It’s Been You

by Bombshelllee_007

Summary:

Penelope Featherington met Colin Bridgerton when she was ten years old in a Brooklyn library. Sixteen years of almosts, grief, pining, and quiet devotion later, they finally stop running.
This is the story of how they found each other — through heartbreak, family chaos, and the kind of love that takes its time.
From the first page to the last, it’s always been them.

Notes:

This story is based on the song, It’s been you by Anita Baker.

 

The Brooklyn Public Library’s main reading room had been transformed into something between a carnival and a book lover’s fever dream. Colorful banners hung from the high ceilings announcing the annual Children’s Literacy Charity Event. Tables overflowed with donated books, activity stations, and raffle prizes. The air smelled like old paper, fresh coffee, and the faint sugar of the cookie-decorating table in the corner.

Penelope Featherington was in the middle of it all, curly red hair pulled into a messy half-ponytail that was already coming undone, her small hands gesturing wildly as she argued with two other girls.

“I’m just saying,” Penelope declared, clutching a battered copy of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe to her chest like a shield, “Lucy is obviously the best Pevensie because she’s the one who believes first. Edmund’s redemption is cool and all, but Lucy’s the heart!”

Eloise Bridgerton, ten years old and already radiating chaos, threw her hands up. “You’re only saying that because you have a soft spot for the youngest! Edmund has layers, Pen. Layers and betrayal and the best arc!”

Francesca Bridgerton was right there with them, eyes bright and dramatic, fully invested in the romance of it all. “But the feelings!” she insisted, practically vibrating. “When they all come back together at the end and everything is forgiven because of love and courage? That’s the part that gets me. I live for that!”

Penelope opened her mouth to deliver what was clearly going to be a passionate rebuttal when a shadow fell over their little circle.

“You’ve got good taste,” a warm, slightly amused voice said. “But if we’re talking Narnia, you’re all sleeping on Reepicheep.”

Three pairs of eyes looked up.

Colin Bridgerton stood there, seventeen, lanky in that way teenage boys are before they fill out, dark hair slightly messy like he’d run his hand through it too many times. He had a camera bag slung over one shoulder and a small, genuine smile that made the corners of his eyes crinkle. He was looking directly at Penelope.

Penelope blinked up at him, momentarily startled, then tilted her head. “Reepicheep is a mouse. A very brave mouse, but still a mouse. Lucy actually talks to Aslan.”

Colin’s eyebrows shot up, clearly delighted. “Brave mouse who sails to the end of the world and doesn’t flinch. That’s the kind of friend you want in a crisis.” He crouched down so he wasn’t towering over them, resting his forearms on his knees. “Colin Bridgerton. My sisters have been talking about the redhead who argues like she’s already published three books. I had to come see for myself.”

Eloise groaned. “Ignore him. He thinks he’s funny because he’s in high school.”

“I am funny,” Colin said easily, still looking at Penelope. “And I stand by Reepicheep.”

Penelope studied him for a second, then a slow, bright smile spread across her face — the kind of smile that made people want to keep talking to her. “Penelope Featherington. And I still think Lucy’s better. But… Reepicheep is pretty cool. He has a tiny sword.”

“Exactly,” Colin said, like they’d just solved world peace. “Tiny sword. Maximum courage.”

From across the room came a sudden burst of childish laughter followed by a dramatic crash. Little Cameron Featherington, five years old and already a tiny tornado in dinosaur sneakers, had somehow managed to knock over an entire display of picture books while trying to “help” by stacking them into a tower taller than himself.

“Cameron!” Portia Featherington’s voice carried, equal parts exasperated and fond. “What did we say about climbing the furniture?”

“I wasn’t climbing!” Cameron yelled back, completely unrepentant, cheeks flushed with excitement. “I was architecting! Pen, come look! I made a book castle!”

Penelope sighed, the long-suffering sigh of an older sister who had been dealing with this chaos her entire life. “That’s my little brother. He thinks he’s Cupid and an architect at the same time.”

Colin laughed — a real, warm laugh that made Penelope’s stomach do a strange little flip she didn’t have a name for yet. “Cupid with a book castle. I like him already.”

Archie Featherington appeared then, tall and kind-faced, scooping Cameron up with one arm while the boy wiggled like an excited puppy. “Sorry about the architecture project,” he said to the small group, then smiled at his daughter with that particular softness reserved for his only girl. “You making friends, Pen?”

Penelope nodded, suddenly a little shy in front of her dad even though she’d been fearless two seconds ago. “This is Colin. He likes Reepicheep.”

Colin stood up properly and offered his hand like a gentleman. “Nice to meet you, sir. Your daughter has very strong literary opinions. I respect it.”

Archie shook his hand, eyes twinkling. “She gets that from her mother. And apparently from arguing with her little brother about everything under the sun.” He glanced at Cameron, who was now trying to put a picture book on his own head like a hat. “Keep an eye on this one, Pen. He’s going to try to recruit your new friend into his schemes.”

“I heard that!” Cameron shouted, pointing dramatically at Colin. “You’re tall! You can help me reach the top shelf! We’re building a fortress!”

Colin grinned, crouching again so he was eye-level with the five-year-old chaos gremlin. “A fortress, huh? What are we defending against?”

“Dragons,” Cameron said immediately. “And also bedtime. Bedtime is the worst dragon.”

Penelope covered her mouth to hide her giggle. Colin glanced up at her, and for a second their eyes met over Cameron’s head. Something quiet and warm passed between them — not anything a ten-year-old or a seventeen-year-old could name yet. Just… recognition. Like the universe had gently nudged two people who were supposed to know each other and said pay attention.

Violet Bridgerton appeared a moment later, elegant and smiling, with Anthony and Benedict trailing behind her like mismatched shadows. “There you are, Colin. I was wondering where you’d wandered off to.” Her eyes softened as she took in the little group. “Making new friends?”

“Reepicheep enthusiasts,” Colin said easily. He looked back at Penelope one more time. “It was nice meeting you, Penelope Featherington. Don’t let Eloise and Francesca bully you into forgetting that Lucy is the real heart of the story.”

“I won’t,” Penelope promised, chin lifting with determination. “I stand by my opinions.”

“Good,” Colin said. “Hold onto that.”

He ruffled her curls lightly — gentle, affectionate, the way an older brother might — and stood up. “See you around, little Featherington.”

As the Bridgertons moved toward the raffle table, Penelope watched him go for a second longer than necessary. Her dad’s hand settled warm and steady on her shoulder.

“He seemed nice,” Archie said quietly.

Penelope nodded, still watching the tall boy with the camera bag. “He knew about Reepicheep. And he didn’t talk to me like I was stupid for having opinions.”

Her father smiled, something knowing in his eyes even then. “That’s important, sweetheart. Someone who listens to what you have to say.”

Across the room, Colin glanced back once. The little redhead was already being dragged toward Cameron’s “book fortress” by her chaotic little brother, but she looked over her shoulder at the same time. Their eyes met again.

Colin smiled.

Penelope smiled back.

And somewhere in the quiet space between a ten-year-old girl who loved books and a seventeen-year-old boy who noticed the girl who loved them, the very first page of their story turned.

Five years had passed since that first meeting in the Brooklyn Public Library, and the Featheringtons and Bridgertons had somehow become one extended, loud, overlapping family. Summer picnics at Aubrey Hall were now a sacred tradition — blankets spread across the wide green lawn behind the estate, tables groaning under Portia Featherington’s famous potato salad and Violet Bridgerton’s endless trays of sandwiches, children running wild, and the kind of laughter that carried all the way down to the lake.

Penelope Featherington was fifteen now, curly red hair longer and wilder than it had been at ten, her body starting to curve in ways that made her feel both powerful and strangely self-conscious. She still carried a book everywhere — today it was a worn paperback of Pride and Prejudice she’d already read three times — but she also carried a quiet, growing awareness of one particular Bridgerton brother that she tried very hard to keep hidden.

The picnic was in full swing. Cameron, now ten and somehow even more chaotic than he’d been at five, was leading a pack of younger Bridgertons in what he called “Operation Dragon Fortress.” He had somehow convinced Gregory and Hyacinth to help him drag half the garden cushions into a lopsided structure near the big oak tree. His laughter — loud, bright, and completely unapologetic — rang across the lawn.

“Penelope!” he bellowed when he spotted her. “Come help! We need a princess to defend the castle! Or a dragon tamer! You can be both!”

Penelope rolled her eyes but couldn’t help smiling. “I’m not climbing into your death trap, Cam. Last time you ‘defended’ something I ended up with grass stains and a twisted ankle.”

“That’s because you have no faith in my architectural genius!” Cameron yelled back, already running toward her with a cushion like a shield. “Colin said he’d help if you do!”

At the mention of Colin’s name, Penelope’s stomach did that stupid little flip it had started doing more and more lately. She glanced across the lawn and there he was — twenty-two now, broader in the shoulders, camera still slung around his neck like it was part of him. He was laughing at something Benedict had said, head thrown back, sunlight catching in his dark hair. He looked… different. Older. Handsome in a way that made her cheeks warm.

She quickly looked away before anyone could notice.

Eloise flopped down on the blanket beside her, already mid-rant about something she’d read. Francesca settled on Penelope’s other side, the two of them falling into easy conversation about the book in Penelope’s hands. They didn’t shout about it. They simply understood it — the way certain stories made your chest ache in the best way, the kind of love that felt worth waiting for even when it hurt. It was something the three of them had always shared without needing to perform it.

Penelope was still smiling at something Francesca had said when a familiar shadow fell over their blanket.

“Still reading the same book three times, I see,” Colin said, voice warm and teasing. He crouched down, camera bumping against his chest. “Some things never change.”

Penelope looked up and her breath caught for just a second. Up close he was even more distracting — the faint stubble along his jaw, the easy smile, the way his eyes crinkled when he looked at her. She forced herself to roll her eyes like she always had.

