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Chapter Text

The fourth bottle of wine had been cracked open fifteen minutes ago, and the garden of Bridgerton House was starting to look a little sideways—at least from Colin’s perspective.

It was late summer, warm even after sunset, and the soft glow from string lights above the garden table made everything feel a little dreamier than it was. The four of them lounged in various states of drunk delight: Benedict with his sleeves rolled to the elbows, legs stretched out like he owned the lawn; Eloise cross-legged in a hanging chair, hair in a loose bun, cheeks flushed from both the heat and the alcohol; Genevieve Delacroix—fashion mogul, chaos enabler, and family friend—perfectly at ease in a silk camisole and cropped jeans, sipping her wine with barely a smudge to her lipstick.

And Colin?

Colin Bridgerton was drunk.

Not catastrophically, not dangerously. Just delightfully, absurdly, wobbly drunk.

“I am not drunk,” he insisted, gesturing with his half-full glass. “I’m… marinated.”

“Marinated?” Benedict laughed. “What are you, a chicken breast?”

“More of a leg,” Genevieve smirked. “All that cycling.”

Colin turned, swaying slightly. “You wound me, all of you.”

“You’ll be wounded if you don’t sit down before you fall into the koi pond,” Eloise muttered. “Again.”

“I resent that. That was one time. And I saved the koi,” Colin said solemnly, tipping his glass in their memory.

“Colin,” Benedict warned, watching his brother lurch upright, “where are you going?”

“Nature calls!” Colin announced, setting down his wine and stumbling toward the house—though his path dangerously veered toward the pool.

Genevieve gasped as he tripped on the garden step, pinwheeled toward the water, and narrowly—miraculously—stumbled away at the last second.

“Oh my God,” Eloise said, clutching her chest. “He is an idiot.”

“No, it’s worse,” Benedict grinned. “He nearly ruined his suede shoes.”

They all burst into laughter, the kind that left them breathless, heads tilted to the stars.

When the moment passed, Genevieve leaned back, sighing. “That man is going to break a bone before thirty-five.”

“Or someone’s heart,” Benedict said offhandedly.

Eloise snorted. “Please. He’s a walking Pinterest board of travel quotes and half-baked commitment issues.”

“He left his phone,” Genevieve observed, nodding toward the deck chair.

Benedict’s eyes lit up. “Well, well…”

“Oh god,” Eloise said instantly.

“Oh, come on,” Genevieve grinned. “Just a peek.”

“You are both twelve.”

Benedict already had the phone. It was unlocked after one failed attempt.

“What’s his password?” Genevieve asked, peering over.

“‘Naples2020’,” Benedict said smugly. “Colin is nothing if not predictable.”

The home screen opened to a recent photo from the Dolomites. Benedict began scrolling, swiping past folders labeled Greece Trip, Florence Market, Train Snacks.

“God, he really is unbearable,” Eloise muttered. “Look at that. He’s taking photos of croissants again.”

“Wait,” Benedict said. “What’s this?”

A folder named Receipts.

Too boring to be real. Which meant, of course, it had to be something else.

Genevieve sat forward. “Don’t tell me…”

Benedict opened it.

The screen lit up with the first image: Penelope. Hair curled, dress low-cut and emerald green, holding a cocktail and laughing at something off-camera. The way the light hit her made her look… cinematic. Like a still from a film.

“Oh,” Genevieve said softly.

Benedict scrolled.

Another photo: Penelope in a white sundress, hair piled on her head, lying back on a picnic blanket at Aubrey Hall. The sunlight kissed her freckles, and she was smiling—no, grinning—eyes crinkled, a glass of rosé in her hand.

Another: Penelope waist-deep in the Bridgertons’ pool from last summer, swimsuit bold, eyes playful.

Another: a close-up selfie of her with Colin and Eloise at a festival, her head tilted toward Colin’s shoulder, his arm around her.

“…She’s the whole exhibit,” Genevieve said, more to herself than anyone.

“No, he’s horny for her,” Benedict corrected, sipping his wine. “That’s a wank folder if I’ve ever seen one.”

“Benedict!” Eloise cried, scandalized.

“Don’t ‘Benedict’ me. Look at it. This is curated.”

Genevieve giggled behind her hand. “She is beautiful.”

“That’s not the point,” Eloise snapped. “She’s Pen. She’s… my Pen. We had braces together. We watched Bring It On forty times in Year 9. You can’t—he can’t—”

“She’s not fifteen anymore, El,” Genevieve said gently.

Eloise threw up her hands. “I hate this. I hate this more than when Gregory tried to explain crypto. This is going to end in either betrayal, heartbreak, or—God forbid—Bridgerton babies.”

Genevieve tilted her head. “What if it ends in happiness?”

“Nope. I’m leaving. This is vile.” Eloise stood, knocking back the rest of her drink. “Do not do anything stupid while I’m gone.”

Genevieve smiled innocently. “Define stupid.”

“Anything involving unsolicited match-making,” she hissed. “And Benedict, don’t encourage her.”

“I would never,” he said, clearly lying.

Eloise pointed at them both. “You two are a recipe for disaster. I want no part of this debauchery.”

She stomped off toward the house.

“…So,” Genevieve said slowly, glancing at Benedict. “I did do a campaign with Pen a few weeks ago. New lingerie line. Classy. Retro curves. She looked… stunning.”

“From wallflower to walking fantasy. Someone warn Colin’s trousers.” Benedict said, eyes gleaming.

“I have the proofs on my phone.”

He practically choked on his drink. “You wouldn’t.”

“I might. If I knew Colin’s email…”

“You delightful little menace.”

Genevieve was already pulling up her gallery.

And then—Colin returned.

Hair windblown, shirt wrinkled, a little damp from washing his face at the garden sink.

“Did I miss anything?” he asked, blinking at their expressions.

Genevieve swiped her phone screen down. Benedict casually shoved Colin’s phone back onto the lounge chair.

“Nothing at all,” Genevieve said, with an angelic smile.

Colin blinked at the two still seated—Genevieve looking altogether too pleased with herself, and Benedict… smirking. That particular smirk. The dangerous one.

“What?” Colin said, instantly suspicious.

Benedict picked up his wineglass with the practiced slosh of a man who’d lost all feeling in his legs. “So… my darling, darling brother. Did you enjoy your little stroll?”

Colin narrowed his eyes. “Yes. Until I was accused of being a bad man. What the hell was that about?”

Genevieve batted her lashes. “No idea. Eloise left us with a warning, though.”

Colin plopped back into his seat with a groan. “What did you do?”

Colin looked at them, then back at the wine bottle, then at the empty seat where Eloise had been.

“She just said…” Benedict paused. “That you’re a bad man.”

Colin frowned. “What? Why?”

“No idea,” Genevieve said brightly. “Like I said…she just glared and left.”

“Oh.” He blinked. “Well… rude.”

Benedict snorted into his glass. Genevieve kicked him lightly under the table.

“Anyway,” Colin muttered, sitting down again, “I feel like I missed something.”

Benedict held up the phone.

His phone.

“No,” Colin said immediately.

“Oh yes,” Benedict grinned. “We went exploring.”

“You didn’t—”

“We absolutely did,” Genevieve confirmed, teeth flashing in the garden lights. “And we may or may not have seen your little ‘Receipts’ folder. Not exactly tax returns in there, are there?”

Colin went pale.

Genevieve sipped her wine. “Lovely photos, by the way.”

Colin put his head in his hands. “God, kill me now.”

“I mean,” Benedict drawled, setting the phone down carefully, “it could be worse. Could’ve been a folder full of weird feet pics. Or inspirational quotes. But no. What did we find?”

“Penelope,” Genevieve supplied helpfully.

