leaf detail caught her attention and she couldn't help but sniff at the material.

“That one suits you.”

Penelope froze.

A familiar voice.

Colin and Eloise stood near the window display. He wore a brown jacket with a soft, oversized, fuzzy shawl draped around his neck, dusted with cold. The moment she saw him—rosy-cheeked from the wind, blue eyes bright—her pulse stuttered.

Eloise brightened. “Penelope! You didn’t say you were coming here—I’ve been meaning to drag you outside your house! It’s been days since you got back!"

"She said she needed time to rest after all the travel,” Colin answered on her behalf.

“Well, not only the travel, but the whole transition,” Penelope forced a smile, fighting the cold that seeped in whenever the door opened. “Anyway, my sisters are shopping. I… was rather forced to come with.”

Colin stepped closer. He looked at her—not at her coat, not at her gloves, but at her, with a soft crease appearing between his brows. “You’re cold, aren't you?”

“I’m fine,” she lied. Her fingers were practically ice.

He didn’t argue. He merely reached up, undoing the loop of his fuzzy shawl, and before she could protest, he stepped into her space and gently wrapped it around her neck.

Warmth. Softness. Him.

Penelope went still, breath caught somewhere between her heart and her throat.

His fingers brushed her collarbone as he adjusted the shawl. “Better?” he told her.

“Colin—this is yours. You’ll freeze—”

“I won’t,” he said simply, offering a crooked smile. “You will.”

Eloise groaned loudly behind them. “Honestly. If you two get any more insufferable, I’ll stage an intervention.”

Colin shot her a look. “Eloise.”

“I stand by it. Anyway, I still need a book for Hyacinth. Keep things wholesome, folks!” she declared before wandering deeper into the shop.

Left with him again, Penelope felt something warm and terrifying unfurl in her.

“No, seriously. How are you really, Pen?” he asked quietly.

“I, um… I’ve been adjusting,” she admitted. “Everything feels different. Eloise, my family… even the city.”

“And me?”

Her breath caught. She should’ve dodged. Deflected. Laughed. But she was tired of pretending. “You feel… somewhat different too,” she said, almost whispering.

“Probably because I missed you.”

The words hit her like the quietest punch.

I—missed—you.

She wanted to respond but Philippa’s voice erupted from the doorway. “Penny! Are you done? Let's go before Prudence buys every glittery thing in sight from the neighboring store!”

Penelope jolted. “Now? But I didn’t get to look around much—”

“We can come back another time,” Philippa said, eyeing Colin, "See you, Bridgerton."

"Philippa, a good day to you," Colin nodded his head.

“Right. Anyway, please tell Eloise I went ahead and also next time, I'll be more prepared to get out of the house,” Penelope said, voice unsteady. "Your shawl..."

"Keep it," Colin didn’t reach for her. Didn’t push. As she started to leave, he called softly, “Pen?” He lifted a small envelope. “I… got this for you.”

“What is it?”

“A Christmas card,” he said, suddenly shy. “I’ve never been the first to give one but… I wanted to be this year.”

Her throat tightened. “Why?”

“Because I knew you’d come home to a lot of noise. A lot of changes. And I wanted something waiting for you that wasn’t too overwhelming.” He hesitated. “Hence… a card.”

She took the envelope. “Thanks.”

Colin smiled. “See you soon.”

Penelope returned home late that afternoon, utterly drained. She hadn’t even bought anything herself; she had simply trailed behind her sisters, feeling amused at their antics, offering opinions, trying to feel present. But her mind had been nowhere near the shops. It had stayed—stubbornly, traitorously—with the envelope tucked safely inside her coat pocket… and the shawl Colin had wrapped around her neck. The warmth of both had made the freezing London streets bearable. Well. As bearable as they could be when your heart insisted on doing cartwheels every fifteen minutes.

When they reached home, Prudence and Philippa immediately and ran off to compare shopping piles. Penelope didn’t follow. Instead, she headed upstairs, feet slow, chest tight with anticipation she didn’t want to name. She closed her bedroom door behind her, leaned her weight against it, and breathed out—finally, finally alone. Her fingers shook slightly as she pulled the envelope from her pocket. She sat on the edge of her bed. Stared at it. Then opened it.

Inside was a simple card of snowflakes embossed along the edges, cream-colored paper, elegant but not flashy. The kind you choose carefully, thinking about the person and not the price.

His handwriting—steady, unmistakably him—filled the inside.

Pen,

Welcome home. The city feels right again with you in it.

—Colin

Penelope pressed the card gently against her sternum, as if it might slip away if she wasn’t careful. It felt like more than a greeting. More than a holiday gesture. It felt like a beginning. An invitation. A quiet tug back toward something she thought she had outgrown. Was she done thinking she had outgrown her feelings for him?

People change, she thought. She had spent years abroad telling herself she needed no one—that independence meant not leaning, not asking, not letting herself want too much. But sitting here, wrapped in Colin Bridgerton’s shawl, clutching his card…

Maybe growing wasn’t about shutting doors.

Maybe, just maybe, it was about opening them again.

The Featherington house finally succumbed to silence. Prudence and Philippa retreated to their rooms after a long shopping day. The halls smelled faintly of cinnamon from the pot Portia had put on the stove earlier, and the fire in the sitting room crackled softly.

Penelope sat curled up on the couch. She was half-lost in her thoughts when the cushions beside her dipped. Her mother settled next to her. Portia rarely moved quietly, but tonight, she seemed gentler—carrying a cup of peppermint tea and something softer in her eyes.

“Huh?”

Portia nodded, eyes fixed on the fireplace rather than on her. “I must admit, it’s been too long. Two Christmases without you… worrying about how you were doing in another country. It never felt right.”

“You know I had to leave because of work,” Penelope reminded gently. “You were excited for me, remember?”

“I remember,” Portia said with a small sigh. “But now my girls are complete again.” She reached out and tucked a stray curl behind Penelope’s ear, the gesture unexpectedly tender. “I’ve missed you so much, my daughter.”

“I’ve missed you too, Mum.”

They sat quietly for a moment, watching the flames move and settle.

“Mum… do you ever think about change?” Penelope asked softly. “It’s all I can think about now that I’m back.”

Portia hummed thoughtfully. “Change is frightening, isn’t it? It can make you feel like the ground shifted beneath you. But…” She gave Penelope’s hand a gentle pat. “Not all change is bad. Sometimes, it’s simply a sign that you’re growing—or making room for something new.”

“That’s the thing,” Penelope admitted. “I feel like I don’t fit in anymore.”

Portia turned to her fully this time, offering a knowing smile. “Sometimes, sweetheart, when it feels like you don’t fit in at all…” She paused. “It’s not the world that needs adjusting.”

“What do you mean?” Penelope asked.

“Maybe you just need a small shift up here.” Portia tapped lightly at the side of her daughter’s head. “A different way of looking at things.”

Penelope let the words settle. She hadn’t expected something so steady, so wise, from her mother—not the same woman. She hesitated, curious and a little cautious, before asking, “Is that why… you’re not asking me about boys? Or dating? Or marriage? Any of that? It's been days and you haven't—”

Portia let out a quiet chuckle—tired, but real. "I don’t want to fixate on those things anymore.”

Penelope blinked at her, surprised.

Her mother continued, “Your sisters have their fiancés. Lovely boys, both of them. But that doesn’t mean you need to run out and find one tomorrow.” She gave a small, proud smile. “Seeing you now, you’ve grown into someone strong and clever and capable. I would never want you pressured into finding a man simply because others have.”

“Mum…”

“Penelope, I’d rather you be happy on your own terms. With or without someone beside you.”

For the first time, Penelope thanked the universe for nudging her mother along with the tides of change. Gone were the days of Lady Portia Featherington pestering her about dating or suitors, asking why she hadn’t been kissed, worrying aloud about her future as though spinsterhood were the end of the world. Gone were the sighs, the nagging, the unsolicited advice.

In its place was something Penelope had never expected: Respect.

She leaned lightly against her mother’s shoulder and sighed. “Thank you.”

Portia squeezed her arm. “See? I told you, change could be good too, sweetheart,” she caressed her cheek.

Penelope smiled to herself. Yes. Maybe, it really could.

Chapter Text

Another thing that Penelope hadn’t expected—not in the slightest—was the discovery that two years ago, the Featheringtons and the Bridgertons had merged their annual Secret Santa tradition. Violet and Portia had casually met for tea, bonded over holiday planning, and collectively decided that chaos was more delightful when shared. The more, the merrier. Which was how both families gathered in the Bridgerton house for the ceremonial drawing of lots, though that still occurred after having a scrumptious meal prepared, of course.

Lunch began in its usual swirl of noise and warmth. Food was laid on the buffet table as well as the middle of the long Mahogany. Colin drifted toward Penelope, surprised at how easily his feet chose her direction—as if they had their own muscle memory. She sat at the far end with Eloise. She was still quiet but observant, still carrying an air of someone halfway between home and someplace else.

He found himself watching her for a moment before he realized he was already reaching for the serving spoon. “You’re eating too little,” he said, adding a portion of roasted carrots and peas to her plate.

She raised a brow. "I’m really not that hungry. I’ve been doing OMAD for the past month.”

Colin nearly dropped the spoon. “OMAD? You mean, One meal a day? How’s that treating you?”

“Getting used to it, actually.”

"Eloise! Are you hearing this?" Colin looked at his sister, who was busy fiddling something on her phone.

"I tried," she replied. "It's no use."

He leveled them with a stare. “Maybe don’t deprive yourself of sustenance, Penelope. It’s December.”

“Meaning?” her eyebrows lifted.

“Christmas feasts!” he exclaimed, as though this were the most obvious fact in the world. Before she could stop him, he added a scoop of mashed potatoes. "Stop eating like a bird, will ya?"

“A bird? Colin, that’s enough! That's enough! I can’t eat too many carbs anyway, they make me gassy—”

"TMI, guys. TMI." Eloise snorted.

"You? Gassy? Since when?" He grinned.

"Col—please!" Her hand shot up to halt his arm, and for the briefest second, her fingers brushed his skin.

Electric. Sharp. Immediate.

Colin froze. She did too.

He looked at her. “Did you feel that?”

“Feel what?” she said, entirely too casual.

Eloise shot a look at them. "Seriously? You're doing this on the dining table? In front of my mashed potatoes?"

“Penny, you sweet little thing! Are you done eating? We've been meaning to chat with you,” Kate’s voice cut across the table. Daphne joined in, waving Penelope over to an empty pair of seats. "You know, about Paris!"

Penelope exhaled, relief flickering across her face. “Thanks for the refill, Bridgerton, but I'm really full,” she told him quickly before slipping away.

Colin lowered the spoon slowly, eyes tracking her until she gladly sat between Kate and Daphne. He wasn’t sure what exactly had sparked against his skin—static, nerves, something else entirely—but he knew one thing with absolute certainty: He felt it and she definitely had too.

The lunch plates were nearly cleared and somehow, the table had sorted itself into a cozy pocket of women: Penelope, Daphne, Kate, and Eloise—all leaning in.

Daphne angled her fork toward Penelope. “So. Paris.” Her eyes sparkled. “How was it really?”

Kate nodded eagerly. “Yes! You’ve barely told us anything besides ‘work was busy.’ We need details. Was the weather better? Is it as magical as people say?”

Penelope laughed softly. “Magical sometimes… but mostly cold. And wet. Honestly, London might still win when it comes to gloomy winters.”

“Ooooh!” Kate gasped. “And the pastries—do they taste as heavenly as they look in your photos?”

Penelope agreed. “They’re… sort of dangerous. You could blink and finish a whole box. I gained three pounds just on croissants alone during my first week.”

“But was it worth it,” Daphne declared. “Every flaky, buttery inch?”

"Absolutely!" Penelope grinned.

Eloise leaned forward, chin in hand. “Did you go on adventures, Pen? Late-night walks? Meet strange eccentric artists? Adopt a stray cat? Fall madly in love?”

Penelope snorted. “Absolutely—not. Have you seen any hint of a guy on my socials? None, right?”

Daphne chimed in, teasingly insist­ent, “Come on, Penelope Featherington. Surely, someone must have caught your eye.”

Kate raised a brow. “Ooooor did someone catch you? You're a lovely girl, Penny. Plus, I heard that French men are quite… charming.”

Eloise perked up like a fox spotting prey. “Yes, Pen. How many handsome French boys did you date?” she asked, drawing out the words with wicked delight.

Penelope paused.

"The silence speaks volumes!" Eloise shook her head. "To think you're my best friend who's supposed to tell me everything!"

Kate and Daphne exchanged excited glances.

Before Penelope could formulate even a vague sound—a very pointed throat-clearing sliced through the air.

All four women looked up.

Colin stood near the doorway, one hand gripping the frame, expression perfectly neutral… except for the very slight narrowing of his eyes. “Ladies,” he said calmly. Too calmly. “Hyacinth requests everyone to start heading to the drawing room.”

Eloise blinked. “She does? I don't hear her calls.”

“Yes,” Colin said quickly. “Apparently we’re behind schedule for, uh—Secret Santa Guidelines.”

Kate and Daphne shared a look. One that said: He is absolutely lying. But they politely rose from their seats.

"We shall continue our conversation on a much later time, Penelope." Daphne said.

"Don't think you're off the hook, just yet! Okay?" Kate winked at her.

Penelope stayed seated a heartbeat longer, watching Colin. He wasn’t looking at her. He was pointedly not looking at her.

"I think it was the query that prompted the interruption," Kate suggested.

Daphne whispered as she stood, “I agree. I think someone didn’t like that question.”

Eloise snickered, as she walked. “Indeed. Someone really hated it.”

Colin finally met Penelope's eyes but only for a second since he looked away too quickly. “You coming? I'm telling you right now... Hy gets cranky when people are late.”

Penelope stood, smoothing her skirt. "I'm coming."

At the drawing room, Gregory had taken center stage—loudly, dramatically—retelling the trauma of last year’s Secret Santa. “Ant changed his wish six times,” Gregory declared, scandalized. “Six! I nearly had a breakdown in Harrods because of him. I saw my life flash before my eyes.”

Anthony rolled his eyes. “Oh Greg, you’re exaggerating... I think I'd remember if I changed my mind six times.”

“Please, I had to return items twice and keep the rest,” Gregory continued, jabbing a finger at his older brother. “Do you know the shame of walking back into a store holding a sword and admitting to the staff that I no longer need it? Or because my brother ‘no longer feels like a sword person’? Make it make sense, bro!”

Hyacinth slammed her notebook shut. “Right. I think I must add that to the official rule. Wishes cannot be changed once submitted. Non-negotiable.”

Anthony frowned. “But what if I want something else closer to Christmas?”

Kate looked at him like he had grown two heads. “Hun… just choose one thing and stick to it. You managed that with me.”

His mouth snapped shut. His ears turned pink. And all at once, Bridgertons, Featheringtons, and their partners—burst into uncontrollable giggles and shaking heads. Even Penelope, from where Colin stood beside Hyacinth, managed to get that jest through her. Finally, he thought, he saw her smile.

Hyacinth cleared her throat with theatrical seriousness. “Ladies and gentlemen, I'd just like to run down some reminders once again. Yes, it is imperative that I do, since some of us can clearly forget." She hinted at Anthony. "Anyway, you have two full weeks to scour London for your recipient’s wish,” Hyacinth announced, projecting her voice over the chatter.

“And as always, we shall exchange gifts on the twenty-fourth, some time close to midnight,” Colin added, because every year someone asked. "So, please make sure they are wrapped and placed under the tree then."

“And!” Hyacinth cut in, lifting a finger. “As mentioned already, wishes are to be posted in the Bridgerton–Featherington Group Chat. So if you’re not in it, or if you left sometime this year for whatever reason—” she still aimed her stare at her eldest brother, “—do hop back in so you get access to the list. I will gladly assist anyone scared of technology if you need a tutorial or so.”

