Archive of Our Own

Innocent Beginnings

Colin - 7 | Penelope - 5

Colin Bridgerton was obsessed with two things - food, and his best friend’s curly red hair.

He didn’t need to think about when his love of food began, that had always just been there. His obsession with Penelope’s hair however, was something that with hindsight, he could actually pinpoint. 

It began when Colin was seven, almost eight years old and Penelope Featherington, not yet his best friend, was five, almost six. 

His sister Eloise had a playdate one afternoon and when Colin arrived home, he wandered in to discover someone he’d never seen before.

Even at such a young age, he remembered thinking she was positively charming. 

Quite the opposite of Eloise, Penelope was quiet and thoughtful in her playing. She sat cross-legged on the rug, lining up the toys in a neat little row, going through and giving them all names that she jotted down in a small notebook. Eloise, meanwhile, was launching stuffed animals into the makeshift football goal that he and his older brothers had set up earlier that week. 

It was unusual to find such a calm person at Bridgerton House, and it intrigued him. The only calm one among the six siblings was Francesca, and she was three. That had taken some getting used to.

But there Penelope was, a tiny oasis, talking softly to her toys, chewing the end of her pen then scribbling notes. He watched as she gave each toy a name, her brow furrowed and her tongue slightly poking out in serious concentration – ‘Ber’, ‘Loona’, ‘Flufee’.  

Colin thought she must be smart, he didn’t know many kids her age who actually wanted to write, but there she was, doing it like it was the most normal thing in the world.

She was framed in a halo of red, orange and gold corkscrew curls. All the colours of autumn lit up by the late afternoon sun that streamed in through the window behind her, catching in her hair and forming a glow that had stopped him in his tracks.

All the Bridgertons had variations of the same chestnut brown hair. Some had a wave, Colin especially, but none of them had that. Such wild, untamed, dazzling curls. 

The fact that the hair framed such a cherubic face, with the brightest blue eyes he'd ever seen, only made her more fascinating. She looked like one of the little angels in the Sistine Chapel, the ones his father had shown him in a book once. 

She shined.

Colin stood, watching her for a while until he couldn’t help himself any longer. 

“Hello, my name’s Colin,” he said. “I’m Eloise’s older brother.”

“Ugh, go away, Colinnnnnn,” Eloise grumbled dramatically. 

But Penelope blushed and smiled so wide that his young heart squeezed in a way he’d never quite felt before. 

“Hello, Colin. My name’s Penelope,” she said, in the sweetest little voice he’d ever heard. 

And so they talked. He asked her about her toys and why she’d lined them up like that. She simply explained that she liked things to be neat, and she liked to name things. It made sense to her, and he had no reason to disagree. 

The longer they talked, the more he realised how intriguing she was. Even at five, he could tell her mind worked differently. 

When she spoke, or, better yet, when she laughed, her curls bounced, and it had captivated him. 

Quite absent-mindedly, not yet understanding the boundaries of personal space, Colin reached out and pinged one. A corkscrew right by her temple. He pulled it taut between his fingers, and was spellbound at how it sprang back like a slinky. She beamed at him, a tinkle of a giggle filling the air around them and he was utterly enchanted. 

It was at that moment, that his mother walked in and told him to stop bothering the girls and go do his homework. 

Unwilling to disappoint, Colin headed up to his room, sat at his desk, staring at his English assignment. The teacher had asked them to write a poem, at least ten lines long, about anything they wanted. 

So Colin, age seven, nearly eight, wrote ten heartfelt lines about corkscrews, curls and the colours of autumn.  

➰➰➰

Taming the Curl

Colin - 12 | Penelope - 10

By the time Colin was twelve, Penelope Featherington had become a regular fixture in the Bridgerton household. Everyone had adopted her as part of the family. 

Of course, Eloise had dibs, but he was second in line for her attention, fighting tooth and nail to be first. He simply liked talking to her. 

His parents considered Penelope to be a good influence on Eloise, marvelling at the combination of the two friends. One brash and relentless, always needing the last word; the other, gentle, observant, listening. They complemented each other. 

Colin felt that Penelope made Eloise far more tolerable, which was why he now spent a lot more time around his ten year old sister than he’d ever thought possible. He would never have done so otherwise. He was far too cool to hang out with Eloise. Daphne was one thing. Eloise… entirely another. 

But Penelope? She practically commanded his attention.

That pull had only grown over the years, as she began reading voraciously and sharing her thoughts with both him and Eloise nearly every afternoon after school. 

She was always lost in thought with every book she read. For The Secret Garden, she had found wonder in the discovery of the garden, describing the hidden pathways so vividly that Colin felt as though he’d read the book himself. She’d also liked reading about the friendships between the characters, which was always her favourite part of any story. 

After she’d read Alice in Wonderland, she confessed quietly, that sometimes she felt a little lost like Alice, but admired her bravery in seeking out whatever it was she was looking for. She’d even joked that Eloise was the White Rabbit, and that Bridgerton house was Wonderland. 

Colin had smiled, his transfixion deepening.  

But there was one thing he missed. 

Over the years, her beautiful curls had slowly dropped. The happy, bouncy corkscrews had been replaced by a soft wave, usually brushed through and scraped back into a ponytail. 

He couldn’t help but mourn the loss of the glorious curls that had once adorned her head like a crown. 

Only a few wispy strands remained, refusing to be tamed, popping free at her temples, no matter how tight the hairstyle. They reminded him of candy floss, so light they might disappear if you touched them. 

He missed her curls.

One afternoon, Eloise had been sent to her room, furious that their mother was making her tidy up before she was allowed to spend any time with Penelope. 

However, this was a delightful turn of events for Colin. It meant that he had Penelope all to himself. A rarity indeed. 

So he’d taken his chance, curiosity getting the better of him. 

“What happened to your curls?” he asked. 

Penelope blinked, a little startled, a crease forming between her brows. “What do you mean?” 

“Well. You used to have all these tight curls and slowly, they seem to have dropped out. I was just curious.” He shrugged, trying to sound casual, but he wasn’t sure he’d succeeded. 

“Oh,” she flushed.

He’d embarrassed her. He hadn't meant to. Not cool.  He just needed to know.

“Um. I think it’s… well, my mum says it’s too wild," she sighed, rolling her eyes. "So she brushes it out and puts it in this ponytail or a plait. She says it looks smarter. ‘More becoming of a Featherington.'” 

“So, this isn’t how you’d like to wear your hair then?” he asked carefully. 

“I don’t mind, really,” she said. “It’s easier to just do what mum wants. It’s just…“ She trailed off. 

Colin turned to face her fully, knee propped on the sofa, fully ready to defend her against anyone or anything that threatened her happiness. “Just… What?” 

“Just… sometimes, she pulls it back too tight. Trying to get rid of this,” she said, pointing at the fuzzy halo framing her face, looking thoroughly dejected. 

“Your mum, you mean?” 

She nodded. “Yes.” 

He felt outraged. There was simply nothing wrong with her hair. 

“Well, Pen, I think you could ask her to do it looser, if that’s what you want?” 

He’d taken to calling her Pen in the last year. He’d thought it was very smart of him actually. She always had a pen with her. She’d had one when they met, and she had one now, scribbling in the margins of her book. Always scribbling. 

Penelope let out a small laugh. “I don’t think Portia would like that very much. She likes things done properly,” she said with a faintly mocking tone.