“So much Penelope,” Benedict agreed.

“Hundreds,” Genevieve nodded. “Honestly, it’s almost romantic. Or unhinged.”

“They’re just photos,” Colin muttered, face down.

“Oh, are they?” Benedict said, mock-innocent. “Tell us, brother—do you use them for… inspiration?”

“Shut up.”

“I mean,” Benedict went on, voice rising, “is this your late-night relief material? Do you go through your Receipts when you’re… balancing the books, as it were?”

Colin launched a cushion at him. Missed.

Genevieve burst out laughing. “You’re horrible.”

“I’m drunk,” Benedict corrected, then pointed at Colin. “And so is he. So this is the perfect time for truth.”

Colin leaned back and groaned into the sky. “It’s not like that.”

Benedict leaned forward, eyes wide and mocking. “Then why is every single one of those photos either a.) her laughing in soft lighting, or b.) her boobs taking center stage?”

Genevieve snorted. “To be fair, her boobs do deserve their own folder.”

Colin let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a strangled sob. “I’m going to kill you Ben.”

“She’s stunning, honestly,” Genevieve said, swirling what was left in her glass. “Spectacular rack. And that hair? Like a Pre-Raphaelite goddess. Plus that ass? Have you seen her in those high-waisted jeans?”

“Yes,” Colin muttered.

“Oh-ho-ho,” Benedict crowed. “He has! Our boy’s been looking.”

“I have eyes,” Colin defended, pointing wildly at no one in particular.

“Oh, he’s got eyes and a folder,” Benedict said. “A very private folder.”

“She’s just—” Colin exhaled, slumping down into his chair like a deflating balloon. “She’s… my friend Penelope.”

Genevieve nodded sagely. “The Penelope folder says otherwise, darling.”

“She doesn’t even know,” Colin mumbled. “She’d kill me.”

Benedict raised an eyebrow. “Oh, so you do know it’s a bit dodgy.”

“It’s not dodgy,” Colin protested. “I’m not… I haven’t done anything wrong. They’re just photos.”

Genevieve grinned. “Oh, babe. That’s the worst lie you’ve told tonight.”

Colin gave a little whimper of embarrassment.

Benedict topped up their glasses with the dregs of the bottle and saluted him. “To my hopelessly horny brother.”

“Stop saying that word,” Colin hissed.

Genevieve leaned her chin in her palm. “Do you think it’s just her boobs, or are you also a fan of her laugh? The way she tilts her head when she’s really listening?”

Colin stared at her. “What are you—?”

“Because,” Genevieve continued, smirking, “I’ve seen the photos, and some of those are soft. Thoughtful. The kind of pics someone takes when they’re quietly obsessed.”

Colin said nothing. Just blinked.

“Oh no,” Benedict said, eyes wide. “You like her. Like like her.”

Genevieve gasped dramatically. “Feelings and tits? A Bridgerton rom-com!”

Colin groaned again. “I’m moving to a cave.”

“A cave with no Wi-Fi or photo folders,” Benedict nodded solemnly.

“Or boobs,” Genevieve added.

“I hate both of you,” Colin said, though he was smiling now—helplessly, drunkenly, and not entirely able to hide how red his ears were.

The laughter rippled between them again, warm and messy and familiar.

“I’m just saying,” Benedict said, raising his glass one last time, “if you’re going to be absolutely gone on someone, it might as well be Penelope Featherington. Beautiful, brilliant, and terrifying.”

“You wouldn’t survive those tits,” Genevieve agreed fondly.

“Don’t remind me,” Colin muttered.

“Cheers,” Benedict said, grinning.

“Cheers,” Genevieve echoed.

Colin clinked their glasses half-heartedly. “I’m going to die tomorrow.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Benedict nodded. “But tonight? You live in shame.”

They all downed their glasses and slumped back in their seats, the garden spinning lazily above them. Somewhere, the ice bucket had fully melted. Somewhere, Eloise was probably lying awake sensing the disturbance in the force.

And somewhere, upstairs and oblivious, Penelope was brushing her curls and wondering if Colin would ever look at her properly.

He already had. He just hadn’t figured out what to do about it yet.

⸻

The Bridgerton breakfast table was—against all odds—a picture of civility. Tea steamed. Toast popped. Gregory was trying to launch a grape into Hyacinth’s juice, and Violet was determinedly pretending not to notice.

Colin, however, was in hell.

He’d barely slept. His body was still a war zone of lingering desire and psychic trauma. But he’d survived the night, and that had to count for something.

He slid into his seat and poured himself coffee with trembling hands.

“Morning,” Anthony said without looking up from his paper.

“Barely,” Colin croaked.

“Someone’s fragile,” Benedict commented, buttering toast with the smoothness of a man who was absolutely plotting something.

Colin grunted.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

He froze.

No. Not now. Not here. Not during breakfast.

He peeked.

Subject: “For Your Eyes Only 😉”
From: Genevieve Delacroix Lingerie Co.

“Oh no,” he croaked.

He unlocked it with trembling fingers.

“Morning, darling. Thought your little folder could use a refresh. Pen looked divine in this campaign. You’re welcome. — G xx”
Attachments: 4 images

Colin stared at the screen, already sweating.

No. He would not open them.

He slipped the phone under the table. Just a quick glance.

Just one image.

He tapped the preview.

And—

Penelope.

In leather. Corset. Cropped, coiled whip resting on her thigh.

He dropped the phone.

It clattered to the floor with a metallic bang.

Three heads turned.

“You alright?” Anthony asked, tone way too mild.

Colin scrambled under the table like he’d been shot. “Yes. Yes. Fine. Just—dropped it.”

He reemerged, flustered, red-faced, and absolutely not fine. He reached for his coffee, missed, and nearly knocked over the jam.

Benedict tilted his head. “You sure, brother?”

Colin said nothing.

Because something was happening under the table. Something treacherous. His own body had turned against him. Visibly.

Benedict’s brows shot up.

Anthony folded his paper slowly.

Colin tried to shift his napkin in his lap with as much casual grace as a man in full panic could manage.

“Bit warm in here, isn’t it?” Benedict asked, feigning a light cough. “Face is rather flushed, Colin.”

“Shut. Up,” Colin hissed under his breath.

Anthony smirked. “You might want to excuse yourself. Before something… becomes difficult.”

Colin choked on his toast.

Violet, oblivious, reached for the sugar. “Darling, are you alright? You’re going very red.”

“I’m fine. I’m going. I—need to—get the thing.”

“What thing?” Gregory asked.

“The thing for the—clocks.” Colin stood too fast, knocking his chair backward.

Eloise turned, suspicious. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing.”

She narrowed her eyes. And then glanced downward.

And saw.

The moment her face changed—the pure, unfiltered horror—could have won awards.

“OH MY GOD,” she shrieked, leaping back like he’d drawn a weapon. “WHAT IS—WHAT—IS THAT—ARE YOU—IS THAT BECAUSE OF—PENELOPE?!”

Colin fled.

“RUN, YOU SICK CRETIN!”

He was already halfway up the stairs, muttering, “Kill me, kill me, kill me—”

Back at the table, silence fell.

Then Benedict leaned forward and murmured to Anthony, “He didn’t even finish his toast.”

“A tragedy,” Anthony said gravely.

Violet frowned. “What’s wrong with Colin?”

“Digestive distress,” Anthony offered.

“Overstimulated,” Benedict added, sipping his tea.

Gregory looked around. “Was that —?”

“NO!” Eloise shouted, jabbing her fork at him. “No more words!”

She dropped her napkin like it had been poisoned and stormed off, muttering something about friendship trauma and mental bleach.

Hyacinth blinked. “So, does this mean Colin’s realised he’s in love with Penelope?”