Anthony scoffed; Hyacinth smirked; Colin hid a laugh. Some traditions had not changed at all.

With spirits high and cheeks warm the sibling banter, Hyacinth clapped her hands. “Okay, everyone, lots time!” A bowl filled with folded pieces of paper was passed around. One by one, family members reached in, unfolding their fates.

There were a vary of reaction sounds that followed. Some sighed. Some held a laugh. Some gave a slight groan.

Colin took his slip and opened it. A small, stupid, unstoppable smile pulled at his mouth. He pressed it between his fingers, doing a poor job of hiding the rush of warmth bubbling in his chest.

Across, Penelope unfolded hers as well. Her eyes widened for a fraction of a second. Then, a blush rose and she quickly folded the paper shut, clearing her throat in a way that fooled absolutely no one.

"Who did you get?" Eloise lingered.

"EL!" Colin spotted the traitor right away. "We just said, no sharing of names!"

Eloise slumped back next to Penelope. "Why is he more annoying this afternoon?"

Soon, Hyacinth narrowed her eyes. “Everyone happy with what fate has given them this year?”

Colin and Penelope both nodded far too quickly.

“Very,” Penelope said.

“Totally,” Colin added.

"I'm just glad I did not get Anthony Bridgerton," Gregory declared out loud. "Finally, I was spared this year!"

"GREG!" Hyacinth shook her head.

"What? What did I do?" the little man protested. "Even if I didn't get Ant this year, there's still a whole lot of us!"

"Well, then, let the spirit of giving, begin!" Hyacinth cheered.

It was at the same time when Colin and Penelope's gazes met for half a heartbeat—just enough for electricity to spark again, just enough for everyone noticing to pretend they weren’t noticing. They looked away, biting their lips.

Nearby, Eloise muttered to herself after witnessing another scene in front of her, "Hmmmm, I knew it was going to be a very interesting December... but this is really something else."

"Who you talking to sister?" Daphne tilted her head.

"Daph, are you free to chat?" Eloise asked.

The hallway buzzed with chatter as coats were gathered and goodbyes were exchanged. Penelope slipped away toward the sitting room, hoping for a moment of quiet before her family called for her. But Colin, of course, found her first. “So,” he said casually as he leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Who’d you get?”

Penelope nearly choked on her own breath. Absolutely not. She was not about to reveal anything. She kept her tone airy. “Oh, you know… someone from the Bridgerton-Featherington fams.”

Colin stepped closer, amused. “Pen, that’s the opposite of an answer.”

“That’s the point,” she replied, slipping past him but he walked beside her, matching her pace like an overly persistent golden retriever. "I don't want Hy to get mad at me and kick me out of the fun."

"She won't do that."

"You just told me she could get cranky."

“Come on,” he nudged. “Just tell me. I'm one of the organizers, after all.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s Secret Santa, Colin,” she said, exasperated. “The secrecy is in the title?”

He laughed, bright and boyish. “Fine. Then, at least give me a hint.”

“Nope.”

“A tiny clue? What's the first letter of the person's name?”

“No!”

He groaned dramatically, and she hid her smile. But she could practically feel his eyes on her, warm and searching.

So she turned the tables. “Okay, who did you get?”

He did not expect her inquiry.

“Why are your ears turning red?”

“They are not,” he said quickly.

Her eyebrows lifted. “Really? So, maybe it’s just the cold air hitting the warmth of your skin?”

Colin spluttered. “Maybeeee....”

She grinned.

He ran a hand through his hair, surrendering. “I’m just… really happy with the person I got.”

“Oh? So for two years, you haven’t been happy with the names you picked?” she teased, nudging him lightly with her elbow. “Where's your spirit of giving?”

“That is not what I meant,” he said, but the smile tugging at his lips betrayed him. “Two years ago, I got Eloise—and she was in this dramatic state of existential despair because she missed her best friend. You just left for Paris and her wish was rather impossible to grant.”

"What did she wish for?"

"For you to return. Even just for a night."

Penelope winced. “Oh. Right. Sorry.”

“And last year,” he continued, “you wouldn’t believe who I got.”

“Who?”

“Philippa.”

“My sister? How did that go?”

“Shockingly easy. She wanted an entire makeup line. Luckily, Harrods had it neatly packaged. It took about five minutes.”

Penelope laughed. “So, one year was difficult, the next was easy, and still—you’re not satisfied?”

“Right now, I'm more than satisfied.”

“What makes this year better?” she asked lightly. “Did you get the name you wanted?”

He stopped walking. Turned slightly toward her. A softness flickered through his blue eyes. “Uh-huh,” he said quietly. “The only one I wanted.”

Chapter Text

Penelope lay in bed, watching the group chat explode with notifications. It lit up like a Christmas tree having a nervous breakdown. One by one, everyone posted their official wishes for Secret Santa—some long, some extravagant, some oddly specific, all unmistakably festive.

🎄 Bridgerton-Featherington Secret Santa 2025 🎄

Anthony: A new pair of leather gloves or a navy cravat or whatever Kate chooses.

Kate: Anthony, just pick ONE.

Kate: Santa, my wish is lavender essential oil… so I could get my husband to sleep.

Daphne: I want the new tea set from Fortnum & Mason 💙

Simon: I want world peace.

Hyacinth: BE SERIOUS, SIMON.

Simon: I am serious.

Hyacinth: These couples are hopeless.

Gregory: A whole box of those chocolate truffles that made me cry last year.

Prudence: A pink designer scarf with real pearls sewn in!!

Harry: I want whatever Prudence wants.

Hyacinth: Harry, are you serious? 

Harry: Happy soon-to-be wife, happy life.

Hyacinth: I should have specific rules for couples. 🤦‍♀️

Penelope, meanwhile, stared at the screen with a quiet knot in her stomach.

She hadn’t written her wish yet. Mostly because she… didn’t know what to wish for. She tried digging deep—tried imagining something she wanted, something someone could wrap in a box or slip into a paperbag—but her mind came up empty. Not in a sad way. Just… empty. Clear. Different.

After spending two Christmases in another city, away from her family, away from the familiar, the value of material things had faded like old ink. What mattered to her now were quieter things—warm company, meaningful conversations, the kind of presence that made her chest feel steady. How did one put that into a Secret Santa wishlist? She didn’t collect stamps anymore. Or stickers. Or journals with embossed covers she used to hoard like little treasures. All of that belonged to an older version of her. So this Secret Santa thing, this simple, silly, cheerful tradition—felt unexpectedly difficult. Because she wanted to join in. She wanted to belong, to slide back into the holiday spirit her families shared as if she had never left.

But as she stared at the wishes piling up on the screen, it dawned on her with a pang:

What if coming home meant realizing she didn’t quite know where she fit anymore?

Penelope sighed softly as the chat dinged again.

🎄 Bridgerton-Featherington Secret Santa 2025 🎄

Philippa: A Dutch oven in pastel yellow.

Albion: A full set of baking tools to go with Philippa’s Dutch oven.

Hyacinth: GOOD HEAVENS! These labrador men!

Violet: Candles. Any scent but eucalyptus. Eucalyptus is for hospitals.

Portia: A spa gift card.

Eloise: A stack of rare feminist essays

Benedict: Sketch pencils with charcoal tips. Wooden or white charcoal is fine. 

Francesca: A silk sleep set with preferably penguins or puffins.

Francesca: Santa, a penguin is different from a puffin. 

Francesca: BTW, this is a puffin...

Francesca: 

Hyacinth: @Fran's Santa is one lucky Santa! If only all wishes were this specific.

Hyacinth: A blue backpack big enough for a 14” laptop. 

Penelope: A writing instrument.

Colin: A writing instrument.

Hyacinth: Oh my goodness. 🤦‍♀️🤦‍♀️🤦‍♀️

“Oh my god, Penelope. Did you write the exact same thing as Colin?”

“What?” Penelope looked up. She almost forgot that Eloise was with her in the room. She was sleeping over and had claimed the edge of her bed as her lounge spot.

“Look at the GC!”

“Which one? There are so many, I can barely keep up,” she told a white lie. 

“The last one you sent a message to.”

“The wishlist GC?” she clicked on the message thread. "Colin and I want the same thing?"

Across the street, Colin stared at his screen… then marched right out of his room. He needed to find his sister. Urgently. He walked fast—almost ran—but still checked his phone again on the way.

A writing instrument.

Was it the same writing instrument he was thinking of? No. Couldn’t be. Could it?

Hyacinth was sitting cross-legged on her bed when Colin barreled into her room.

“Hyacinth,” he said, slightly breathless, “I need a favor.”

She didn’t even look up. “If this is about your wish, brother—”

“Look, I know, I know. I just realized Santa wouldn’t know what kind of writing tool to get, so I’m going to make it more specific...with your permission of course.”

“Go ahead, edit it.” She flicked her hair. “You didn’t have to run all the way here just to say that.”

“I did NOT run all the way!”

“You brisk-walked. Poh-tay-toe, po-ta-toe.” Hyacinth finally lifted her gaze, squinting. “Hmmm, that’s weird, though.”

“What’s weird?”

“Penelope DM-ed me and said the exact same thing you said. Word for word, too.”

“You lie!” His voice cracked. "Lemme see!"

“Why would I?” Hyacinth smirked. "What would a lie like that benefit me?"

”Hy!!!!”

She watched her brother almost whine then spun her phone so the screen faced him.

On the screen was Penelope’s message:

Hey Hy—sorry for the vague wish. I’ll make it more specific in a bit. If you will permit it. Please don’t ban me. Thanks so much for understanding!

Colin stared at the text. And slowly—without permission—a stupid, warm, boyish smile crept onto his face.

"Then again, she is more polite than you, brother." Hyacinth narrowed her eyes. “Why do you look happy?”

“What? I don’t.” He cleared his throat. “This is how I look on a regular day.”

“Really? You look like you just found out Santa is real.”

Colin snapped upright. “Anyway—I gotta go! Thanks for being you, lil sister!”

Hyacinth rolled her eyes, already half-distracted with three other chat windows. “Sure thing, bro. Sure thing.”

The next morning, Penelope stepped out of her front gate just as Colin stepped out of his. They froze, mirroring each other like two startled deer in winter coats.

“Morning," Colin said first.

“Morning,” Penelope tugged her scarf tighter.

At the exact same time, they spoke.

“I’m heading to the holiday market.”

“You too?” Colin repeated. 

“I’m only window shopping,” Penelope added quickly.

“Same! Window shopping. Just looking around. Casually. Very casually.” Colin nodded so hard his curls bounced.

They fell into step, though neither acknowledged it.

“So,” Colin said lightly, “I'm guessing you're already looking for your Secret Santa gift?"

“Maybe,” she said, too breezy to be casual. "The wishes were already posted anyway."

“Hmm.” He scratched his cheek. “Let me guess… yours must be Kate.”

Penelope blinked at him. “Kate? Why Kate?”

“You have a… Kate vibe.” His face twisted. “Not you—you. The name you drew. It feels Kate-y.”

She tried not to smile. “Well, your person must be Benedict.”

“Why Benedict?”

“You have—a very—Benedict energy this morning.”

“You mean, rakish? I have never had a Benedict energy in my life,” he protested.

“Well...if not Benedict, I'd say probably Hyacinth."

"I did not get Hy." They reached the corner. Colin stopped. “So, won’t you tell me if I’m right?”

“Nope.” Penelope shook her head. “It’s a secret, after all.” She smirked—an expression Colin always found both adorable and dangerous.

She turned right. Colin turned with her.

Penelope stopped again. “Are you following me?”

“I’m not following you.”

“I thought you said you were window shopping?”

“I am! I happen to be window shopping in this direction.”

“Coincidentally? At the exact same pace as me?”

“Fine. Have it your way.”

At the next turn, Penelope veered right. He immediately veered left. Colin made it four steps before glancing over his shoulder. Penelope disappeared behind a row of garlands and a giant inflatable snowman, slipping into the East Entrance of the Winter Market. Colin exhaled a little laugh before heading toward the opposite side, entering the West Entrance.

Penelope wandered between stalls, her breath fogging as she peeked at hand-knit scarves, chocolates, and rows of ornaments shaped like woodland creatures. She occasionally stopped vendors to ask polite, hopeful questions.

“Do you happen to sell fountain pens? Hand-crafted ones?”

Most shook their heads. A few pointed vaguely somewhere over there, which meant absolutely nothing in a market this size.

Across the market—unbeknownst to her—Colin was doing the same, weaving between booths, trying some nibbles to taste, leaning forward eagerly each time he spotted anything remotely resembling stationery.

“Would you have fountain pens, sir?” he asked one vendor.

“Quills,” the man replied.

Colin muttered, “Perfect,” and strode onward.

They didn’t consciously notice each other at first—just quick glances from opposite corners of the venue, fleeting and easily dismissed as coincidence. But then—they met at the same stall.

The booth in question was small but striking: rows of gleaming fountain pens displayed on velvet, hand-carved wooden barrels stacked neatly behind glass, shimmering inks swirling in tiny bottles that looked like captured stars.

Penelope had just leaned in to admire a pen with a burgundy barrel when another figure appeared beside her. A familiar coat. Familiar scent. Familiar way of sucking in a breath as if he’d stumbled onto treasure.

Their gazes snapped to each other at the same time.

“Oh, it's you,” Colin said.

“It is me,” Penelope replied.

They both turned to the seller at once.

“Hi,” they said simultaneously.

Colin cleared his throat. “No, please—ladies first.”

Penelope’s eyes narrowed just a fraction. “Thank you,” she said sweetly before turning to the vendor. “Hello sir, I was wondering about this pen, the one with the hand-carved barrel. How long does it take you to make it?”

“Three days,” the artisan answered, smiling warmly. “Each detail is done by hand. Engravings included.”

Penelope nodded, doing a terrible job of pretending she wasn’t fascinated.

Colin immediately stepped closer. “And the brass nibs—are they flexible? Or more on the firm side?” he asked, sounding like he actually knew what any of that meant.

“Flexible,” the artisan said proudly. “Many writers prefer the feel.”

Penelope raised an eyebrow at him. He lifted one back at her. Then she gestured toward the shimmering inks. “Do the colors bleed through? Or are they safe for heavier paper?”

“They shimmer without bleeding,” the artisan assured. "We also sell some of the paper sheets but I'm afraid I'm out of it. I'll probably have a restock soon."

Colin leaned in again—too nonchalantly to be truly casual. “Is… is that one in emerald? With the gold flecks?”

Penelope stared at him. He stared right back. They were too interested. Far too interested.

Before either could continue interrogating, Penelope’s phone rang. Colin stepped back politely, though he angled his head, trying not to listen. He pretended to study a deep-blue ink bottle instead.

“Hello?” Penelope answered softly.

Colin still heard Eloise’s voice faintly.

Penelope laughed under her breath. “Yes, yes, I’m coming. I’ll be there soon. I'm just caught up at the market.”

Colin straightened when she hung up. “You’re leaving?”

“Your sisters and Kate are out for brunch.”

He blinked and checked his watch. 10:28 AM.

“Brunch.” He tried to sound casual. “Do you… do you think I could join you ladies?”

“I already told them you’re with me,” Penelope said, slipping her phone into her coat pocket.

He perked up, “You did?”

“And they said sure.”

A boyish, relieved grin brightened his whole face. “Great.”

"Thank you, kind sir. See you soon," Penelope matched his smile—only a little—before turning toward the exit of the stall. “So, shall we?” she asked Colin, who stood nearby.

At a round table near the window, Eloise, Kate, and Daphne waved energetically.

“There they are!” Daphne called, her smile far too knowing to be innocent.

Penelope felt her cheeks warm. Colin, ever the gentleman and ever the obvious one, placed a guiding hand on her back as they approached the table—then pulled it away immediately, as though surprised by his own boldness.