He blinked, taken aback. Portia. She’d used her name. 

Bolstered by Penelope’s clear distress at her mother’s actions towards her hair, he stood up, puffed out his chest and said,

“Well, that’s just not right, Pen. It’s your hair. You should wear it however you like. I’ll tell Portia if you want. I can do that for you.” 

And with that, he stormed out the library, deaf to Penelope’s protests behind him. 

He was pulling on his coat, when Edmund found him by the front door. 

“Son, where do you think you’re going?” his father asked. “Dinner’s nearly ready.”

Wrestling with his sleeve, Colin said, “I’m going over the road to talk to Mrs Featherington. She’s upset Pen, and I can’t allow that. No one should be allowed to upset her.”

Edmund looked surprised by his son's outburst. “What do you mean, Colin? What’s Penelope upset about?”  

“She’s messing with her hair,” he said, stamping his foot in frustration as he got his arm stuck in his coat. 

His father frowned. “Her hair?”

“Yes,” he said impatiently.

“...You’re going to have to give me more than that, buddy.”

Colin let out a huff, and dropped his arms to his side, exasperated by the delay and fed up with his coat.

“Mrs Featherington seems to think that Pen needs to tame her hair. She brushes it out and scrapes it back. Killing her curls. Can you believe that? Pen doesn’t need to tame anything, definitely not her hair. She also said it hurts her head sometimes when Portia pulls it too tight and she's too scared to tell her, so I’m going to do it for her,” he said with a determined nod, proud of his speech and absolutely certain his father would understand. “Someone needs to do something about it. She should be allowed to wear her hair how she wants. It’s just perfect as it is.”

Edmund listened patiently to his son’s impassioned rant, his lips twitching. He placed a hand on Colin’s shoulder and leaned in.

“I’m not sure storming over there is the best thing to do. Penelope’s ten, I’m sure her mother knows what’s best… Maybe, it’s to keep her hair out of the way at school. Or so she can play without getting it tangled. That’s what your mother does for your sisters,” he tried to reason with his son.  

Colin scoffed. “Pen’s hair has never been in the way,” he said fiercely. 

“Even so. I don’t think it’s your place to confront Mrs Featherington,” Edmund said, smiling at his son. 

“Dammit! She’s my friend too!” Colin whined, willing his father to understand. “I should be allowed to do this. I need to talk to her mum. It’s my right!” 

That earned him a full eyebrow raise.

“Maybe another day, Colin. We can discuss it more later,” Edmund playfully winked at him as he pulled him into a sideways hug. “Also, mind your language.” 

Colin looked down sheepishly at the reprimand, obeying with a nod as his mother called everyone for dinner. 

That’s when he saw her. He hadn’t realised she’d been watching from the end of the corridor, peeking out from the library. She smiled at him, small and warm.

He grinned back, waving at her as he followed his father to the dining room, pride surging in his chest, pleased with his new mantle as Penelope’s defender. 

➰➰➰

Summer Spirals

Colin - 16 | Penelope - 14

The summer after Colin turned sixteen, Penelope joined the Bridgertons for the first time on their summer break at Aubrey Hall. Eloise had begged and begged for her friend to join them until their mother had relented. 

Colin and Penelope however, had drifted apart, much to his disappointment. Apparently, Year 11s didn’t talk to Year 9s. His friends had ribbed him endlessly after spotting him giggling and whispering with Penelope by her locker one lunchtime. He didn’t want to expose her to the crass jokes his friends made, so he’d stepped back, stopped talking to her at school and watched as her smile had dropped every time they passed in the corridor on their way to different classes. He no longer waved at her, and she’d noticed. It reached a point where she didn't seek him out in a crowd, refusing to even look, when he knew she must have seen him. 

He couldn’t explain why, but it made his chest hurt.

With Penelope and Eloise being older now, they spent less time at Bridgerton House, and more time out at the shops, the cinema, or meeting up with their friends at the local smoothie bar. In turn, that meant less chance to talk to her.

He regretted listening to his friends and causing the distance. 

So, when she came with them for their summer break, Colin, secretly, was thrilled. No longer at secondary school and bound for sixth form, there was no reason they couldn’t talk. There hadn’t been a valid reason before anyway, he’d just been stupid and listened to his friends. He promised himself that he’d make up for lost time. 

Something that hadn’t escaped his notice was that, by some miracle, Penelope’s curls were back in full force. He wondered what had changed, rejoicing that her mother hadn’t killed them off entirely. They spiralled, curled and cascaded over her porcelain shoulders and that made his heart happy. 

One sunny afternoon, they all took a walk through the fields out the back of the estate. Colin had been lumbered with one of the picnic baskets, Penelope with one of the blankets. Eloise had run off with Francesca offering no help at all, leaving Penelope walking alone. 

He sidled up, strolling alongside her in silence for a while, every so often flashing her a crooked smile.

She kept looking over at him, almost as though she was checking if he was really going to stay.

“Are you going to say anything or just keep smiling at me all afternoon?” she’d asked, staring ahead as they walked.  

He huffed out a laugh. Either her confidence had grown or she was too irritated with him to hold it in. Either way, it was a window. 

“I can say anything you’d like, Pen,” he grinned. “But let’s start with, how are you?”

“I’m okay, thank you,” she said, hugging the blanket.  

“It’s nice to have you here for the summer.”

“Is it?” Her face was unreadable. 

“Yes. Definitely. It’s been a while since we really talked and I’ve missed you.” He hoped she’d realise he was being sincere. 

“Yeah, well. Me too. But… that’s not my fault is it?” she said, sounding hurt. 

He lost his footing at that moment, surprised by her directness, not noticing the random branch in front of him and stumbled a bit, lurching forward, his foot coming out of his flip-flop as he tried not to send the contents of the picnic basket flying. He saw her stifle a laugh behind her hand which made her curls bob. He’d missed that.  

“Always happy to make you smile, Pen,” he laughed, putting his shoe back on. “I’m sorry we haven’t spoken. It was silly. My friends, they…”

“I thought I was your friend too?” she asked quietly, and it made his chest ache.

“Of course you are, Pen. You’re one of my best friends, I…” he shook his head. “I’ve been an idiot, and let some nonsense teenage boys dictate who I should talk to. I’m sorry. Please... can you forgive me?”

She stared back at him, brows furrowing above her sunglasses, mouth twisting as she thought it through, the breeze blowing through her hair. “Only, if you make sure I get to have one of those chocolate eclairs before they melt in the sun, and before Gregory stuffs them all in his face.”

“Well,” he chuckled, feeling relieved. “Seeing as Greg is only five, I think I can fend him off. I will defend the eclairs for you, m'lady. Don’t you worry,” he said as he tipped his hat at her. They settled back into the walk to the picnic spot by the lake and caught up on everything they’d missed. 

After their feast of sandwiches, pastries, fruit and cold fizzy drinks, Colin went to play ultimate frisbee with his family. 

Penelope opted out. She wanted to stay out of the sun as much as possible or she'd burn, she'd told him. 

Reluctantly he left her to go and play. This was a very serious event, and he had a winning streak to uphold. 

That's why he was not impressed when he’d been saddled with the two youngest, arriving to the group late after trying to convince Penelope to join in. 