“Some of us appreciate good writing, Bridgerton. Unlike certain people who still think Reepicheep is the best character in Narnia.”

Colin grinned, that same grin from five years ago but deeper now. “Reepicheep has a sword and principles. He’s elite. You’re just mad because I’m right.”

“You’re delusional,” Penelope shot back, but there was no heat in it. There never was with him.

He reached over and tugged lightly on one of her curls — an old habit that had somehow survived the years. “Still got the same fire, little Featherington.”

The nickname used to make her feel like a kid. Now it made her stomach twist in a completely different way.

Colin settled onto the blanket beside her without asking, stretching his long legs out. His arm brushed hers when he reached for a sandwich and neither of them moved away. Penelope could feel the warmth of him through the thin fabric of her sundress. She tried very hard not to think about it.

Across the lawn, Portia Featherington was chatting with Violet Bridgerton, both women wearing the same knowing little smiles they’d perfected over years of watching their children orbit each other. Archie Featherington caught Penelope’s eye and gave her a small, gentle nod — the same quiet approval he’d always had for Colin. Penelope flushed and looked down at her book.

“Pen, come take a picture with me and the fortress!” Cameron yelled, suddenly appearing at the edge of their blanket like a whirlwind. He grabbed her hand and started tugging. “Colin, you too! You’re tall, you can be the dragon!”

Colin laughed but stood up, offering Penelope his hand without thinking. She took it. His palm was warm and a little rough from whatever adventure he’d been on lately with that camera of his. He pulled her up easily, and for a second they were standing too close — her chest almost brushing his, her face tilted up toward his.

Their eyes met.

Something shifted in the air between them. Penelope’s heart hammered so loudly she was sure he could hear it. Colin’s gaze dropped to her mouth for half a second before he cleared his throat and stepped back.

“Come on then, dragon slayer,” he said, voice a little rougher than usual. “Let’s go see what architectural nightmare your brother’s created this time.”

The “fortress” was a glorious disaster of cushions, blankets, and what looked suspiciously like one of Violet’s good tablecloths. Cameron had recruited Gregory and Hyacinth into guarding it with stick-swords. The moment Penelope and Colin approached, Cameron launched into full performance mode.

“Behold! The Dragon Fortress of Doom! Defended by the bravest warriors in all the land! And also Penelope because she’s scary when she’s mad.”

“I am not scary,” Penelope protested, laughing as Cameron tried to shove a cushion-sword into her hands.

“You’re terrifying,” Colin agreed solemnly, but his eyes were dancing. “Especially when someone insults your favorite books.”

He raised his camera and started snapping pictures — candid shots of Cameron mid-rant, Gregory and Hyacinth striking dramatic poses, and then, without warning, one of Penelope laughing with her head thrown back, curls wild in the summer breeze.

She caught him doing it and stuck her tongue out at him. He took another photo anyway.

“Delete that one,” she said, mock-stern.

“Never,” Colin replied easily. “It’s going in the collection.”

He had a whole folder on his laptop now — years of photos from these picnics, library visits, birthday parties. He told himself it was just because he was the family photographer. He told himself a lot of things lately.

They ended up sitting on the grass near the fortress while Cameron explained his “defensive strategy” in exhaustive detail. Colin listened with genuine patience, asking questions that made the ten-year-old beam with pride. Penelope watched them, something warm and aching expanding in her chest. Colin had always been good with Cameron — patient in a way most twenty-two-year-olds weren’t with a chaotic little kid.

“He’s going to be insufferable now,” she said quietly when Cameron ran off to recruit more soldiers. “You’ve given him an audience.”

Colin bumped his shoulder against hers. “He’s a good kid. Chaotic. Reminds me of someone else I know.”

Penelope raised an eyebrow. “Are you calling me chaotic?”

“I’m calling you passionate,” he corrected, and the way he said it — soft, almost fond — made her cheeks burn. “You’ve always known exactly what you love and you don’t apologize for it. It’s… nice.”

The air between them felt thick. Penelope looked down at her hands, suddenly shy in a way she never used to be around him.

“You’re different too,” she said after a moment. “More… I don’t know. Steady. And your photos are getting really good. Like, actually good. Not just family snapshots.”

Colin’s ears went slightly pink. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah? I’ve been picking up more travel gigs. Nothing huge yet, but… it feels right. Being behind the lens.”

“I’d love to see more of them sometime,” Penelope said, and meant it.

Their eyes met again. Longer this time. Colin’s gaze dropped to her mouth once more before he looked away, jaw tight.

“Yeah,” he said. “Sometime.”

The moment was broken by Cameron barreling back toward them at full speed, Hyacinth hot on his heels, both of them screaming about “traitors in the fortress.” Colin reacted without thinking — he reached out and pulled Penelope closer to him, one arm going around her shoulders as the two kids dove past them in a tangle of limbs and laughter.

For three full seconds, Penelope was tucked against Colin’s side, his arm warm and solid around her, his chest rising and falling under her cheek. She could smell his cologne — something clean and woodsy — and feel the steady beat of his heart.

Colin went very still.

Then he let her go like he’d been burned, standing up too fast.

“I should… go help Benedict with the grill,” he muttered, not quite meeting her eyes. “Before your brother burns the entire estate down.”

Penelope nodded, throat tight. “Okay.”

He walked away without looking back.

Later, when the sun had started to set and most of the younger kids were half-asleep on blankets, Colin found himself near the big oak tree with his father.

Edmund Bridgerton sat on one of the old wooden benches, a half-empty glass of lemonade in his hand, watching the remaining family with that quiet, contented expression he always wore when everyone was together. He patted the space beside him without a word. Colin sat.

For a minute they just sat in comfortable silence, the way they often did.

Then Edmund spoke, voice low and steady.

“I’ve been watching you with that camera all day,” he said. “You’re good, son. Really good. The way you see things… the way you catch people when they’re not performing. That’s a gift.”

Colin looked down at the camera still hanging around his neck, suddenly self-conscious. “It’s just a hobby right now. I’ve been picking up a few small travel gigs, but nothing serious.”

Edmund turned to look at him fully. “It doesn’t have to be serious to be worth doing. You’ve always had this restlessness in you — the need to go see the world, to capture it. Your mother and I… we noticed it early. I’m proud of you for actually going after it instead of playing it safe like half the boys your age.”

Colin felt something warm and tight settle in his chest. His father had always been the one who understood him best — not just the charming, easygoing version of himself he showed everyone else, but the part that wanted more.

Edmund continued, his tone shifting into that particular brand of fatherly advice Colin had grown up hearing.

“Whatever path you choose, just make sure it’s yours. And when you find something — or someone — that makes you want to stay still for a while… don’t run from it just because it scares you. Some of the best things in life are the ones that make you nervous.”

He gave Colin a knowing look, the kind that said he saw more than he let on.

Colin swallowed. “Thanks, Dad.”

Edmund reached over and squeezed his shoulder, firm and warm. “You’re a good man, Colin. Keep becoming the one you’re meant to be. I’m proud of you.”

Colin sat there long after his father had gone inside, the words settling deep in his chest like an anchor.

He looked across the lawn one last time. Penelope was helping her mother pack up the last of the blankets, Cameron half-asleep and leaning against her side. She glanced up and caught his eye. She smiled — small, soft, just for him.

Colin smiled back.

Two years had passed since that golden summer picnic at Aubrey Hall.

Penelope was seventeen now. Colin was twenty-four.

And everything had changed in the worst possible way.

Edmund Bridgerton had died suddenly — a massive heart attack while he was out on the estate grounds doing what he loved most, walking the land he’d spent his life tending. He’d been alone. By the time anyone found him, it was already too late.

The funeral had been a blur of black clothes, endless flowers, and the kind of heavy silence that pressed down on everyone’s chest until it was hard to breathe. Violet had been a statue of quiet strength, holding her children together even as her own world shattered. Anthony had stepped into the role of head of the family with grim determination. Benedict had disappeared into his art. Eloise had cried in angry, helpless bursts. Francesca had gone quiet in a way that scared everyone.

And Colin…

Colin had broken.

The man who had always been the charming, easygoing one — the one who made everyone laugh, who carried his camera like a shield and a promise — had vanished somewhere inside the grief. In his place was someone angry, reckless, and determined to push every single person who tried to get close.

Penelope had watched it happen from the edges at first, her own heart cracking along with everyone else’s. She had loved Edmund too. He had always been kind to her, always asked about her books, always treated her like she belonged. But her pain was nothing compared to what she saw happening to Colin.

She tried to give him space in the beginning. She really did.

But she also knew him.

And she knew that when Colin was hurting, he didn’t need space. He needed someone who refused to leave.

The first time she showed up at Aubrey Hall after the funeral, it was with her parents and Cameron. Portia had brought food. Archie had brought quiet strength. Cameron, now twelve and still chaotic but subdued by the weight in the house, had stayed close to Penelope’s side.

Colin had been sitting on the back steps, a bottle of something dark in his hand even though it was barely noon. His eyes were red-rimmed, his clothes rumpled, his hair unwashed. He looked like a stranger wearing Colin’s face.

Penelope had walked over and sat down beside him without asking.

For a long minute, neither of them spoke.

Then she said, very softly, “I’m sorry. I know how much he loved you. And how much you loved him.”

Colin’s jaw had tightened. He took another long drink from the bottle and didn’t look at her.

“He was proud of you,” Penelope continued, her voice steady even though her hands were shaking in her lap. “He told you that. I saw it. At the picnic. He was so proud.”

Colin let out a harsh, broken laugh that didn’t sound like him at all.

“Yeah? Well, he’s not here to be proud anymore, is he?”

Penelope flinched but didn’t move.

Colin finally turned to look at her, and the anger in his eyes was sharp enough to cut.