“Good morning!” Kate greeted, eyes glimmering with curiosity the moment the two of them sat down.

Eloise tilted her head. “You’re together awfully early. Pen, you didn’t even tell me you’d be with my brother. Instead, you left me snoring on your bed.”

Penelope opened her mouth, but Colin jumped in—smooth, bright, and suspiciously rehearsed. “Pure coincidence.”

Eloise arched a brow. “Is it?”

"I didn't want to wake you up!" Penelope replied.

“Did you really come from the market together?” Daphne asked, stirring her café au lait.

“We… did a little window shopping,” Colin replied, voice a bit too casual.

"I see."

They settled in, menus passed around, and almost instantly Kate and Daphne leaned forward like wolves scenting gossip.

“So, Penelope,” Daphne began casually—never a good sign—“we were just chatting about wanting to take French lessons again.”

“Because you’re interested in learning a new language?” Penelope asked, accepting the menu Colin handed her.

“That… and well,” Daphne said, eyes twinkling, “I told Simon we have to visit Paris. Maybe early next year! I was thinking  for Valentine’s.”

“I said the same thing to Anthony the other day,” Kate added. “I think he’s on board. Isn't that romantic?” She floated the words dreamily.

Daphne turned to Penelope. “Will you be there to bring us around?”

Penelope shrugged lightly. “I suppose so. If it's a weekend, I'm sure my schedule is fairly free.”

"Oh, I already checked. February 14th is a Saturday," Daphne giggled. "Isn't it perfect?"

"Right! Then, sure. I'll gladly take you four out," Penelope nodded.

“And who knows,” Kate added, smirking, “maybe by that time a certain French boy can join us too.”

"What?!" Penelope choked on absolutely nothing. Eloise nearly dropped her fork. Colin sat up so straight his chair groaned under the pressure.

“Hmmmm—yes, Pen,” Eloise said, eyes narrowing. “did you actually practice French kissing in the last two years…” Under the table, Colin kicked—aiming for her sister. “OW! Colin!"

"How in the world did you know it was me?”

"I felt your big toes!”

He looked bothered. "How? I'm wearing boots!"

Daphne dissolved into laughter, covering her mouth with a napkin. Kate shook her head fondly.

Penelope hid her smile behind her menu—right as the waiter approached, pen poised, polite and crisp.

“And what would you like for brunch, mademoiselle?”

Without missing a beat, Penelope slipped into flawless French: “Bonjour Monsieur! Je vais prendre les œufs Bénédicte avec du saumon fumé. Je pense également commander le trio de viennoiseries avec un verre de jus de raisin!”

The waiter beamed at her accent.

Colin stared at her like she’d just transformed into a pastry—delicate, warm, impossible not to want. 

“Whoa, I only understood the word, Benedict.” Kate gushed.

“You said you wanted eggs Benedict, right?” Daphne suggested and leaned back, almost defeated. “My basic French got me only through Benedict?!”

“Dammit, I can’t believe Benedict is still Benedict in any language!” Eloise shook her head. 

“Colin? Are you alright though? You look spooked!” Kate asked her brother-in-law who continued to be out of it.

Penelope pretended she didn’t feel the heat of Colin’s gaze melting straight through her menu. “Colin?” she asked lightly.

“Huh?” Colin blinked, clearly startled.

“What would you like to eat for brunch?” she clarified.

“You…”

Penelope’s breath caught. “Me?”

“You…” He swallowed, eyes softening helplessly. “You spoke—so fluently.” The sigh that followed was practically a melt into the chair—her French had turned his entire spine into warm custard. “I barely understood anything... but that was awesome, Pen!”

“Col, why do you look so smitten?” Eloise blurted, horrified. “Stop it! It's really too early in the day for any of this.”

The waiter cleared his throat politely and turned to Colin. “Sir? Your order?”

“I’ll have—the same one as hers,” Colin said without looking at her. “The pretty redhead.”

The waiter smiled. “Excellent choice, sir.”

"We're about to see if she has excellent taste!" Colin blurted out without thinking.

"In men?" Daphne and Kate asked together.

"In food," he corrected. "I meant—in food."

Chapter Text

“You know, you didn’t have to walk me home.”

“Pen—we’re neighbors,” he said easily. “Think of it as me walking myself home. I just happen to have company. Or… we happen to have each other.”

“I know. It’s just…” She trailed off.

“Just what? Strange that we’re the only ones walking?” Colin said, glancing around. “I thought you might’ve joined the girls.”

“Well, after that huge meal, walking felt… necessary. Even in the cold.”

“Ah yes—eggs Benedict, smoked salmon, a trio of pastries, and grape juice,” he recalled fondly. “That is quite a lot. Is that your usual meal over there?”

“Something like that,” she nodded. “Did you like it?”

“I did,” he said. “But again, I liked the company more.”

She smiled faintly. “Because you rarely eat with your sisters?”

“No—I’m always with them,” he corrected gently. “It’s you, I, I haven't spent much time with you."

“Really? I think I've seen you more in the past two weeks,” she said, tugging at her waistcoat.

“Pen,” he said quietly, “be honest with me.”

“About what?”

“You’re heading back to the market, aren’t you?”

She didn’t want to admit she needed to so she can finish her Christmas shopping, but there was no real way around it now. “I—well,” she exhaled, caught. “I wasn’t quite done window-shopping.”

“Mind if I come along?”

“Only if you promise we split up once we reach the tents,” Penelope said quickly. “I’m not avoiding you or anything—I just want to… you know.”

“—shop for your Secret Santa in peace, I get it,” he finished, nodding. There was a note of reluctance in his voice because if it were up to him, he’d stay by her side the entire time. Still, he respected the boundary. “Until then… let's walk together?”

“Okay,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s just a few blocks anyway.”

“Can I ask you a few things while we do?”

“Wait, you’re not going to ask me to teach you French, are you?”

He chuckled. “No. Nothing like that, but it is about your life in France. I’ve always been curious.”

“Oh,” she said, softening. “Go on.”

Colin cleared his throat. Once. Then again. And a third.

"Are you alright? Is your throat getting itchy?"

“No, it's fine,” he began. “Anyway, Paris.”

She smiled without looking at him. “Yes. I was there.”

He winced at himself. “You seemed… happy there. From what everyone says.”

“I am,” Penelope replied. “It was a good move for me.”

Another pause. Longer this time.

“And,” he added, carefully, as if navigating thin ice, “I imagine Paris is… well…full of interesting people.”

“It is.”

He nodded, hands tucked into his coat pockets. “Did you—” He stopped. “Did you meet anyone… interesting?”

She glanced at him then, catching the deliberate neutrality in his expression. “A few,” she said plainly.

His step faltered—just barely—but she noticed. “Oh.”

“Yes, Colin,” she went on, unfazed. “I dated. A little.”

He swallowed. “I see.” Then, quietly—too carefully—“How many—dates—are we talking about?”

“You need the number?”

He shrugged, attempting nonchalance. Failing adorably. “General curiosity.”

“It’s enough to know what I didn’t want,” she answered. “And not enough to make me stay for another Christmas.”

“So, nothing serious?”

She shook her head. “If something had been serious, Colin, I wouldn’t be coming home alone, would I?”

Relief softened his features before he could stop it. The tension in his shoulders eased, replaced by something warmer—dangerously close to hope. “I suppose that’s true,” he said, a small smile breaking through.

“Hmmmm, you sound relieved.”

“I sound… logical.”

“If logic had a sound.”

They reached the north entrance of the Winter Market just as a gust of cold air swept through, carrying with it the sound of bells, laughter, and a familiar holiday tune playing somewhere nearby.

Penelope stopped abruptly. “Oh—” Her eyes widened, unmistakably bright. “Oh my goodness! Look, they’re so cute!”

Colin followed her gaze to a claw machine, stuffed to the brim with plush reindeer—soft brown fur, tiny scarves, absurdly earnest stitched smiles. He straightened. “Do you want one?” he asked, already reaching into his pocket.

"Colin, no, it’s fine—I was just—observing—”

Too late. The machine whirred. The claw descended. It missed spectacularly. Colin frowned. “Warm-up.”

"Colin!"

Attempt two. The claw grabbed a reindeer by the antler. Slipped. Dropped it back into the pile like an insult.

Attempt three. Worse.

Penelope leaned against the glass, giggling now. “Bridgerton, you do know these things are rigged, right?”

“It is not,” he said, feeding in another coin with grim determination. “It’s merely… resistant.”

Minutes passed. Then more minutes. A small crowd came and went. Colin rolled up his sleeves. At another point, he squinted at the machine like he was trying to out-think it. 

Penelope checked the time. Then checked it again. “Colin,” she said gently, touching his arm, “you know what, it’s really okay. It wasn’t that cute anyway. I have a lot of plushies in my room—I don't...”

He paused. Then—without a word—took her hand.

“Hey!”

He tugged her away from the accursed machine and straight into a nearby shop filled with ornaments, scarves, and—there—an entire shelf of plush reindeer. Softer. Fluffier. Less smug. He grabbed one. “Here,” he said, handing it to her. Penelope stared at it, turning it over in her hands, thumb brushing the little stitched nose. “For the record,” Colin added, clearing his throat, “I would’ve won it eventually.”

She snickered, warm and genuine. “Of course, you would have but the market would probably escort us out. Thank you for…the effort.”

The bells rang out suddenly—clear and bright.

Penelope blinked. “Hold on. It’s already three o’ clock?”

He checked his watch. “Apparently.” She frowned, not at the time itself but at how easily it had slipped away. How being with him made hours feel… irrelevant. "I guess I should leave you be,” he said reluctantly. “The market closes at five and if you want to look further, it’s best you use this time—” He took a step forward. “I’ll go ahead.”

“Colin.”

“Yes?” He immediately turned back.

“The market will still be here tomorrow.”

His brow furrowed. “What does that mean?”

“Um, it means,” she said, “I can do my personal shopping then.”

“So what's your plan?”

“Mmmmm…” She glanced toward a nearby stall where a vendor was enthusiastically advertising his sweet treats. “Do you want some hot chocolate and cinnamon churros? That man’s been shouting his spiel about it being the best combination since forever and I’m starting to believe him.”

Penelope returned, carefully balancing two cups of hot chocolate and a paper cone of churros dusted generously with cinnamon sugar. “For you, kind sir," she said, handing him a cup. “Extra chocolate. I remembered.”

He took a sip and exhaled softly. “Thanks.”

They settled near the edge of the stall, close enough to the open side that they could watch the snow drift lazily beyond the canvas walls. The world felt quieter there—muted, hushed, wrapped in white. Penelope broke a churro in half and offered it to him; he accepted without thinking, their fingers brushing again.

Neither of them commented on it.

She watched the snow for a moment, then turned to him. “Can I ask you something this time, Col?”

“With all the questions I posed, earlier? Sure."

She hesitated. “Promise you’ll tell me the truth?”

“Always.”

She inhaled. “Do you think I’ve changed?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he looked at her. Her hair was pulled into a half ponytail, longer than he remembered—curlier too, loose strands framing her face like they belonged there. She wore a light pink balm on her lips, glossier and warmer than before, intentional in a way that made his chest ache. Her eyes—still brown, but softer now, deeper, almost hazel in the glow of the market lights—were fixed on him.

Waiting. As if his answer mattered more than it ever had.

“You…” He swallowed. “You have. In certain ways.”

She nodded, absorbing that. “In what ways?”

“Well,” he said slowly, thoughtful, “it’s a bit like birds.”

“Birds?”

“Yes,” he pressed on, encouraged by the fact that she hadn’t laughed yet. “They molt.”

“Birds molt?”

“Well, all birds do,” he said earnestly. “Their feathers wear out, so they shed them and grow new ones.”

“For what?” she asked, amused.

“For a lot of reasons,” he said, warming to it. “Flight. Insulation. Display—for mating.”

Penelope arched her brow. “And you know this because…?”

“I read a lot.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I love animals.”

“Says someone who hates going to the petting zoo.”

“Google helped while you were getting our snack,” he admitted quickly, pulling out his phone and turning it toward her, proudly displaying the search results. This time, she laughed—soft and genuine—and the sound loosened something in his chest. “So that’s what it’s like,” he said more gently. “Change isn’t always about loss. Sometimes it’s renewal. Survival. Becoming better suited for where you are now.”

She considered that. “So—you think I’m… molting?”

“I think you’ve grown new feathers, Pen.”

“That might be the strangest compliment I’ve ever received.”

"Really? What do the French boys use on you?"

"Let's not go there."

His eyes narrowed. "Why—is it NSFWK?"

"N—S—F—W—K?"

"Not—safe—for—wholesome—kids!"

"What?! Can you stop it? You sound so silly right now!" she shook her head and took a sip of her hot chocolate.

“For the record, it’s a good thing...the molting bit.”

“You really think so?”

“Yes.” His mouth curved into something fond. “You’re wiser now. You choose your words more carefully. You don’t rush to fill silences. You seem like you’re shining brighter...but…”

“But what?”

“But—I hope you don’t become so bright—that people can’t see the old you anymore.”

She searched his face. “The old me?”

He nodded. 

Her smile returned. “I don’t think I could lose that,” she said. “I’m still very wary, you see. You know what, it's very confusing to be me right now.”

“What are you wary about?”

“Hmmm, that I’ve been changing too fast? Or that I don't fit in anymore?”

“Again, that’s probably a good thing.”

“Which one?”

“That you’re paying attention.” He shrugged lightly. “Pen, some people change and they don’t even notice. Meanwhile, you're telling me you're wary about the rate you're evolving. Trust me, awareness makes a huge difference.”

Soon, five o’clock arrived, signaling the market’s closing. With the stalls winding down around them, they decided to head home. As they walked, their conversation drifted again.

“Col… can I ask you another question? It might be a little off-tangent, though.”

“Go ahead,” he replied.

“Are you—dating anyone right now?”

He didn’t hesitate. “No.”

“Well—you should,” she said, gentle but sincere. "I mean, you're quite the observer and any girl would want an attentive boyfri—"

“Maybe not.”

“Maybe not what? You’re old enough. You’re handsome. You're very capable of making sure—”

“I don’t think dating works that way, Pen,” he interrupted quietly.

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

“It's not just about me. I think it’s a two-person thing.”

“Yeah, I absolutely agree,” she said. “It takes two-to-tango. So, maybe it’s time for you to—look for that someone.”

“What if I’ve already found her?”

“What if you've already—Col! If you already know who she is, then ask her out! Invite her for a date,” she said lightly, tipping her face up to watch the snow fall. 

He watched her instead. “Tsk, date her? You think it's that easy, huh?” he echoed, a faint pout to his mouth.

"Yeah, it involves a simple question anyway."

“Nah, I’d rather wait.”

Her breath hitched. “Wait for what? For the last snowflake to fall? For the season to change once again?”

"Pen, I told you—I already found her. I'm just—waiting..." His voice dropped—quiet, steady, certain. “Waiting for her to be ready.” 

There was an absolute three second pause before Penelope blurted, "Oh."

"Won't you ask me who she is?" he inquired, though he knew her thoughts were elsewhere.

She shook her head. “While we’re on the topic of birds, you should see my mother’s aviary."

He dropped the gaze. “I’ve only ever seen it from the outside.”

“Well then, you should see what the inside looks like. I've only been there once but I can't believe that she'd be this interested! She's so hooked into this hobby that an aviary was setup. An aviary, Col, imagine that! Wanna go look at it in a few days?"

“In a few days... right, Philippa’s birthday dinner."

"As always, everyone is invited to that."

"Do you think your sister ever minds that her birthday is so close to Christmas?”

“Nah. She loves it. Double the presents. Double the celebration.”

“That tracks,” Colin said fondly. “Which reminds me… I don’t actually have a gift for her yet.”

“What?! You were already at the market, Col.” Glancing back at just how far they've gone walking. 