It was hardly fair when the other team had both Anthony and Benedict. Daphne, ever competitive, had told him to buck up and get over it. The names had been drawn. He’d looked at her confused, pointing at their four year old sister, Hyacinth, apparently on their team, but currently sitting in the grass pulling up daisies. 

“All Bridgertons, four years and older are allowed to participate in family sporting activities,” she recited. A rule she had insisted on, when she herself had been four and wanted to race against her brothers and had never let it go. 

He sighed and allowed Daphne to lead them to the field, not even bothering to worry about Hyacinth. 

Thirty minutes in, they were losing miserably. Colin was drenched in sweat, covering nearly the whole field by himself while Gregory flailed and Hyacinth plucked daisies. It was hard to care. 

He kept glancing toward the blanket in the shade. Penelope was sitting there, book in her lap, sunglasses on, head tilted just enough that he couldn't tell if she was reading or watching. Probably both.

Daphne shouted at him to focus, and he sighed.

“Daph, this is useless. It’s boiling, we can’t beat them.”

“Then get creative!” she yelled. 

It really was too hot, and he didn’t like losing. So he stripped off his t-shirt and threw it to the side of the pitch, just as he spotted the frisbee flying toward him, Gregory chasing it full tilt. He’d never catch it on his own. Thinking fast, Colin broke into a run, scooped his brother up mid-sprint, and helped him make the grab.

Gregory whooped in delight, hoisting the frisbee like a trophy.

From the shade, Penelope clapped and cheered. “Yay, Gregory! You did it!”

Colin grinned at the sound of her voice, laughing as Gregory blushed furiously and darted behind Daphne, clearly overwhelmed by the attention. 

He looked back at Penelope, and noticed she looked away quickly. He decided the game was over anyway, so he jogged back toward the blanket, ignoring Daphne’s objections.

“Let Greg go out on a high,” he called over his shoulder, still laughing.

He settled in next to her, propped up on an elbow and picked at the leftover strawberries. 

“Good book?” he asked. 

She looked flushed. Must be the heat, he thought. 

“I think ‘good’ is subjective, but I’m enjoying it.” She said quietly. 

“What is it?”

“Don’t tell Eloise, I put a cover on it – I don’t want her to know…”

“Your secret is safe with me, Pen,” he said, rolling onto his front and resting his chin on his hand. 

“Twilight,” she said, unable to meet his eyes.

“What’s wrong with that?” He was genuinely curious.  

“Oh, nothing. Just not high brow enough for El, I think. But sometimes you just want something easy to read when you’re distracted.”

“What’s distracting you?”

Her flush deepened, pink spreading from her cheeks down her neck and she started to play with a lock of hair. She seemed nervous but he couldn’t for the life of him, work out why. He watched her, fascinated as she twirled the auburn piece of hair around her finger. 

“Nothing,” she replied. 

“Okay,” he said, unconvinced, but deciding not to push her. “What’s your book about?”

“Vampires.”

“You’re reading about vampires?” he laughed. “In summer?” 

“Is there a time of year I’m supposed to read about vampires?” she asked, still not meeting his gaze. 

“No, I guess not… well I don’t know, actually. Maybe Halloween?” he joked and she laughed. 

He loved her laugh. 

She relaxed a bit and read her book as he picked at blades of grass and threw them onto the blanket, content to just be. He gazed over at her, nose in her book, pen in her hand as she concentrated on the words in front of her. He watched as she played with her hair, twirling and spiralling the same piece round and round her finger, watching as it sprung back to life every time. It reminded him of how he used to wind strawberry laces around his finger.

“Pen…”

“Hmm?” she muttered, not looking up from her book. 

“You got your curls back?”

She rested her book in her lap and looked at him. “What do you mean?”

“Your curls. They’re back.” He didn’t think that needed much explanation. 

“Yes…”

“Your mum stopped doing your hair then, I guess?” he asked, confused by her confusion. 

She smiled, finally looking at him and his stomach flipped a little. “Ah. You remember.”

How could he forget? He remembered everything she said. 

“Well. I’m self sufficient now. She doesn’t have time to do my hair, and I certainly don’t want her to. So I researched how to look after it, and I bought myself some hair mousse and a diffuser a few months back and they came back to life,” she told him as she opened up her book again. 

“It looks really lovely, Pen.” 

She swallowed, lifting a hand to lightly touch her hair, before quietly saying, “Thank you.”

Perfection, he thought, having no clue what a diffuser was, but grateful for it all the same. 

He rolled onto his side to take a nap, his mind swimming with strawberry laces, auburn spirals, and pretty pink blushes.

As he drifted off to sleep, his hand accidentally rested against her leg as she turned another page. 

Neither of them bothered to move.

➰➰➰

The Forbidden Curl 

Colin - 18 | Penelope - 16

As they grew older, Penelope became more conscious of how to maintain her hair. She started to develop what seemed to be a very complex, but methodical curly hair routine.  

She had been fifteen when it started and had become very serious about perfecting her hair, watching endless tutorials on YouTube. One afternoon, sitting by the pool, he’d heard her talking to Daphne about all the things she was doing to get her hair to look like that, to achieve the glory (his words, not hers). 

He didn’t understand a word of it. Something about prayer hands? All he knew was that there was something deeply spiritual about her hair. It made him feel things. Made him feel like writing poetry, or singing, just so she would dance and it would fly around and bounce. 

He loved when it bounced. 

When he was eighteen, during the summer before he left for university, he found himself wanting to spend as much time as possible with her. 

They’d wandered through markets, where Colin insisted he could sniff out the best doughnut stand (he was wrong). They shared ice cream cones by the lake, Penelope laughing at him for mistaking the waffle cones for doughnuts. Refusing to let him forget it, teasing him endlessly, given his self proclaimed title of Snack King. 

They stayed up late, when everyone else had gone to bed. Sometimes they’d watch fireflies in the garden, though Colin was pretty sure they were just yellow butterflies.  

Their friendship had deepened, becoming effortless. They were building the kind of summer memories you never wanted to forget. 

One rainy summer evening, everyone had decided to go to the cinema. Waiting in line, talking about everything and nothing, and for no other reason than he wanted to, he’d pulled Penelope into a bear hug, but she’d tensed when he’d held her so tightly. 

“What’s wrong, Pen?” he asked. She usually hugged him back. 

“Oh, you’re just… it’s… you’re roughing up my hair actually.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, taking a step back but not fully letting go of her. 

“It’s okay,” she said with a smile. “Just spent ages on it, that’s all.” 

“You don’t usually say anything when we’re back at the house?” he pouted, feeling a little dejected. 

“I know. But that’s when we’re all lazing around, not doing much. But we’re out now. There’s people around. It’s not a big deal, I just don’t want you to mess it up.” She wriggled out of his hug. 

He laughed it off. Totally fine. Not a single problem. 

Then why did he feel so rejected?

Standing in line to get tickets, he wondered if there was anyone in particular she wanted her hair to look good for and his stomach swooped. Her hair always looked amazing. Tonight it looked especially great. He could see each individual shiny curl.

While he understood she didn’t want him to mess it up, he didn’t understand why he couldn’t hug her. Why she’d pushed him away. He could hug her in a different way if that would work. Did she not want to hug him because of whoever she’d done her hair for? His mind whirled, unable to pinpoint why it bothered him.   