Anthony and Benedict exchanged a look.

Anthony smirked. “Oh, it’s way worse than love.”

⸻

Upstairs…

Colin slammed his door shut, tossed his phone onto the bed, and collapsed next to it like a man in mourning.

He could still see her.

The corset. The leather. The look in her eyes like she could end him and have tea after.

He let out a long, pitiful groan.

From outside the door:

“Need a hand in there?” Benedict called sweetly.

Colin threw a pillow at the door.

It bounced off harmlessly.

Benedict: “Not quite the only thing bouncing, is it?”

“GO AWAY!”

“Truly a romantic story in the making,” Anthony added.

Colin groaned again. Louder.

This was hell.

And he lived in it now.

⸻

The house had quieted. Breakfast was long over. Eloise was sulking in the garden. Violet had gone to the flower market. And Anthony was somewhere working on figures.

Which left Colin alone. Upstairs. In torment.

He lay on his bed like a man in recovery, phone in hand, staring at the unopened attachments like they were radioactive.

He’d only seen one this morning before everything spiraled.

But the other three… they were there. Waiting. Tempting. Glowing like sirens on his screen.

“Don’t do it,” he muttered.

He did it.

Swipe.

Penelope in red lace, perched on a mirrored vanity, legs crossed at the ankle, looking down her shoulder like she knew exactly what she was doing.

Swipe.

A high-waisted corset, thigh harnesses, soft lighting. Her expression unreadable—daring. Intimate.

Swipe.

The last one.

Black bodysuit. Her hair loose, wavy and wild. One hand gripping the edge of the bed, the other on her hip. No smile. Just… command.

Colin made a sound. A small, helpless, soul-leaving-his-body whimper.

It was hopeless.

The problem downstairs was back, fully operational, and worse than ever.

He tossed the phone to the floor, covered his eyes with his arm, and hissed, “This woman is going to kill me.”

Desperate now, he got up, locked his door, and paced.

He tried breathing. Cold water. Staring at his bookshelf. War and Peace did nothing.

Defeated, he sat back down, flopped onto his bed, and—

Started to take care of it.

Discreet. Fast. Shameful.

He had just begun when—

“Oh f—hell,” Colin breathed, eyes glued to his screen. “Red lace? Leather straps? Is she trying to kill me?!”

His hand was already under the duvet, moving with frantic desperation.

“I’m ready to ruin my sheets over you.” he groaned. “What kind of sick sabotage is this? This is break-my-own-d*ck, lose-my-job, die-with-a-boner level.”

A moan burst from his throat—needy, shameful, completely undignified.

“You’re my best friend,” he hissed, squeezing his eyes shut. “You braided Eloise’s hair in year nine. And now you’ve got a whip?!”

He gasped, helpless. “This is war. Gen has declared war on my d—”

Another moan. “She looks like sex incarnate. Who let her do this?”

A groan. “I’m not even gonna make it. I’m gonna die. I’m gonna die and my ghost will still have a hard-on.”

Knock knock.

“Colin?” came Benedict’s unmistakably smug voice through the door.

Colin froze mid-motion, eyes wide.

Silence.

Then—the worst thing that could happen.

Benedict paused.

“…Are you?”

More silence.

Then a stifled laugh. “You are. Oh my God. You’re actually—”

“GO AWAY!” Colin bellowed.

Benedict laughed so hard he wheezed. “Oh my God, it’s real. You’re—mate, it’s been hours.”

“I know!” Colin cried, panicked, still under the covers. “It won’t go away!”

Benedict was now wheezing outside the door.

“You poor bastard, you’re horny and she’s living in your head rent-free—in lingerie.”

“Please stop talking.”

Benedict tapped the door twice. “Well. This might be a good time to mention—Eloise has invited Penelope over for the afternoon.”

Colin went dead silent.

“And if you like,” Benedict added brightly, “I can bring her upstairs to help.”

The sound Colin made was inhuman. A cross between a panicked goat and a kettle about to blow.

“NO!” he shouted. “Are you trying to kill me?!”

Benedict roared with laughter. “Just thought I’d offer. Love is about support, after all.”

Colin buried his face in the pillow. “You’re a demon.”

“And you,” Benedict said through a snort, “are going to need ice.”

He walked off, still laughing.

Colin stayed there, covered in shame and heat and the growing realization that he wasn’t just aroused—he was in it. Deep. No folder in the world could save him now.

Chapter Text

The knock at the front door was normal. Innocuous. Even friendly.

But for Colin Bridgerton, it may as well have been the sound of Judgment Day.

He was mid-sip of his third emergency coffee—still recovering from the emotional carnage of the morning—when Anthony called out casually from the hallway, “Colin! Get down here our friends have arrived!”

Which friend? He knew which friend.

His stomach twisted. His spine snapped straight like a soldier hearing the bugle. His phone slid from his grip, clattering screen-down onto the countertop as he scrambled to compose his face, his body, his soul.

Genevieve Delacroix walked in first like the fashionable Grim Reaper, armed with a designer handbag and murder in her eyes. Her cropped jacket was offensively well-tailored, her cigarette jeans clung like sin, and her sunglasses—perched like a crown of smug—glinted in the hallway light.

“Afternoon, darlings,” she called cheerfully. “Hope nobody died of horniness while I was gone.”

Benedict, already at the kitchen island, choked on his orange juice. A mist of citrus sprayed from his lips. “Subtle, Gen.”

And then Penelope appeared.

Colin forgot how to breathe.

She wore blue. Of course she wore blue—a gentle sky blue, specifically, that tragic, fateful shade that matched her eyes and haunted his imagination. The dress was deceptively simple: sleeveless, cinched just above her waist, fluttering around her thighs like it was whispering his name. Her hair was down—wild curls framing her face like a pre-Raphaelite dream. A gold necklace lay softly against her collarbone. Her lips shone. Her freckles glowed. Her everything radiated dangerous, radiant, goddess-tier beauty.

Colin’s brain did a hard reboot.

“Hey,” she said, smiling. “You okay?”

He had to consciously remember how to speak.

“Fine,” he croaked. “Totally fine. Great. Just—hydrating.”

She looked at the mug in his hand. “With coffee?”

“Iced coffee,” he clarified, even though it very much wasn’t.

Her brows lifted slightly. “At noon?”

“I like to live on the edge.”

Genevieve gave him a slow once-over and grinned. “You look flushed, Colin. Fever?”

“Just warm,” he muttered, tugging at his collar like it was throttling him.

Benedict strolled over, slapped a too-friendly hand on his back, and said brightly, “At least it’s not a visible fever this time.”

Colin stepped on his foot. Hard.

“Charming as ever,” Genevieve said, blowing Penelope an air kiss. “Darling, you look divine.”

“Oh, stop,” Penelope replied, her blush blooming in a way that made Colin want to throw himself into the koi pond. “You’re the one in Vogue every other week.”

“Yes, but I don’t have your curves. Or that hair. Or that quiet, ruinous power. Honestly, I’m beginning to suspect witchcraft.”

Penelope laughed, the sound light and unknowing. “I should hang out with you more. You’re good for my ego.”

“Careful,” Genevieve said. “I charge for emotional services.”

Colin stared at the two of them like a man on the edge. Penelope: luminous, devastating, twenty feet from the folder of doom that lived on his phone. Genevieve: smirking like she was minutes away from hitting “send” on the next round of lingerie hell. Benedict: quietly plotting chaos with his tea.

He turned away and busied himself pouring a fourth cup of coffee. His hands were shaking so badly he missed the mug.

“I think you’re at your caffeine limit,” Penelope murmured, stepping up beside him. “You’re vibrating.”

