Chapter Text
Colin is hiding.
The party unfolds around him, familiar faces mixed with unrecognisable ones, and he feels his skin crawl with the desire to run. But he can’t. It’s not his party, and he doubts anyone will miss him if he leaves, but it is Daphne and Simon’s night, and he doesn’t want to chance making it about him. So, he plasters a smile on his face and lingers in the corner, drinking his now stale beer and counting the minutes until leaving his twin sister’s engagement party is a more acceptable option.
From across the garden, Anthony scowls in his direction. Colin raises his beer in a mock salute and takes an exaggerated sip, turning away before he can see the roll of his brother’s eyes.
Colin has been home for a few weeks, and every day has been a test of his patience as he endures lecture after lecture on what exactly are your plans, Colin? Do you have any prospects at all, Colin? What are you doing with your life, Colin? The words rattle around his brain, even as someone turns the music up louder, and he downs the rest of his drink in a single gulp and sets it to the side as he grabs another.
Coming home is always a lesson in humility for Colin, and this time has been no different. For so many years, he spent his time doing whatever was necessary to keep his family happy and functioning, doing whatever was needed to be integral to his siblings' routines and his mum’s, too, because he felt he was the best suited for it, but also because he felt like he was needed to do so. And Colin likes to be needed, likes to be of service to others, and has spent years doing just that. He made a job out of being where people needed him, when they needed him, and never being too much.
When he and Daphne left for university (Oxford, of course; Anthony had given them no other option), he thought it would be freeing, that he would revel in his chance to live his life on his own terms without the expectation of doing for others. He was wrong. So wrong. Without a sense of duty guiding him, he floundered. He struggled. He hated his business classes, and he hated the lack of routine, and even though it came easily to him, he hated having to make new friends who expected him to be something he wasn’t simply because of his last name. To make matters worse, Daphne seemingly didn’t face any of these struggles, immediately becoming a fixture in the social scene and easily pulling top marks in whatever courses she took for her experimental psychology degree. Their once close relationship became more and more distant, and Colin couldn’t help the hopeless envy that bubbled in him when he saw just how much she thrived.
During that first holiday break from uni, he thought he would come home to great fanfare, to choruses of thank god you’re back, it was a mess without you. And while his mum cried and his younger siblings were excited to see him, his absence did not have the profound effect he thought it would. Without him, things did not fall apart. In fact, things kept going just as easily without him as they did when he was there, ensuring things were kept in constant motion.
The realisation was gutting. Still is, quite frankly. It all feels very dramatic and broody, even for him, but as he slinks further away from the crowd of Daphne’s posh friends and grabs another beer, his skin feels itchy and his chest feels tight as he fights a wave of anxiety spurred by the feeling of not belonging—here or anywhere, really.
“You need to straighten your tie.”
Benedict comes up and smacks him on the back, and Colin feels himself simultaneously stiffen and loosen up. For nearly a decade now, Anthony has tried tirelessly to fill his father’s shoes, with Benedict standing by him as his right-hand man. They work in tandem; Anthony makes the unpopular decisions, while Benedict calms and teases, then convinces you to understand Anthony’s point of view well enough that you agree to whatever decision Anthony made in the first place.
Benedict teeters between being a bit paternal and overly friendly. He is the older brother Colin turns to when he wants advice or a listening ear, the brother who’s always down for an adventure and who will do anything just to have a story to tell. Hyacinth and Gregory adore him, Eloise openly calls him her favourite brother, and Daphne credits Benedict as a major reason why Anthony no longer has apoplexy about her deferring her last year of university and getting engaged to a man nearly eight years older than her before she even reaches her twenty-first birthday.
Colin’s relationship with Benedict feels a bit more complicated. Part of him wonders if his brother has approached him with any sort of ulterior motive, whereas a bigger part of him knows that, if Benedict offers him counsel, it is usually some verbose rendition of try new things to learn what you like or don’t worry about what others think.
Easy for him to say. Benedict lives life unburdened by expectation, his age allowing him to escape from Anthony’s relentless micromanagement. Anthony understands Benedict intrinsically, knows the importance of allowing him to pursue his artistic passions, and knows that forcing him to be something he is not is pointless, which makes Anthony’s constant misunderstanding of Colin hurt even more.
But Benedict also knew he wanted to be an artist even before their father died. He graduated from secondary with plans to pursue fine art (still at Oxford; Anthony can only budge so much), and he graduated from university with intentions of someday having his work showcased at Tate Modern. He achieved that dream two years ago and has luxuriated in having achieved that dream ever since.
Colin doesn’t know what he feels more for Benedict: idolization or resentment. Both pale in comparison to love.