As he thought it all through, he realised he hadn’t taken his eyes off her, and he felt that age-old compulsion to ping a curl creeping in again. He couldn’t push it down. Willed himself to think about something else. She’d just told him she didn’t like her hair being roughed up. 

Damn it, why couldn’t he think about anything else?

The need hijacked his brain to the point that he thought he might have to seek help. Or walk away. One of the two. 

But they were all queuing together, and he didn’t want to be weird about it. Penelope was talking to Eloise about something, he genuinely had no idea what. All he could see was an array of curls and waves and spirals and ringlets, and they were talking to him. 

He was losing it. Badly. 

The more she talked, the more they moved. 

The more they moved, the more the compulsion took over.  

Momentarily forgetting they were in public, surrounded by his siblings, and not realising they’d reached the front of the queue, he reached his hand out slowly. 

He was so close, transfixed, one goal in mind… until he felt a sharp slap on his hand. Shocked back to his senses, he saw Penelope narrowing her eyes at him. 

He glanced around. Eloise was eyeing him like she’d stepped in something unpleasant. Benedict was grinning, Anthony rolling his eyes. The woman behind the till was looking amused, her lips twitching, an eyebrow raised. 

“What the fuck are you doing, Colin?” Eloise asked and Penelope looked embarrassed. 

He froze. Mouth open. Brain… buffering. 

Curl. Ping. Curl. Ping. Curl. Ping.

He wasn’t sure how he’d let this happen, how he’d let her catch him doing it. He’d always been so careful. Making sure she didn’t see, only pinging a curl when she’d fallen asleep on the sofa next to him or when he leaned over the back of her chair in the library to see what she was reading. One time, he’d done a spectacular drive-by in the kitchen at Bridgerton House, and when she flinched he’d pretended he was batting off a fly. He was a genius. But perhaps, not so much right now. 

“I was just going to… ummm… ping that curl actually,” he said, mortified he’d actually admitted it, heat rising in his face. The tips of his ears felt hot. 

Looking uncomfortable, her cheeks blazing, no doubt mirroring his own, she said, “You’re being weird, Colin. Can you like, not touch my hair please?”

Absolutely the wrong thing to say to him. 

It only made him want to do it more. 

The tension running through his body as he tried to resist the urge to touch his best friend’s hair was ridiculous. The effort, monumental. He needed to get a grip. What was wrong with him? It was just a hug. Just hair. Just Penelope.

They bought their tickets, headed into the cinema, and Penelope chose to sit on the other side of Eloise, away from him. Probably thought he was a creep. He wasn’t sure he disagreed.

He slumped down in his seat, and didn’t take in anything about the film. His gaze kept wandering down the row to Penelope.

During a lull in the trailers, she looked over and their eyes met. She gave him the smallest, shyest smile and offered him some popcorn. It knocked the wind out of him and reassured him all at the same time. 

If you asked him, he couldn’t tell you what film they’d seen. He didn’t have a clue. But he could write you a sonnet about the effect of cinema lighting on the flowing russet curls of one Penelope Featherington.

And somewhere deep inside, beneath the embarrassment and the awkwardness, Colin knew one thing for sure. Those curls had him completely tangled. 

➰➰➰

The Weaponised Curl 

Colin - 21 | Penelope - 19

After three years at university in Edinburgh, Colin was finally back in London for good, and more than a little pleased about it. He’d caved in to Anthony’s pestering and taken a job at the family firm, wondering how long it would stick. He didn’t really care.

He cared about the fact he'd missed Penelope during his semesters away, craving her presence and her quiet comfort. 

Breaks and summers at Aubrey Hall had helped, and they kept in touch almost daily. But it was never enough. She was his favourite person, and he’d missed seeing her regularly. 

She was studying English with Creative Writing at Queen Mary University of London, which was ideal. He could spend more time with her. 

In early September, as many of the Bridgertons as were available gathered at Bridgerton House for the annual movie marathon. The house was buzzing with the familiar noise of the siblings gathered under one roof, laughter and chatter exploding all around them. 

Hyacinth and Gregory were arguing over which film to put on first. Anthony, rubbed his forehead, clearly he had a headache and his girlfriend Kate was trying to soothe him. Benedict was getting everyone a fresh round of drinks, Daphne was out on a date with a new mystery man, and Francesca had opted out, seeking the peace of the front room so she could practice her arpeggios. 

Eloise was in a grump in the corner having wanted to sit with Penelope in the cuddle chair and eat copious amounts of Dairy Milk Giant Buttons, but Colin had got there first, literally launching himself in beside her and wrapping them up in a blanket before Eloise had even entered the room. 

Having never really learned the boundaries of personal space when it came to Penelope, he snuggled in with her, placing an arm around her shoulders. He was careful to avoid her hair, having learned from past mistakes and allowed her to gently lift it, draping it over his arm behind her, so she could nestle in comfortably. 

It was the sort of thing they would do all the time at his flat. 

However, he caught Benedict looking over at him with a questioning glint in his eye. Colin shook his head, silently begging his brother not to say anything. It was no one’s business how he and his best friend chose to watch the movie. He didn’t need anyone making a thing out of it.  

As the opening credits of Notting Hill started playing, Penelope rested her head on his shoulder. Relaxed, he let his mind wander. 

Somewhere between her first and second year of university, her hair had grown longer and wilder. He'd watched it grow from facetime to facetime. It had always been a delightful mess of copper spirals and defiant waves, but now it had taken on this almost mythical quality. Like it had agency. Like it knew exactly what it was doing.

And one curl, one perfect, treacherous tendril, had started to fall with excruciating precision, like muscle memory, down the slope of her chest. Into the cleft between her breasts. And just… stayed there. Coiled, waiting.

The first time he saw it, he stared longer than was polite, longer than was normal, longer than he should have.

And his cock had twitched. 

That was new, he’d thought at the time. Alarmed. Mortified. A bit intrigued. 

He hadn’t been the same since. 

Over the course of the last year, whenever he’d been back in town, that curl haunted him, mocking him. It would peek out when she bent to grab a book. Vibrated when she laughed. Glowed in the sunlight when they sat in the garden drinking lemonade. 

His descent into madness was closely tied to the origin of that one curl.

It wasn’t just hair anymore. It was torment. A singular, weaponised curl, sent from the gods to destroy him.

In one of his finer comedic moments, not that he would ever share it with anybody, he'd dubbed it The Cleavage Curl™.

And it was doing things to him.

Bad things. 

Things that threatened their friendship.

Things that made him question if he was a gentleman.

He couldn't allow any of that.

But…

Everyone in the room started laughing, breaking him out of his reverie.

Hugh Grant had just tried to climb the garden gate in Notting Hill, muttering ‘whoopsie daisies,’ while Julia Roberts laughed at him. Apparently Hyacinth found this hysterical, and felt the need to rewind it eighteen times before she’d had her fill, tears of laughter streaming down her face.

Penelope seemed to find it very amusing too, giggling away beside him. 

It was at that point that fate, destiny, and that one deeply cursed curl conspired to test his will to behave.

He shifted to get comfortable. The streak of copper caught his attention, teasing him, enticing him. Begging him to look. 

He looked away from the TV, just to check on it for a moment. Just a moment. 

He glanced down and there it was. 

That fucking curl. 

Nestled beautifully, making its home in a valley so tempting, any man would be hard pressed not to want to dive in and wrap themselves up in it. 