“I know,” he sighed. “Do you think she’d complain if it were just a handwritten card? With very heartfelt well wishes or a birthday poem? Plus, maybe the best rose from my mum’s garden?”

“Honestly?” she said. “Probably."

"Yikes."

“But—for old time’s sake—maybe we could share a gift. I can spare you my sister’s wrath.”

He blinked. “Really?”

“Uh-huh, you’re in luck. I already ordered those makeup brushes that she likes."

He paused, considering. “Is that allowed?”

“What is?”

“A joint gift.”

She shrugged, smiling. “As long as there’s consent from the other party, I don’t see why not.”

His mouth curved. “So you’d add my name to the card? From Colin and Pen?”

“Or—Pen and Colin,” she said easily. “It was my idea, after all.”

"Fair enough. Otherwise, your sister might assume it was my idea to give her makeup brushes.”

“Well,” she laughed outright now, “you did give her a complete set of expensive make-up last Christmas.”

They slowed as the familiar iron gates of the Featherington house came into view.

“Oh my goodness, why are you still laughing?” he asked, genuinely baffled.

"Because I just realized why you’re still single, Colin.”

He blinked. “Excuse me?”

She gestured vaguely. “Birthday gifts. They matter. Especially to girls... Meanwhile you're here, absolutely clueless.”

He hummed, thoughtful. “Well, you wouldn’t mind a card and a rose. I mean—” He corrected himself quickly, then tried again, slower, more deliberate. “In fact,” his eyes flicking to hers, “if I gave them to you, I know you’d treasure it.”

“That’s because it’s me. I'm different from my sister,” she said, turning to face him, the cold nipping at her cheeks.

He lifted a hand and dusted off the snow off her head—careful, familiar. “And thank goodness for that.” He stepped back, hands slipping into his pockets. “Look, I won’t keep you out in the cold any longer. You might have been shivering the whole day."

"No, Col, if anything you made me forget about London winter for once."

"Good. That's good. Thanks for today, Pen.”

“Thank you too, Col. Look, I even got myself an adorable plush!” she said, holding up her little reindeer toy with a grin.

“And to think you wanted to separate from me. Tsk, tsk, tsk!”

“Oh, shut up. People change their minds, can’t they?”

“They absolutely can! And wasn’t this the better option?”

“Yes, yes... no need to gloat.”

“Anyway, I'll see you soon, Featherington,” he said, lifting his right hand in a half-wave—and then leaving it there, frozen in the air, his grin far too wide.

The snow began to fall harder, thicker flakes blurring the space between them.

“Au revoir, monsieur!” she called, slipping through the small gate. She paused just inside, turning back once more. “What are you still doing standing over there? Go on—run home!”

“I’m good!” he called back, voice easy, light.

She giggled, shaking her head. “Stop waiting in the cold, Bridgerton!”

She didn’t see it—the way his smile faltered just a fraction. The way his jaw tightened, breath catching as her words landed sharper than she ever intended. Stop waiting? Why would he? He stood there anyway, more snow settling onto his coat, fingers slowly lowering at his side.

The funny thing was, waiting had never felt like a burden to Colin. Not when it came with hope. Not when it came with her.

If waiting meant standing in the cold a little longer—if it meant believing that one day she might turn back, not merely to wave, but to stay—then he would gladly linger. For her. For as long as it took.

Chapter Text

Philippa sat proudly at the center of her gift pile. “Oh! This one’s from Pen and Colin,” she announced, reading the card aloud with unmistakable delight. “A joint gift? How very modern.”

Penelope smiled, easy and unbothered. “Open it.”

Philippa did and immediately gasped. “Oooooohhh! The makeup brushes I wanted! Aw, guys! These are lovely. Look at the bristles, Prudence. Look.”

Prudence squinted beside her sister. “What am I looking at? They’re… brushes.”

“They’re good brushes,” Philippa corrected, already stroking one against her wrist. She looked up again, beaming. “Thank you, Pen and Colin. Truly. This is perfect.”

“You’re welcome,” Colin said, nodding. “Pen chose them.”

“Of course she did,” Philippa replied fondly. “Excellent taste runs in the family.”

Penelope laughed. “More like I know how to follow your instructions.”

“Okay, open our gift next!” Hyacinth burst out.

“Our?” Philippa echoed, checking the card. “Is there a trend I’m unaware of?” She read it aloud—Love, Hy. Her brow furrowed. “Hyacinth, what are you on about? You’re not coupling with anyone!”

Penelope let out an awkward cough after hearing that statement.

“Of course not,” Hyacinth said cheerfully. “I’m single.”

“And still too young!” Anthony added, hauling her down onto the bench beside Kate before she could protest.

Across the room, Eloise and Daphne Bridgerton observed the entire exchange with narrowed eyes. They excused themselves under the noble pretense of needing more punch. Standing by the bowl, Daphne spoke, “They're doing joint gifts out in the open now?” Her eyes widened theatrically. “And here I thought you were imagining things, El. This is practically blatant. I can't believe it. Colin and Penelope?”

“Well, I clocked flirtatious behavior years ago from those two,” Eloise replied, stirring far too aggressively. “But this?” She sniffed. “This is practically a public announcement.”

“So,” Daphne murmured, lowering her voice, “do you think our plan will work?” She glanced around. “Did you manage to install the you know what?”

Eloise’s mouth curved. “It’s settled. You have no idea how much trouble I almost got into sneaking into this house earlier. Pen’s face when she saw me on Varley’s ladder?” She paused, savoring the memory. “Indescribable.”

“Ooooohh! This is going to be soooo fuuuun!” Daphne grinned.

Eloise surveyed her handiwork, and nodded in crisp satisfaction. She had worked efficiently—methodically. One sprig of mistletoe above the sitting room doorway. Another tucked neatly over the corridor arch. One more near the sideboard, low enough to be noticed. And then—her pièce de résistance—hung with deliberate care above the narrow space between the couch and the fireplace, where people inevitably drifted too close without realizing it.

Hyacinth wandered over, eyes lighting up the moment she spotted the greenery. “Oh! Are we playing a kissing game with our couples?”

“No,” Eloise replied calmly. “We’re conducting an experiment.”

Hyacinth beamed. “Yay. I love experiments.”

Across the room, Eloise lifted her glass in a silent toast. “Happy birthday, Pip. Consider this my gift.”

“Oh, El, you cheeky little menace!” Philippa clapped her hands, delighted and blissfully unburdened by suspicion. “I love it so much! Sissy, that means you and Colin have to kiss, if not now, maybe laterrrrr!” She pointed enthusiastically at the two of them.

Penelope glanced up—and froze. “What the?"

Colin followed her gaze. “Is that—”

“Mistletoes,” they said in unison.

Around them, no one objected. In fact, people leaned in with curious smiles and eager eyes. 

"Why us?" Penelope’s laughter faded as her gaze swept the room. One sprig of mistletoe. Two. Three. Far too many to be accidental. A memory surfaced: Eloise on a ladder. Varley hovering nearby. “Of course,” she muttered. She made a swift, strategic retreat toward the hall, certain she could escape until she looked up and stopped short. There, hanging smugly above the narrow landing, was another sprig. And. standing directly beneath it—stood Colin. Hands tucked casually into his pockets. She glanced left. Right. Every path was blocked by furniture, family, and far too many people pretending not to watch. “I, I can’t—I can’t do this.”

“You can't do what?”

“I do not have time for silliness,” she declared—and bolted.

“Aww, Penelope! Don’t be such a spoil sport!” Philippa called.

"Where is she going?” Kate asked.

"Darling, the only thing out there is my aviary!" Portia shook her head.

“Colin, would you please be a dear and bring back our dramatic sister?” Prudence sighed.

Penelope pushed open the door to the Featherington aviary. Warm air rushed out to meet her, fragrant with pine and feathers. Birds chirped softly, oblivious to the drama unfolding beneath their perches. She stumbled inside and paused. For a heartbeat, there was only the sound of her breathing. Then, the door clicked shut behind her.

"Pen?" Colin didn’t crowd her. Didn’t tease. Just stood there, letting the birds and the quiet do some of the work for him. “Look, we don’t have to follow traditions if you find them silly.”

Penelope turned toward him, guilt flashing across her face before she could hide it. “I don’t think traditions are silly. I meant what Eloise did was silly."

“You mean hanging a ton of mistletoe sprigs all over your house?” A corner of his mouth lifted. “I thought it was funny.”

“You did?”

“Yeah, it gave me a laugh. Actually, it made almost everyone snicker."

“Well, it gave me a heart attack. Colin, why are you here?"

“I was tasked to bring you back to the party.”

She rolled her eyes. “I don’t want to go back. Not yet.”

“Noted.” He took a careful step farther into the room.

“Look, I—I didn’t mean to leave you alone like that. You know. Under the mistletoe.”

“Is that so?” his tone was light, but honest. “Because when you left me alone under the sprig, that kind of stung.”

Her mouth parted. She hadn’t expected that. “I wasn’t running from you. I was just—” Her fingers curled into the fabric of her sleeve. “Everyone was watching. Suddenly, it felt like a joke I hadn’t agreed to be part of.”

Understanding dawned slowly across his face. “Well, I didn’t feel embarrassed. I felt—like I was standing exactly where I wanted to be.” Her breath caught at that. “But, I don’t want you feeling cornered. Especially not by me.”

The sincerity in his voice unraveled her defenses. “I really just panicked,” she confessed quietly. “It all happened so fast. One minute I was laughing, and the next I was trapped with half the family waiting for something to happen.”

“And nothing had to happen,” he said at once. She studied him, searching for disappointment. Found only patience. Care. “That’s why I followed you, okay? Not to drag you back. I just wanted to make sure you were alright.”

Penelope swallowed. “Again, I’m sorry for the nth time.”

A bird fluttered above them, feathers whispering.

Colin glanced around again, curiosity brightening his expression. “You know, from the outside, this place always looks rather… modest.”

“That’s what everyone thinks.” She pushed off a second door. “Come on, follow me.”

He followed, careful not to brush against the branches or startle the birds. With each step, the aviary seemed to unfold—pathways widening, foliage thickening, light filtering down from the glass ceiling above. 

“How many birds are here?”

“Hmmm, thirty-eight. Well—thirty-nine, if you count the new parrot that arrived a few days ago. Mother says it repeats what she says!”

“Have you heard it?"

"Nope," she said. "I think it prefers to hide among the trees."

"And do you know them all?”

“Most. At least by temperament, if not by name.” They slowed near a cluster, where several birds sat close together. Very close. Penelope frowned slightly, then tilted her head. “That’s odd. They’re… pairing off.”

Colin followed her gaze. Two birds nestled side by side. Then another pair. And another. Near the center, a set of brightly colored lovebirds pressed so close their feathers overlapped.

Penelope scoffed. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Eloise should have put the mistletoe sprigs in here.”

“Oh, they really are in pairs.”

“My mother’s birds are apparently more romantically organized than….” A startled sound escaped him before he could stop it, a short, breathless laugh. Colin turned away quickly, pressing his lips together. She noticed, of course. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” he said too quickly.

“No, sir,” she replied, folding her arms. “You don’t just laugh like that for no reason.”

“Fine. I was… amused.”

“By what?”

“By the fact that even the lovebirds seem to have things figured out and we’re the ones hiding from the mistletoe.”

“We?” she said sharply. “I ran from the mistletoe. I ran from you. There is no we, Colin.”

“Oh,” Daphne remarked lightly, glancing toward the tall windows. “It’s raining…”

Kate followed her gaze, humming. “Properly, too.”

Anthony frowned faintly. “That’s odd. It was predicted to be clear as day earlier.”

“It was,” Violet agreed serenely, not at all concerned. “But December does what it likes.”

Another spell of rain followed, louder now, steadier, drumming against the roof with unmistakable intent.

"Ooohhh, would you look at that!" Benedict shook his head, "I'd rather have snow than rain to be honest!"

Hyacinth suddenly sat up straighter. “Wait a minute! Penelope and Colin are still—”

“In the aviary,” Eloise supplied calmly.

"Will they be alright over there?" Gregory asked.

Philippa waved a dismissive hand, her birthday crown slightly askew. “That’s shelter, isn’t it? It has a roof.”

“Yes, my dear,” Portia added smoothly, lips curving with knowing satisfaction. “It is enclosed and quite sturdy too.”

"Sturdy you say, Lady Featherington?" Anthony teased.

"You think I would build a flimsy aviary for my beloved animals, Anthony? Nonsense!" Portia exclaimed. "My poor babies deserve the best!"

No one moved.

Violet glanced toward the French doors, where the rain was now impossible to ignore. She considered it for a thoughtful moment then smiled, perfectly at ease. “They’ll both be fine.” She turned back toward the piano. “Now, while we wait for the rain to ease, why don’t we listen to another piece? Prudence, Francesca? Surprise us with a timely tune!”

“Pen," he took a deep breath. “There—has always been—a we.”

Her expression faltered. “What are you talking about?”

“You don't remember?"

"What?"

"You don't recall that night years ago? The one where everyone assumed I got drunk during Anthony’s birthday? At Mondrich's?”

Her brows furrowed. “We thought you were hammered. You were slurry. You barely could walk. Ben and Anthony had to carry you to my car!”

“I only let you think that,” he admitted quietly.

"Are you saying you weren't really passed out drunk?"

“Sure, I’d had a glass or two, but I wasn’t nearly as far gone as I pretended to be.”

“You pretended?”

“And thank goodness because I heard you, Pen,” he said.

"The ride back home," Color rushed to her cheeks. “No—you shouldn’t have.”

“I didn’t mean to. But once you started talking… you didn’t stop.”

“Colin!” She looked away, mortified. “That was a long long time ago.”

“I know, but you told me you like me. That you knew you were crossing lines—that you didn’t want to ruin our friendship. You said you were still young. Still figuring yourself out. And then...then you asked me to wait.” Her eyes snapped back to his. “Please wait for me to be ready,” he repeated quietly. “Those were your exact words.”

Suddenly, the aviary felt too small.

“I thought you didn’t hear. You were in and out of consciousness."

“But I did,” Colin said. “And I didn’t know what to do with it. I was scared of wanting something I wasn’t sure I deserved—or could protect. I told myself the next day… the next week… that everything would change between us. That I'd let you know what I felt...that maybe you weren't alone in this...”

Her laugh came out brittle. “But change it did.” 

“Yeah, you left for Paris a month later.” Silence settled—dense, humming with memory. “I told myself it was for the best,” he continued quietly. “That you’d grow out of it, fall in love with someone else, forget that night entirely. Pen, maybe you did.” His eyes searched her face, careful, aching. “But I never forgot what you asked of me. One year passed, then another… and then here we are.” She tried to look away but he held her gaze. “I waited for you, Penelope,” Colin said simply. A step forward. “Heck, I never stopped.”

“Hold on, are you saying—that I’m… that girl? The one you’re still waiting for? Colin!”

His answer wasn’t rushed. It was certain. “Is it really so hard to accept that I could like you back?”

They were already too close. His hand found her wrist first stopping her half-step past him. The contact alone sent a sharp jolt through her.

“Pen,” he said softly.

“What?”

He hesitated, breath uneven, eyes searching hers. “Can I kiss you?”

She turned fully toward him, a protest forming—

“Awwwk! Kiss her! Kiss her!” a tiny, shrill voice chirped.

"Was that—”

“The parrot,” Penelope said faintly.

“Kiss him! Awwwwk! Kiss him!” the bird added, flapping once for emphasis.

The absurdity of it hit her all at once. Penelope laughed and it loosened something fragile between them. However, Colin didn’t budge. He watched her instead. Watched the way her smile curved, the way her guard dropped just enough. In that unguarded second—before she could think better of it, before she could retreat—he took the opportunity.

He swooped in and kissed her. Her laughter faded into a gasp as his mouth met hers, and for a heartbeat she was stunned then she melted into it, instinctively, like this was where she’d always been meant to land.