He flinched. “Am I?”

“Like a tuning fork.” She tilted her head. “You sure you’re okay?”

Yes. No. Absolutely not.

“I’m fine,” he lied, heart sprinting like it was trying to escape his chest.

She nudged his arm lightly. Her shoulder brushed his. Colin nearly saw the face of God.

“Okay, but if you collapse from heart palpitations, I’m not dragging you to A&E. That’s a Benedict job.”

“Rude,” Benedict called, not looking up from the pear he was slicing.

“You deserve it,” Penelope shot back, playful as ever.

Genevieve perched herself on the arm of the couch, crossing her legs like a model on set. “So, what’s the plan today, angels? Tequila? Chaos? Public nudity?”

“All three?” Benedict offered.

“Relaxed,” Anthony said, entering with his usual sigh of responsibility. “Dinner here, then the hot tub. Violet’s out until evening.”

Colin nearly dropped his mug again.

Hot tub.

Penelope.

In water. In a bikini.

He was not going to survive.

“Oh,” Penelope said brightly. “I didn’t bring a suit.”

“You can borrow one of mine,” Genevieve said. “I brought a few options.”

“Only if you’re okay with me stretching the fabric,” Penelope replied, and Colin saw his life flash before his eyes.

Genevieve grinned wickedly. “Darling, if the fabric doesn’t fear for its life, it’s not worth wearing.”

Colin excused himself before he could audibly whimper.

⸻

Colin escaped down the hallway like a man fleeing a crime scene.

He wasn’t sure where he was going—only that it had to be far away from the living room, the sundress, and the utterly unbothered way Penelope’s curls had bounced when she’d walked in.

Eventually, he ducked into the library and shut the door behind him with the kind of delicacy normally reserved for emergency surgery.

Books. Solitude. No thighs. No sundresses. No women who had unknowingly destroyed his life with a single corset photo.

He flung himself into a chair and dropped his head into his hands.

His brain was trying to crawl out of his skull. Every time he blinked, he saw her. That damn dress. That smile. The way her fingers touched his arm like it meant nothing—when it meant everything.

He was not fine.

He was spiraling.

And then—like a shark scenting blood—Eloise appeared.

She didn’t knock. She didn’t pause. She just shoved open the door and marched in like a prosecutor entering court.

“You,” she said, pointing, “sit up.”

Colin sat up.

Eloise Bridgerton was in her most dangerous form: hair pulled back in a barely-tamed bun, hoodie zipped to her chin, notebook clutched in one hand like a weapon, and righteous fury burning behind her eyes.

“I want answers.”

“Oh God,” Colin muttered. “Not you too.”

“Yes. Me. Your sister. The one you traumatized this morning with your—your situation at breakfast. You owe me therapy, by the way. And a new sense of safety.”

“It wasn’t—I didn’t mean—”

“You popped a visible boner because of my best friend,” she snapped. “At breakfast, Colin. While Mum was passing the butter.”

Colin groaned and covered his face again.

“Do you understand the emotional damage I’ve incurred? I will never look at sourdough the same way.”

“Please stop talking.”

“I can’t stop talking. Because now I know that you—my idiot brother—are harboring what appears to be a years-long, repressed, wildly horny crush on Penelope Featherington.”

Colin opened one eye. “It’s not just—horny.”

Eloise narrowed her gaze. “So it’s worse.”

“…Maybe.”

“Oh my God.”

“I didn’t plan this!” he hissed, standing up, pacing like a caged animal. “One day she was Pen, and the next she was Pen in red lipstick, laughing in the sun, and I was—gone. Just gone.”

Eloise stared at him.

“You’re in love with her.”

Colin stopped. “What?”

She folded her arms. “You heard me.”

He blinked.

“Penelope. My Penelope. You’re not just into her. You’re in love with her.”

Colin opened his mouth to argue. Nothing came out.

Because she was right.

He was. He so was.

It hit him like a wine bottle to the back of the head: all the late-night texts saved just to reread. All the little photos he’d taken not for lust—but because she looked beautiful when she smiled and he wanted to remember it. The way he watched her walk into a room and felt like the sun came in with her.

“Oh,” he breathed, going pale. “Shit. I’m in love with her.”

Eloise didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just stared at him like he’d suddenly turned into a particularly revolting piece of abstract art.

Then she said, quietly and with great certainty: “No. Nope. Absolutely not.”

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” he said helplessly.

“You don’t get to mean anything anymore,” she replied. “You just said the one thing I’ve been dreading for years.”

Colin winced.

Eloise stood up. Pacing now. Back and forth, small and tight.

“She’s Penelope,” Eloise said, slow and clipped. “Penelope. The girl who used to stay up all night with me watching Buffy reruns and practicing winged eyeliner on Gregory while he slept. The girl who once made me a personalized Spotify playlist titled ‘You Deserve Better Than the British Empire.’ She is my person, Colin. She is off-limits.”

She turned, ticking names off on her fingers. “Me. Ben. Ant. Daphne. Franny. Hyacinth. Gregory?… maybe—he’s feral and also has a crush on her—but the rest of us? Gone. You hurt her, you’re dead to us. Socially excommunicated. And I will replace your toothbrush with a toilet brush every single day for the rest of your life.”

Eloise leaned back slightly, arms still crossed. “She’s not some passing fascination. She’s not a summer fling or some sexy lingerie model who makes you feel things. She’s the person I trust with every version of myself. If you’re going to do this—if this is real—you better come correct.”

“You don’t make a move unless you’re absolutely sure you’re not going to screw it up. No half-arsed flirtation. No vague texts. No disappearing for three days when it gets hard. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“And if—and this is a massive if—anything actually happens between you two, I don’t want the details. None. No gory emotional updates. No ‘guess what Pen said last night.’ No dreamy sighing. And for the love of all that is holy, absolutely no romantic filthy grossness. If you ever use the words ‘slow burn’ in reference to your sex life, I will lobotomize myself with a spoon. I don’t want to know what she whispered. I don’t want to know where your hands were. I don’t want to know anything that might require me to bleach my brain or burn my ears shut with a curling iron. I want to live in a clean, sterile fantasy where you two are still just my hot mess best friend and my idiot brother. Can you give me that?”

“I can.”

She took a breath. “Also, if she ends up crying over you, I will drown you.”

Colin swallowed. “Fair.”

“In shallow water,” she added. “Just to emphasize how little effort it takes.”

He nodded solemnly. “Noted.”

“And if I ever see another one of those photos you keep in that cursed folder of yours, I’m deleting your entire iCloud account.”

“Understood.”

⸻

Dinner had been loud. Predictably chaotic. Someone spilled wine. Hyacinth won the evening’s award for Most Ruthless One-Liner. Gregory tried (and failed) to sneak a bite of dessert off Penelope’s plate. And Colin, for his part, had managed to keep his eyes mostly above her neckline.

Mostly.

He had also spent the entire meal hyper-aware of what was coming next: the hot tub.

He wasn’t ready.

He would never be ready.

Genevieve’s voice rang out from upstairs like a death knell. “Pen, the red one or the black one?”

Penelope’s laugh echoed in response. “God, I don’t know. Whichever one feels less scandalous.”

Scandalous.
The word echoed through Colin’s soul like a bell tolling at his execution.

He was seated on the back patio now, towel draped over his lap like a man preparing for war, trying very hard not to make eye contact with the hot tub. The jets were already running. Steam curled into the warm evening air. The LED lights under the water glowed in soft pinks and blues. It looked romantic. Inviting.

He wanted to throw himself into it and never resurface.

“Stop looking like you’re about to get baptized in sin,” Benedict said, sliding a beer across the table to him.

“I’m fine,” Colin muttered.

“You’re not.”