He couldn’t breathe properly. 

How he was never able to pay attention to a movie in Penelope’s presence anymore, was beyond him. It had become increasingly difficult over the years, and tonight was really testing him.  

In a diabolical twist of torture, she began to play with the curl. Resting her hand on her chest and twirling it around her finger. 

The twirling wasn’t new. She’d always done that. Hell, he couldn’t blame her. 

But the curl-cleavage-twirl combination was most definitely new, and his mental state could only adequately be described as scrambled eggs. 

She sighed deeply and burrowed into his side. 

Was she toying with him? 

Did she know?

At the very least, The Cleavage Curl™ was taunting him. He couldn’t look away. He had the perfect view.

He was only a boy... 

Sitting next to a girl... 

Asking her…

“Does it tickle?”

And the whole room went quiet. Hyacinth paused the movie. Hugh Grant was standing at his front door in his underwear, the paparazzi flashing cameras in his face. 

Colin knew how he felt. 

Everyone was looking at him.

Hyacinth tried to stifle a giggle, doing a very bad job of it. Benedict looked at him like he was fresh out the womb. Anthony had a face like thunder. Gregory was oblivious, and Eloise gawped at him. 

Fuck. 

He’d said it out loud. 

“Does what tickle?” Penelope asked him sweetly, and his heart dropped out his arse. 

“Umm… nothing. I didn’t say anything.” 

“Uhh… yeah you did. What the fuck, Colin?” Eloise all but yelled from her seat all of two metres away. 

He froze. 

“Colin?” came her angelic voice. Looking up at him, eyes questioning. 

He was dying inside. 

He’d humiliated himself. He knew he was red as a beetroot. Shifting in his seat again he begged all the gods to help him out. 

Send Gandalf on an eagle to rescue him.

Get Thanos to snap his fingers so he could simply disappear… 

Anything.

But, no. 

He didn’t have that kind of luck.

Instead, his own eyes betrayed him as they flicked to her chest.

She saw him do it and she giggled. 

And it giggled. 

And his heart stopped. 

Already half-hard, and at risk of full-blown flag pole status, he started listing countries in his head, desperate to calm down. He was sitting with his family. His ten-year-old sister was in the room. He'd be arrested. 

Anthony looked like he was going to drag him out by the collar any minute now. 

“No. It doesn’t tickle.” She laughed, surprisingly, still looking at him fondly. 

“Okay. Cool. Thanks,” he said, his voice tight. 

“You’re so weird, Colin,” Eloise added, helpfully. 

And God help him, he should have stayed quiet, but he simply did not. 

“No, I’m not. It’s a perfectly normal question. Hair tickles. I was just wondering if… because it… where it is-”

“Colin!” Anthony bellowed at him. 

“What…” he said, startled by his brother’s outburst.

“Enough! Please try and behave yourself so we can watch the rest of this movie. Leave Penelope alone,” Anthony grumbled. 

Eloise took that as her cue, waltzed over and commanded him to switch seats with her. A punishment he deserved, if he was being honest. 

He looked at Penelope sheepishly, as he shuffled out of the chair, trying to convey his apology for embarrassing her in front of everyone, yet again, through his traitorous eyes and a crooked smile. 

She simply smiled back at him as he moved, that pretty pink flush taking a hold of her face while she muttered under her breath, “You’re so weird about my hair.”

Yeah, fair enough. 

➰➰➰

The Final Curldown

Colin - 24 | Penelope - 22

Eighteen months ago, Colin had watched from the side lines as Penelope met someone and started dating them. 

He'd been unable, or maybe unwilling, to label how it had made him feel. 

She'd asked what he thought about it once, after she'd first met the guy. Naturally, she sought out her friend's opinions. He assumed she would have also asked Eloise. 

Having no real reason to dissuade her from it, thinking that, 'I don't want anyone else touching your hair,' wouldn't cut it, he'd encouraged her to go for it, if that's what she really wanted. 

He remembered the flash of disappointment on her face and her expectant look and he'd wondered what exactly he was supposed to have said instead. 

She had hesitated before saying, "I guess I'll go for it then, if you think it's a good idea," locking eyes with him as his heart squeezed. He just didn't understand any of it. Couldn't explain his warring emotions. 

She was his friend and he wanted her to be happy. 

But...

There were no buts. 

He'd always wanted to make sure she was happy.

Always.

And now it was her 22nd birthday party, and he'd organised the entire thing. 

He didn’t quite know how it happened. He wasn’t one for organisation. But, one evening, after she’d broken up with Alfie in the new year, she’d been distraught about the fact that her birthday, and now apparently her life, was ruined and she’d burst into tears. 

Unable to see her upset, knowing he would do anything for her, he’d told her he’d throw her a party. Just a small thing at her flat. He’d sort everything. She didn’t need to worry. It was ages away. Months, even. 

She never had to worry. Not with him. 

So, he’d planned. And nearer the time, he’d sorted a playlist, bought a cake, matching purple cups and plates and enough booze to sink a battleship. He’d decorated her and Eloise’s flat with balloons and streamers and biodegradable confetti. He’d invited all her friends, their friends really, and somehow, the whole thing had come together. A bigger gathering than he’d planned, but she was worth it. 

But now, he was hiding by the drinks table, like a guest who’d accidentally walked into someone else’s party. 

“You realise you planned this party,” Michaela said, suddenly appearing beside him with a cup full of some concoction he'd seen Francesca throw together. She had a look that said she was about to give him a hard time.  

“I’m aware,” Colin replied tightly. He didn't know why he was hiding. Not really.  

It was just that, when she'd appeared from her room earlier, dressed for the party, admiring the decorations and thanking him for his efforts, he'd found he was unable to say anything. 

She'd looked so…

Then she'd hugged him and he'd stiffened. She'd stared at him, quite rightly confused, before he finally managed to wish her a happy birthday like a normal human being. 

“So, why don’t you look like you’re enjoying it?” Michaela asked. 

He gave her a look. 

“You colour-coded the snack bowls, Colin. You’ve made a charcuterie board.”

Ruffled, he said, “It’s called presentation, Mich.”

“You match the decorations…” 

He looked down at his lavender jumper. “What’s your point?”  

He didn’t really have a defence. He also didn’t know why he’d matched with the decorations. He just had.

“Kinda seems like something a boyfriend would do, is my point,” she said, raising her eyebrows at him with exaggerated patience.

He scoffed. “Or a best friend?”

“Sure, bro. That's why Eloise is in blue, I suppose.”

“Don’t be weird about it,” he muttered, swallowing a large gulp of his beer. 

“I’m not the weird one,” she replied with a smirk.  

He rolled his eyes. “Look. I was at uni for a lot of her recent birthdays. Then she got with that stupid Alfie dude, and he organised her 21st. Badly, I might add,” he felt his cheeks burning, hoping Michaela wouldn’t notice. “And now they’ve finally split up... She was sad about it, no idea why, and I tried to cheer her up and said I’d throw her a party. That's all.”

“'Finally split up…’" she said, air-quoting the phrase. "You sound thrilled about that, Col. Didn’t that happen a few months ago?”

He wished she’d just drop it. 

“He was a loser and he didn’t deserve her. What do you want from me? I don’t have to like the guy,” he said, rubbing his thumb over his fingers as he scanned the room. 