The kiss wasn’t careful. It wasn’t polite either. It was the kind of contact born of too many years of restraint snapping all at once. His mouth crashed into hers. She staggered back a step, the heel of her shoe catching on the stone floor, and suddenly there was glass behind her—the cool, curved wall of her mother's aviary pressing onto her shoulders. His hand slid to her waist, firm, anchoring, holding her there.

A flock of birds scattered above them in a flurry of wings.

Her fingers fisted in his sweater, dragging him closer without thought or permission. The kiss turned hungry, his mouth parting over hers, tongues brushing, then tangling in a way that stole what little breath she had left. He shifted, and suddenly her back met another wall—stone this time—cool, solid, unyielding.

Her thoughts scattered just like the birds above them. This was—this was it. Her first crush. And somehow, impossibly, her best friend too. The truth she had once whispered into the dark, believing it safe, was now here. It was real and overwhelming and letting her know that he’d been holding himself back too. The realization hit her all at once.

She broke their contact with a sharp inhale, palm pressing to his chest—not pushing him away, just… stopping. Grounding. “Col, I’m sorry,” her voice went unsteady. “I—I just… I need some air.”

Truth be told, he didn’t know what to feel. His lungs burned, like he’d forgotten how to breathe properly, like his body hadn’t yet caught up with what had just happened. His heart was racing—not with panic, but with something heavier. Something fuller. A hunger for more. Their first kiss had been everything he had hoped it would be.

Colin stood there, staring at the space she’d left behind and his mind only thought of one thing: he was glad... glad he had waited. Glad he had listened. Glad he had not done anything reckless. Because now that he had done this—God help him—he wasn’t sure how he was supposed to wait ever again.

Chapter Text

The next morning, the scent of pine hit Penelope the moment she stepped into the parish hall. Christmas music played softly while outside, winter pressed its chill against the glass. From where she stood, it looked like a simple donation drive but deep down, in the place her heart thumped hardest, she knew today was going to be anything but ordinary. Because right across from her, standing opposite and beside his mother, was Colin, looking straight at her. Penelope did not want to admit it, but his gaze felt like it burned through her, right there in the middle of the church hall.

“Portia! Aww, you made it!” Violet's bright voice came through. “Thank goodness you got at least one of your daughters to come! Hello Penelope!”

“Well, Penny was free since she’s on a holiday,” Portia replied, giving Violet a quick hug. “And I see you brought reinforcements as well?”

Violet quickly glanced at her son. “Colin was the only one available, I’m afraid.”

“So they're both available,” Portia said with a nod. “Well then, let’s get them to work!”

“Penelope, darling, you’ll be at the registration table for the morning shift,” Violet called. “Colin, dear, you’ll help her, of course,” she added in the same breath, already turning away.

Neither of them had time to protest. Not that either of them tried. In a snap, there they were—sat side by side behind the registration table, clipboards in hand, pens passing back and forth, greeting donors and beneficiaries.

“Name?” Penelope asked the first woman in line, her voice steady, careful.

“Thank you so much for coming,” Colin added.

They hadn’t even exchanged a proper greeting yet, but it was clear they wanted to. Every brush of her elbow against his puffer, every glance he threw at her clipboard as if to check her work—they were electric, charged. Minutes stretched into twenty, twenty into thirty, until the line finally took a solid break. They slumped against the plastic chairs, breathing out relief at the pause.

“So… I didn't think you'd be here, too,” Colin spoke first. Of course, he would be the one to break the ice.

“Pip and Pru have a double date today. And because I have no fiance nor a boyfriend, I am a willing volunteer to mother's good deeds,” she reasoned, trying to sound casual. “What about you? Dragged here, or did this come of your own volition?”

“I happen to come for this event every year, so…” he trailed off, voice even but eyes sharp.

“Right, I forgot our mothers even do this together.”

“You’ve been quite forgetful, Pen? Tell me… have you forgotten what happened yesterday?” His lips quirked in that infuriating, knowing smile. “What's with that look? You said you needed some air. I thought you’d be coming back to the aviary. Instead, you ran all the way in the rain and into your house! You left me with the birds!”

“I—”

“You what?”

“I—couldn’t think properly, okay!”

“Well why not?”

“Colin, can we not do this here?”

“Can we not do what here? Talk about what happened? Do you want to brush this under the rug, Penelope?”

“No! I just… I don’t think this is the right time or place for that topic.”

“What topic are you thinking of?”

“Are you going to make me say it? In front of strangers?”

"What's wrong about expressing what we feel for each oth—"

“Hello, Good morning! We’re here to drop off some of our clothes?” A woman in line broke their intense, almost-argument.

Both Penelope and Colin turned to her, forcing polite smiles.

“Hi, I see you're donating. Please kindly fill out this sheet. Thank you,” Penelope said, her voice bright, cheery, betraying none of the storm that had just passed between them.

The morning continued in much the same way—too many people crowding their table, each arrival a small disturbance, but a good problem to have for a drive like this. Neither of them could complain, not really, so they left it to fate whether their conversation could continue. Soon, the one-hour lunch break approached, but rather than giving them the chance to speak, Violet swept Colin aside and introduced him to a group of older women who needed help carrying boxes and other heavier items. They apologized to him for taking some time from him eating a meal, but he didn’t mind—after all, he was there to be of service.

Penelope exhaled as she watched him get pulled away, silently relieved at the thought of having a few private moments with her own thoughts. As if she had not spent enough time with them already. From the moment she had left the aviary, through her dash in the rain and into the Featherington house, her mind had been consumed by him.

By their kiss.

How soft his lips had been.

How his tongue had perfectly met hers.

How his hand had wrapped around her body, holding her like he’d been waiting his whole life for that moment.

It was too much. Too vivid. And that evening, the images returned in her dreams, relentless and fiery: him pressing against her, impossibly close, impossibly real.

Penelope did not see Colin for the rest of the break, which bothered her more than she expected. She had eaten, and yet she hadn’t seen him so much as take a bite. Yes, she was mildly concerned about Colin’s stomach. Knowing his love for food and his near-reverence for meals, so it was entirely unlike him to skip one. When she finally spotted him by the sorting piles, that became her first question. Not the kiss. Not the aviary. This.

“Hey—were you able to eat?”

He looked up at her. “A little.”

“A little?” Penelope echoed, aghast. “What did you have?”

“A bite of the meat pie,” he said. “The elderly ladies were kind enough to hand me one.”

“A bite?” She stared at him. “Colin, why don’t you take five minutes and eat? We’re just sorting clothes anyway this afternoon.” She gestured to the piles around them—upper garments here, lower garments there, shawls and socks forming smaller, messier stacks.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” She plucked the sweater straight from his hands and tried to shoo him away. “Now, go. Eat, properly. Before you faint on me from hunger.”

Instead of moving, Colin leaned in—just enough that his shoulder brushed hers, just enough that she felt the warmth of him at her side. “I see, you were watching me. Worrying.”

Her cheeks flamed instantly. “I was not—”

“Mmh.” His smile turned soft, teasing, and entirely unfair. “I like this version of you, Pen. Very attentive. Does it have to do with let’s say what happened between us yesterday?”

“Colin,” she gave his chest a light shove.

“I mean, of course things would change between us,” he went on, entirely unrepentant. “We did have that very hot kiss in your mother’s—”

“Ugh,” she cut in, cheeks blazing. “Please. Go. Eat.”

He blinked. “Eat what?”

She stared at him, utterly appalled. The nerve of him—to use her concern as a springboard to flirt. It wasn’t new, this ridiculous, familiar back-and-forth between them, but if he didn’t stop now, she was going to turn into a tomato in the middle of a church hall.

“I command you to go,” she said, pointing vaguely away from him.

"You command me?" He laughed under his breath and finally stepped back, hands lifting in surrender. “Alright, I won't argue!"

As he walked away, Penelope remained where she was a moment too long—face burning, heart thudding—uncomfortably aware that he had noticed her concern and very much intended to enjoy it.

Ten minutes later, she felt Colin's presence behind her. How she knew, well that was because of his signature scent. “Col, did I see some of your siblings’ clothes in a few of the piles?”

“You must have spotted the embroidered B under the hem, didn’t you?”

“I did.” She nodded. “I could recognize that swirled B on anything.”

“Didn’t Varley do the same with your clothes back in the day? PF, right? In shocking green thread?”

“She did,” Penelope said, then hesitated. “But then when I left…” He blinked. She faltered. “I… I suppose she only does it for Prudence and Philippa now.”

There it was—the pause. The quiet awkwardness that had never existed between them before. Now, every mention of the past felt loaded. Her leaving for Paris lingered between them like a fragile thing neither quite knew how to touch. And now she knew that Colin knew. He knew about her fondness, her feelings. She had asked him to wait then she left. And somehow, he was still waiting. 

“Penelope! There you are!” Her mother approached with unmistakable purpose, already reaching for her arm. “Your sisters are outside the church, ready to pick us up. Come along—let’s say goodbye to Violet first.”

“Leaving? Now? But there’s still so much work to be done. And my sisters—are you telling me their double date is already over?”

“So many questions, my daughter,” Portia replied, steering her gently but decisively. “Regrettably, I can only answer a few at a time. The rest will have to wait until we’re en route to dinner with the Finches.”

Penelope faltered. “Dinner with the Finches? That was moved to tonight?”

“Indeed,” Portia said, resolute. “Traffic will be dreadful, and we simply cannot afford to linger.” Portia’s gaze flicked to Colin then softened into something politely final. “Thank you, Colin, for your hard work today,” she said. “But I must insist on taking this young lady away. You wouldn’t mind, would you?”

“Of course not, Mrs. Featherington,” he said, easy enough. “You have a good evening.”

But his eyes never left Penelope.

Sometime close to midnight, the Featheringtons arrived home later than they would have liked especially with traffic crawling to and fro the estate and the dinner stretching far too long beneath forced cheer and one toast too many. Or perhaps three. Possibly four. The wine had flowed generously, and by the time Penelope slipped out of her coat and her boots, her body felt loose and heavy all at once, her thoughts pleasantly fogged around the edges. Her cheeks were still warm. Her head buzzed—not enough to spin, but enough that everything felt louder, closer, more felt.

She barely made it to her bed, phone forgotten in her hand. The day replayed itself whether she invited it or not: the parish hall, Colin, the sorting table, Colin, the way his eyes had softened when her mother pulled her away, Colin. She needed a distraction and thank goodness for her vibrating phone. Penelope squinted at the screen, blinking slowly as the name of the sender registered in her foggy mind. Colin.

What the heck? Her heart gave a traitorous leap—dramatic, entirely unnecessary, and very much encouraged by the wine.

Hey Pen, how was dinner?

She stared at the message longer than necessary, lips parting slightly. Of course he asked. A few steps later, she got herself to her mattress, swaying just a little as she sat straighter, thumb hovering clumsily over the screen. Words felt slippery. Thoughts even more so. Before she could type a single letter, her phone lit up again.

Is this how it’s going to be from now on?

She laughed softly, incredulous.

Another vibration.

Because I can’t stop thinking about you.

“Oh my god."

Penelope let her phone slip gently against her chest. She was tired. Achingly so. And yet the wine loosened something in her, unknotted the careful composure she’d been clinging to all day. Now, without effort, without permission, everything came rushing in. Again.

His hands on her waist. His mouth—warm, certain. The way he’d looked at her.

"Why does he have to be so....COLIIIIIIIIN!!!!! Stop being so—aaaaaaahhhhhhhh!” she exclaimed—to herself, to the wine, to him. Her hand found the nearest pillow, buried her flushed face into it, and screamed. "AAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!" After a minute, she was able to calm herself and her thoughts down, not without coming to the same conclusion. "Fuuuuuck, why can't I stop thinking about you too?"

The next day, Penelope surfaced from sleep slowly, wrapped in that hazy, floating feeling where the world had not quite decided to claim her yet. The hum of an engine lingered in her ears. She groaned softly, burrowing deeper into her coat. 

"Miss Penelopeeee," Varley’s voice came again. “Everyone is waiting for you.”

Penelope blinked, frowning. Everyone? She stretched, arms lifting overhead, and only then did the memory catch up with her—that she had gotten into the car. That was it. No recollection of the drive. 

“Varley? Where are we? This doesn't look like Mayfair anymore.”

Their trusted housekeeper let in a rush of cold air. “Come outside,” she said with quiet satisfaction. “I think you’ll like it.”

Penelope swung her legs out and stepped down onto gravel, the crunch sharp beneath her shoes. She looked up—and paused.

A farm stretched out before her. Wide fields rolled into the distance, low barns hunched against the cold, fences disappearing into a pale wash of mist. The air was sharp and clean, threaded with something feathery and alive. Bird calls echoed around her—soft trills, sudden flutters. She followed the sound toward the main enclosure and immediately spotted her mother. Portia was speaking animatedly to someone beside her.

“…Is that Lady Bridgerton?”

As if summoned, Violet turned and brightened at once. “What luck! Penelope is finally awake!” she called cheerfully, lifting a gloved hand in greeting.

“Penelope, darling,” Portia was already waving her over, “Do come and join us for the tour, would you?”

Her mouth felt… odd. She lifted a hand and brushed at her cheek. Her fingers came away dry, thankfully—but the memory of drool, traitorous and undeniable, burned hot all the same. She swallowed, mortified, straightening as if posture alone might undo whatever state she’d been seen in. “Tour?” she repeated faintly. “Wh—where are we?"

A voice answered from directly behind her—deep, familiar, and far too close. “Brow Farm. Lancashire.”

Penelope froze. Her breath caught as she turned slowly.

And there he was. Colin. Handsome. Hands tucked casually into his coat pockets, eyes bright with something dangerously amused. He looked… hot and entirely put together. “Morning, Pen,” he said, gaze flicking—briefly, politely—from her hair to her face and back again, lips twitching. “Did you sleep well?”

“I—” She cleared her throat. “I wasn’t asleep. I was… resting my eyes.”

His smile deepened, soft and indulgent. “Of course, you were.”

Penelope still did not know how she had agreed to be here. Ninety minutes away from Mayfair. In the cold. On a bird farm. Surrounded by snow, feathers, and her mother’s unrestrained enthusiasm for such animals. Her memory betrayed her this morning for all she truly remembered was grabbing her jacket in the car… sitting down to fetch it… and then—nothing. 

“Oh, look at them, Penelope!” Lady Portia exclaimed, clapping her gloved hands as a cluster of birds strutted past. “Such posture. Such presence.”

Beside her, Violet looked delighted in a quieter, more curious way, peppering the farm’s owner with questions. “Do peacocks always display like that? And the peahens—do they choose, or is it instinct?”

“Oh, they very much choose, ma’am,” the owner replied cheerfully. “The peacock can show off all he likes, but the peahen decides whether he’s worth her attention.”

Penelope hummed vaguely while Colin walked beside her. “You’re doing remarkably well, considering you were talking in your sleep an hour ago."

“Excuse me? I do not talk in my sleep.”

“Wanna bet?”

Her head snapped toward him. “How are you even so sure? Were you in the same vehicle?”

"You were already in dreamland when you guys passed by for us next door. Were you that exhausted last night? Figures why you did not reply to any of my messages.”

"Whatever," Penelope flushed and tugged her scarf higher. “Still does not prove that I talk in my sleep.”

“Adorable,” he said under his breath.

She shot him a look, but before she could retaliate, the owner stopped beside a wider enclosure. “Ah—here we are. One of our finest peacock and peahen pairs.”

The peacock chose that moment to fan his tail in a dramatic explosion of blues and greens, feathers shimmering against the snow. The peahen circled him slowly—unimpressed, deliberate.

“Oh!” Violet said, delighted. “Look at him trying.”

Portia leaned forward. “Magnificent. Such confidence. Such flair.”

Penelope watched quietly.