“I’m relaxed.”

“You’re holding your towel like a shield,” Benedict noted. “And sweating.”

Colin did not dignify that with a response.

And then—she appeared.

Penelope stepped through the back door, wrapped in a towel, cheeks flushed from laughing at something Genevieve had said. She slipped her sandals off and dropped her towel in one fluid movement.

And Colin died.

The bikini was… criminal.

Red. Scandalously red.
It was indecent in the way only something technically covering all the right places could be. The top tied behind her neck and across her back with strings so thin they barely qualified as fabric — more like whispers wrapped in sin.

And she was spilling out of it.

Full, soft, and perfectly curved, her cleavage looked engineered by some unholy goddess of temptation. It defied physics. It demanded attention. The delicate triangle cups clung to her like they’d given up trying to contain her and were simply holding on for dear life.

The bottoms were no better — high-waisted in that teasing retro cut that somehow made everything worse. They hugged her hips like a promise, cinching her waist, flaring over thighs that gleamed in the steam and made his brain short-circuit.

She wasn’t just wearing the bikini.

She was ruining him with it.

Colin’s soul tried to exit his body.

He immediately looked away. Then looked back. Then immediately regretted both.

Penelope caught his eye and smiled. “You coming in?”

Absolutely not.

“Y-yeah,” he croaked. “Just… letting the food settle.”

Genevieve followed behind her, already in a strappy black one-piece that probably cost more than Colin’s rent. She climbed into the tub with the grace of a sea witch and sighed. “Perfect.”

Penelope slipped in beside her, shoulder brushing hers, and let out a soft, relaxed sound that did something catastrophic to Colin’s nervous system.

Benedict tossed his towel aside and bounded in with no sense of dignity. Water splashed across the patio.

“Grow up,” Genevieve muttered, scooting closer to Penelope, who laughed and held up her wine glass to shield herself.

Colin stood to join them and the only available seat left? Beside her.

Of course.

Colin moved like a man being led to the gallows. He slid into the hot tub, his leg immediately brushing hers under the water. She smiled at him.

He did not smile back. He was using all available brain power to avoid spontaneous combustion.

The tub was full now—Hyacinth on one side, Gregory wedged between her and Benedict, and Eloise perched on the edge, legs in, fully clothed, judging all of them.

Anthony was parked in a lounge chair with a drink in hand, saying nothing, but absolutely watching.

“Bit warm, isn’t it?” Benedict asked casually.

“Lovely night,” Genevieve agreed, sipping wine.

Colin stared at the opposite wall.

“You look tense, darling,” Genevieve added. “Not relaxing well?”

“I’m fine,” Colin ground out. “Just letting the heat sink in.”

Eloise narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re unwell.”

“I’m not.” Colin said, which would have been more convincing if his voice didn’t crack on air.

Gregory raised a brow. “You alright, man? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Or a really good pair of tits,” Genevieve added smirking devilishly.

Colin coughed. “Can we not?”

“Oh come on,” Benedict said, far too smug. “Let’s talk about something meaningful. Like… folders.”

Colin flinched.

Genevieve perked up. “Oh yes. The Receipts folder.”

Penelope’s brow furrowed. “Receipts?”

“Nope,” Colin said instantly.

“Odd name for a travel folder,” Benedict mused.

Genevieve hummed. “Do you organize them by region, or by body part?”

Penelope laughed. “Wait—what?”

Eloise rolled her eyes. “Nothing. Ignore them. They’ve been drunk since dinner.”

Anthony sipped his drink. “Not drunk. Observant.”

Colin sank lower into the water.

“You do seem very invested in hiding something,” Genevieve added sweetly.

“I’m not hiding anything.”

Penelope tilted her head, suspicious. “Sounds like you’re hiding something.”

“I’m not.”

“Then what’s in the folder?”

“Spreadsheets,” he lied. “Very boring.”

Genevieve grinned. “Mmm. Yes. Very… stimulating spreadsheets.”

Eloise glared at them all. “Can we please not talk about this in front of people who are emotionally pure?”

“I am absolutely not emotionally pure,” Hyacinth said immediately.

Gregory nodded. “She stabbed me with a fork last week.”

“I had a reason,” she replied.

Colin looked at Penelope, whose brow was still slightly furrowed. “It’s nothing,” he said. “Just Benedict and Gen being weird.”

She gave a little shrug, unconvinced but amused.

“You’re very protective of your files,” she said.

He smiled weakly. “I just… like to keep things private.”

Her eyes lingered a second too long. “Right.”

Colin stared straight ahead. He was too hot. The water was too close. Her leg was still against his. Her skin shimmered under the lights. He needed divine intervention or a well-aimed meteor.

“Anyway,” Benedict said, clinking glasses with Genevieve, “cheers to… hidden desires.”

“I hate you,” Colin muttered.

Genevieve winked. “That’s fair.”

Penelope leaned closer, lowering her voice. “You’re blushing.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You so are.”

She grinned—utterly unaware of what she was doing to him—and shifted again. Her arm brushed his.

And Colin, poor bastard, sat there in silence, drowning in steam, skin, and secrets, clutching desperately to the last threads of his composure. He was sweating—not from the heat, but from sheer emotional claustrophobia.

His thigh was still touching Penelope’s. Her shoulder brushed his every time she laughed. And everyone else in the tub had caught a fresh case of “Let’s Ruin Colin’s Night.”

“So,” Hyacinth began, swirling the straw in her ridiculous fruity drink, “this mystery folder. It’s not financial. It’s not travel. It’s not spreadsheets. Which leads me to believe it’s romantic.”

“I’m going to drown myself now,” Colin muttered.

Benedict raised a brow. “You’re avoiding the subject, which is suspicious. The man’s got a crush. A real one.”

“An active crush,” Genevieve added. “Fresh. Alive. Throbbing, one might say.”

“Can you not use that word,” Eloise said, wrinkling her nose. “This is still a family setting.”

“Must be someone pretty special,” Penelope added, voice soft but playful.

Colin nearly choked on air.

Anthony grinned. “Oh, it’s definitely more than a little crush. The man has visual aids.”

“I do not—” Colin tried.

“You do,” Benedict cut in. “Don’t deny it. We’ve seen the evidence.”

Penelope tilted her head. “Wait, you guys actually saw what was in the folder?”

“Nope,” Eloise said firmly. “And I don’t want to. I like my sanity.”

“I glimpsed,” Benedict said with the casual flair of someone about to drop a bomb. “Strappy. Suspiciously high-definition.”

Colin groaned. “Benedict—”

“Look,” Genevieve said, raising both hands innocently, “we’re not naming names. We’re simply… speculating. Gently.”

“This is not gentle,” Colin muttered.

Anthony—still outside the tub, drink in hand—sighed like a weary general. “I just want to know if I need to prepare for family fallout or a wedding toast.”

Colin made a strangled noise.

Penelope laughed. “This is comforting, honestly. You’re all still as unhinged as ever.”

“And proud,” Hyacinth said, raising her glass.

Eloise deadpanned. “We aim for consistency.”

“Anyway,” Gregory said, resting his chin on his hand like he was hosting a talk show, “this person… do they know? The mystery crush?”

Colin did not answer.

“Ah,” Benedict said, pointing. “That’s a no.”

Penelope looked intrigued. “Wait, they don’t know? That’s kind of romantic.”

“It’s something,” Colin muttered.

“Do we know them?” Hyacinth asked, eyes gleaming with the thrill of a new game.

“I mean,” Benedict drawled, “we’re assuming he didn’t just fall for some random barista named Clover.”

“Could be a barista,” Gregory said. “Colin does love coffee.”

“He does not keep a thirst folder of his cappuccino girl,” Eloise deadpanned.