Michaela cocked her head. “So… what, you’ve just been sitting around, waiting for her to break up with him? Waiting now, even?” 

He snapped his head toward her. “What? No. I'm not waiting for anything.”

“Uh huh. When was your last date?”

“I–” he fidgeted restlessly. “I don’t remember. A little while back. I haven’t really felt like dating. It’s not really very me, to be honest.” 

“Come on, Col. A fit, nice guy, like you?”

“Stop flirting with me, Mich.”

“You wish,” she bantered back.

He sighed. “So, I should be dating because I’m ‘fit’ and ‘nice’. Your words, not mine,” he said, quirking his eyebrow and holding his hands up.

“Yeah. You could if you wanted. You’re a good bloke. Surely there’s someone that you like?” she nudged him. 

The crowd parted briefly, and that’s when she caught his eye. 

There was always a flash of copper. 

Always in slow motion.

And it always made his heart skip a beat. 

She was enjoying herself, dancing with Eloise, jumping and swaying, her teal dress hugging her hips, her hands trailing over her body, hair swaying rhythmically as she danced…

He downed the rest of his beer. 

Forgetting that Michaela was still there, he jumped when she said, “You’re emotionally constipated, dude.” 

“What? I am not. I am very in touch with my emotions, thank you very much.” He wasn’t sure he even believed that himself. 

“Explain the heart eyes then.”

“Shut up.” He refilled his drink. “Go talk to Fran about your feelings first.” 

“Whatever,” she scoffed. “Maybe just have a little think about why you're hiding at your best friend's party. That you organised.” She laughed as she walked away.

He couldn’t shake off what she'd said. 

Why was he hiding? Why was he fizzing with anxiety of an indeterminate origin? 

He felt on the precipice of something he couldn't articulate. Like when a word was on the tip of your tongue and you just couldn't get to it. 

He also couldn’t stop watching Penelope, glad she was enjoying herself. She deserved that. 

Running his thumb over his lower lip, he watched as she spotted him staring at her. She turned to say something to Eloise, fanning herself with her hand before she came bounding over to him, all joy and life itself. 

“Hey, bartender,” she quipped playfully.

His lips twitched. “Hey, birthday girl.”

She beamed at him and tucked a curl behind her ear, then leaned forward, hands braced on the drinks table as her hair fell forward like a waterfall, her eyelashes fluttering. 

“Can I have a rum and coke please, sir?” 

Sir. Sir. 

Fuck. 

“You can have anything you like. It’s your birthday.” 

It came out way calmer than he’d anticipated as he started pouring her a drink.

“Careful, Colin. If I have enough to drink, I just might hold you to that.” 

He looked up at her then, as she confidently held his gaze, biting her lower lip, and his trousers tightened. 

Fuck.

Why did that keep happening?

She was clearly tipsy. Saying things she wouldn’t normally say. 

But what if…

No. 

They were friends. 

He laughed tightly just as Eloise came over to pull Penelope back to the ‘dance floor.' Get Lucky was playing and they simply had to dance to it. 

Get Lucky indeed.

He cringed. Why did his brain always do that?  

He watched her go and spent the rest of the party people-watching and hiding out. 

A couple of hours later, all the guests had left. Eloise stood from the sofa and announced that she and Phil were leaving as they’d be staying at his flat. Francesca and Michaela followed them out to share a taxi. 

And then it was just Colin and Penelope. 

It was late, he was lounging, nursing a whiskey. Penelope was kneeling next to him, her arm draped over the back of the sofa, heels kicked off on the floor next to them. 

“You can stay over, if you like. Take El’s room,” she said as she shook out her hair, scratching at her scalp. Her eyes closed as she sighed deeply, "Ugh, that feels good."

He swallowed. 

Hard. 

He cleared his throat. “Sure. Yep. Cool. Cool, cool, cool.”

“Only if you want to,” she giggled at him, poking his bicep. 

“I’d love to. Thanks, Pen.”

“Alright, then. You know where everything is. I’m going to bed. Thanks for a great party,” she said, kissing his cheek, her hair brushing over his exposed forearm, sending goosebumps rippling all over him.

He had to hold back a moan.

Bloody hell.  

She got up, grabbed a glass of water from the kitchen and went to her room. 

“Night, Col,” she said as she closed her door behind her. 

“Night, Pen. Happy birthday...” he said to the closed door, staring after her. 

He was fucked. 

He got ready for bed, but did he sleep? No. Did he even try? Also, no.

He was battling with himself. Trying to rationalise everything.

She was his favourite person.

His best friend.

That dress...

He knew she didn’t feel that way.

It was just hair... 

Why hadn’t he dated anyone else?

She looked phenomenal tonight… 

Did Michaela have a point?

That dress…

It was just hair.

He was at risk of spontaneous combustion via auburn spiral.

He groaned into his pillow, then grabbed his phone and opened TikTok, alternating between apps, doom scrolling through reels and shorts. Anything to distract himself. 

Miraculously, morning came quickly. He got up, started a pot of coffee, and turned the oven on. He’d had the foresight to buy frozen croissants, just in case. They were her favourite morning treat.   

After popping the pastries in to bake, he flopped on the sofa and checked his Instagram feed, seeing that a few of their friends had posted some pictures from the party. As if he needed a reminder of how good she'd looked.

Penelope had even posted a slightly blurry, drunk selfie of the two of them she'd managed to force him into. 

He zoomed in. Penelope pouted and winked at the screen, flashing a peace sign, her other arm extended as far as it could go to get a good angle for their height difference. She was all sparkle, lush curves and soft, peachy skin. He had an arm around her waist, looking down at her – not at the camera – in a way he'd never quite let himself see. Or, truthfully, admit to. 

The picture had captured how he’d been unable to take his eyes off her all night. Michaela had called it heart eyes. Maybe she had a point.   

The caption read, ‘Thanks for throwing the best party ever @col.bridgerton. Best pal a gal could ask for 🥰’ 

“Pal,” he muttered, throwing an arm over his face as his head fell back against the sofa.

Penelope stumbled out of her bedroom, startling him. She leaned against the door frame, bleary-eyed, hair… everywhere. 

His breath caught in his throat.

“Morning,” she grumbled. 

“Morning, Pen!” He said brightly. Too brightly. 

I love you. 

His heart was thumping. 

What the actual fuck? Where had that come from?

She shuffled toward the bathroom, and he just… stared. 

He felt light-headed as the smell of croissants filled the room. It was possible he was dying. 

He sat there staring into the abyss, for God knows how long, until the timer pinged and he jumped into action. He ran to the oven, almost like he was running away from his intrusive thoughts.

He busied himself by setting the pastries on a cooling rack, pulling out plates, knives and spoons. Chaotically, he pulled out all manner of jams and spreads from the fridge. He even got out the Branston Pickle. 

He heard the bathroom door open, citrus and steam hitting his senses as she walked by in just a towel, clutching its edge, her hair wrapped up in a turban. 

And, fuck.

The Cleavage Curl™.

Escaped. Trailing. Wet.

She looked at him, smiling shyly as she scuttled past, and he dropped the croissant he was holding suspended in mid-air on its way to his gaping mouth. 

She clicked her bedroom door shut behind her and in a panic he dropped into a squat, heart pounding, hiding behind the kitchen counter. 

Hiding from his raging hormones.

Hiding from the truth trying to barrel its way in.