“You should go home, Penelope,” he said, voice rough. “Go be with your perfect little family. Your dad who’s still alive. Your mom who still smiles. Your annoying little brother who still runs around like the world isn’t falling apart.” His voice cracked on the last word. “This isn’t your grief. You don’t get to sit here and pretend you understand it.”

Penelope’s eyes burned, but she didn’t cry. Not in front of him. Not yet.

“I’m not pretending,” she said quietly. “I just… I don’t want you to be alone in it.”

Colin laughed again — that same ugly, broken sound.

“Alone is exactly where I should be.” He stood up abruptly, the bottle still in his hand. “Go home, kid. Before I say something I can’t take back.”

He walked away without looking back.

Penelope sat there on the steps for a long time after he was gone, the summer wind cold against her skin even though the sun was still shining.

That was the first time he pushed her.

It wouldn’t be the last.

Over the next few months, Colin spiraled harder than anyone had expected.

He stopped answering texts from his siblings. He stopped showing up for family dinners. He started drinking more — not just socially, but deliberately, like he was trying to drown something inside himself that refused to die. He picked fights at bars. He missed deadlines for the small travel photography gigs he’d been building. He disappeared for days at a time and came back looking worse than when he left.

Violet was worried sick. Anthony was furious and terrified in equal measure. Benedict tried to reach him through quiet, late-night visits that usually ended with Colin telling him to fuck off. Eloise had screamed at him more than once. Francesca had stopped trying to talk and just left books on his doorstep like offerings.

And Penelope… Penelope kept showing up.

She didn’t push. She didn’t demand. She simply refused to disappear.

She texted him every few days — short, simple messages.

Penelope: Thinking of you today. No pressure to reply.

Penelope: I made too much pasta. Dropping some off with your mom.

Penelope: Cameron asked if you’re still the tallest person he knows. I told him yes.

Most of them went unanswered.

But every once in a while, she would get a single word back.

Colin: Thanks.

Or sometimes nothing at all.

She started leaving care packages on the doorstep of the small apartment he’d moved into near the city — books she thought he might like, his favorite snacks, a new lens cloth for his camera, a note that just said You don’t have to be okay right now.

She never signed them with anything dramatic. Just her name.

One night, three months after Edmund’s death, she showed up at his apartment unannounced.

It was late. She’d had to sneak out after her parents went to bed, and she knew she’d be in trouble if they found out. But she couldn’t stop thinking about the way Colin had looked the last time she’d seen him — hollow, like someone had scooped out everything that used to make him bright.

She knocked on his door.

No answer.

She knocked again.

Still nothing.

Penelope stood there in the hallway for five full minutes, heart pounding, before she finally used the spare key Violet had given her months ago “just in case.”

The apartment was dark and smelled like stale beer and something sharper underneath. Clothes were scattered everywhere. Empty bottles lined the counter. Colin was passed out on the couch, one arm thrown over his face, the other still loosely holding a half-empty glass.

Penelope’s chest ached so badly she could barely breathe.

She moved quietly through the space, picking up the worst of the mess, opening a window to let in fresh air, and making a pot of coffee even though it was nearly midnight. She found a clean blanket in the closet and draped it over him gently.

Colin stirred.

His eyes opened slowly, bloodshot and confused, and then focused on her standing there in his living room like she belonged.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” His voice was hoarse, angry.

Penelope didn’t flinch. “Making sure you don’t choke on your own vomit in your sleep.”

Colin sat up too fast, the blanket sliding off him. The glass in his hand tipped and spilled across the floor. He didn’t seem to notice.

“I told you to stay away,” he snarled. “I told you this isn’t your problem. You’re seventeen years old, Penelope. You should be worrying about college applications and boys your own age and whatever the fuck normal teenagers worry about. Not babysitting some broken asshole who can’t even keep his shit together long enough to—”

“Stop,” Penelope said, and her voice was steady in a way that surprised even her. “Just stop.”

Colin stared at her.

Penelope took a step closer, her hands clenched at her sides.

“You don’t get to decide what my grief looks like,” she said. “You don’t get to tell me I can’t care about you because I’m ‘just a kid.’ I’ve known you since I was ten. You’ve been in my life longer than most of my actual family. You were there when I needed someone who didn’t treat me like I was fragile. So I’m not going to treat you like you’re fragile now.”

Her voice cracked on the last word, but she didn’t stop.

“I know you’re hurting. I know it feels like the world cracked open and swallowed everything good. But pushing me away isn’t going to bring him back. It’s just going to make you more alone. And I’m not going to let you be alone if I can help it.”

Colin’s face twisted with something ugly and raw.

“You think you know what this feels like?” he demanded. “You think because you lost some family friend you understand what it’s like to lose your father? The man who actually saw me? Who believed in the stupid fucking dreams everyone else thought were a waste of time? He’s gone, Penelope. And I wasn’t even here. I was off taking pictures of some fucking mountain while he died alone on our own goddamn property.”

His voice broke completely.

Penelope’s eyes filled with tears, but she didn’t let them fall.

“I don’t know exactly what it feels like,” she admitted, voice soft. “But I know what it feels like to watch someone I love disappear inside their pain and not know how to reach them. And I’m not going to stop trying.”

Colin laughed — a wet, broken sound — and dragged both hands through his hair.

“You should,” he said. “You really fucking should. Because I’m not… I’m not the person you think I am right now. I’m angry and I’m selfish and I’m going to keep pushing until you hate me enough to leave.”

Penelope stepped closer until she was standing right in front of him.

“I’m not going to hate you,” she said. “I’m not going to leave. And you can push as hard as you want. I’m still going to be here.”

Colin looked at her like she was something he didn’t know how to hold without breaking.

Then he did the one thing she wasn’t prepared for.

He reached out, grabbed her by the shoulders, and pulled her into a rough, desperate hug.

Penelope froze for half a second before wrapping her arms around him just as tightly. His whole body was shaking. She could feel the sobs he was trying to hold back vibrating through his chest.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into her hair, voice wrecked. “I’m so fucking sorry. I don’t know how to do this without him. I don’t know how to be… anything.”

Penelope held him tighter, one hand coming up to cradle the back of his head.

“You don’t have to know how,” she whispered back. “You just have to let someone stay.”

They stood there like that for a long time — Colin crying into her shoulder like the world had finally cracked all the way open, Penelope holding him together with everything she had.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes were red and his face was wet, but something in his expression had shifted. Not healed. Not even close. But… softer. Like he’d remembered, for just a moment, that he wasn’t completely alone.

Penelope reached up and wiped his tears with her thumbs, gentle and unafraid.

“Go shower,” she said quietly. “I’ll make you something to eat. And then you’re going to sleep. And tomorrow we’re going to figure out one small thing you can do that isn’t drinking or disappearing.”

Colin let out a shaky breath that might have been a laugh.

“You’re bossy.”

“I learned from the best,” she said, and managed a small smile.

He looked at her for a long moment, something unreadable in his eyes.

Then he nodded.

“Okay.”

It wasn’t fixed.

It wasn’t even close to fixed.

But it was the first time in months that Colin Bridgerton had let someone stay.

And Penelope Featherington had no intention of going anywhere.

Three years after Edmund’s death, the world had kept turning even when it felt like it shouldn’t.

Penelope was twenty now, in her second year of nursing school, living in a cramped but charming apartment near the hospital with two other students. She loved it — the long shifts, the textbooks that smelled like knowledge and exhaustion, the way she finally felt like she was building the life she’d always wanted. She was still a daddy’s girl, still called Archie at least twice a week, still came home for Sunday dinners when she could. But she was also independent in a way that made her parents proud and a little wistful.

Colin was twenty-seven, his travel photography career finally gaining real traction. He was gone more often than he was home — shooting assignments in Iceland, Patagonia, the Scottish Highlands. When he was back, he stayed at Aubrey Hall or the small apartment he kept in the city. He was functioning. He laughed at family dinners again. He took pictures that made people stop and feel something. But there was still a shadow behind his eyes, a restlessness that never quite settled.

And the tension between them?

It had become unbearable.

It started small.

Penelope would come home for a weekend and Colin would pick her up from the train station because “it was on his way.” They would talk for the entire drive — about her classes, about the mountains he’d just photographed, about the stupid things Cameron had done lately. Their hands would brush when he passed her a coffee. Their eyes would linger a second too long at red lights. Neither of them would say anything.

Then it got worse.

At a Bridgerton family barbecue when Penelope was twenty-one, Colin had been leaning against the porch railing, laughing at something Benedict said, when she walked outside in a sundress that hugged her curves in ways that made his mouth go dry. She’d caught him staring. He hadn’t looked away fast enough. The air between them had crackled so loudly she was surprised no one else heard it.

Later that same night, after everyone had gone to bed, they’d ended up on the back steps again — the same steps where he’d pushed her away three years earlier. This time the silence was different. Heavier. Charged.

Colin had been the one to break it.

“You look good,” he’d said, voice low. “Nursing school suits you.”

Penelope had smiled, small and a little shy. “Thanks. You look… tired. But good. The photos from Iceland were incredible, by the way. I saw them on your website.”

He’d turned to look at her then, really look, and something in his expression had made her breath catch.

“Pen…”

The way he said her name — just her name, no “little Featherington,” no teasing — had made her stomach flip.

She’d leaned in slightly. He’d leaned in too. Their faces were inches apart. She could smell his cologne, feel the warmth radiating off him. Her heart was hammering so hard she was sure he could hear it.

Then the back door had opened and Hyacinth had come barreling out looking for her phone charger, completely oblivious.

They’d jerked apart like they’d been burned.

Colin had stood up fast, running a hand through his hair.

“I should… go check on something,” he’d muttered, and disappeared inside before she could say a word.

Penelope had sat there alone on the steps, heart still racing, cheeks burning, and for the first time in years she’d felt angry.

The dating started not long after.