Benedict reaches up to adjust the poor rendition of a Windsor knot Colin attempted earlier, and Colin tilts his head back a bit to give him better access, then swats his brother away when he tightens it a bit more than is comfortable. His brother chuckles, and Colin takes a swig of his beer.
Beside him, Benedict lets out a wistful sigh, draping his arm around Colin’s shoulders. “Lovely evening for an engagement party.”
Colin grunts in agreement. Takes another swig of the beer. Benedict fixes his gaze on Daphne and Simon, conversing with guests over by his mother’s rosebushes.
“Would you have ever guessed that Daphne would be the first of us to fall in love?”
Colin pulls a face and shrugs, still driven by an almost instinctual desire to defend his twin sister. “It makes more sense than Anthony. Or you.”
Benedict guffaws and polishes off his drink. He shifts off Colin to put the empty glass on a table nearby, then saunters back with his hands jammed in his pockets.
“Taking any interesting courses this year?”
A sarcastic grin tugs at the corners of his brother’s lips. Colin shakes his head in response. “I highly doubt game theory is about to delve into chess openings.”
“Sounds riveting.”
“Doesn’t it?”
The bite in Colin’s tone must sound worse in his head than it does on his tongue, because Benedict doesn’t flinch at the acidity of the question. Instead, he smiles, plucking a glass of champagne off a passing tray while complimenting the waitress. Colin fiddles with the label on his bottle, wet from sweat and condensation, wondering if he should say something about signing up for another creative writing elective.
He doesn’t. They’re set to leave for Aubrey Hall on Monday for their family vacation, and Colin really doesn’t want to be stuck in a house with Anthony potentially having that as ammunition. Benedict eyes him from his periphery, none the wiser. “Enjoying everything else?”
No. He feels no closer to settling on something to achieve, on something to work towards. If anything, he feels like he’s wandered too far down an arbitrary path, unsure of what lies ahead and without any sort of indication about how much further he has to go before getting to the end.
“Yeah.” He takes a swig of his beer. Swallows thickly. “Uni’s great.”
Benedict appraises him for a long moment before asking, “You take my advice?”
Knowing what to expect, he glances over at Benedict, playfully leering at him from over the rim of the champagne flute.
“You mean your advice to fuck my way through the co-eds to find fulfilment?”
Benedict makes a face. “Were those my words?”
“That was the implication.”
“Was it?”
“Wasn’t it?”
“I believe I told you to discover what you like and enlighten yourself with new experiences—”
“—You did. Yes. Am I to believe you meant pottery class and social clubs, Ben?”
Benedict smirks. Shrugs as he says, “It is interesting that is where your mind went.”
“Is that not where your mind typically is?”
“Ouch.” Benedict holds a hand over his heart dramatically. “You wound me.”
Colin rolls his eyes. “Please.”
Colin takes the final pull from his beer, buying himself time. He had tried, actually. Really, he had. There was a girl in his microeconomics class, Serena, with dark hair and a high-pitched laugh that he initially found cute. They went out twice, but it went nowhere fast. Then there was the house party this past spring where he'd kissed someone whose name he'd already forgotten by morning. And the girl from the coffee shop who'd slipped him her number with his latte, leading to one spectacularly awkward encounter that Colin had spent the following week trying not to think about.
Enlightened isn't quite the word he'd use for any of it.
"I've been... broadening my horizons," Colin offers carefully.
Benedict's grin widens. "See? Told you it would do you good. Nothing like a bit of freedom to help you figure out what you want."
Except that's the problem, isn't it? Colin knows exactly what he wants. He wants what Daphne has found with Simon. That easy intimacy, the way they lean toward each other and on each other with implicit understanding. He wants someone who knows him, not just the version of himself he presents at parties or the carefully curated persona he maintains at uni. Age be damned, Colin wants stability, tenderness, something that builds toward a future.
The few times he's tried to explain this to anyone, he's been met with eye rolls and assurances that he's "thinking too much" or that he "just needs to relax." As if his inability to enjoy meaningless hookups is some kind of personal failing rather than simply how he's wired. The one time he tried to tell Benedict, his brother lit up, asserting it to be a good thing, then saying that “his youth should be spent dating around to see what he wants that future to consist of.” It was the closest he’s come to having someone understand, and Benedict still managed to completely miss the mark.
That’s why now, he bites his tongue. Better to keep quiet than be misunderstood.
"Right," Colin says, his tone flat. "Revolutionary stuff."
Benedict either misses the sarcasm entirely or chooses to ignore it. "I'm serious. You spend so much time in your head, worrying about what everyone expects. Sometimes you just need to let go, have a bit of fun." He gestures expansively with his champagne flute, nearly sloshing it onto Colin's shoes. "No strings, no pressure, just... experience."