“Colin?” he heard her call from her room and he jumped up. The door was open now and she was wearing leggings and a strappy top. 

“Did you drop something?” she asked, spraying her hair with a water bottle, then raking some cream through her damp locks. 

He couldn’t concentrate. 

“You were behind the counter?” she added. 

He laughed a bit crazily. “Oh. Umm. No. Yes. Yeah, I dropped something.”

“Okay... Any chance you could bring me a coffee? Pretty please?”

He nodded and rushed to get her drink, grateful for something to do. 

“Here you go,” he said, leaning into her room, not daring to cross the threshold. 

She was smoothing her hair between her hands, and a memory popped into his head.

“Prayer hands?” he remembered, furrowing his brow suddenly as her conversation with Daphne played in his mind. 

He saw her smile. “How did you know that?”

He cleared his throat. “Heard you say something to Daphne once.” Then he left her to it, thinking he heard a giggle. 

He returned to his spot behind the kitchen counter, started buttering another croissant, adding raspberry jam messily. He kept getting distracted. 

He watched as she scrunched her hair and the curls started to take form, her tiny hands barely able to manage. 

I’ll help you.

Shut. Up. 

The sound of the hairdryer cut through his tortured, self-inflicted silence. He leaned on the counter, absent-mindedly eating and sipping his coffee. From where he stood he had a perfect eyeline into Penelope’s room, where she was now blow-drying her hair with some pointy attachment he’d never seen before. She was bent over, her wet hair cascading down, hovering the hair dryer around her head.

She worked slowly, gathering sections and pushing up with the contraption, holding it for a few seconds each time. 

He was mesmerised. 

He watched as her hair bloomed from wet to dry, curls puffing up, like a croissant rising in the oven. 

After a while, having spent far too long watching her, he heard the hairdryer click off and she ruffled her hair, shaking it out. 

She flipped it up, and it tumbled down around her frame. 

Beautiful. 

Spiritual. 

He was unravelling. 

He couldn’t feel his own face as she walked out of her room. He gripped the edge of the counter. He was too warm, too wired. He couldn’t hear his own thoughts, just the sound of his own voice as he said, 

“Would you do that for me, Pen?” 

He had no idea where that had come from and he begged the universe to make him get a grip. 

“Don’t be silly,” she laughed, making her way to the counter. 

Was it awkward? Yes. 

Did he want her to do it anyway now he’d asked? 

Fuck, yes.

“I’m serious, Pen,” he said, sounding far too keen. “My hair’s a perfectly reasonable length. It’s got a wave. Just give it a go… it could be hilarious.”

He watched her think it through as she nibbled at her breakfast, wiping a crumb from the corner of her mouth, and licking it off her thumb. A rush of adrenaline pulsed through him as he waited for her final verdict.

She shrugged and said, “Alright then.”

Alright then. 

“Where d’you want me,” he asked, almost vibrating with excitement. 

“Well, you need to wash your hair first, Col. Why don’t you go and do that? I’ll finish my breakfast and set up here.”

Alright then.

He nodded vigorously and practically leapt over the sofa on his way to the bathroom.

Ten minutes later, he’d had a shower, thrown on some joggers and a t-shirt that he must have left there at some point, and was currently undergoing torture at the hands of his best friend. 

She was using all the same products he assumed she’d used on her own hair, gliding her hands through his and scrunching, twirling pieces around his face for reasons unknown. Then she reached for the same contraption she’d used earlier, which, when he asked, was told it was a diffuser. He could tick that off the mental checklist. 

She stood in front of him, by his side – she was all around him. The warmth from the hairdryer, that skimpy top, her curls hovering around his face like she hovered the diffuser…

He was slowly losing his mind. He was sure of it. 

She clicked it off. Then ran her hands through his hair and gave them a shake, just like she’d done for herself. 

In a daze, he asked, “Why d’you do that?”

She laughed lightly. “It’s called fluffing. To fluff out your curls and get a bit of volume.”

She was fluffing him alright. 

Her hands in his hair were undoing him, mentally and physically. 

He was inexplicably turned on. His grey joggers were nothing but a tent now. A damp spot betraying his arousal. 

He could've wept when he clocked the exact moment she noticed, watching as her pupils dilated.

“Sorry… just… your hands in my hair. It’s been a while… since I… with anyone… I’m sorry…” he flushed.

She tugged his hair gently, holding his gaze, “Don’t be sorry about that,” she said, her voice low and soft.  

The tension between them grew thick and heavy. He felt close to panic. 

Was it just him?

He watched as she licked her lips, and his mouth dropped open.  

Nope. Not just him. 

He raised his hands to cautiously rest on her hips, a question passing between them silently. 

Her answer was a nod, as she climbed into his lap, straddling him where he sat on the dining chair. Eyes locked. Her fingers still carding through his hair. 

She rolled her hips tentatively, and they both gasped.  

“Perfectly reasonable length,” she said with a smirk. 

He melted. Her eyes darkened, and he went blind with want. 

The Cleavage Curl™ was right there, and he couldn’t not. 

“Pen…?” he asked, eyes flicking between her face and the curl. 

“Yes.”

And he kissed the curl nestled between her breasts, his face enveloped in her soft warmth. 

“You lied, Pen,” he quipped, voice thick with desire as he looked up at her, close to delirium.  

“About what?” She sounded amused. 

“It does tickle…” he huffed playfully. 

And then they lost it, both giggling as they crashed into each other and made out like giddy teenagers. Hands in each other’s hair.

His, finally, in hers.

Soft and springy and absolutely perfect. He breathed them in. He was in the promised land, and he hadn’t even taken his trousers off yet. 

Grabbing frantically at each other, they worked to pull their clothes off, piece by piece.

Messy. Hungry. Electric. 

She pulled at his t-shirt, rucking it up, trying to pull it over his head but neither of them willing to stop kissing. 

“Get this off,” she whined and he pulled the offending garment off before she could change her mind, as she pulled her own top over her head. 

She ran her hands over his chest and up his neck, pulling him into another searing kiss, his brain short-circuiting from the feel of her tongue in his mouth and the knowledge that only a thin piece of cotton separated him from her breasts. 

Suddenly, she stood, shimmying out of her leggings and underwear in one swift move, reaching behind her back to release the clasp of her bra. Taking the hint, he clumsily whipped down his joggers, unable to take his eyes off her as she stood in front of him completely bare.

“Shit… “

He couldn’t believe he got to see her like this. 

She covered herself with her hands and he reached to lower them. 

“Don’t…” he pleaded. “I want to see you. You’re so fucking pretty…. Look at you.”

She blushed fiercely, biting her lip before pushing him back into the chair, reclaiming her throne, kissing him hard as he swallowed her moan. He slid his hands up to explore the perfect weight of her breasts, so soft as they spilled between his fingers.

“So. Bloody. Perfect,” he mumbled in awe, between kisses and smiles, nipping at her flesh.

She sighed breathily as he rolled her nipple and licked a slow stripe up the column of her neck. He lowered a hand, running his fingers along the inside of her thigh, squeezing gently. 

“Pen… Can I?” he asked softly.

With hooded eyes and lips parted, she gave a slow, inviting nod.

He held her gaze as he traced over her thigh, then stroked over her puffy lips before entering her wet heat.