Penelope giggled. “It could be someone he met traveling?”

“Oh, he definitely knows her,” Genevieve said confidently. “Possibly… knows her well.”

Colin said nothing.

Anthony sipped his drink. “Anyone local?”

“I’m not doing this,” Colin said. “I refuse to be bullied like this.”

“You’re a Bridgerton” Eloise replied. “It comes with the territory.”

Penelope grinned. “You are acting a little suspicious.”

“You’re all acting a lot invasive.”

“We’re curious!” Hyacinth sang.

“Nosy,” Eloise corrected.

“Deeply invested,” Genevieve added.

Benedict leaned back with his arms spread along the edge of the tub. “You could just tell us. Save yourself the stress.”

Penelope sipped her drink, then nudged Colin’s knee under the water, playfully. “Come on. Give us a clue.”

Colin tried not to flinch. Or combust. Or die.

“A first name?” Hyacinth prompted. “An initial?”

“An emoji?” Gregory offered.

“Is it someone older?” Hyacinth asked.

“Or younger?” Gregory followed up.

“Is she terrifyingly brilliant?” Hyacinth asked. “That would track.”

“Is it someone Mum would approve of?” Gregory asked, still maddeningly calm.

Penelope tilted her head at him. “Do you like people who are a little chaotic?”

Colin stared at the bubbles.

“I think it’s someone close,” Benedict said, tapping his glass against the edge. “Someone accessible. Someone who makes you unravel like …..wet string.”

Colin made direct eye contact with no one.

“No guesses?” Penelope asked, clearly enjoying the torture.

“No guesses,” Colin replied through gritted teeth.

“Well,” she said, swirling her wine with mock solemnity, “whoever she is… she’s lucky. You’re very… intense when you like someone.”

“Thanks,” Colin said, blinking like a man in crisis.

Genevieve raised her glass. “To mystery crushes and incriminating folders.”

“May they stay mysterious,” Eloise said. “For the sake of my mental health.”

Colin was going to die.

Not metaphorically. Not dramatically.

Just clinically, medically, absolutely die in this very hot tub.

Because Penelope Featherington, his oldest friend and newest reason for religious guilt, had just shifted positions in her seat — arms lifted, red bikini stretching dangerously tight across her chest — and Colin’s brain had short-circuited.

He stared down into the water so hard he was surprised it didn’t boil.

The bikini was… a war crime. That was the only explanation. Deep red, snug in every place that made his thoughts profoundly impure, the top tied behind her neck in a way that looked like it could come undone with the flick of a finger — something his own fingers were currently itching, aching, burning to do.

Penelope was talking. Laughing. Her curls were damp, cheeks flushed from the heat, water beading down the line of her collarbone and disappearing into the impossible plunge of her neckline.

He couldn’t hear a word she was saying.

Because her chest — her actual chest — was six inches away from his arm. Glowing. Perfect. Sin incarnate.

“Feeling alright there, brother?” Benedict asked casually, lounging back with his wine.

Colin blinked hard. “What?”

“You’ve gone all pink,” Genevieve noted, far too cheerfully. “Blushing, are we?”

“I’m not blushing.”

“You are definitely blushing,” she said, eyes glinting.

“I’m warm.”

“It’s a hot tub,” Benedict said. “We’re all warm. But only you look like you’ve seen the face of God.”

Colin made the mistake of glancing at Penelope.

She was smiling at something Gregory had said, and as she laughed, the bikini top shifted again — just slightly. A single drop of water slid down the swell of her breast and disappeared beneath the fabric.

Colin made a sound.

An unholy, involuntary sound.

A problematic sound.

Penelope turned to him, brows lifting. “You alright?”

“Fine,” he rasped, voice about twelve octaves too high.

“Are you sure?” she asked gently, reaching out and laying her hand on his forearm. “You look a little… off.”

Her fingers were wet. Warm. Soft. Her thumb brushed his skin. The contact was completely innocent.

It destroyed him.

He needed to get out. Now. Before he said something dumb or something else gave him away.

Colin shifted forward like he was going to stand, hands gripping the tub edge.

He got exactly halfway up.

And froze.

Because the water shifted, and so did his towel — or would have, had he moved — and the situation in his trunks made it very clear that getting out was no longer an option.

Panic flared in his eyes. Abort. Abort.

He sat back down so fast he nearly caused a wave.

Everyone blinked.

“Everything alright there?” Benedict asked, eyes sharp as razors.

Colin cleared his throat. “Yep.”

“Looked like you were going to stand.”

“Changed my mind.”

“Did you?” Benedict said slowly, tilting his head like a cat with a dying mouse. “Because it really looked like you were about to leap out of here like a man late for a conference call.”

Colin stared into the middle distance. “Just remembered I’m… perfectly comfortable.”

Benedict’s gaze dipped — subtly, but deliberately — to Colin’s lap, then flicked back up with the evilest glint known to man.

“Ohhh,” he said, dragging the sound out like a melody. “Right. Perfectly comfortable.”

Genevieve choked on her drink.

Colin shot daggers at Benedict. Actual daggers.

Penelope blinked. “What did I miss?”

“Nothing!” Colin snapped.

“Absolutely nothing,” Benedict said innocently, grinning like the devil in a robe.

Genevieve buried her face in her wineglass, shoulders shaking.

Colin muttered. “I’m going to voluntarily drown.”

“Can’t,” Benedict replied cheerfully. “That would only draw attention to you. And… you know.” He gestured vaguely under the water, as if explaining an ancient curse.

Penelope’s brow furrowed. “You’re all acting weirder than usual.”

“Weirder than usual is our usual,” Hyacinth said, kicking Gregory gently.

“No, this is specific,” Penelope insisted, narrowing her eyes at Colin. “You’ve barely looked me in the eye since I got here.”

Colin wanted the earth to crack open and eat him.

Eloise, still perched silently above the fray, narrowed her eyes. Watching. She knew exactly what was happening. But she said nothing.

Penelope turned to Colin. “Is it me? Did I do something?”

Colin’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

“You did nothing,” he said — which, ironically, was the problem.

She smiled a little. “So it’s not about my bikini?”

He made a sound. An awful, strangled, undignified sound that may have once been human.

Benedict snorted so hard he splashed wine on his own chest.

“I’m kidding,” Penelope added, laughing, and leaned back again — fully unaware of the absolute crisis she had just deepened.

Her chest lifted just enough to breach the waterline again, shimmering droplets rolling across flushed skin. Colin bit the inside of his cheek so hard it nearly bled.

Genevieve finally surfaced from her glass. “So… who wants more wine?”

“I want death,” Colin muttered.

Benedict leaned over, voice low enough for only Colin to hear. “Mate,” he said, eyes gleaming, “you’re gonna need to get out of this tub eventually.”

Colin didn’t answer. He just stared forward like a soldier at war, waiting for the enemy to finish him off.

“Alright,” Genevieve announced, dragging herself up with a splash. “Wine run. I’m not surviving this night without topping up.”

“I’ll come,” Penelope said, brushing water from her arms and standing, towel in hand.

Eloise sighed. “If it means you’ll stop yelling the word ‘throbbing,’ I’ll supervise.”

“I only yelled it once,” Genevieve called over her shoulder, already halfway across the patio.

The three women disappeared inside, leaving the remaining Bridgerton chaos in bubbling silence.

Colin did not move.

Because he couldn’t.

His body was still in open rebellion, and Benedict was smirking beside him like a man with front-row tickets to a slow-motion car crash.

“Still holding the line, soldier?” Benedict asked, faux-sympathetic.

Colin didn’t respond.

“I mean, credit where it’s due. That was the most heroic half-stand-fake-sit I’ve ever seen. Bravo.”