"Experience," Colin repeats. The word tastes bitter on his tongue.
"Exactly! How else are you supposed to figure out who you are if you don't try everything at least once?"
Colin wants to point out that Benedict figured out who he was at sixteen and hasn't had to question it since. That it's easy to preach about enlightenment through casual encounters when you're not left feeling like you've misplaced something vital afterwards. That some people need connection, conversation, the kind of intimacy that builds over time rather than ignites in a single alcohol-fueled evening.
Setting his empty bottle to the side, Colin decides to follow Benedict’s lead, grabbing a glass of champagne off a passing tray. Thinks better of it at the last second and grabs two, downing one quickly. Colin doesn’t have to look to know he is being watched, scrutinised really, and he sighs before Ben even opens his mouth to ask, “You good?”
It’s the perfect segue, really. Benedict looks at him with that crease between his brows and worry in his eyes that always reminds Colin so much of their mother and loosens the tension in his spine just slightly. The Anthony and Ben dynamic works, for the most part, because of this right here: Benedict is still able to be soft with them, his edges not nearly as hardened by circumstance as Anthony’s. Colin knows he is safe to express himself with Benedict in a way he could never with Anthony, in a way he could never with most people, but everything feels too messy.
So instead, he simply plasters on a smile that stretches his mouth too wide and says, “All good,” like he means it.
Benedict watches him for a moment, clearly not believing him and considering whether to call him on it. After a moment, he clears his throat before saying, "You know there's no rule that says you have to do things the way I do them. Or the way Anthony thinks you should. The whole point of university is supposed to be figuring out your own path, not just following someone else's map."
Colin stares at him. "That's literally the opposite of the advice you gave me."
"Is it?" Benedict looks genuinely confused for a moment, then laughs. "Ah. Well. I may have been somewhat inebriated during that particular conversation. And possibly thinking about my own university experience rather than yours."
“I truly do not think you could be any more confusing if you tried, Ben.”
“Part of my charm.”
“If you say so.”
Benedict shifts his weight, studying Colin with that infuriatingly perceptive look that makes Colin feel like he's being slowly dissected.
Then:
"So," Benedict says finally, drawing out the word in a way that immediately puts Colin on edge. "I heard Eloise and Penelope are both starting at Oxford next year."
Colin's grip tightens on his champagne flute.
"Penelope," Benedict repeats, slower this time. Then continues, “Pen-el-oh-pee,” drawing out each syllable slowly. "You remember Penelope Featherington, don't you? Eloise's best friend? The one you've been texting rather frequently these days?"
Heat crawls up Colin's neck. "Don't start."
"Start what?" Benedict's expression is the picture of innocence, but his eyes dance with amusement. "Is there even something to start?"
"There's nothing— we're just friends. She's Eloise's friend. She was helping me with a class I was taking—"
"—Right. Friends." Benedict nods sagely.
"I don't—" Colin stops, realises he's playing directly into Benedict's hands. "You're being ridiculous."
"Am I?”
Colin can feel his face burning. "This conversation is over."
"Is it though? Because—"
"Ben. I swear to God—"
"All I'm saying is that maybe you don't need to go looking for some grand revelation through random encounters when what you actually want might be—"
"Stop." Colin sets down his glass with more force than necessary. "Just... stop. Penelope is Eloise's best friend. She's practically family. And even if there were something—which there isn't—she doesn't see me that way. She never has."
"Has she said that?"
"She doesn't need to."
Benedict opens his mouth, clearly ready to argue further, but something in Colin's expression must finally register because he closes it again. After a moment, he simply says, "Colin—"
"I need another drink." Colin turns on his heel, already walking away before Benedict can respond. "Or several."
"Colin, come on—"
But Colin is already striding across the lawn, putting as much distance between himself and his brother as possible. Behind him, Benedict sighs, but doesn't follow.
Good.
That’s another thing about having seven siblings: They all think they have to soothe through touches and hugs rather than space. But space in a house with nine people is a bit of a hot commodity. His siblings all know exactly where to look for him—boxes in the attic, his mother’s craft closet—so Colin has mastered the art of hiding in plain sight.
Right now, plain sight is at the end of the bar, flagging down the bartender and remaining close enough to his mum’s friends to have some immunity from Benedict’s line of questioning and far enough away that they won’t pester him about jobs or dating. Once a double pour of Jameson rests in his hand, Colin lets his mind whir, eyeing his sister under the fairy lights as she glows under Simon’s gaze. He forces himself to think about Oxford, to think about the econometrics course he suffered through last term, and the fact that he should have accepted the internship Professor Dunwoody recommended he take over the summer. Then, when thinking about his degree becomes too much, he thinks about the paper he wrote after finishing Clarissa for his Reading for Writers course last term.