Penelope met a nice guy in one of her clinical rotations — David, sweet, studying to be a doctor, always remembered her coffee order. He was safe. He didn’t make her stomach flip or her heart ache. He didn’t know her well enough to see the parts of her that still carried grief from watching Colin fall apart. But he was kind, and he liked her, and for a while that felt like enough.

Colin started seeing someone too — a model he’d met on a shoot in New York. She was beautiful and sophisticated and didn’t ask him about his father or why he sometimes went quiet for days. She didn’t challenge him. She didn’t know him.

Neither relationship lasted more than a few months.

Because neither of them could stop thinking about the other.

Penelope would be out to dinner with David and catch herself wondering what Colin would say about the book she was reading. Colin would be in bed with someone else and close his eyes only to see Penelope’s face in the dark.

The almost-calls started around then.

Late nights when Penelope couldn’t sleep after a long shift, she’d scroll through her contacts until her thumb hovered over Colin’s name. Sometimes she’d call. Sometimes he’d answer.

One night, at two in the morning, her phone rang.

She answered without looking.

“Hello?”

“Hey.” Colin’s voice was rough, like he’d been drinking or crying or both. “Did I wake you?”

“No,” she lied, sitting up in bed. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Everything. I don’t know.” He let out a shaky breath. “I was in Scotland last week. Shot this waterfall that looked like something out of a fairy tale. And all I could think about was how much you would’ve loved it. How you would’ve made some smartass comment about how the light was hitting the rocks like it was showing off.”

Penelope’s throat tightened.

“Colin…”

“I shouldn’t have called,” he said quickly. “It’s late. You have class tomorrow.”

“I don’t care about class right now.”

There was a long silence.

Then Colin said, very quietly, “I miss you.”

Penelope closed her eyes.

“I miss you too.”

Another silence. Longer this time.

“Pen,” he started, and her heart leapt into her throat because she could hear it in his voice — the thing they never said. The thing that had been growing between them for years.

But then he cleared his throat and the moment cracked.

“Get some sleep, okay? I’ll see you at the next family thing.”

He hung up before she could respond.

Penelope sat in the dark, phone still pressed to her ear, and felt something hot and frustrated burn behind her eyes.

It all came to a head at a Bridgerton holiday party when Penelope was twenty-two.

She’d brought David as her date. It was a mistake and she knew it the second they walked in and Colin’s eyes landed on them. Something dark and possessive flashed across his face before he smoothed it into something polite and distant.

David was nice. He shook everyone’s hands, complimented Violet on the decorations, and tried to make conversation with Archie about sports. He was everything a good boyfriend should be.

And Penelope couldn’t stop watching Colin across the room.

He was talking to some woman Penelope didn’t recognize — tall, elegant, probably another model or photographer. She had her hand on his arm and was laughing at something he said. Colin wasn’t laughing back. He was looking at Penelope.

Their eyes met.

The air between them went electric.

Penelope excused herself to the kitchen under the pretense of getting more wine. She needed air. She needed space. She needed to stop feeling like she was going to crawl out of her own skin.

Colin followed her two minutes later.

The kitchen was empty except for the two of them. Music and laughter drifted in from the main room, but here it was quiet. Too quiet.

“David seems nice,” Colin said, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. His voice was casual. His eyes were not.

“He is nice,” Penelope replied, matching his tone even though her heart was pounding. “Kind. Thoughtful. Doesn’t disappear for weeks at a time and then call me at two in the morning like nothing happened.”

Colin flinched.

Penelope kept going, the frustration she’d been swallowing for years finally bubbling over.

“He doesn’t look at me like he wants to say something and then run away every single time it gets too real. He doesn’t treat me like I’m still ten years old and need protecting. He actually sees me.”

Colin pushed off the counter and took a step toward her. The space between them shrank.

“And what do you want me to see, Penelope?” His voice was low, rough. “Because I see you. I’ve always seen you. That’s the fucking problem.”

Penelope’s breath caught.

Colin took another step. They were close enough now that she could feel the heat of him, smell the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with something sharper — whiskey, maybe, or just the storm that always seemed to live under his skin lately.

“I see the way you light up when you talk about your patients,” he continued, eyes locked on hers. “I see how you still carry books everywhere even though you’re exhausted from school. I see how you show up for people even when they don’t deserve it. I see you, Pen. And it terrifies me.”

Penelope’s hands were shaking. She clenched them into fists at her sides.

“Then stop running,” she said, voice trembling but strong. “I’m not a kid anymore, Colin. I haven’t been for a long time. So stop treating me like one and stop acting like you’re doing me some kind of favor by staying away.”

For one suspended second, she thought he was going to kiss her.

His eyes dropped to her mouth. His hand lifted like he was going to touch her face. The tension between them was so thick she could barely breathe.

Then someone laughed loudly in the other room and the spell broke.

Colin stepped back like he’d been shocked. His expression shuttered.

“I can’t,” he said, voice hoarse. “Not like this. Not when you’re still figuring out who you are and I’m still… fucked up from losing him. You deserve better than that.”

Penelope felt something crack inside her chest.

“I don’t want ‘better,’” she said, angry tears stinging her eyes. “I want you. But you’re too much of a coward to do anything about it.”

She pushed past him and walked out of the kitchen before he could see her cry.

David broke up with her two weeks later. He said she seemed distracted, like her heart was somewhere else. He was right.

Colin’s relationship ended around the same time. He didn’t tell anyone why. He just stopped mentioning her.

The kitchen confrontation at the holiday party had been the final crack in a dam that had been straining for years.

Neither of them reached out right away.

The silence stretched for three weeks — the longest they’d gone without speaking since Edmund died. Penelope threw herself into clinicals and textbooks. Colin took an assignment in Iceland and stayed longer than necessary, sending back photos that were beautiful and distant and made her chest ache when she looked at them.

But the distance didn’t help.

If anything, it made everything worse.

Because now that both of their half-hearted attempts at moving on were over, the truth was impossible to ignore.

No one else had ever come close.

It was a rainy Thursday night in early spring when Penelope’s phone lit up with Colin’s name.

She stared at it for three full rings before answering.

“Hey,” she said, voice quieter than she meant it to be.

“Hey.” Colin’s voice was rough, like he hadn’t used it much lately. “You busy?”

Penelope looked around her small apartment — textbooks open on the coffee table, half-eaten takeout on the counter, rain streaking the windows. “No. Just… existing.”

There was a long pause.

Then Colin said, “Can I come over?”

Her heart kicked hard against her ribs.

“Yeah,” she said. “Of course.”

He showed up twenty minutes later, soaked from the rain, hair plastered to his forehead, eyes tired in a way that went deeper than lack of sleep. He had a bottle of wine in one hand and a look on his face that said he was done pretending.

Penelope let him in without a word.

They didn’t hug. They didn’t say anything at first. She just took the wine from him, grabbed two glasses, and sat on the couch. Colin followed, sitting on the opposite end like he needed the distance to say what he’d come here to say.

For a long minute, the only sound was the rain against the windows.

Then Colin spoke.

“I broke up with her,” he said quietly. “Or she broke up with me. I don’t even know. It doesn’t matter.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “She was… fine. Nice. Easy. And every single time I was with her, I felt like I was cheating on something that doesn’t even belong to me yet.”

Penelope’s throat tightened. She poured the wine with steady hands even though her heart was racing.

Colin looked at her then — really looked — and the raw honesty in his eyes nearly undid her.

“Every time I tried to move on,” he said, voice low and rough, “it was your face I saw. Every time. When I was in Iceland, when I was in bed with someone else, when I was trying to laugh at a joke that wasn’t funny… it was you. It’s always been you.”

Penelope’s eyes burned. She set the wine bottle down before her hands could start shaking.

“I dated David because he was safe,” she admitted, voice trembling but clear. “Because he didn’t know me well enough to see how much I was still carrying you. And every time he touched me, I felt like I was betraying something I’ve been feeling since I was fifteen years old.” She let out a shaky laugh that wasn’t really a laugh. “That’s pathetic, right? I’m twenty-two and I’ve been in love with my best friend’s older brother for seven years.”

Colin made a broken sound in the back of his throat.

“Pen…”

“No, let me finish.” She wiped at her eyes, refusing to let the tears fall yet. “I’ve watched you date women who don’t challenge you. Who don’t know that you still have nightmares sometimes. Who don’t understand why you disappear into your camera when the world gets too loud. And every single time, I wanted to scream because I know those things. I know you. And I’m so tired of pretending that’s not enough.”

The silence that followed was thick and trembling.

Colin moved first.

He shifted closer on the couch, close enough that their knees touched. His hand came up and cupped her cheek, thumb brushing away a tear she hadn’t realized had fallen.

“You’re not pathetic,” he said, voice hoarse. “You’re the bravest person I know. You stayed when I pushed everyone away. You showed up even when I was at my worst. You’ve been my anchor since you were ten years old and I didn’t even know I needed one yet.”

Penelope leaned into his touch, eyes closing for a second.

“I don’t want to be your anchor if it means I can’t be anything else,” she whispered.

Colin’s forehead dropped to rest against hers.

They were breathing the same air. His hand was still on her face. Her fingers had somehow found their way to his chest, clutching the front of his shirt like she was afraid he’d disappear.

The want between them was a living, breathing thing.

Colin’s eyes dropped to her mouth. Penelope’s lips parted on a shaky breath. The space between them disappeared inch by inch until their noses brushed.

One more second and they would kiss.

One more second and everything would change.

Colin pulled back.

His hand dropped from her face like it physically hurt to let go. He stood up so fast the couch cushions shifted. He paced two steps away, hands in his hair, breathing hard.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “Fuck, Pen, I’m sorry.”

Penelope stayed where she was, heart hammering, body still leaning toward where he’d been.

“Don’t,” she said, voice thick. “Don’t apologize for almost kissing me. I wanted you to.”

