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."