“I hate you.”

“I know,” Benedict said cheerfully. “It’s what keeps me going.”

⸻

Inside, in the kitchen…

Penelope toweled off her arms while Genevieve rummaged through a cabinet for backup bottles.

“I’m not usually this exposed in public.” Penelope said softly. “Like… does this look too much?” She gestured vaguely to herself—the bikini, the damp hair, the bare legs she hadn’t thought twice about until Colin had started acting like he was being waterboarded.

Eloise blinked. “Too much?”

“You look hot,” Genevieve said flatly, muffled by a cabinet door. “And I mean that in a completely objective, empowering way.”

Penelope blushed. “I didn’t mean— I just… Colin’s been acting strange.”

Eloise straightened. “Colin’s always strange.”

“Stranger than usual,” Penelope clarified. “Did I… say something?”

Eloise opened her mouth. Closed it. “He probably just has indigestion. Or saw one of Gregory’s search histories.”

Genevieve popped up from behind the bar. “Or he’s hiding a Very Complicated Crush Situation and unraveling in real time.”

Eloise shot her a death glare.

Penelope blinked. “What?”

“Nothing!” Genevieve chirped. “Let’s get this wine back outside before the boys drink pool water out of desperation.”

Penelope hesitated for a second longer, then shook her head and followed.

⸻

Back outside…

Hyacinth yawned theatrically and splashed Gregory. “I’m going in. If I stay out here any longer, my skin’s going to prune off.”

Gregory stretched, water sloshing. “Yeah. I’ve hit my sibling banter limit.”

“Ten minutes ago,” Eloise called.

They toweled off and retreated toward the house, bickering all the way. Anthony, lounging nearby with a whiskey in hand, stood as well.

“I’m going to bed,” he said, voice laced with warning. “I don’t want to come back out here and find a flaming pool float or an emotional crisis.”

“Then don’t come back,” Benedict said brightly.

Anthony gave him a long-suffering look. “Behave.”

He left.

And then it was just the two brothers and the returning women—bottles clinking, laughter light.

Colin shifted uncomfortably as they came down the steps. His… problem was mostly under control now, but the visual reminder of Penelope in that sinful bikini made him reflexively brace like he was about to be hit by a car.

Genevieve handed him a glass. “You look like you’ve aged five years since we left.”

Colin took the wine. “That’s optimistic.”

Benedict leaned in. “Welcome back. Nothing exploded. Yet.”

Genevieve winked. “Only his soul.”

Penelope returned to her seat beside Colin without hesitation, her thigh brushing his once again like it was nothing.

To him, it was everything.

He took a long sip of wine.

A very long sip. He was losing his grip on reality.

The heat wasn’t helping. Neither was the wine. But mostly, it was her.

Penelope. In that red bikini. Still beside him.

Every time she shifted, water slid down her collarbone and disappeared into the very top of her suit — and Colin’s brain short-circuited like a toaster in a thunderstorm.

She was glowing in the low light, curls damp, skin soft and flushed, utterly unaware of the slow, torturous unraveling she’d caused just by existing.

He tried to stare at the bubbles. At the sky. Anywhere but her chest.

It wasn’t working.

And of course, Benedict noticed.

He leaned toward Colin, voice low, the smirk practically audible.
“You’re still in a bit of a… vertical predicament, aren’t you?”

Colin didn’t look at him. “Go to hell.”

“Tempting,” Benedict whispered. “But I’d rather stay here and watch you suffer.”

Genevieve caught the exchange, eyes glinting. She passed her wine to the edge of the tub, stretched luxuriously, and said, “Well, I’m officially wine-soft and waterlogged.”

She stood, steam rising around her, water trailing down her legs. “I’m going in.”

Eloise raised her glass slightly. “Please take Benedict before he starts narrating Colin’s slow collapse like a nature documentary.”

Penelope gave a short laugh but didn’t move.

Benedict stood, still grinning. “I’ve seen enough. I’m off to emotionally damage a sibling via text.”

Genevieve waved a hand at Colin as she stepped out. “Don’t drown in the bubbles, darling.”

“Not planning to.”

Benedict leaned down on his way past and murmured directly in Colin’s ear, smug and slow:
“Breathe through it.”

Colin barely resisted the urge to shove him into the nearest hedge.

Eloise was the last to climb out, pausing at the edge. She glanced at Penelope, then Colin, her expression unreadable.

“You two coming in?”

Colin opened his mouth. Then closed it.

“I’ll stay out a bit longer,” he said. “Cool off.”

Penelope looked up, surprised. “Same.”

Eloise hesitated, eyes narrowing—then said nothing.

She turned and left without a word.

Colin was suddenly aware of everything: the crickets, the night breeze, the slow swirl of bubbles.

And Penelope, still beside him.

Just the two of them now.

She leaned back, sighing contentedly. “God, I forgot how nice this is.”

“Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “It’s… nice.”

She turned her head slightly toward him, lashes low. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You’ve been acting weird. Twitchy. Distracted.”

Colin gripped the edge of the tub. “Tired, maybe.”

Penelope watched him for a second longer. Then gave him a small smile and tilted her head back to the stars.

He followed her gaze, pretending to do the same.

But all he could feel was the warmth of her thigh against his under the water. The faint, impossible scent of her skin. The fact that they were alone, and quiet, and she was close enough to kiss if he leaned just slightly—

Nope. Nope.

He looked up instead. Into the stars. Into salvation.

And she sat there beside him, unwitting, lovely, and quietly lethal.

Colin Bridgerton was officially doomed.

Chapter Text

The steam rising off the hot tub made everything feel a little hazy, like a dream wrapped in candlelight. Or a hallucination. Colin wasn’t entirely sure which, because Penelope Featherington was sitting beside him in a red bikini and he hadn’t had a coherent thought in twenty-three minutes.

She was utterly at ease. He was actively dying.

Penelope took a sip of her wine and glanced at him, eyes warm and inquisitive.

“You’ve been weird all day,” she said softly.

Colin blinked. “I haven’t.”

“You so have.” She gave him a small, knowing smile. “You barely said a word at dinner. You dropped your phone twice. And when Benedict made that joke about your ‘mystery crush,’ you looked like you wanted to crawl inside the cutlery drawer and never come out.”

Colin winced. “It wasn’t that dramatic.”

“You used your napkin as a decoy shield. That’s dramatic.”

He groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I was trying to preserve some dignity.”

“Bold of you to assume you had any left.”

He laughed despite himself. God, she was quick. Even when she was being gentle, there was always that flicker of sharpness—like her words wore heels.

She turned slightly toward him, drawing her legs up under the bubbles. “So? Are you going to tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

She raised a brow. “The girl. The one you’ve apparently been pining for.”

He looked straight ahead, into the blur of steam and string lights. “There’s not much to tell.”

“Try me.”

Colin exhaled, heart racing. “She’s… funny.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Sharp. A little terrifying, to be honest.”

Penelope tilted her head, encouraging.

“She’s got this way of looking at people—like she already knows what they’re going to say but lets them embarrass themselves anyway.”

“That sounds vaguely mean.”

“It’s not,” he said quickly. “It’s brilliant. It’s like she sees straight through everyone’s nonsense.”

Penelope swallowed, smile faltering. “Okay. What else?”

“She’s… so clever it’s actually annoying,” Colin went on, smiling now. “Like, she’ll correct your grammar and then quote a sitcom to make you feel better about it.”

“That’s specific.”

“Don’t interrupt, I’m on a roll,” he said, and she smiled again, faintly. “She’s gorgeous, obviously. But not in the way that stops conversations—more like in the way that ruins you slowly. You look at her and feel better. Then worse. Then like you need a cold shower and a therapy appointment.”