That brings a smile to his face. He had been so sure that he couldn’t hack it among the students with actual literary talent, then fell into an easy pattern of becoming entranced among the pages and analysing the characters’ motivations in anything thrown his way. The class made sense, kept his interest piqued, and having a book in hand gave him something to do when every other option felt completely and utterly draining.
He came home for the weekend three weeks into the course. Sat in the library reading some Gothic horror novel from the nineteenth century, happy that he’d taken a risk and allowed someone to push him to take the course, when, out of nowhere, in walked—
“Fancy meeting you here.”
He glances down at the petite redhead, flushing as his eyes catch her neckline before catching her eyes. Penelope shoots him an overly coquettish look, pursing her lips and tilting her half-full glass in his direction. A little sloshes out over the edge, dribbling onto her hand. She licks it off before it can run down her finger. He allows himself to watch for a lingering second before averting his gaze to his shoes.
“Hey, Pen.”
String music lilts in the air as a breeze blows through the garden, and Colin steals another glimpse at the girl beside him. The ruffles on her dress shift and ripple as she finishes off her wine in a single gulp, and she immediately requests a top off.
Colin chuckles. He remembers his first open bar.
“You want anything?”
The Jameson sits in his hand, mostly gone, and he shrugs. Penelope orders another for him, and she swipes it as soon as the bartender has set it in front of them. Takes a long sip. Winces. Dramatically gags. Colin cannot help but find it incredibly endearing.
“I’ll stick to wine, thanks,” she mutters.
As she takes the glass of red from the bartender, she turns and starts walking away, leaving Colin with nothing to do but follow. As she walks, she sways slightly, and he steadies her with a hand to her elbow, the contact sending a jolt along his spine. He drops his hand quickly. Follows her further into the garden, to where a small fire is flickering, surrounded by a circle of empty chairs. Penelope slides into the closest one, pulling her legs underneath her.
Colin settles onto the lounge beside her, cradling his Jameson and watching the firelight dance across Penelope's features. The flames cast her face in shifting shadows, highlighting the curve of her cheek, the delicate line of her jaw. When did she become so pretty?
"How many of those have you had?" he asks, gesturing to her glass.
Penelope considers this with exaggerated seriousness, counting on her fingers. "Including this one? Or not including this one?"
"Either,” he smiles. “Both."
"Then the answer is: enough." She grins at him, and there's something unguarded in the turn of her mouth that makes his chest feel tight. "Your mother's wine selection is very good, Colin Bridgerton. Did you know that? Of course, you know that. You live here. Lived here.” She makes a face that scrunches her nose. “Live here sometimes?"
"I'm aware of the wine selection, yes."
"As you should be."
She takes another sip, and Colin finds himself watching the way her throat moves as she swallows. Which is, well, weird. He realises this even as he does it. That paying attention to the way your little sister’s best friend’s throat moves while she mindlessly swallows is weird. But he indulges anyway, eyes catching on the shape of her collarbone until he forces himself to jerk his gaze away. Instead, he focuses on the crowd gathered around Daphne and Simon.
"So," Penelope says, drawing the word out as she takes another sip. Her eyes are bright, unfocused in that way that tells him she's definitely had more than just the two glasses he's witnessed. "How does it feel to be home?"
"Terrible," he answers without thinking, then immediately wants to take it back. But Penelope just laughs, a genuine sound that cuts through the carefully maintained politeness he's been drowning in all evening.
"That bad?"
"Worse, actually." The words come easier now, loosened by the whiskey and her mere presence. "Anthony's been on me constantly about internships and career trajectories. My mum keeps asking if I've met anyone special. And everyone just keeps looking at me like they're waiting for me to... I don't know. Start exceeding expectations. Which is insane, because I don’t think I really even know what the expectations are, other than to graduate from Oxford by taking classes on resource allocation and private equity.”
Penelope hums thoughtfully. "I remember when you texted me about your econometrics class last term. You said it was 'sucking your soul out through your eye sockets.' Direct quote."
Despite himself, Colin laughs. "Did I really say that?"
"You did. Very dramatic. I enjoyed it." She shifts in her chair, pulling her legs up tighter beneath her. The movement causes her dress to ride up slightly, exposing a pale expanse of calf. He wonders if she’s cold. If he should offer her his jacket. He takes a long drink instead. "You also said you'd rather 'eat glass than sit through another lecture on Nash equilibrium.'"
"Also accurate."
"So why are you doing it?" She asks it simply, as if the answer should be just as simple.
Colin stares into his glass. "Because it's what I'm supposed to do. Business degree from Oxford, internship at some prestigious firm, work my way up until I'm managing portfolios or whatever it is Anthony envisions for me." The bitterness in his voice surprises even him. "It's the logical path."