Her head tipped back, releasing a low, ragged gasp as he circled her clit. It sent heat rushing through him, his heart stuttering as she rolled her hips into his hand like she couldn’t get close enough. 

He’d never been happier. 

“More,” she demanded, adjusting and opening her legs wider. That was all the invitation he needed. He slid his fingers lower, slipping inside her with ease. 

“You feel fucking amazing,” he choked out, sliding a second finger into her heat.

The way she clenched around him sent sparks racing up his spine, nearly undoing him on the spot. 

Christ on a cracker, he thought wildly. I’m going to die.

Not a bad way to go, all things considered. 

When she fell apart on his hand, he was done for. She buried her face in his neck, teeth grazing his shoulder in a featherlight bite as she tried to stifle her scream, and he stroked her back while she trembled, coming down in soft waves.  

She lifted her head and giggled, glowing. He couldn’t help but laugh lightly with her. 

“Col, I…” she breathed, voice low and nervous, sliding her hand deliberately along his length between them. 

“Mmhmm, yes,” he gritted, drawing ragged breaths as she continued to stoke unimaginable pleasure in him.

“I got tested… and I’m on the pill.”

His heart hammered against his ribs. Fuck. They were really doing this.

He nodded, his breath catching as she moved to align him perfectly.

“Me too. I'm clean. I… it’s been a while…” 

Without hesitating, she sank onto him knocking the air out of both of them, moaning each other’s names as he watched everything bounce.

Her hair. Her tits. Her…

She was here. His. Right now. 

She rocked her hips slowly, and he cupped her breasts, bringing them to his mouth, sucking lightly as her hair wrapped around them, curls twisting in every direction, losing herself in the rhythm.

Her pace quickened, and he was losing his mind, drowning in the visual overload. 

Curls. Penelope. Curves. 

It was overwhelming. He could feel everything, every part of her and it still didn’t feel like enough. 

Suddenly, all the memories and moments untangled inside him. He finally understood the truth as it unravelled in his mind. He understood the draw all these years. The magnetism. The need. 

He felt hysterical.

Panicked, he gripped her hips firmly, slowing her down. 

It wasn’t just her hair. 

It was her...

“Pen, stop. Fuck. I think… Oh God… I– I love you,” he blurted out, blood roaring in his ears, frantically searching her eyes for an answer. 

Momentarily stunned, she blinked, her lips twitching. “Colin…” she said with a breathless laugh, “maybe we save the love declaration for when you’re not literally inside me?”

He let out a strangled noise somewhere between a groan and a laugh. “Christ. Sorry.”

It took all the willpower he had, but he shifted them. She whimpered as he pulled back slowly, keeping her close and rubbing her sides.

“I just… I needed to say it…” he said tenderly stroking her hair, tucking a lock behind her ear. 

Her expression softened, eyes twinkling as she said, “You finally worked it out?”

He let out a surprised laugh as she ran her hands through his hair, scratching at his scalp and he turned to jelly at her touch again.   

“Took you long enough, you ridiculous man,” she teased. 

He reached out to wrap a curl around his finger. “I’ve wanted to do this forever,” he said, indicating the hair he was twirling. 

“You don’t say…” she smirked and he sighed, slightly embarrassed but not really caring anymore. 

“I love you too, by the way,” she added gently, vulnerability flashing across her face. 

Her words hit him like a lightning bolt. “You do?”

She nodded, tracing her fingers over his face and smoothing his furrowed brow. 

“How long?” he asked, hardly knowing if he could bear the answer. 

“Forever,” she breathed, barely more than a sigh. 

His body tensed, caught between wild desire and confounding disbelief. 

“I am such an idiot. Pen, I’m so sorry.”

“You didn't know?” she whispered, her hands cupping his jaw, thumbs brushing along his cheekbones delicately. 

He shook his head, his chest heaving. The truth hung thick and electric between them, heat wrapping around them as they finally understood each other. No more words were necessary. 

Then, need flared, unrelenting and he swept her up by the waist, heart thudding in his chest, skin burning. 

She wrapped her arms tight around his neck as he swung them around to the dining table, setting her down on the edge before burying himself in her again.

The room filled with the urgent sound of skin meeting skin, breathless gasps, their rhythm untamed and reckless as they lost themselves in each other. 

They were desperate. Possessed. Nothing else existed. 

Just them. 

Hearts racing. Skin slick with sweat and need. 

Completely tangled.

“You feel so good…” she cried out as she clung to him, her nails tracing fiery trails down his back, her praise spurring him on.

“Harder… please.” 

“Oh my god,” he rasped, his jaw clenched as a low rumble rolled from his chest, capturing her lips in a bruising kiss. 

“I’ve never… it’s never felt like this,” he confessed, his voice unsteady.

Every movement, every touch, every gasp pushed them closer as he thrusted into her relentlessly, driving them closer to the edge they both craved. 

His grip tightened on her waist. Their bodies moving in frantic, beautiful chaos, a low heat pooling deep in his belly, coiling tighter with every roll of his hips.

“Fuck, Col… I’m close,” she panted, desperate with need, pulling him into her, heels digging into his arse.  

“I need you to come with me… please… ” he begged and she slipped her hand between them. “I’m yours… so fucking yours.” 

Then, with a shudder and a cry that tore from deep inside, they fell.

Utterly undone. 

Together. 

➰➰➰

A little while later, in Penelope’s bedroom, round two having been as riotously successful as round one, Colin stood in front of the mirror, slack-jawed, naked, and completely traumatised.

His hair was unhinged .

“What the fuck?” he muttered, staring at his reflection and pulling at his hair.

Behind him, Penelope sat on the bed, wearing his t-shirt, knees pulled up to her chin, looking entirely too pleased with herself. 

“You asked for it, Col,” she said, cocking her head and pouting at him. 

He turned, scandalised. “I look ridiculous,” he said, gesturing to his hair, which stuck up in every direction imaginable. 

She didn’t even pretend to disagree. “Yes,” she confirmed, not missing a beat. 

He paused.

“And you still had sex with me?”

She shrugged as she got up and walked over to him, her hair swirling around her shoulders.

“What can I say? I’m weird too, I guess. Though, in fairness, it looked okay before I kept sticking my hands in it,” she said with a devilish grin. 

He couldn’t exactly be mad at that part of the proceedings. 

She reached up and gently pinged one rogue spiral that had flopped dramatically across his forehead.

“I actually quite like this one,” she said softly. “It soothed me.”

“Soothed you?” He raised an eyebrow, amused. 

“Yeah. Something to focus on.” 

“And you needed something to focus on?” he asked, deadpan. 

“Yes,” she said, with a teasing glint in her eye.

“Why?”

“It was the only neat curl after we got going. You know I like neat things.” She laughed lightly, eyes shining. 

“I might call it my emotional support curl,” she joked. 

His chest ached in a way that was entirely familiar. But now it had a name. The feeling he’d been chasing through every curl, every forbidden touch.

Love.

“That’s great, Pen. Trademark it.”

She grinned.

“I trademarked The Cleavage Curl™, sooo…” he said playfully, waggling his eyebrows. 

She gasped in mock offense. He pinched her bum, and she squealed before darting out of the room, laughing and screaming. 

He chased after her, “Come here, Featherington!” he called. “I’m not done with you.”

She peeked back at him over her shoulder, curls flying. 

“You never will be.”

And God help him, because all these years later, after everything, she was right.

➰➰➰