The peacock strutted closer. The peahen paused. Tilted her head. Then walked away.

Colin hummed. “Ah. Rejected.”

Penelope snorted before she could stop herself.

Colin turned to her, eyes bright. “Careful. That sound suggests opinions.”

“I think he’s doing too much,” she said.

“Is he?” Colin asked lightly. “I think he’s just being very clear about his intentions.”

“Is he?"

"Yes."

"Well, she’s being very clear about hers too,” Penelope shot back.

The peacock rattled his feathers and tried again.

Colin leaned in. “I do understand that some peahens take time. They watch. Assess.”

Her stomach flipped. “You’re assigning emotions to birds now?”

“I’m observing patterns,” he said. “Very relevant ones. Haven't you been listening to the owner's lecture?”

Before she could reply, Portia turned, eyes shining. “What do you think of me getting these birds for my own, Penny?”

Penelope hesitated—then glanced at Colin, who had gone suspiciously still. “I think,” she said carefully, “you should make sure it understands that showing off doesn’t guarantee success.”

Violet laughed outright.

Colin smiled to himself.

She narrowed her eyes at Colin as they followed behind the others. “Why are you smiling like that?”

“I just remembered how your head tipped like this—” he demonstrated. “Mouth slightly open. And then you started drooling."

“Droo—I was not drooling!”

“Just a little,” he said, pinching his fingers together.

The owner cleared his throat. “The Indian Blue peacock you’re interested in is priced at four hundred,” he finished.

"How many are you thinking of getting, Portia?"

"Well, you heard the owner, I can't get only one. I need them to be a pair," Portia reasoned. "So I'll probably need four."

"Four birds? That's sixteen hundred?!" Penelope couldn't believe it. "You're willing to spend that much for a bird? Mother, you forget, you got two weddings to fund!"

“I know,” Portia said calmly, “but I’m not spending for your wedding anytime soon.”

“What?!” Penelope spluttered. “I told you I am purposely choosing to be single—in confidence—for now. Not forever!”

“Oh, would you relax, Penelope,” her mother waved her off. “I have enough money for all three Featherington weddings.” Portia turned to Violet and sighed. “Days ago she was glad I'm not pushing her to date any guy. Now she reacts violently to me buying birds? I wish that made sense.”

Violet laughed. “Oh, Portia, our children can be so, so funny.”

Colin bit his lip to keep from smiling. Penelope glared at him. He leaned in and whispered, unapologetic, “If it helps… I think the peacock is very committed.”

She stepped on his foot.

"OW! PENELOPE!"

"That's for all the smugness, Colin!"

The peahen’s nest sat near the fence line and Penelope, ever curious and catastrophically unobservant, leaned in with a soft, fascinated sound. “Oh, it’s beautiful.”

“That’s far enough, miss,” the farm owner said gently—but a beat too late.

The peacock reacted instantly. At first, it was subtle. A shift. A deliberate turn of its head. Then the head tilted.

Colin, who had been half-listening while Violet asked something about molting cycles, straightened at once. “Penelope,” he said sharply.

She didn’t hear him.

The peacock let out a low, unsettling growl—deep and vibrating, nothing like the pleasant calls they’d heard earlier. Its feathers rattled, not fully fanned, but enough to make a warning of color and sound.

“That,” the owner said briskly, already moving, “is not curiosity anymore.”

Penelope finally looked up. The peacock took a step toward her. Then another. Its body lowered. Feathers lifted. It let out another growl and suddenly ran. Penelope squeaked and stumbled backward. “Why is it running?”

“Because,” Colin said, already moving, “you’re near its nest.” He reached her in two long strides, grabbing her arm and pulling her behind him just as the peacock lunged again, wings flaring, feathers strutting aggressively.

“Colin!” she yelped, clutching the back of his coat.

“Do not run,” the owner called quickly. “Sir—stand your ground. Keep your arms wide. Slow steps back. Keep your eyes on him.”

Colin did exactly that, placing himself fully between Penelope and the bird. He spread his arms slightly, coat thick and heavy, posture steady even as the peacock darted closer, head tilting again.

Penelope peeked over his shoulder, heart hammering. “Is it angry?”

“Yes,” Colin said. “But let’s not take it personally.”

The peacock growled again, jumped forward—and pecked.

Colin hissed sharply as something struck his arm. He staggered half a step, teeth clenched.

“Oh my god!” Penelope shouted as her hands tightened in Colin’s coat. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine,” he said through his teeth. “He’s just… enthusiastic.”

The peacock struck again—lighter this time—beak hitting fabric instead of skin. Colin grimaced but held his ground, continuing to retreat exactly as directed.

“Almost there,” the owner said. “Good. Good. Now—turn slightly. Yes.”

Finally, the peacock stopped at the edge of the nesting area, feathers still rattling but no longer advancing. It gave one final warning growl before retreating back toward the peahen.

The farm owner insisted they step inside one of the smaller sheds. “It’s only a light peck,” he assured them. “But we’ll need to clean it. Peafowls may be beautiful creatures, but they don’t come with manners.” Colin sat on a low wooden bench, far calmer than Penelope felt about the entire thing. “Sir, I’ll need to check your wound,” the owner said, reaching for a small first-aid kit. “Perhaps you could assist him with the coat removal, miss?”

Penelope, still standing far too close, froze. “I beg your pardon?”

The owner glanced between them, clearly unbothered. "I need you to help him remove his coat."

Colin lifted his brows, clearly entertained, but obediently shifted forward. Penelope stepped behind him, fingers hesitating for exactly half a second before she slid the heavy coat from his shoulders. His perfume hit her nose right away. She folded it over her arm, only then realizing how close she still was. How her chest nearly brushed his back. How her face was just beside his shoulder.

His flannel shirt—thick, long-sleeved, and clearly chosen for the cold—had a small puncture near the hem.

“You were lucky. That padding saved you. It's just a little wound.”

Penelope’s head dipped closer as the owner cleaned the wound and started applying some antiseptic, her brows knitting together in intense concentration. 

“You’re hovering..."

“I'm observing. You were attacked.”

“By a bird,” he reminded her.

“A very large bird,” she countered. "It was almost as tall as I was!"

The owner smiled to himself and reached for a bandage. “All right—this will do nicely. I’m afraid I only have the colorful ones left. You don’t mind, do you?”

Colin opened his mouth.

"Blue or orange?"

“Orange,” Penelope said immediately. “It’s much cuter on him.”

The owner pressed the brightly patterned bandage into place. “There. All done. I’ll give you some oral antibiotics, just to be safe. Any allergies?”

“None that I know of,” Colin replied easily, accepting the pill and swallowing it without hesitation. His mouth curved into an unmistakable grin. “See? All good. The attack was worth it.”

Penelope rolled her eyes but her fingers lingered on the sleeve of his coat for half a heartbeat longer than necessary.

The ride back to Mayfair was quieter than the journey there—but not for lack of witnesses. Snow blurred past the car windows as the chauffeur navigated the long road home. Varley sat primly in the forward passenger seat, hands folded, doing what she did best—seeing everything while appearing to see nothing at all.

At the very back row, Portia leaned against the captain seat, arms crossed, lips pursed in deep consideration. “I must say, I am now thinking twice about whether peafowls are a sensible addition to my bird collection.”

"But you heard the owner, Portia, whatever that was, it rarely happens." Violet, who sat beside her, replied. "Still, whatever you decide, they'll be your pets. Not mine."

“Yes, well, they are… quite temperamental,” Portia continued. “Beautiful, yes. Regal. But could be aggressive. Protective. And outrageously expensive.”

Colin, ever gallant, straightened. “If they bring you joy, Lady Portia, I think you should still get them.”

Penelope shot a look at the person beside her that very clearly said you nearly lost a limb. "Tsk tsk!"

"What?" Colin gave a little laugh.

“You got attacked by that bird,” Penelope said, incredulous, “and you’re still perfectly fine with my mother buying four of them?”

Violet laughed softly. “Perhaps—as long as neither you nor Penelope goes anywhere near?”

“Exactly,” Portia added, “Be grateful Colin was there to save you, my dear. Did you thank him properly already? If not, you may do so now. If yes, well do it again.”

Penelope huffed, mortified. “I’m sorry—and thank you.” Her eyes drifted to his arm, where the bright little orange bandage peeked out far too cheerfully to be ignored. Guilt tugged at her. Without quite realizing it, she reached across and patted his arm—gentle, careful. “I really am sorry for getting you into trouble.”

Colin didn’t hesitate. “Hey. I lived to tell the tale.”

“That you saved me from a peacock?” she asked softly, disbelief lacing her voice.

He lifted his hand and brushed his thumb along her cheek—brief, familiar, tender enough to steal the breath straight from her lungs. “I sure did.”

In the rear-view window, Varley’s reflection appeared. It was faint, but unmistakable. Behind them, Portia and Violet noticed it too. The touch. The way Penelope leaned into it without realizing. The way Colin seemed only dimly aware that anyone else occupied the car at all. The two ladies exchanged a look.

“Well, Vi,” Portia said lightly, “perhaps I don’t need to spend that much on birds after all.”

Violet tilted her head, feigning innocence. “Really? And why is that?”

Portia’s gaze flicked pointedly between the two young people. “Well, it appears I’ve found something else worth investing in.”

“That quickly, my friend?” Violet teased. “A minute ago you were adamant.”

“A minute ago,” Portia replied serenely, “we hadn’t seen this.”

Violet barely held back a laugh. “Do you think I should join you in that endeavor?”

"Maybe—you—should,” Portia leaned forward just enough. “Varley, how’s the view from there?”

Varley adjusted her posture. “Looks promising, madam,” she said evenly. “Shall we assume this outing will be remembered as the day the birds pecked a courtship into existence?”

Portia and Violet smiled, thoroughly pleased. “Oh, Varley. This is precisely why I keep you.”

Unaware of any of it, Penelope sat angled toward Colin, fingers fussing gently at the bright orange bandage on his arm. Her brow was knit in concentration, lips pressed thin with lingering worry. “Does it still sting?”

“Just a little,” he replied, punctuating it with a small yawn.

“Are you sleepy?”

“Probably,” he said. “The antibiotic’s doing its work.”

“Then stop moving,” she instructed, firm but gentle, “and just lean on me.”

He hesitated. “Are you sure?”

“Uh-huh.”

Colin stayed still for a moment, breathing her in. Then, quietly—so close his lips brushed the shell of her ear—he spoke, “For the record, I’d do it again.”

She turned her head just enough. “Do what again?”

“Protect you,” he said simply. “Save you from aggressive birds. All of it.” A pause. “That’s how much you mean to me, Penelope.”

The words landed softly but completely. Somewhere inside her, something wanted to scream—to shout, to demand how he could say that so calmly, so surely but it was no use. The sound caught in her chest, trapped beneath her ribs. It had been two days now. Two consecutive days of seeing each other after the aftermath of that kiss. Still, the moments pressed heavier—or sillier—by the hour, by the day. Penelope knew she didn’t trust herself to speak of her feelings, not yet. Instead, she let his head rest fully against hers and hoped fervently that she could survive the rest of the drive back without her entire self imploding.

Chapter Text

Penelope knew something was wrong the moment she woke up. She lay there for a long moment, staring at the canopy above her bed, testing her limbs. Everything ached. Even blinking felt like effort. When she finally pushed herself upright, a wave of dizziness followed, along with an unmistakable sniffle.

By midmorning, the verdict was delivered—firmly and without sympathy—by the family doctor. “Sore throat, a cold settling in, general malaise,” he said, folding his notes. “Nothing alarming, but you are not going anywhere today, Miss. You need rest, fluids, warmth.”

She was confined to her bed, wrapped in layers, a mug of something medicinal and lemony balanced in her hands, tissues scattered like snowdrifts around her. Her phone buzzed. Penelope answered immediately. “If you’re calling to gloat about being healthy...”

Eloise snorted. “Ugh, you sound dreadful.”

“I feel dreadful.”

“So you’re actually sick,” Eloise continued, mock-serious.

“I had plans. Important plans.”

“Do tell.”

“My Secret Santa shopping,” she said miserably. “December twenty-fourth is in a few days, El. And the artisan at the market messaged me this morning—my item is ready for pickup.”

“Oh, the tragedy,” Eloise said, though her tone softened.

“I can’t even leave the house,” Penelope went on, voice wobbling just slightly. “Doctor’s orders. As if I’m being punished.”

“For what crime?” Eloise asked.

Penelope hesitated. "Existing,” she said instead.

“On the bright side, you’re forced to rest. You've been out non-stop, Pen. Who knew you wanted to join in on the bird farm with your mother as well? Listen—I’ll see if I can run interference at the market for you.”

Penelope perked up. “You'd do that for me?”

“I might,” Eloise said. “Unless, you're my Secret Santa, which then I might have to think twice.”

“I'm not.”

"Are you pulling my leg?"

"I dunno anymore," Penelope replied. "I think I gotta go, El. Mom and Varley are here to force me to take more meds. As if I'm not an adult who can do that on my own."

"Get well soon, love!"

Penelope sank back into the cushions, throat aching, nose blocked, heart inexplicably heavy.

"Ah, still a bit warm." Varley had pressed a cool palm to her forehead for the third time.

Penelope was fed some soup and bread, then heavily medicated. Before sleep could claim her entirely, she reached for her earphones, fingers clumsy and slow. The familiar opening notes filled her ears—the same song she and Colin had listened and hummed to on the way home yesterday. Feelings by Lauv wrapped around her like another blanket, soft and steady, something safe to hold onto when everything else felt too much.

“Sleep, my darling,” Portia tucked her snugly. “Healing requires obedience, do you understand?”

“Yes, Mother,” Penelope croaked, too tired to argue.

She was no longer in her bedroom. She was on a farm. Sunlight filtered through tall grass. Feathers rustled. Penelope looked down and realized, with a strange sense of inevitability, that she was a peahen. Ahead of her stood a peacock. An old friend, she knew instantly. Familiar in the way dreams often were. He turned slowly, and her peahen heart did something foolish and fluttery because—oh. He looked entirely too much like Colin, if he was a bird. Same posture. Same confident tilt of the head. Same eyes, somehow—curious, intent, far too warm for a bird. And then, as if summoned by her attention, he began to fan his feathers. They unfurled in a magnificent rush of blues and greens, shimmering and impossibly dramatic.

Penelope startled. Took a step back. “Oh,” she thought. “Oh no.”

He strutted. He rattled his feathers with flair and purpose, clearly very proud of himself.

She should have been alarmed. She should have run. Instead, she found herself… entranced. Utterly undone by the way the light caught his plumage, by the ridiculous confidence of it, by the undeniable fact that—why was this attractive? The peacock inclined his head, feathers shimmering, eyes fixed on her as if to say look at me—this is for you—and then he sang. Not loudly. Just a few lines.

‧₊ ♪˚⊹ I wanna do whatever you wanna do

If you wanted to, girl, we could cross that line ‧₊ ♪˚⊹

Penelope blinked. Peahens, she was fairly certain, did not hallucinate singing peacocks. Now, if she actually remembered what the bird farm owner said about them, she would be in no wondering state right now.

‧₊ ♪˚⊹  Know we've been friends

And love only knows broken ends

Yeah, that's what you said‧₊ ♪˚⊹ 

He took another step closer, feathers giving a soft, rhythmic rustle in time with the melody, as though the song itself had learned how to walk. 

‧₊ ♪˚⊹ Girl, let me change your mind ‧₊ ♪˚⊹

He only dipped his head again. And despite herself—despite the absurdity, despite the feathers, despite the fact that none of this made sense—her peahen heart settled. Because even in dreams, even like this… Colin was still singing to her.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Penelope gasped awake, throat dry. For a moment she thought the sound had followed her from the dream—but no. It was real.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

She pushed herself upright, blinking through sleep, and padded across the room in her fleece pajamas. The cold seeped through the floor as she peered through the glass. There—below her window, half-hidden by the bare branches of the tree—stood Colin. He looked frozen. Hair mussed by the wind. Coat buttoned wrong. Cheeks red from the snow. He saw her and immediately waved, grinning like a madman. Then he mouthed, exaggerated and urgent: Let me in.