"Logical," Penelope repeats, and something in her tone makes him look up. Her eyes are fixed on him with an intensity that makes his breath catch. "Since when do you care about logical?"
"I—" He falters. "What do you mean?"
"Colin." She leans forward, and he catches a hint of her perfume, something floral and warm with a hint of citrus that makes his head spin more than the whisky. "The person who wrote that novella last term? The one about the traveller searching for meaning in all the wrong places? Where did that Colin Bridgerton go?”
Heat floods his face. They'd emailed constantly during the spring term, late-night messages about plot structure and character motivation that often veered into deeper territory like what makes a story worth telling, what makes a life worth living. Penelope had read every draft, offered critiques that were both gentle and incisive, pushed him to dig deeper when he was being superficial. Her feedback had been invaluable, yes, but more than that, writing to her had felt... easy. Natural. Like he could say anything and she would understand. Like even if she didn’t understand, she would not judge, would not criticise, simply… learn his point of view in an effort to understand him better.
It was both exhilarating and terrifying, being seen by her. Exhilarating to have someone show interest, to want to understand who he is, not who he is expected to be. Terrifying to be known, truly known, and how quickly he found himself depending on that knowledge. On her.
Years before, when Penelope first entered the Bridgertons' orbit, Colin had been the one to meet her first—a fact he's always quick to point out, much to Eloise's annoyance. Penelope knocked him off his bike by wandering too far inward on the path, nose buried in a book (Judy Blume, he recalls expertly). Colin made her laugh through her tears, picked up her book, cleaned off the mud with his shirt, before handing it back. Then Eloise wandered over, inserted herself, and that was that. Penelope and Eloise's friendship (one for the history books, Eloise always declared) was formed instantly, irrevocably. They became a package deal, and Colin didn't mind because he found Penelope funny and witty, if a bit shy.
He sought her out when possible, somehow building a friendship over years of fifteen-minute run-ins in the kitchen or library. She’d listen to his stories, asking questions with an eager glint in her eyes that made him feel like he mattered. He’d listen to her talk about school or what she was reading or, on occasion, her family, smiling at every endearing blush and nervous stammer.
But Eloise was determined to relegate him to the role of annoying older brother. For the past ten years, whenever he tried to talk to Penelope, to bond with her like the rest of his family seemed to do, Eloise was there. With a sneer and a snide comment, Eloise would whisk her away, and Colin would watch her leave. They texted some, commented on each other’s Instagram posts, and every time her face popped up on his screen, he thought about what he wanted to ask the next time he saw her.
Until last Christmas, when he found her alone in the library at Aubrey Hall, curled up in the window seat with the winter sun streaming through. She'd been reading poetry (Keats, he also recalls expertly), and when he admitted he was thinking about taking a creative writing class, she did not laugh. Did not tell him he was wasting his time or that he should focus on his business degree. She simply asked him what he wanted to write about.
And Colin told her. Everything. The stories that lived in his head, the observations he’s scribbled in notebooks that he never showed anyone, the bone-deep certainty that there was something he was supposed to be doing with words even though it made no practical sense. How he and his father used to craft stories together on rainy Sundays about adventure on the high seas, and how writing in his journals is one of the few things he has that makes him still feel close to his father. Colin talked, and talked, and talked, and Penelope listened, actually listened without jumping in or telling him to hurry up or going someplace else mentally until he finished talking.
And then she said, "So do it. Take the class."
"I can't just…"
"Why not?"
He did not have an answer. Not one that he knew she would call bullshit on, so he did it. He dropped his accounting course and signed up for a writing course. Sent her a text the next day: I took your advice. Hope you're prepared to be my beta reader.
Her response had come within an hour: Always.
Now, sitting across from her with firelight caught in her hair, Colin realises how much of his term revolved around their correspondence. Their emails stretched longer and longer, filled more and more with ramblings about their daily lives and less with concerns about his writing. Their late-night texts when he was stuck on a scene delved into discussions about literature or music or whatever else they could think of. The careful way she annotated his drafts with comments that were never cruel but always honest led to communications in the margins, her reasoning giving him access to the inner workings of her mind. Colin started writing with her voice in his head, anticipating her reactions, wanting to make her laugh or gasp or be proud.
"I liked your novella," Penelope says now, her words a bit wobbly but her gaze sharp. "The ending, especially. When the traveller realises he's been looking for external validation when what he actually needed was to validate himself. Very insightful." She pauses, tilts her head. "Very unlike someone who's currently studying business because it's 'logical.'"
Colin's throat feels tight. "That was fiction."
"Was it?"
"Pen—"
"You're allowed to want things, you know." She sets her glass down on the arm of her chair with exaggerated care. "Things that don't make sense to other people. Things that don't fit into Anthony's five-year plan or whatever."