Colin turned to look at her, eyes tortured.

“I know you did. And that’s why I stopped.” He swallowed hard. “Not like this. Not when we’re both raw and hurting and trying to figure out how to exist without the people we lost. Not when this could just be… a rebound. You deserve better than that. You deserve someone who’s whole when they finally get to touch you.”

Penelope stood up too, anger and hurt and love all tangled together in her chest.

“I don’t want someone whole,” she said fiercely. “I want you. Broken pieces and all. I’ve wanted you through every version of yourself — the cocky seventeen-year-old who ruffled my hair, the grieving twenty-four-year-old who pushed me away, the man who still calls me at two in the morning because he can’t sleep. I want all of it.”

Colin looked at her like she was both everything he’d ever wanted and the one thing he was terrified to take.

“I’m still figuring out how to be okay without him,” he said quietly. “Some days I’m good. Some days I’m not. And you… you’re still becoming who you’re meant to be. Nursing school. Your own life. I don’t want to be the thing that holds you back or complicates everything before you’re ready.”

Penelope crossed the space between them and took his hands in hers.

“I’m ready,” she said. “I’ve been ready. But if you need more time… I’ll wait. I’ll wait as long as you need. Just don’t push me away again. Please.”

Colin’s eyes were wet. He brought her hands up and pressed a kiss to her knuckles, lingering there like a promise he wasn’t ready to speak out loud yet.

“I’m not pushing you away,” he said against her skin. “I’m trying to do this right. For once in my life, I want to do something right.”

Penelope’s tears finally fell, but she was smiling through them.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Then we figure it out. Together. Even if it takes time.”

Colin pulled her into a hug — tight, desperate, full of everything they weren’t saying yet. She buried her face in his chest and let herself cry. He held her like he was afraid she’d slip through his fingers if he loosened his grip.

They stayed like that for a long time.

When they finally pulled apart, Colin cupped her face again and pressed a kiss to her forehead — soft, lingering, full of restraint and promise.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said. “And neither are you. We’re going to figure this out. I just… I need to make sure I’m not using you to fill a hole that’s still healing.”

Penelope nodded, understanding even though it hurt.

“I know.”

He stayed the rest of the night.

They didn’t kiss. They didn’t cross any more lines. But they talked — really talked — until the sun started to rise. About Edmund. About the grief that still lived in both of them in different ways. About the almosts that had been torturing them for years. About the future they were both too scared and too hopeful to name yet.

When Colin finally left in the early morning light, he paused in her doorway and looked back at her like he was memorizing the moment.

“Soon,” he said quietly.

Penelope smiled, small and full of aching hope.

“Soon.”

Christmas at Aubrey Hall was always loud, bright, and slightly chaotic. This year it felt like the entire house was holding its breath.

Penelope was twenty-three now. Colin was thirty. A year had passed since that rainy night in her apartment when they’d finally said the words out loud — it’s always been you — and promised to figure it out. They had been careful. They had been patient. They had spent the last few months learning how to be together without rushing, healing the parts of themselves that still ached from grief and almosts.

But the wanting had never gone away.

It had only grown.

By the time Christmas Eve arrived, the tension between them was so thick Penelope could barely breathe when Colin looked at her from across the room. He hadn’t touched her the way she wanted yet — not really. There had been kisses. Long, slow, devastating kisses that left her shaking. There had been nights where they fell asleep tangled together, his hand under her shirt, her leg hooked over his hip, both of them stopping just short of crossing the final line.

Colin had been the one holding back.

“I want to do this right,” he’d told her one night, forehead pressed to hers. “I want the first time to mean everything it’s supposed to mean. Not rushed. Not because we’re both half-feral from wanting each other.”

Penelope had respected it. She had waited.

But tonight… tonight something felt different.

The house was full. Violet had gone all out — garlands everywhere, a massive tree in the great hall, stockings hung for every Bridgerton and Featherington who had claimed a place in this strange, blended family. Portia and Archie were staying in one of the guest rooms. Cameron (now eighteen and somehow even more charismatic) was currently in the middle of teaching Hyacinth and Gregory how to cheat at cards in the library. Eloise and Francesca were arguing about which Christmas movie was superior. Anthony was pretending he wasn’t stressed about hosting. Benedict was already two glasses of wine deep and making everyone laugh.

And Colin…

Colin had been watching Penelope all night like he was memorizing her.

She caught him doing it while she helped Violet in the kitchen. Again when she was laughing at something Cameron said by the fire. Again when she stood under the mistletoe in the hallway without realizing it and he’d gone very still across the room.

Every time their eyes met, something hot and inevitable passed between them.

By the time the family started drifting off to bed — one by one, yawning and full of mulled wine and too much food — Penelope’s skin felt too tight.

She was in the library, pretending to look for a book she didn’t actually want, when she felt him behind her.

The door clicked shut.

Penelope turned.

Colin stood there in the low light of the Christmas tree they’d put up in the corner of the library years ago. He looked nervous. He looked determined. He looked like a man who had finally run out of reasons to wait.

“Pen,” he said, voice low.

She didn’t move.

He crossed the room in three strides and stopped just in front of her. His hand came up to cup her face, thumb brushing her bottom lip like he’d been thinking about doing it all night.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he said. “The almosts. The waiting. The pretending I’m not completely gone for you.” His voice cracked. “I’ve loved you since you were ten years old arguing with my sisters about books in that library. Since you looked up at me like I was someone worth debating. I’ve loved you through every version of us — the grief, the pushing, the almosts, the wrong arms. I’ve loved you when I wasn’t ready and I love you even more now that I am.”

Penelope’s eyes filled with tears.

Colin kept going, words pouring out like he’d been holding them back for years.

“I’m not scared anymore. Not of this. Not of us. I want you. All of you. Tonight. If you’ll have me.”

Penelope reached up and fisted her hands in the front of his sweater.

“I’ve been waiting for you to say that since I was fifteen,” she whispered. “I love you too. I’ve loved you through every almost and every heartbreak and every night I went to bed aching for you. I’m yours, Colin. I’ve always been yours.”

The dam broke.

Colin kissed her like he was drowning and she was air.

It wasn’t gentle. It was years of pent-up longing crashing into one moment — desperate, deep, messy. His hands were everywhere, in her hair, on her waist, sliding under her sweater to touch bare skin. Penelope kissed him back just as hard, biting his bottom lip, tugging at his clothes like she could get closer if she just tried hard enough.

They stumbled toward the old leather couch near the fireplace. Colin sat and pulled her into his lap so she was straddling him. The kiss never broke.

“Fuck, Pen,” he groaned against her mouth. “I’ve wanted this for so long. Wanted you for so long.”

Penelope rolled her hips against him and felt how hard he already was. A thrill went through her.

“Then take me,” she said. “No more almosts.”

Colin made a broken sound and stood up with her still wrapped around him. He carried her out of the library and up the back stairs to his old bedroom — the one he still used when he stayed at Aubrey Hall. The door shut behind them. The lock clicked.

Snow was falling outside the window. The only light came from the moon and the small lamp on the bedside table.

Colin set her down gently and then stepped back, eyes dark as he looked at her.

“Take off your clothes,” he said, voice rough. “I want to see you.”

Penelope’s hands shook as she pulled her sweater over her head. Her bra followed. She shimmied out of her jeans and underwear until she stood naked in front of him — soft curves, thick thighs, full breasts, the body she’d grown into over years of him watching and wanting and never touching.

Colin’s breath left him in a rush.

“God damn,” he whispered. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

He crossed to her and dropped to his knees.

Penelope’s eyes widened.

Colin looked up at her like she was something holy.

“I’ve dreamed about this,” he said, hands sliding up the backs of her thighs. “About tasting you. About making you cum on my tongue before I ever get inside you.”

He leaned in and pressed a kiss to the soft swell of her stomach. Then lower. His mouth found her and Penelope’s knees nearly buckled.

Colin groaned like he was the one being pleasured. He licked into her slowly at first — long, deliberate strokes that had her gasping — then faster, sucking on her clit while two fingers slid inside her. Penelope’s hands flew to his hair, gripping tight. He moaned against her when she tugged.

“That’s it,” he murmured between licks. “Pull my hair. Show me what you like.”

Penelope was already shaking. The combination of his mouth and his words and the years of wanting was too much. She came hard, thighs trembling around his head, his name breaking on her lips.

Colin didn’t stop until she was whimpering and pushing at his shoulders.

He stood up, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and kissed her — deep and filthy, letting her taste herself on his tongue.

“Bed,” he said. “Now.”

They fell onto the mattress in a tangle of limbs. Clothes disappeared. Skin met skin. Colin worshipped every inch of her — kissing down her throat, sucking marks onto her breasts, burying his face between them like he’d been starving for exactly this.

“These,” he groaned, palming her breasts, thumbs brushing her nipples. “I’ve been obsessed with these for years. The way they look in your sweaters. The way they’d feel in my hands. Fuck, Pen.”

He sucked one nipple into his mouth while his hand worked the other. Penelope arched beneath him, moaning. When he finally pulled back, her breasts were wet and marked and she was aching for more.

Colin sat back on his heels between her spread thighs and looked at her like he was trying to decide where to start.

“I want to fuck you so many ways tonight,” he said, voice low and filthy. “But first I want to watch you ride me. I want to see your face when you take my cock for the first time.”

Penelope’s whole body flushed hot.

She pushed him onto his back and climbed over him. Colin’s hands immediately went to her hips, guiding her as she reached down and wrapped her fingers around him. He was thick and hard and leaking at the tip. She stroked him once, twice, watching his face.

“Condom?” she asked.

“Drawer,” he managed. “Top one.”

She grabbed one, rolled it on with shaking hands, and then positioned herself above him. The head of his cock nudged against her entrance. They both froze.

Colin’s hands tightened on her hips.

“Look at me,” he said.