She yanked the window up, “What are you doing out there?!”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he reached for the tree.

“Colin—” she began, horrified, just as he started climbing. "What..." She hovered uselessly, hands pressed to the window frame, torn between panic and disbelief. “Are you insane?” she whisper-yelled as he hauled himself onto the ledge.

A second later, Colin tumbled into her bedroom, landing on his feet with a quiet thud and a victorious grin.

“What,” she stared at him, “just happened?”

He straightened, still grinning, eyes bright, utterly unapologetic. “What happened? I wanted to get to you.”

Portia stood with her hands clasped behind her back, surveying her birds with satisfaction, while Violet lingered beside her, far less focused and far more on the implications currently fluttering between them.

“I must say,” Violet began lightly, “yesterday explained rather a lot.”

“If you are referring to my daughter and your son sitting far too close for propriety all the way home, well..."

“Oh, Portia, I've never been this excited in a while,” Violet said cheerfully. “Now, the real question is—who fell first?”

Portia turned, one brow arching. “Penelope, of course. She has always been observant. Sensitive. Prone to… noticing things before others do.”

Violet hummed. “Perhaps. But you know what, when Penelope left for Paris...” She folded her hands, expression softening. “That was when I noticed a change in Colin.”

Portia glanced back at the birds, pretending indifference. “A change?”

“He refused every introduction. Every suggestion we made. Every perfectly suitable young woman,” Violet said, smiling ruefully. “Whenever I pressed, he would only say, ‘Be patient, Mum.’ As though he were waiting for something he could not yet name.”

Portia’s lips pressed together. “You think he's waiting for my Penelope?”

"It seems so obvious I could laugh at myself. Oh, what are we to do, my friend? Sit back and wait some more?”

“I promised her I would not push her,” Portia said firmly.

“But you saw them, Portia! The way he looked at her—like she was the only thing worth noticing. It makes perfect sense now. Even the way his face went sullen when she ran away from him and the mistletoe! Oh my poor boy. Would you reconsider helping me out? Helping them out?” She clasped her hands. “Pretty please? They belong to each other! I just know it! My son and your daughter! Can you imagine it? Oh, imagine it! Imagine it with me!”

Portia shot her a look. “I brought you here to admire my birds, Violet. Not to dissect our children’s romantic entanglements.”

Violet glanced fondly at the birds. “Look, as much as I adore your beautiful—if shockingly expensive—hobby, I fear my own hobby has taken precedence.”

“Matchmaking?”

“Indeed,” Violet confirmed happily. “And given what we now know, I feel it would be irresponsible not to pay attention.”

Lady Featherington shook her head, though the corner of her mouth betrayed her. “You are impossible.”

“And you,” Violet countered, eyes sparkling, “are pretending you are not already delighted.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “Come on—think about the possibilities! A Bridgerton–Featherington wedding...A Bridgerton-Featherington grandchild!”

Portia held out for exactly one heartbeat before sighing. “Very well.”

Violet’s composure shattered. “Oh—thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you!” she cried, all but clapping her hands in triumph.

Penelope was still half-convinced he was a fever dream. “Colin,” she said softly, “what are you doing here?”

“I came to check on you.”

“I already told you I was sick, right?” she replied, gesturing weakly around them, as if that alone should have stopped him. "You didn't have to..."

"I know but I—missed—you." Colin stepped forward without another word and kissed her. It was sudden—no warning, no time to think. Just his mouth on hers, warm and sure, stealing the breath straight out of her lungs. Penelope made a small, startled sound and pulled back on instinct, one hand flying up to cover her mouth, her heart pounding wildly. Colin breathless, asked. “Why’d you stop?”

“I told you, I—I'm sick!” She winced. “I have colds. I shouldn’t be spreading germs like this—and to you, too!” Her gaze flicked, betraying her, to her bed where a small pile of crumpled tissues sat in plain view. "It's Christmas soon! We can't be sick on Christmas!"

Colin followed her look. Then he grinned, slow and utterly unapologetic. “Come on, Pen. A little cold won’t hurt anyone, especially me.”

She stared at him for half a second when they parted. Then she turned, crossed the room, and locked the door. “Are you sure?”

They looked at each other again, standing several feet apart, breathing the same air, the tension between them sharp and alive. Neither spoke. They simply moved—meeting in the middle of the room like it was inevitable. This time, the kiss was deeper. Her hands curled into his coat as his mouth lingered, coaxing rather than claiming. His hands slid down her arm, slow and grounding, until they rested at her waist. The contact sent a warm, dizzying rush through her, and she forgot—briefly—about colds, medicine, propriety, and reason.

Colin pulled back and frowned, concern breaking through the haze. “You’re… you’re a bit warm. I thought your doctor said you were just exhausted?”

“I may have a slight fever.”

“A slight fever? You didn't tell me about that!” His hand came up immediately, fingers resting at the side of her neck, feeling the heat there. “Pen—”

“Actually,” she rushed on, “Mother and Varley just left after assuring I took my meds."

That earned a small smirk from him. His fingers drifted into her red hair, gentle, familiar. “And what were their orders?”

“I was told to avoid tedious activities for a while... and from getting out of this room.”

He raised a brow. “Is making out considered tedious? I don’t want to tire you out, Pen.”

She tilted her head. “Yet you’re here.” They shared a knowing look, the kind that said neither of them was particularly interested in being sensible. She glanced toward the bed. “On the bed then?”

He didn’t hesitate. Of course he didn’t. His coat pooled on the floor and boots left elsewhere.

They sat on top of the duvet, close but not quite touching at first, before gravity—or something stronger—pulled them together again. Their kisses turned clumsy and sweet, lips bumping, hands unsure, laughter slipping out between breaths when an elbow went astray or they moved at the same time.

Penelope tried to stop him when he dipped toward her neck, but she failed miserably, laughing as she pressed a hand to his shoulder. “What is it?” he asked, smiling against her skin. “Why are you giggling? Come on. Tell me.”

“A few days ago, I was running away from you and the mistletoe sprigs.” He stilled just enough to listen. “And now,” she continued, “we’re in my room. On my mattress.”

Colin’s grin returned, “Who knows what is to happen in a few?”

“In a few what? We're just making out, Colin. Right?”

“I don't know,” he teased gently. Then, more seriously, “But, I will not force you to do anything you do not want to, Pen. You see, I am a gentlema—”

Of course, she cut him. This time, she didn’t hold back at all. Her lips parted with intent, pulling him closer, her tongue meeting his in a slow, insistent glide that sent heat straight through his chest. There was nothing tentative about it—only need, only feeling—her mouth claiming, coaxing, daring him to keep up. Colin responded without thought, drawn in by the heat of her, the soft sound she made when he kissed her in return just as deeply. Everything felt heightened: the press of her lips, the faint tremor in her breath, the unspoken it has always been you. When he tore himself away, it was with a sharp breath and a helpless stare, eyes dark, pulse racing, staring at her as though she’d just rewritten the rules of his world without warning.

“Where,” he managed, “did you learn to do that?”

Penelope looked away immediately.

“…Shit,” he said, realization hitting him all at once. “Forget I asked.”

Paris, he thought faintly. Of course.

Portia stood proudly at the center of her aviary, hands clasped behind her back as a pair of lovebirds hopped along a low branch, chirping softly at one another. “You see, they bond first. It isn’t loud or dramatic. They preen. They share space. They learn each other’s rhythms. Only when trust settles in do they—”

“Mmhmm,” Violet murmured, only half present.

“Violet.”

“Yes, yes—bonding, devotion, very touching,” Violet replied, nodding far too quickly. Her attention, however, was fixed on a small notebook she had produced from nowhere, already scribbling. “Now—timing-wise—”

Portia stopped short. “Are you listening to a word I am saying?”

“Of course I am,” Violet said brightly. “Lovebirds. Symbolism. Feathers. Very romantic.” She paused, then looked up, eyes alight. “Which brings me to my plan. I set our children up on a blind date,” Violet announced. “Colin thinks he’s meeting a charming, intelligent young woman. Penelope believes she’s agreed to one polite outing with a perfectly tolerable gentleman.”

Portia stared.

“And then,” Violet continued, delighted, “they arrive—only to discover they are, in fact, in a date with each other.”

Silence.

“What do you think?” Violet beamed. “Brilliant, isn’t it?”

Portia inhaled slowly. “Penelope is returning to Paris by the New Year. Wouldn’t that be… stretching things out?”

Violet frowned, considering. “Then what do you propose?”

“We let them talk. Truly talk. No theatrics.”

Violet’s eyes lit up again. “So—lock them up and make them confess?”

Portia recoiled. “Lock them up?”

“Like your birds,” Violet said, helpfully.

“My birds are not locked up,” Portia snapped. “They are free to move from branch to branch.”

Violet winced. “My apologies, my friend. In my mind, I was thinking of a little box.”

Portia swept her arm wide. “As you can plainly see, my aviary is not little.”

Violet stared around, then slowly smiled. “Then… Christmas Day.”

“What exactly is to happen on Christmas?”

“We ensure Penelope and Colin have time,” Violet said. “Real time. Somewhere secluded—yet spacious. Somewhere warm. Familiar. Full of… inspiration—to talk. Maybe to flesh their thoughts and feelings. We can certainly lure our children to your beautiful and inviting...”

Portia followed her gaze as it drifted knowingly back to the birds. “…aviary.”

Violet nodded slowly. “Is it available?”

Chapter Text

Colin eased the back door open with the care of a man defusing a bomb. The clock in the kitchen ticked softly. 00:28. Perfect. Everyone would be asleep. The house would be dark. Silent. He slipped one foot inside.

“Colin Bridgerton.”

Slowly—very slowly—he turned around. Seated at the kitchen counter, hands folded neatly around a teacup, was his dear mother. Wide awake. Composed and entirely terrifying.

“Mother,” he said weakly. “You’re… up.”

Violet smiled. The kind of smile that suggested she already knew everything. “And you, my son,” she said pleasantly, “are very late.”

“I was—”

“Out,” she supplied.

“Yes.”

“With friends?”

“…Yes.”

“Which friends?”

Colin opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again. “The… male variety.”

Violet arched her brow. “How fascinating. Because your brothers are all home.”

“My social circle is wider than my siblings, mother.”

She gestured to the chair opposite her. “Sit.”

He obeyed. “Ah.”

“Now,” Violet continued calmly, “would you like to try again, or shall I tell you where I think you were?”

“I can explain.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I was at the Featherington House.”

She blinked. “You were where?”

“I was at the Featheringtons,” he repeated, too tired to soften it. “I was next door the entire time.”

Violet’s pleasant expression faltered. “Colin… I was at the Featheringtons…where were—” She stopped herself, eyes widening just slightly. “Please, son. Do not tell me you were where I think you were.”

He looked down at the table. Then back up. “Yes,” he said quietly. “You are thinking of the correct place.”

“Colin…” Violet shook her head. “What were you thinking? It is past midnight.”

“Penelope is unwell.”

“And you,” she said carefully, “have just attempted to sneak into this house like a guilty schoolboy. Guilty perhaps of committing what? I am not sure that I want to say it out loud!”

He winced. “In my defense, I was not sneaking. I was… returning discreetly.”

She stared at him. Then, unexpectedly, she laughed—soft, incredulous, fond. “Oh, Colin, you have always been dreadful at secrets.”

He couldn’t stop himself. “Mother, I love her,” he said simply. “I love Penelope.”

Violet studied him for a long moment. Then she reached for her teacup again. “Well then,” she said, sipping calmly, “next time, try hiding somewhere else, not on her bed!”

His eyes widened. “You heard me?”

“I heard everything and I smelled the perfume I gave you last Christmas,” she replied serenely. “Thank goodness Varley and Portia were too busy tending to their little lady of the house.”

“I was actually tending to her too.” 

She widened her eyes at him, as if to say enough. “Go to bed. You look exhausted.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“And one more thing?”

He paused.

“Take some Vitamin C. I think you’re about to develop a cold and we don’t want that.”

He nodded, smiling helplessly. “Yes, ma’am.”

When morning came, Penelope felt… better. Of course she did. Her throat no longer burned, the ache behind her eyes had faded—but she was also… tired. Deeply so. The kind of fatigue that settled into her bones and made her limbs pleasantly heavy. Her cold symptoms had retreated, yes, but the general malaise had doubled, leaving her languid and warm and utterly unmotivated to do anything. Surely it could not be due to the copious amount of… activity she and Colin had engaged in? She frowned faintly. No. That would be ridiculous.

They had spent nearly the entire day together. Every time her medicine was due, Colin would vanish with impressive speed—ducking behind curtains, flattening himself into corners, hiding in places she hadn’t even known existed in her room. By the time the Featherington household declared lights out, he had memorized every nook and cranny of her bedroom and her walk-in closet. He knew which floorboard creaked, which hanger rattled, which corner offered the best cover. He hadn’t wanted to leave. Not truly. She had insisted that he had to go home. He could not simply live in her room, tempting fate and Varley indefinitely, no matter how committed he seemed to the idea. Penelope could not help but smile. If exhaustion was the price of such a day… Well. She supposed she could live with it.

She moved about the breakfast nook with an unfamiliar lightness, humming absently as she adjusted the cushions and reached for her mirror. It was only when she tilted her chin that she froze.

“Oh.” Just beneath her jaw, faint but unmistakable, were a couple of marks—soft shadows against her skin that had not been there before yesterday. Or rather, she amended quickly, had been there, but apparently her mind had been elsewhere.

“Penelope, dear?” Portia’s voice chimed as she entered. “You’re looking remarkably improved.”

“Yes—I think the medicine and the rest have finally worked. Where are Prudence and Philippa?”

“Out with their fiancés.”

“This early?”

“Well,” Portia replied airily, “familial duties don’t come with a time cap, do they?”

“I suppose not.”

Her mother hummed, circling her like a hawk with impeccable posture. Her gaze flicked—once—toward Penelope’s neck. “What are those?”

Penelope’s hand flew up. Too late. “These?” she repeated, far too brightly. “Oh! That’s just—well—irritation.”

“Irritation,” Portia echoed. “They’re peppered all over your neck, my dear!”

“From the—uh—blankets. The wool blanket. Very aggressive wool.”

Portia raised a brow. “Oh my dear, your skin has always been sensitive. Tell me, you don’t use wool in Paris, right?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Very well, I may have to ask Varley to remove all of them from your room. Allergies are nothing to take lightly.”

“Yes,” Penelope agreed fervently. “Tragically so.”

In the middle of breakfast, Portia nodded, clearly preparing to launch into a broader lecture on other things when Varley appeared in the doorway, visibly unsettled. “Lady Featherington,” she said urgently, “I am sorry to have to report that one of the birds in the aviary is missing.”

“Oh my,” Portia gasped. “A bird is missing?”

“Yes, my lady. I believe it may have flown out during the morning airing.”

Portia was already on her feet. “Oh heavens—which one?”

“The goldfinch.”

Portia clutched at her chest. “Not the goldfinch! Albion picked that one for me!” She turned sharply to Penelope. “Are you done eating?”

“Uh, yes?”

“Then, come at once. We must look for the bird. If anything happens—oh, hurry, Penelope!”

“I’m coming,” Penelope grabbed a random shawl from the chair and wrapped it snugly around her neck as she followed her mother.

Colin sat at the breakfast table smiling down at his phone. 

Eloise squinted at him from across the table. “Why are you smiling like a giddy idiot?”

“What? I am not,” He cleared his throat and slipped the phone into his pocket.

“Right,” Eloise continued, “Anyway, brother, have you finished your Secret Santa shopping?”