"It's not that simple."
"Isn't it?"
She's looking at him like she can see straight through him, past all the carefully constructed defences and practised responses. It should make him uncomfortable. It should make him want to deflect, to joke, or to change the subject, just as he did with Benedict.
Instead, he feels himself relax for the first time all evening. His shoulders drop. His jaw unclenches. The tightness in his chest eases slightly.
"How do you do that?" he asks quietly.
"Do what?"
"Make it feel..." He gestures vaguely between them, unable to find the right words. "Easy."
Something flickers across Penelope's face—surprise, maybe, or something else he can't quite name. She worries her bottom lip between her teeth, and Colin very deliberately does not watch the movement.
"I don't know," she says finally. Then she lets out a sharp, almost hysterical laugh. “You really shouldn’t listen to me. I have nothing figured out. I’m a mess."
"Pen—"
"No, seriously." She takes another large gulp of wine. "Do you know why I'd been standing at that bar for the past forty-five minutes drinking your mother's excellent wine selection? Because I spent the first hour of this party crying in Eloise's bathroom about the fact that my boyfriend—ex-boyfriend now, I suppose—dumped me. Two weeks ago. Right before we were supposed to—" She makes a vague gesture with her glass that sends another droplet flying. It paints the white cushion red."—you know. Do the thing. So now I get to go to Oxford in the fall as a virgin, which is just perfect. Absolutely perfect.”
Colin nearly inhales his Jameson. "That's—" He coughs, trying to clear his airway. "That's not embarrassing."
"Isn't it?" Penelope's eyes are slightly glassy, and her cheeks are flushed, and everything about her voice indicates that the alcohol is having a profound effect on what words she says and how she communicates them. "Everyone else seems to think so. Even Eloise, and she doesn't think anything is embarrassing. She gave me this whole speech about virginity being a social construct designed to police women's bodies and how we need to reject the patriarchal framework that assigns value to sexual purity, which is all very true, obviously, but it doesn't change the fact that I'm going to be surrounded by girls who've already done it and I'll be sitting there like some child waiting for—" She hiccups. "—for what? For it to be 'special'? For someone who actually wants to stick around after?"
Colin is trying very hard to maintain eye contact and not think about Penelope having sex. Or trying to have sex. Or—Christ, this is Eloise's best friend. He should not be having any thoughts about Penelope and sex in the same sentence.
Except he is. Very vivid thoughts. Which is extremely unhelpful.
"Pen," he tries again, but she's on a roll now, gesturing wildly with her glass. Clouded by anger and inebriation, Penelope’s diatribe continues, and Colin tries to focus on her eyes instead of anywhere else
"And the worst part, the absolute worst part, is that it's such a stupid, arbitrary distinction anyway! Like, we did other things. Plenty of other things. Things that are arguably more intimate than just—" She waves her hand vaguely. "—the standard definition. But because we didn't have actual penis-in-vagina penetrative intercourse, I'm still technically a virgin? How does that make any sense? Why is that the line? Who decided that's the line? It's completely arbitrary! Eloise is right, it is a social construct, but that doesn't make it any less mortifying when I have to admit that I haven't technically done the one thing everyone assumes I have!"
Colin takes a very long sip of his Jameson. Then another. The alcohol burns all the way down, but does absolutely nothing to cool the heat crawling up his neck at Penelope's extremely detailed and explicit rant about her sexual experience…or lack thereof.
"Are you done?" he asks when she finally pauses for breath.
"Maybe." She squints at him. "Are you uncomfortable?"
"Slightly."
"Good. Misery loves company." She drains the rest of her wine and sets the empty glass to the side. "And besides, it's easy for you to say it's not embarrassing. You don't have to worry about it."
Colin's stomach drops. "What does that mean?"
"I mean, you're a guy—"
"That makes it even worse, really," Colin cuts her off, the words tumbling out before he can stop them. He loosens his tie as his breathing suddenly feels heavier, and the whisky on his tongue tastes sour and acidic, and he rests his forearms on his knees, hunching over to hide the softness around his waist in what he knows has become a nervous habit.
Penelope blinks at him. Once. Twice.
"What?"
"Nothing. Forget I said anything."
"No. No, wait." She moves her glass down to the grass with exaggerated care, her eyes suddenly much more focused than they were a moment ago. "What do you mean 'worse'? Colin, are you—" Her eyes widen comically. "No. No, it cannot be. Colin, are you telling me that you're—"
"Yes," he says flatly, because there's no point in denying it now. He can feel his face burning. "Happy? Now we're both embarrassed."
Penelope's mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. "You're a virgin?!"
"Could you say that a bit louder? I don't think my mother's friends heard you."