Penelope met his eyes.

“I love you,” he said. “So fucking much.”

“I love you too,” she whispered.

Then she sank down.

The stretch burned in the best way. Colin’s head fell back against the pillows, a broken moan tearing from his throat. Penelope took him inch by inch until she was seated fully, both of them shaking.

“Fuck,” Colin gasped. “You feel… Jesus, Pen. You feel perfect.”

She started to move — slow at first, rolling her hips, getting used to the fullness. Colin’s hands roamed everywhere — her thighs, her ass, up to her breasts, back down again. When she leaned forward and braced her hands on his chest, he reached up and wrapped one hand gently around her throat.

Penelope’s eyes fluttered.

“Harder,” she whispered.

Colin’s grip tightened just enough to make her clench around him. His other hand slid between them to rub her clit.

“That’s my wicked little thing,” he praised, voice rough. “Taking my cock so well. Riding me like you were made for it.”

Penelope moaned and moved faster. The combination of his hand on her throat, his fingers on her clit, and the filthy praise was pushing her toward another orgasm fast.

“Cum for me,” Colin ordered, eyes locked on hers. “Cum on my cock, baby. Let me feel it.”

She did — hard, clenching around him, thighs shaking. Colin groaned and thrust up into her, chasing his own release. He came with her name on his lips, hips stuttering, hands gripping her like he never wanted to let go.

They stayed like that for a long moment — Penelope collapsed on his chest, both of them breathing hard.

Then Colin rolled them so she was on her back and he was hovering over her. He kissed her slow and deep.

“I’m not done with you,” he murmured against her mouth.

He wasn’t.

They went again — slower this time, Colin on top, deep strokes that made her see stars. He told her how beautiful she was, how good she felt, how he was never letting her go. Penelope came again with tears in her eyes and his name in her mouth.

The third time was lazy and filthy — her on her stomach, Colin behind her, one hand in her hair, the other between her legs. He painted her lips with his cum after he pulled out, watching with dark, reverent eyes as she licked it off.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “Look at you. My perfect girl.”

They finally collapsed sometime after three in the morning, sweaty and sated and completely wrecked.

Colin pulled her into his arms, her back to his chest. He slid back inside her — soft now, but still there — and held her close.

“I sleep best like this,” he admitted quietly, lips against her shoulder. “With my cock inside you. Feeling you around me. Knowing you’re mine.”

Penelope smiled, sleepy and sated, and reached back to thread her fingers through his hair.

“No more almosts,” she whispered.

“No more almosts,” he agreed.

They fell asleep like that — tangled together, hearts finally on the same page, the years of pining and grief and waiting finally behind them.

Three years had passed since that Christmas night at Aubrey Hall when the dam finally broke.

Penelope was twenty-six now. Colin was thirty-three. They had taken their time — exactly like they promised they would. After that first night, they hadn’t rushed into anything. They had dated properly. They had learned each other in the quiet moments and the loud ones. They had built something real on top of all those years of almosts and pining and grief.

They lived together now in a sunlit apartment in Brooklyn, not far from where Penelope had grown up. Penelope had finished nursing school and was working as a pediatric nurse at the children’s hospital downtown — the kind of job that exhausted her and filled her up in equal measure. Colin’s travel photography career had taken off; he shot for major magazines and had a regular segment on the Travel Channel. He still disappeared for weeks at a time to chase light across mountains and coastlines, but he always came home to her. And when he was home, he was home — hands on her hips while she cooked, mouth on her neck while she read on the couch, body wrapped around hers every night like he still couldn’t believe he got to keep her.

They were happy. Deeply, quietly, passionately happy.

But Colin had been planning something bigger.

Penelope thought tonight was just a fancy dinner.

Colin had told her it was for their three-year “first time” anniversary — a milestone he’d been teasing about for weeks. “Wear something that makes me want to be inappropriate in public,” he’d said with that wicked little grin she loved. She’d rolled her eyes, but she’d chosen the dress anyway — a deep emerald green that hugged her curves and made her feel like a goddess. Thique and confident and completely his.

She’d expected a nice restaurant. Maybe the rooftop place downtown with the string lights and the view of the bridge.

What she got instead was the grand ballroom at the old Brooklyn library — the very same building where they’d first met sixteen years ago, transformed into something out of a romance novel.

Daphne had outdone herself.

The entire space had been turned into a living timeline of their love story.

Fairy lights dripped from the high ceilings like stars. Book pages — actual pages from Pride and Prejudice, The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, and every other book they’d ever argued about — had been pressed into delicate garlands and hung along the walls. Pressed flowers from the summer picnics at Aubrey Hall were framed in glass. A hospital visitor badge from the worst months after Edmund’s death sat on a velvet cushion with a handwritten note from Colin: The day you refused to let me disappear.

There were photos. So many photos.

Colin’s photos.

Candid shots he’d taken over the years without her always knowing — Penelope laughing at the library when she was fifteen, her curls wild in the summer light. Penelope asleep on his shoulder on the train back from Aubrey Hall when she was twenty. Penelope in the kitchen of their apartment, flour on her cheek, looking at him like he hung the moon. A series from Iceland where she’d surprised him on a shoot, bundled in his coat, cheeks pink from the cold.

Each photo had a little handwritten note from Colin tucked beside it.

This was the day I realized I was never going to stop loving you.

The night you stayed even when I pushed.

The morning I woke up and you were still there.

The day I finally stopped being a coward.

Anita Baker’s “It’s Been You” played softly through hidden speakers — the song they’d claimed as theirs during one of those long, healing nights in the apartment.

Penelope stood in the doorway in her green dress, one hand pressed to her mouth, eyes already glassy.

“Oh my God,” she whispered.

Daphne appeared at her elbow, looking smug and emotional in equal measure. “Welcome to the story of you two. Colin’s been working on this with me for eight months. Don’t cry yet — you haven’t even seen the best part.”

Penelope turned in a slow circle, taking it all in. Every milestone. Every almost. Every heartbreak that had led them here. The book from their first meeting in the library sat on a pedestal under a glass dome, the same battered copy of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe she’d been clutching when Colin first crouched down and smiled at her.

She reached out and touched the glass with trembling fingers.

“He kept it,” she said, voice thick.

“Of course he did,” Daphne said softly. “He’s been keeping pieces of you since you were ten.”

Penelope walked the timeline slowly, tears slipping down her cheeks as she relived sixteen years in the span of ten minutes. The summer picnic where Edmund had given Colin that advice about not running from the things that scared him. The hospital badge from the night she’d shown up at his apartment with coffee and refused to leave. The mistletoe from their first Christmas as a couple, pressed and framed with a note that just said Finally.

By the time she reached the end of the installation, she was openly crying.

And then Colin stepped out from behind a curtain of book pages and fairy lights, wearing a black suit that made her mouth go dry, holding a small velvet box in one hand.

The music swelled.

Penelope’s breath caught.

Colin looked at her like she was the only thing in the room — in the world — that had ever mattered.

He got down on one knee right there in the middle of their story.

“Penelope Featherington,” he said, voice steady even though his eyes were wet. “Sixteen years ago, a ten-year-old girl with red hair and a book argued with me about Narnia and I’ve never been the same since. You have been my best friend, my anchor, my almost, my everything. You stayed when I pushed. You loved me through the worst version of myself. You waited while I figured out how to be worthy of you. And every single day for the last three years, I have woken up next to you and thought — how did I get this lucky?”

He opened the box. The ring was perfect — a vintage-style emerald that matched the dress she was wearing, surrounded by smaller diamonds that caught the fairy lights like stars.

“I don’t want to almost anymore,” Colin said. “I want forever. I want to wake up with you every morning and fall asleep with you every night. I want to fight about books and make up in the most inappropriate ways. I want to travel the world with you and come home to you. I want to build a life — kids, chaos, Sunday dinners, all of it — with the only person who has ever truly seen me.”

He looked up at her, completely open, completely hers.

“Penelope, will you marry me?”

Penelope was sobbing now — happy, messy, beautiful tears. She dropped to her knees in front of him so they were eye-level, hands shaking as she reached for his face.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes. Of course yes. I’ve been waiting for you to ask since I was fifteen years old.”

Colin laughed through his own tears and slid the ring onto her finger with hands that weren’t quite steady. Then he pulled her into a kiss that tasted like salt and forever and every page they’d ever written together.

The curtain of book pages parted.

The entire family erupted.

Eloise whooped. Francesca was already crying harder than Penelope. Cameron — now twenty-one and still the most charismatic chaos gremlin in existence — let out a dramatic “FINALLY!” that echoed off the library walls. Portia and Archie were holding each other, both of them misty-eyed. Violet was openly weeping into a handkerchief while Anthony pretended he wasn’t emotional. Benedict was filming everything on his phone. Daphne was taking bows like the genius she was.

“About damn time!” Cameron shouted, running over to tackle her sister in a hug that nearly knocked her over. “I’ve been waiting since I was five to be the fun uncle at your wedding!”

Penelope laughed through her tears, still clinging to Colin’s hand like she was afraid he’d disappear.

Colin pulled her back into his arms and kissed her forehead, then her temple, then her mouth again — softer this time, full of everything they’d built.

“I love you,” he murmured against her lips. “So much it still scares me sometimes.”

“I love you more,” Penelope whispered back. “And I’m not scared anymore.”

They stood there in the middle of their story — fairy lights glowing, Anita Baker singing about how it had always been them, family chaos swirling around them like it always had — and for the first time in sixteen years, there were no almosts left.

The wedding was pure, joyful chaos.