He lifted his teacup, far too pleased with himself. “It’s a secret.”

Eloise frowned. “Even the shopping is a secret? I thought only the recipient was.”

Anthony snorted into his coffee meanwhile Kate wiped something off the corner of her mouth with a napkin.

“I meant to ask, are you joining us today?” Eloise pressed. “We’re off to visit the Bassets.”

“All of you are going?” Colin asked, a touch too hopeful.

Eloise confirmed. “Aren’t we?”

Hyacinth beamed. “We promised Charlotte and Edmund we’d build snowmen with them!”

“Don't forget the snow-castles,” Greg added.

“Well, I…” Colin coughed once, pointedly. “I think I might be developing a cold. I’d hate to pass on the virus to everyone else so close to Christmas.”

Violet entered then, carrying a tray of toast and preserves. Gregory looked up immediately. “Mother, we just found out that Colin isn’t interested in coming with us.”

Violet set the tray down slowly. “Is that so?”

“I did not say I wasn’t interested, I said I am unable to. Those are two different things, Greg.”

Gregory frowned. “Well, if Colin isn’t coming, I don’t think I need to go either.”

"Greg, hold that thought," Violet asked mildly, turning to her other son. “Why aren’t you coming?” She looked at him in that way—pleasant, expectant, utterly impossible to evade.

“Well, Mother,” Colin began carefully, “I think you were right. I’m not feeling quite myself today. My throat is… rather scratchy.”

“Scratchy,” Violet repeated.

“That’s weird,” Eloise said as she took a bite of her pancake stack. “Pen is also sick. She’s been out since yesterday.”

“Oh, poor Penny! She’s on a short holiday and got sick?” Hyacinth shook her head.

“Poor, Penelope, indeed.” Violet adjusted the edge of the tray. “I suppose there is a bug going around.”

“Yes,” Colin agreed quickly. “A terribly inconvenient one.”

Eloise narrowed her eyes.

Hyacinth, meanwhile, leaned closer to Kate and whispered, “I think someone is lying...”

“...or trying to tell us something…but I just can’t figure it out yet.” Kate replied.

“This is ridiculous,” Portia muttered, pacing. “It cannot have flown far. Birds are clever, yes—but not that clever.”

Penelope crouched to peer beneath a low shrub, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “I’ve looked everywhere near the rose bushes. And the aviary doors were—” she stopped, frowning.

“Open,” Varley supplied grimly.

“Yes,” Penelope said. “Which explains… nothing, apparently.”

Portia’s hands fluttered nervously, her eyes darting from tree to garden to the distant horizon, while Varley’s sighs became audible with each passing minute. Finally, Penelope straightened, brushing her hands on her skirts. “Mother… perhaps I could check over at the Bridgerton house?”

Portia froze mid-step, turning to her daughter with wide, anxious eyes. “The Bridgerton House? Now?”

“Yes… sometimes birds could escape toward their neighbors’ gardens. I could ask and—”

“Go!” Portia snapped, seizing Penelope’s arm and steering her toward the gate. “Quickly! If there is even a chance that little goldfinch is over there, you must get it before it disappears entirely!”

Colin opened the front door and froze. “Penelope?” She stood there, cheeks flushed—not entirely from the brisk winter air. “What are you doing here… aren’t you still recovering? I was about to come over...”

“Actually, I’m somewhat better!” she replied, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. “Besides, I want to be of help to Mother… um, one of her birds is missing, and we already searched the aviary and the grounds this morning to no avail. But… we haven’t tried next door.”

“A bird is missing?"

"Yeah."

"And you think it went over to our side?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I dunno,” she admitted. “But your garden is twice as big as ours. So, maybe?”

“Therefore… you want to look for a—”

“Goldfinch,” she supplied, eyes sparkling.

“You want to look for a goldfinch… with me… today?”

“If you will allow it! I don’t just go to other people’s houses uninvited,” she teased.

Colin smirked. “You mean like yesterday? Wait a minute. I was invited."

"How so?"

"You opened the window.”

“And that meant you could enter?” she countered, grinning. “Windows are not for grown men to prance into!”

“Do you want to check if your mother’s beloved bird is on our property or not?” he pressed.

“Fine,” she said, laughing despite herself.

He smiled, leaning down to give her a little peck on the cheek. “Hi, I missed you. I’m glad you decided to come over.”

“We have a mission, Bridgerton,” she said, straightening. “I did not come here just to flirt… I rather hoped my boyfriend might assist with a bird rescue?”

Colin's eyes widened. He blinked once. Then twice. And then he very nearly bounced on his heels. “Boyfriend?” he replied, stunned. “Did you just—did you really—Oh! I'm your boyfriend?!”

Penelope rolled her eyes, fond and exasperated all at once. “Yes, Colin. You are my boyfriend. Now, can we please focus on the finch?”

He threw his arms up, grinning like a schoolboy caught in sunlight. “I just—it's the first time I’ve heard it from you.” He laughed, breathless. “This is… wow, okay, this is incredible. I feel like I could fly.” Then, remembering himself, he straightened. “But yes. Priorities. Bird hunting. That's why you came over. Got it.”

"Thank you! Now, will you let me in or not?"

They had barely taken a few steps before Colin paused, tilting his head toward her with that familiar, impossible grin. “Pen, wait a minute,” he murmured, and before she could react, his fingers brushed her jaw, lifting her face slightly.

She gasped, instinctively stepping back but Colin was faster. One smooth motion, and he kissed her gently. “Colin!” she whispered, wide-eyed. “We could be seen!”

He leaned closer, his lips just brushing hers, his breath warm against her cheek. “By whom? My entire family is out.”

“You’re… alone? In this house?”

“I am,” he replied softly.

That was all the permission he needed. Penelope melted against him, every thought of propriety dissolving. She lost herself in the press of his mouth, the warmth of his hands along her back, the sharp, delicious thrill of being caught… yet completely safe.

A sudden flutter against the window made her jump slightly, breaking the spell for just a second.

“What was that?” she pulled back just enough to peer outside. “Was that… a bird?”

Colin's lips found her neck. She shivered as her back met the cold glass, a soft sound escaping her as his hands settled firmly at her waist, holding her there. He turned her slightly so she could still see the garden. “Colin!” she gasped, half-laughing, half-breathless, attempting to push him away.

“What?” he whispered, his teeth grazing the shell of her ear, entirely focused.

“THE BIRD!” she cried, eyes darting to the window, heart racing.

“You mean my cock?” Colin chuckled against her neck, a soft, knowing sound.

“WHAT?! No!”

He kissed her again instead, pressing her gently back against the glass as something fluttered faintly against the windowpane, mocking them both. Colin smiled against her lips before murmuring, “Have you been to my room recently?”

“You've been to my room recently.”

“Well then.” His eyes gleamed. “What luck. There’s a room tour today—for you, and for you only.”

They did not so much walk as drift. Colin’s mouth never truly left hers. only shifted, claiming the corner of her lips, tracing the line of her jaw, lingering just beneath her ear as he guided her through the corridors of the Bridgerton house.

“Colin,” Penelope said, half-laughing, half-breathless as he steered her past a console table, his hand firm at her waist. “Wait. We’re meant to be searching.”

Instead of answering, he kissed her. He lingered just long enough to steal the air from her lungs before pulling back, eyes warm and unapologetic. “We are,” he said softly. “I’m simply… broadening the scope.”

She should have protested. She should have reminded him of urgency, of responsibility, of her mother. Instead, she clutched at his sweater as he backed her around a corner, her pulse fluttering wildly. Still, her gaze flicked toward the windows, the high ceilings, the faint, almost-there sounds of the empty house. “I swear,” she whispered as his fingers traced slowly along her spine, “I keep thinking I hear wings.”

He rested his forehead against hers. “You’re imagining things.”

“Am I?” she asked, breath hitching when something did rustle nearby.

They moved again, slower now, past portraits and tall doors, until they stood before one very familiar one: Colin’s bedroom.

As his fingers brushed the door handle, she stilled, suddenly alert. "Did you see that?” She stepped toward the tall windowpane, and there landed a bird with a bright red face and a flash of yellow on its wings. “Oh my god,” she breathed. “It’s really here.”

Colin exhaled, half-laughing. “Well. Would you look at that. Turns out your instincts are annoyingly excellent.”

“I told you,” she said, glowing. “I had a gut feeling it came over this side.”

“Gut feeling?” Colin's hands spun her lightly back toward him. “Careful, girlfriend. Keep saying things like that and I start getting ideas.”

"What did I..." She laughed, then faltered slightly, suddenly aware of just how firmly he was holding her. “Colin, why are you suddenly so… like this?”

He leaned in, lips brushing her ear, voice barely a whisper. “You just declared that I’m your boyfriend,” he said simply. “What did you think was going to happen?”

The words landed all at once. Her smile faltered then bloomed as heat rushed to her cheeks as realization dawned.

“Oh,” she breathed. She had done this. She turned her face into his shoulder, laughing softly, equal parts mortified and delighted. “I can’t believe you.”

He grinned, utterly unrepentant. “I can. This is entirely your fault. Therefore, you must accept the consequences.”

"Oh," she glanced toward the window again and the goldfinch was still perched there. “Well, what about the finch?”

“It’s clearly not going anywhere.” His eyes darkened, playful and intent. “Besides… my gut tells me something far more interesting is about to happen inside my bedroom.”

“Bridgerton.”

“Featherington,” he replied smoothly. “We are alone… and I plan to make very good use of that circumstance.”

Violet cradled the phone between shoulder and ear as she stirred honey into her drink, humming softly. “My dear Portia,” she said warmly, “you sound quite distressed.”

“I am! One of my finches has gone missing, Vi. The one Albion chose for me.”

“Oh,” Violet said sympathetically. “That is upsetting.”

“It simply vanished during the morning airing. We searched the aviary, the grounds, every hedge, every trellis. Nothing.”

“Portia, birds almost always return to their owner. Well,” Violet continued delicately, “unless the owner has been unkind, inattentive, or deeply unpleasant to live with.”

“I would like to believe, that I am a considerate bird enthusiast who cares very deeply about her feathered companions.”

“Then worry not,” Violet replied serenely. “The bird will come back to you.”

“I hope so,” Portia sighed. “Penelope has even gone next door, just in case it decided to spend a brief holiday in your garden.”

Violet paused. “Wait, Penelope went next door? That means she is with my son, at home.”

“What do you mean?” Portia frowned. “Isn’t Colin with you at the Bassets?”

“No, he was feeling under the weather this morning. We left him at home. Or… rather—he asked to be left.”

"Is he alone right now or not?”

“Well,” Violet said, choosing each word with care, “if your daughter has gone next door…”

Portia inhaled sharply. “Oh, Violet.”

“Portia, our children—are very obviously together. My dear friend, please do not—”

“Do not what?” Portia demanded. “What do you know that I don’t, Violet?! Spill it—”

Violet sighed. “Fine. You see… yesterday… over at your place—I happened to notice that your daughter was not alone in her room when we visited.”

“You mean Colin was hiding in Penelope's bedroom? Where—behind the drapes? Near her dresser?”

Violet paused, then said, with regrettable honesty, “I’m afraid...he was in her bed.” There was a long, stunned silence on the line. “Portia? Are you all right? My dear, are you still there?”

Portia cleared her throat. “Vi,” she said carefully, “does this mean we might be grandmamas soon? I have two weddings and a baby on the way?”

“I— I don’t know,” Violet replied, flustered. “But aren’t we getting a bit ahead of ourselves? Our children are merely...”

“I have to go,” Portia said briskly. “I need to make some phone calls.”

Colin lay beneath her, breath uneven, heart thundering, every nerve alive where Penelope held him like she had decided that he was hers and she was not letting go. Her hands curled into his shoulders, her forehead pressed to his.

“Pen,” his voice wrecked, as though saying her name was the only thing tethering him to the earth.

She didn’t answer. She only held him tighter—like she needed to feel him there, solid and present, as if the world might try to steal him away if she loosened her grip even a little.

Something inside Colin bloomed. He had never felt so claimed in his life. Not wanted in passing, not admired from afar, but chosen. Held. Loved with intent.

He is her boyfriend.

The thought sent a dizzying rush through him—ridiculous and euphoric and entirely sincere. He almost laughed at himself, overwhelmed by the sheer absurd joy of it. He felt warm all over, loose-limbed and glowing, like he had finally arrived somewhere he had been walking toward his whole life without knowing it. He slid his arms around her without thinking—pulling her in, tucking her against his chest as if that was where she belonged. His hand smoothed over her bare back, like he was memorizing her.

“Have I told you that I love you?” he asked softly.

“Today?” she replied, eyes half-lidded, a smile tugging at her lips. “Not yet.”

“Well,” he said, utterly earnest, the words spilling out of him like he couldn’t stop them, “I love you. I love you until I cannot love anymore. I love you until the earth cracks open and all that’s left of me is someone who willingly surrenders.”

She studied his face with the most ridiculous seriousness. “Are you… speaking in tongues?”

He laughed. “No. This is just what loving you out loud feels like. Pure bliss.”

Before she could tease him further, Colin rolled them gently and pinned her against the pillows. 

“I love you, Penelope Featherington,” he said again, quieter now, because he simply couldn’t not say it. The words felt too big to keep inside. “Don’t you ever forget it!” He smiled into her hair, utterly content, golden-retriever happy in the quiet aftermath, thinking that he would do absolutely anything to keep this feeling.

Colin floated somewhere warm and dazed when Penelope shifted beside him. He barely noticed at first—too busy tracing the afterglow, the way his chest felt too full, too light, like loving her had rewired him entirely. This was it, he thought hazily. This was what being hers felt like. 

Penelope sat up, reaching for her bra from the floor. His grin came slowly, lazily, like a cat spotting a mouse. “Col, are you awake? I think I have to go now,” she said, far too casually for someone who had just undone him so thoroughly.

His brows knit together. “You? Go? Where?”

She leaned down for her fleece tights next. “I promised Mama I’d...”

“Oh, right, the bird,” Colin repeated faintly.

“And,” she added, entirely unrepentant, “Since I'm already out, I need to pass by the Winter market. Secret Santa waits for no one.” She stood, back to him now, gathering her dress. "I do not want to disappoint Hyacinth nor my recipient."

Colin propped himself up on one elbow, watching her with amusement. The curve of her shoulder. The determined efficiency of her movements. The way she was very deliberately not turning around. Because she hadn’t noticed yet. He waited. She reached for the final piece—her puffer—then froze. Slowly, she turned.

He lifted one hand from behind his back and gave a small, triumphant wave.

Lacey. Black. Slinky. Very unmistakably hers.

“COLIN.”

“What?” His voice was pure innocence, eyes bright with wicked delight. "Are you looking for this, Pen?"

“HAND THEM OVER PLEASE.”

“If I don’t… what do you plan to do?”

“GIVE MY PANTIES BACK.”

“And if I still refuse?” he pressed. “Will you truly leave your boyfriend on this bed to go chase a bird and pick up a present?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Aren’t you enough work for me today, Mr Bridgerton? I suppose I’ll have no choice but to go to the market without them.”

Colin’s head snapped toward the window. “Penelope, it is freezing outside! You dare go commando?”

She extended her palm. “Hand them over and no one gets hurt.” Then, more softly—dangerously so— “Or you be the obedient boyfriend that I know you are.”

That did it.

Colin didn’t even pretend to resist. He slid off the bed and crossed the space between them in two strides, still very much unclothed, eyes bright with intent. In one smooth, decisive motion, he caught her waist and tugged her back toward the mattress. “One more round,” he groaned, already pulling her down with him. “I promise. Then I’ll help you catch the finch, and I’ll come with you to the market. Two for two.”

“AAAAAHHH! COLINNNNN!!!” Penelope’s laughter rang through the room as they disappeared beneath the sheets, any thoughts of birds or errands, momentarily forgotten.