"Sorry. Sorry!" She lowers her voice to a stage whisper that's somehow worse. "But Colin. Colin Bridgerton. You're telling me that you—" She gestures at him, taking in all of him. "—have never—"
"Are you really going to make me spell it out?"
Colin runs a hand through his hair and slowly shakes his head, trying not to yell or cry or storm off to avoid having to listen to Penelope say anything else about her sex life. Instead, he bites the insides of his cheeks and closes his eyes, willing away tears threatening to form as he fights embarrassment and expectation. He wants to explain that, like her, he’s done… stuff. He knows the mechanics of how things work, has learned enough from textbooks and porn and Benedict to have a general idea of how to please someone else in bed. But all of those things just dive right into it, skip past the time and history of the matter.
He also wants to explain that he resonates far more with how sex is portrayed in romance novels and cheesy rom-coms than with anything most people look to when they learn about sex. Textbooks depict sex clinically, devoid of passion and emotion. Porn makes sex feel artificial, impractical, even unrealistic. But novels? Novels understand that sex generally doesn’t happen until chapter 18, when the leads have gotten to know one another on a deep enough level that they make up for their inexperience with connection. Rom-coms prioritise relationships and happy endings, building an intimacy that elevates sex into something akin to love.
Explaining that to Penelope right now, though, as she gapes at him with equal parts surprise and intrigue, would be absolutely ridiculous. The fire makes her porcelain skin glow, and the wine has stained her lips a faint purple, and Colin’s body floods with heat and shame as she presses on, trying to squeeze out whatever information she can out of him about his virginal status.
"This is—" She presses her hands to her cheeks. "Oh my God. This is wild.”
“Please try to contain your shock and dismay, Pen,” he tuts.
"That's not—I just cannot believe it. You're so—" She waves her hand vaguely at him again. "—you know. And Benedict's always going on about you needing to 'expand your horizons' and 'enlighten yourself through experience,' and I just assumed—"
"Yeah, well. Benedict's advice hasn't been particularly helpful, shockingly enough."
"Clearly not." Penelope stares at him for a long moment, and Colin can practically see her recalibrating everything she thought she knew about him. Then, completely unexpectedly, she starts to giggle.
Colin groans, dropping his head back to stare at the fairy lights strung overhead. "This is not how I expected this conversation to go."
"What did you expect?"
"I don't know. Something less mortifying?"
"Too late for that." She's still smiling, though, and there's something almost fond in her expression now. "So what now?"
"What do you mean, 'what now'?"
"I mean, we've established that we're both in the same boat. Both heading to Oxford with our collective inexperience intact.” She tilts her head, considering him. "So what do we do about it?"
“We have to do something about it?”
“I think we have the option to, sure.”
Colin's heart does something complicated in his chest, and his eyes focus on her as she studies him with enthusiasm. "What are you suggesting?"
"I'm suggesting—" Penelope straightens up, squaring her shoulders very seriously, "—that we do it. With each other. As friends."
Colin chokes on absolutely nothing. "I'm sorry, what?"
"It makes perfect sense!" Penelope's eyes are bright with wine and conviction. "Think about it. We know each other. We trust each other. We both agree that virginity is some arbitrary social construct, so why are we letting it bother us? Let's just—" She makes a decisive cutting motion with her hand. "—get it over with."
"Pen—"
"Colin," she says dramatically, pressing her hand to her chest like a heroine in a Regency novel. "We could die tomorrow. As virgins."
"We are not going to die tomorrow," Colin sighs.
"We could. And it will kill us."
"Well, we’d already be dead, so—"
“We could die. Tomorrow. As virgins. I don’t know if there is a fate worse than that, Colin!”
"Pen, we don't even..." Colin's voice catches, his head reeling after just having his little sister’s best friend proposition him for sex, but he forces himself to continue. "You see me as your brother—”
Penelope’s face twists with disgust so genuine it causes the rest of his statement to catch in his throat. Her nose wrinkles as she says, “I assure you I do not.”
"What if—" He swallows hard, trying to find his footing in this conversation that has veered wildly off course. "What if we tried and it was awkward?" he offers weakly.
The change in Penelope's expression is immediate and devastating. Her face falls, the wine-bright confidence draining away as quickly as it appeared. She blanches, looking suddenly small in her chair, and Colin hates that he has had any role in making her feel that way.
"Of course. Of course,” she says with an absurd amount of cheerfulness that only partially covers the bitterness of the words. “You’re right.”
“I am?”
"Why would it be anything but awkward with me? Why would we have chemistry?"