Penelope’s dress hugged every curve — off-the-shoulder ivory silk that lifted her breasts and cinched her waist before flaring into a skirt with a slit that flashed thick thigh with every step. Colin cried when he saw her walking down the aisle. The vows were personal and raw; they both cried through them. In the middle of his vows, Colin paused, voice thick, and said, “I wish my father could be here to see this. He always believed in me even when I didn’t. I hope I’ve become the kind of man — and the kind of father — he would have been proud of.” The entire crowd went quiet for a moment before erupting again. The entire Bridgerton-Featherington family lost their minds — Cameron whooped so loud the birds scattered, Eloise sobbed into Francesca’s shoulder, Violet clutched Archie like she might faint from happiness. They kissed like the world was ending and beginning at the same time, then danced, ate, laughed, and slipped away before the party ended, hands tangled and hearts full.

Their honeymoon in the Maldives was seven days of sun, salt, and complete surrender.

The overwater villa was private and obscene in the best way — glass floors, plunge pool, steps straight into the turquoise water, no neighbors for miles. They barely made it through the door on arrival before Colin had her against the wall, sundress rucked up around her waist, mouth on her neck as he pushed inside her raw for the first time as husband and wife.

“Fuck, wife,” he groaned, thrusting deep. “No barriers. Just you. Just me. Gonna fill you up every chance I get this week.”

Penelope moaned and clung to him, legs wrapped tight around his waist as he fucked her standing up, both of them still half-dressed, the sound of the waves crashing outside mixing with their gasps. He came inside her with a broken curse, and they stayed pressed together afterward, laughing breathlessly against each other’s mouths.

They didn’t leave the villa that first night. They ordered food to the deck, ate naked under the stars, and fucked again on the lounge chair — slower, Colin on top, one hand in her hair, the other between her legs, praising her the entire time.

“You’re so fucking beautiful like this,” he murmured, hips rolling deep. “My wife. Taking me so well. Gonna keep you full of me all week.”

She came with her nails digging into his back, and he followed, spilling deep inside her with a low groan.

The next morning they finally ventured out.

They chartered a private boat for the day. The captain dropped them at a secluded cove with instructions to radio when they wanted to be picked up, then disappeared. Colin spread a blanket in the shade of the palms and spent the afternoon worshipping her — peeling off her bikini, sucking marks onto her breasts, burying his face between her thighs until she came twice on his tongue. When he finally pushed inside her, the breeding talk started in earnest.

“Gonna put a baby in this pretty pussy one day,” he growled, thrusting hard. “Watch you grow with my kid. Fuck, the thought of it — you round and glowing and still letting me fuck you like this.” He had one hand fisted in her hair and the other gripping her hip, driving into her while she moaned beneath him. She came clenching around him, and he followed, filling her up with a possessive moan.

They swam after, naked and lazy, then fucked in the shallows, water lapping around them as Colin held her thighs and thrust up into her.

On the boat ride back, Penelope rode him on the deck in broad daylight, the wind in her hair, sun on her skin. Colin’s hands were everywhere — squeezing her breasts, sliding down to her ass, one hand gently wrapping around her throat when she leaned forward and asked for it.

“That’s my wicked little wife,” he praised, voice rough. “Riding me like you own me. So fucking perfect.”

She came with her head thrown back, and Colin flipped them, fucking her hard until he pulled out and came across her breasts and lips. Penelope licked it off with a wicked smile while he watched, dark-eyed and reverent.

They ate dinner that night at a private overwater restaurant — candlelight, fresh seafood, champagne. Colin couldn’t keep his hands off her under the table, fingers teasing between her thighs until she was biting her lip to stay quiet. They barely made it back to the villa before he had her bent over the glass floor, fucking her from behind while fish swam beneath them, telling her how beautiful she looked taking his cock, how he was never going to get enough of his wife.

The days blurred into one long, indulgent haze.

Mornings were lazy — tangled in the massive bed, Colin waking her with his mouth between her legs or his cock sliding into her from behind while she was still half-asleep. He loved taking his time, slow and deep, one hand cupping her breast, the other rubbing her clit, whispering filthy praise against her neck until she came with soft, broken moans.

Afternoons were for the water. They snorkeled, explored reefs, and on one particularly adventurous day Colin fucked her on a secluded sandbar, her bikini bottoms pulled aside, his hand over her mouth to muffle her cries as he thrust into her from behind. They came back to the villa salt-sticky and sun-drunk, fucked in the plunge pool, then again in the outdoor shower with her back against the tiles and his hand in her wet hair.

Evenings were for balcony sex under the stars. Colin would pull her onto his lap on the lounge chair, let her ride him slow and deep while the ocean stretched out beneath them. He obsessed over her body — squeezing her breasts, sucking on her nipples, running his hands over every curve like he was memorizing her. When he got close he’d pull her off, cum across her lips and chest, then watch with dark eyes as she licked him clean and rubbed the rest into her skin.

One night after a private sunset cruise, they didn’t even make it inside. Colin bent her over the deck railing, fucked her hard and fast while the stars wheeled overhead, one hand between her legs and the other fisted in her hair, telling her how much he loved her, how he was never going to stop being grateful she waited for him.

They ate everywhere — fresh mango and papaya on the deck in the mornings, grilled seafood at hidden beach restaurants, candlelit dinners on their private deck with the waves crashing below. Colin fed her bites off his plate and kissed the juice from her lips. They got couples massages on the beach, then fucked in the villa afterward, skin still slick with oil, Colin sliding into her with a groan and calling her his perfect wife the entire time.

By the end of the week they were sun-drunk, salt-kissed, and completely insatiable.

Their last night was slow and filthy and a little desperate. They fucked in every room — the bed, the glass floor, the balcony, the shower. Colin came on her lips one more time, then watched her ride him with her hand around his throat, both of them chasing that final high. When they finally collapsed, tangled and glowing, he pulled her against his chest and kissed the top of her head.

“I don’t want to go home,” he murmured.

Penelope smiled against his skin, sated and happy.

“We get to take this home with us,” she whispered. “The rest of our lives, remember?”

Colin tightened his arms around her.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “The rest of our lives.”

Life after the Maldives settled into something beautiful and loud.

Penelope was in her early thirties now, still working as a pediatric nurse at the children’s hospital, though she’d shifted to part-time hours after the kids were born. She was strong, capable, and still very much Archie Featherington’s girl — Sunday phone calls, emergency babysitting requests, and that quiet, steady love that had carried her through every chapter of her life. Colin had cut back on long travel assignments, taking more local and regional shoots so he could be home more. He was still obsessed with his camera, but these days it was just as likely to be pointed at two small, chaotic children as it was at mountain ranges.

Their son, Eros, came first — a wild, laughing little boy with his father’s charm and his mother’s stubborn streak. Two years later, Philomena arrived, quieter but no less fierce, with curls that refused to be tamed and a habit of climbing into everyone’s lap like she owned the place.

Colin had been a wreck during both pregnancies.

With Eros, he’d hovered like a worried shadow — reading every baby book, installing the car seat three different times “just to be sure,” and panicking every time Penelope so much as winced. When her water broke at 3 a.m., he’d driven them to the hospital white-knuckled and pale, only to nearly faint when the doctor told him to cut the cord. He’d cried harder than the baby.

With Philomena it was somehow worse. He’d been convinced something would go wrong right up until the moment the midwife placed their daughter on Penelope’s chest. Then he’d sat on the edge of the hospital bed, one hand on his wife’s hair and the other gently touching his daughter’s tiny fist, and whispered, “We did it. We really did it.”

The early years were a blur of sleepless nights, spit-up stains, and the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that made everything feel surreal. Penelope would come home from a long shift to find Colin passed out on the couch with a baby on his chest and Eros curled up against his side, all three of them drooling. She’d take a picture — because of course she would — then wake him with a kiss and a cup of coffee.

“You’re a mess,” she’d murmur fondly.

“Your mess,” he’d answer, voice rough with sleep, already reaching for her.

They found ways to keep the spark alive even when the house was covered in toys and the laundry was never done. Quickies in the shower while the kids napped. Date nights that started with fancy dinners and ended with Penelope riding him in the back of Colin’s car like they were teenagers again, his hand fisted in her hair and her palm lightly around his throat while he praised her in that low, filthy voice that still made her shiver.

“You’re still the hottest thing I’ve ever seen,” he’d groan, hips thrusting up to meet her. “My wife. My everything. Fuck, Pen — look at you taking me like this.”

She’d cum with a soft, broken moan and he’d follow right after, pulling her down into a messy kiss that tasted like forever.

Sunday dinners were sacred.

Whether at Aubrey Hall or their own house in Brooklyn, the entire loud, overlapping family showed up — Bridgertons and Featheringtons crammed around a table that was never quite big enough. Cameron, now in his late-twenties and still the most charismatic chaos gremlin alive, had fully embraced his role as the fun uncle. He taught Eros how to cheat at cards, let Philomena paint his nails sparkly pink, and showed up with ridiculous gifts that made the kids squeal and Penelope roll her eyes.

“Uncle Cam brought dinosaurs that roar and shoot glitter,” Eros would announce proudly, glitter already in his hair.

“Of course he did,” Penelope would sigh, while Colin tried (and failed) to hide his laughter.

Archie was the steady anchor for his daughter. He’d show up with Portia on Sundays, take one look at the state of the house, and quietly start loading the dishwasher while Penelope fed the baby. He never said much about it, but the way he looked at his daughter — proud, a little wistful, completely in awe — said everything.

“You’re doing good, sweetheart,” he’d tell her when the kids were finally asleep and the adults were having a glass of wine on the back porch. “Both of you. I’m proud of the life you built.”

Penelope would lean into her dad’s side, eyes a little glassy, and whisper, “Thanks, Daddy.”

Colin was an occasional idiot, but he always made it right.

There was the time he forgot their anniversary because he was on a shoot and came home three days late with a ridiculous bouquet and a sheepish grin. Penelope had been ready to stay mad until he dropped to his knees in the kitchen, pushed her dress up, and ate her out against the counter while the kids were at Violet’s for the night. She’d forgiven him with her fingers in his hair and his name on her lips.

There was the time he tried to “help” with bath time and somehow flooded the bathroom. Penelope had walked in to find both kids soaked, Colin dripping and laughing, and Philomena proudly announcing, “Daddy made a tsunami!”

She’d just shaken her head, stripped them all down, and joined the chaos in the tub.

But he showed up when it mattered. He was the one who stayed up with a feverish Eros, singing off-key lullabies until the little boy finally slept. He was the one who held Penelope when she cried after a particularly hard shift at the hospital, rubbing her back and telling her she was the strongest person he knew. He was the one who still looked at her like she hung the moon, even when she was in old sweatpants with spit-up on her shoulder and dark circles under her eyes.

“You’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he’d tell her, pulling her into his lap on the couch after the kids were finally asleep. “Thique and tired and mine. I’m so fucking lucky.”

She’d kiss him slow and deep, then ride him right there on the couch with the baby monitor on the coffee table, both of them trying to stay quiet, his hands gripping her hips and his mouth on her breasts like he was still starving for her after all these years.

Their unbreakable bond showed itself in the small things.

The way Colin still took pictures of her when she wasn’t looking — Penelope reading to the kids, Penelope laughing with her dad in the kitchen, Penelope asleep with Philomena curled against her chest. The way Penelope still left little notes in his camera bag before he went on shoots. The way they fought sometimes — about work stress, about whose turn it was to do the midnight feeding, about Colin being an idiot — but always found their way back to each other, usually with laughter and filthy make-up sex that left them both sated and smiling.

They were building something real. Messy. Loud. Exhausting. Perfect.

One night, after a particularly chaotic Sunday dinner where Cameron had taught Eros how to burp the alphabet and Philomena had finger-painted the dining room wall, Penelope and Colin stood in the doorway of the kids’ room watching them sleep.

Eros was sprawled like a starfish, one leg hanging off the bed. Philomena had her thumb in her mouth and her curls a wild halo around her head.

Colin slipped an arm around Penelope’s waist and pulled her against his side.

“Look what we made,” he whispered.

Penelope leaned her head on his shoulder, eyes soft.

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “Look what we made.”

He turned and kissed her temple, then her cheek, then her mouth — slow and sweet and full of everything they’d survived to get here.

“I love you,” he murmured against her lips. “Through every version. Still.”

“I love you too,” she whispered back. “Even when you’re an idiot.”

Colin laughed softly and pulled her closer.

The house was quiet in a way it almost never was.

Eros was thirteen now — all long limbs, sarcastic comments, and the same charming grin his father had at that age. Philomena was eleven — curls still wild, opinions even wilder, and already rolling her eyes at her brother like it was her full-time job. For the first time in years, both kids were spending the entire weekend with their grandparents. Violet had taken them for “grandma adventures” at Aubrey Hall, and Archie and Portia were more than happy to steal their grandchildren for two full days of spoiling, board games, and zero parental rules.

Penelope and Colin had the house to themselves.

It was their fifteenth wedding anniversary.

They had spent the day doing exactly what they wanted — sleeping in, making love slow and lazy in the morning light, then driving out to their favorite little Italian place for dinner. Now they were back home, barefoot in the living room, surrounded by the pieces of their life.

The old timeline installation from the proposal still existed in pieces — framed photos, pressed flowers, the battered copy of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe from the library, the hospital visitor badge from the worst months after Edmund’s death. Colin had added to it over the years. New pictures. Handwritten notes. A tiny pair of baby booties from Eros’s first weeks. A glitter-covered card Philomena had made in second grade that said I love you more than dinosaurs and cake.

They sat on the floor in front of the coffee table, wine glasses in hand, slowly going through the memories.

Penelope picked up a photo from one summer picnic — her at fifteen, laughing with wild curls, Colin twenty-two and already looking at her like she was something precious. She traced the edge with her thumb.

“God, look at us,” she said softly. “We had no idea what was coming.”

Colin leaned over and kissed her temple. “We were already in it, even then. We just didn’t know how to say it yet.”

They laughed over the almost-kiss photos — the ones from family parties where they were standing too close, eyes locked, tension obvious even in still images. They cried quietly over the ones from the grief years — Colin looking hollow at Edmund’s funeral, Penelope showing up at his apartment with coffee and that stubborn, unbreakable love in her eyes.

Penelope picked up a picture of Edmund and Colin at that same picnic, both of them laughing about something, Edmund’s hand on his son’s shoulder. Her voice was gentle when she spoke.

“You’re so much like him, you know.”

Colin went still beside her.

She continued, soft but steady. “The way you are with Eros and Philomena. The way you show up even when you’re tired. The way you teach them things and listen when they talk, even when it’s about glitter dinosaurs or why bedtime is the worst dragon. You’re the father he was. Patient. Present. Proud of them for exactly who they are.”

Colin’s eyes were wet. He swallowed hard.

“Every year on his birthday,” he said quietly, “I take the kids to the estate. We walk the grounds where he used to take me. I tell them stories about him — the way he believed in me even when I didn’t believe in myself. How he told me to go after what I wanted and not to run from the things that scared me.” He let out a shaky laugh. “They always ask if Grandpa would have liked their terrible jokes. I tell them yes. He would have loved them stupidly loud.”

Penelope reached over and laced their fingers together.

“You honor him every single day,” she said. “Not just on his birthday. In the way you love our babies. In the way you love me. He would be so proud of the man you became.”

Colin pulled her hand up and kissed her knuckles, eyes closed for a long moment.

They kept going through the box — the printed texts from the pining years, the mistletoe from their first Christmas, the note Colin had left on her pillow the morning after the proposal that just said No more almosts. Only this.

By the time they reached the bottom, both of them were quiet, a little raw, a little in awe of how far they’d come.

Colin turned to her, eyes dark and full of everything they’d survived.

“I can’t believe I still get to fuck my best friend after all these years,” he said, voice low and rough with emotion. “After everything. The library. The grief. The almosts. The pushing. The waiting. I still get to have you. Still get to love you. Still get to wake up next to you and know you’re mine.”

Penelope’s breath caught.

She climbed into his lap right there on the living room floor, straddling him, hands framing his face. The kiss was deep and desperate and full of thirty-two years of history. Colin’s hands slid under her shirt, palms warm on her skin — thicker now, softer in places from carrying two babies and years of real life, and he worshipped every inch of it like it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever touched.

“Still the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen,” he murmured against her mouth, hands sliding up to cup her breasts, thumbs brushing her nipples until she arched into him. “My wife. My everything. Fuck, Pen — I love you like this. I love every version of you.”

They didn’t make it to the bedroom.

Clothes came off in a messy tangle on the rug. Colin laid her back and spent long minutes between her thighs, licking into her slow and filthy, moaning like her taste was still the best thing he’d ever had. Penelope’s fingers were tight in his hair, hips rolling against his mouth as she came with a soft, broken cry of his name.

When he finally pushed inside her — raw, deep, no barriers after all these years — they both groaned like it was the first time all over again.

Colin moved slow at first, forehead pressed to hers, eyes locked on her face.

“Look at me,” he whispered. “I want to see you.”

She did. They fucked like that for a long time — deep, steady thrusts, hands everywhere, mouths trading kisses and praise and filthy promises. When Penelope pushed him onto his back and climbed on top, he watched her with dark, reverent eyes, hands gripping her hips as she rode him.

“That’s it, baby,” he groaned. “Take what you need. My perfect wife. Still so fucking tight around me after everything. After two kids and fifteen years and all the nights I couldn’t keep my hands off you.” His hand slid up to gently wrap around her throat — not tight, just enough to make her clench around him. “Still my wicked little thing. Still riding me like you own me.”

She came hard, thighs shaking, and Colin followed right after, spilling deep inside her with a broken moan of her name.

They didn’t stop there.

They moved to the couch. Then the kitchen counter. Then back to the rug in front of the fireplace. Every round was different — slower, filthier, more emotional. Colin came on her breasts once, rubbing it into her skin with possessive hands while she watched him with heavy-lidded eyes. She sucked him clean afterward, then climbed on top again, riding him until they were both shaking and laughing and crying a little from how good it still was.

When they finally collapsed in a tangled, sweaty heap on the couch, Colin pulled her against his chest, still buried inside her, and kissed the top of her head.

“I can’t believe this is still ours,” he murmured. “After everything. You’re still the best thing that ever happened to me.”

Penelope smiled against his skin, sated and glowing and completely his.

“We did it,” she whispered. “We built the life we wanted. The messy one. The loud one. The one with glitter dinosaurs and Sunday chaos and you still looking at me like I hung the moon even when I’m covered in spit-up and exhausted.”

Colin tightened his arms around her.

“I’d do it all again,” he said. “Every almost. Every heartbreak. Every year I waited. I’d do it all again if it meant ending up right here with you.”

Penelope lifted her head and kissed him slow and deep.

“Me too,” she whispered against his mouth. “Every page. Every chapter. All of it.”

They stayed like that for a long time — naked and tangled on the couch, the fire crackling low, the house quiet around them. Somewhere upstairs, the ghosts of their younger selves smiled. Somewhere in the quiet dark, Edmund’s memory lingered like a warm hand on a shoulder — proud of the son who had become exactly the father he’d hoped he would be.

Penelope and Colin had survived grief and almosts and years of wanting.

They had built a life full of love and chaos and Sunday dinners and two wild, wonderful children who argued about books and believed in bedtime dragons.

And after fifteen years of marriage, thirty-two years of knowing each other, and a lifetime of choosing each other every single day, they were still here.

Still laughing.

Still fucking.

Still in love.

Still writing the story.

Together.

Forever.

Notes:

Do you guys like these type of long One-shots with the full story, or do you prefer chapters? If so, let me know some stories you’d like to read on here or don’t see enough of.

As always, Thank youuuu for supporting my stories 🫶🏾