Something sharp twists in Colin's chest. "Pen, that is not at all what I—"
"No, you're right. Stupid idea. Forget I said anything,” she mutters, already starting to stand. Colin reaches out, a hand to her forearm. She stares at him as he does, gaze searching his then dropping to where his fingers rest against her skin. She remains seated. He doesn’t let go of her.
"Pen,” he sighs. “Our chemistry is precisely why I don't know if this is a good idea." The words tumble out desperately. "We do have chemistry. We do. I just—"
"We could test it, yeah?" Her voice is smaller now, vulnerable. Her gaze remains locked on where her skin sears his for a beat before she looks right through him and says, "Just kiss once and see? What’s the worst that could happen?”
Colin's mind races. With possibilities. With the impossibilities of possibilities. Pen is very clearly tipsy, probably close to drunk, but she looks at him with wild eyes full of both certainty and fear, hurt lingering over his perceived rejection. And he did hurt her, he knows. He made her think he found the idea of kissing her awkward when the truth is much more complicated. Eloise aside, she is his friend too, his only real friend, he thinks most days, and he wants to help her. Wants to take that wounded look out of her eyes.
And he also realises, quite suddenly and irrevocably, that he wants to kiss her.
Which is precisely why he knows this is a horrible, horrible idea.
But his body seems to react before his brain can. His hand glides from her forearm to her shoulder and then to her cheek, his fingers grazing over her smooth skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. She shudders as his thumb traces the line of her jaw, as their gazes catch. Penelope’s eyes widen, then soften, and he feels her breathing accelerate to match his own as everything narrows to the space between them.
Then he leans in and closes the distance.
Their lips meet softly, carefully, in a chaste, barely there kiss with the gentlest of pressure. Something warm sparks and zips along his spine as her mouth moves against his. Her lips taste like wine and something sweeter, something that must simply be her, and the kiss only lasts seconds before they part, but Colin feels something cleave his chest wide open. He gasps unconsciously, eyes fluttering open to find hers already waiting. Her pupils blown wide. Lips parted in echoed wonder.
Neither moves. Neither breathes.
And then, simultaneously, they both surge forward.
Colin’s hands come up to grip her hips, pulling her close to him as their lips meet in a frenzied mess of chemistry. It’s sparking, catalytic, like setting off a chain reaction of teeth and tongue and hands. He tugs her bottom lip between his teeth, and she moans. She twirls her tongue around his own, and he whimpers. Everything she does drags noises out of him that he’s never made before—whines when her hands card through his curls, growls when her nails scratch down his neck. She kisses him like she’s thought about it for ages, like it’s something she’s always wanted.
Fuck. He wants to be wanted by her. Wants to be needed by her. She says he’s allowed to want things, but one kiss lets him know that he wants to be needed by Penelope. Something surges in his chest when he breaks away to kiss down her neck, only for her to tug his head back and continue kissing him with her hands cupping his cheeks. He gasps when her thumb grazes over the scar on his chin, and it causes that something warm at the base of his spine to bloom across every nerve of his being.
Colin now knows the answer to her question. The worst that could happen is not nothing or something, but rather, everything.
The intensity starts dying down when music begins to play overhead, the string quartet reminding him that this life-altering moment is happening at his sister’s bloody engagement party. One of his hands moves up to her waist, then her shoulders, then her cheek, trying to convey just how much he hopes, wants, needs this to occur again.
When they break apart, finally, Colin can do nothing but stare at her, trying to reconcile everything he thought he knew about himself, about Penelope, about what kissing someone was supposed to feel like. He feels stunned, and rearranged, and changed. His hand is still on her cheek, his gaze still searching hers imploringly, and he feels himself tilt his head, start to lean in again, just as Penelope giggles.
The sound is bright and loud, cutting through the moment, leaving him practically bereft as she slaps a hand over her mouth to cover the sound, eyes going wide as if she is only just now registering what they’ve done.
She drops her hands, opening her mouth to say something, when Eloise’s voice echoes in the distance. Penelope’s head whips around, towards the sound of her name, then back to Colin. Her face is a mixture of panic and something else he can't quite identify.
"Thank you?" she blurts out, the words pitched high and on the edge of nervous laughter. He gawks at her, and she avoids his eyes, then she flees, practically sprinting across the lawn toward Eloise's voice, her dress fluttering behind her as she disappears into the crowd of party guests.
Colin remains frozen, standing in his mother’s garden, one hand still raised as if to stop her. His lips still tingle, and his mind stays completely blank. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Instead, allows the noise of the party to drown out his revelation, allows the beating of his heart to slow just a bit, before sitting back down on his chair and putting his head in his hands.
He doesn’t want to go back to the party. He knows no one will miss him, and he doesn’t want to drink away the taste of Penelope, so he does the one thing he’s always done when he needs to calm down.
Surrounded by roses and epiphany, Colin hides.