Penelope laughed, quietly. “Okay, that’s poetic. And worrying.”

Colin didn’t stop. “She makes everyone feel seen. Like… really seen. Like she stores your quirks in a mental drawer and pulls them out just when you forget who you are.”

He risked a glance at her. Penelope’s lips were slightly parted, wineglass forgotten in her lap.

“And,” he added, softer now, “she has this laugh that’s absolutely ruined my brain chemistry. I could be in the middle of a hurricane and still hear it.”

She was very still.

He should stop. He should definitely stop.

But she said nothing. Just waited.

So he gave her the last piece.

“She’s always been there. Always. And I never really saw her properly until it was too late.”

There was a long pause. Penelope looked down at her hands, voice a little too light when she asked, “And she doesn’t know?”

Colin shook his head. “Not really. No.”

She nodded slowly. “Are you… you sure it’s not Gen?”

“What?” he blinked. “No. God, no.”

“She’s loud. Stylish. Intimidating. A chaos demon. Seems like your type.”

“She’s Benedict’s chaos demon,” Colin muttered.

“Still. She’s the one who mentioned the folder.”

Colin shifted uncomfortably. “I know.”

Penelope set her wineglass on the tub’s ledge. “So. Tell me about it.”

He blinked. “What?”

“The folder. I’ve been hearing about it in whispers all day. From Benedict. From Gen. From Eloise, who keeps dry-heaving every time she looks at you.” She turned to him, voice gentle but teasing. “What’s in it?”

Colin didn’t answer immediately.

Penelope grinned. “Spreadsheets?”

He groaned.

“Travel itineraries?”

“Pen…”

“Photos of your croissant obsession?”

Before he could respond, a familiar voice bellowed from above.

“ARE WE TALKING ABOUT THE FOLDER AGAIN?” Benedict’s head popped out of the window, grinning like a man watching live entertainment.

Colin groaned and flopped back against the side of the tub. “No. No, we are not.”

“Oh, I think we are,” Genevieve’s voice joined in, gleeful. “Finally! I’ve been waiting for this moment since I saw her straddle a bar stool in thigh-highs.”

Penelope blinked up at them. “Are you two drunk?”

“Yes,” Benedict said proudly. “And emotionally invested.”

“Can we not do this right now?” Colin called.

“Absolutely not,” Genevieve chirped. “Pen, you want the truth about that folder? Because I’ve seen it.”

“Gen—”

“No, no,” she continued, ignoring Colin’s groan. “The man has been quietly obsessed with a certain redhead for months.”

Penelope froze.

Colin shot her a panicked look. “I swear, she’s exaggerating—”

“I am not.” Genevieve grinned. “The folder is full of you.”

Silence.

Penelope blinked once. “What?”

“Penelope Featherington, front and center,” Genevieve went on, raising her wineglass in salute. “There’s one of you at that picnic last spring? You’re lying on a blanket, hair all curly, grinning at a sandwich or something. And he has three variations of it. Three.”

Colin sank into the water, whispering, “I’m dissolving into the bubbles now. Don’t stop me.”

“Oh, and the video of you dancing at Daphne’s party?” Genevieve added brightly. “He slowed it down. I’m serious. I watched it in slow motion.”

Penelope turned to Colin slowly. “Wait… seriously?”

“I didn’t slow it down,” Colin mumbled. “That’s just how the camera recorded it.”

Genevieve snorted. “Sure it did.”

Penelope blinked again. “And that’s what’s in the folder?”

Colin hesitated.

Benedict leaned out farther. “Oh, she doesn’t know the best part yet.”

“Nope,” Colin snapped. “You are not—”

“He’s got your lingerie campaign, darling.”

A beat of silence. Even the hot tub bubbles seemed to stop.

Penelope’s voice was flat. “I’m sorry?”

Colin went red from his chest to his ears. “It wasn’t like that. Gen sent them—”

“I sent them as a gift,” Genevieve said proudly. “I didn’t expect him to fall to his knees in spiritual crisis.”

Colin winced. “Pen—please don’t be mad.”

Penelope didn’t speak. She just stared at him, blinking, a hand covering her mouth.

“I know it sounds… awful,” Colin said, mortified. “But I wasn’t trying to be creepy. I didn’t share them. I didn’t laugh. Or objectify you. Or—well, okay, maybe a little—but mostly I just sat there and had a meltdown over how utterly, unfairly beautiful you are.”

Still, Penelope said nothing.

“I’m sorry,” he added, quieter now. “I know I’m a pervert.”

Finally, finally, she let out a breath.

Then a small smile tugged at the corner of her lips.

“That,” she said, softly but firmly, “is the hottest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

Colin blinked. “What?”

She turned to him fully, curls clinging to her shoulders, a warm, stunned kind of laughter in her eyes. “You made a folder. Of me. Not some influencer or actress or fantasy woman. Just Me.”

He blinked. “Yeah.”

Penelope shook her head, smiling now. “That’s insane.”

“Accurate.”

“And kind of flattering.”

Colin sat back against the edge of the tub, exhaling in relief. “That’s not what I thought you’d say.”

“You thought I’d scream?”

“Or run. Or throw wine in my face. Or cry. Or tell your mother.”

“Should I?”

“Definitely not. Please don’t tell Portia”

She laughed again, quieter this time. “You’re really… something, Bridgerton.”

“Something you might want to take for a test drive?”

She didn’t answer right away.

And then—because the universe has no respect for timing—Benedict cued his Bluetooth speaker and Marvin Gaye’s “Let’s Get It On” began blaring from the window.

Colin groaned.

Penelope burst out laughing, head tilted back. “They really think we’re doing it, huh?”

Colin reached for the awning control panel. The electric cover whirred softly overhead, slowly unfolding to shield them from view.

“They’re not getting a show,” he said. “Not tonight.”

And Penelope leaned closer, smiling still.

The awning extended overhead with a soft, whirring hum—shielding them from the house, the moon, and, most importantly, the window above where Benedict Bridgerton and Genevieve Delacroix were stationed like deranged Greek chorus members.

As the last strip of canvas unfurled into place, a collective cheer echoed from above.

“OI!” Benedict called, voice already slurred with wine and glee. “OBSTRUCTION OF ENTERTAINMENT!”

Genevieve’s voice followed, theatrical and tipsy: “We were promised skin, Bridgerton! I demand at least a silhouette!”

“I beg you—let me seduce in peace!”
Colin shouted up.

“You don’t need help!” Benedict cackled. “You need privacy. And stamina. And—OH LOOK, I GAVE YOU A PLAYLIST.”

From the open window, Marvin Gaye’s “Let’s Get It On” continued to blare out triumphantly. The bassline thumped like a heartbeat through the garden.

Penelope, still sitting comfortably on Colin’s lap, blinked once. “He made a sex playlist.”

Colin groaned. “I’m going to have him excommunicated.”

“It’s romantic!

“It’s public indecency via Bluetooth!”

Penelope giggled, pressing her fingers to her lips. The bubbles danced around them, steam curling into the enclosed space.

The music played on:
🎶 “We’re all sensitive people / With so much to give…” 🎶

Above them, Genevieve’s voice rang out again: “Darling, if I don’t hear moaning within the next three minutes, I’m jumping!”

“Shhhh guys!” Penelope called, laughing now.

“Don’t shush me!” Genevieve howled. “I shipped you!”

Penelope leaned back against the bubbling edge, her wine glass forgotten on the ledge behind her. Her skin glowed in the soft pink light beneath the water, damp curls resting against her bare shoulders.

Colin watched her carefully, heart pounding.

She hadn’t run.
She hadn’t screamed.
She had called it “the hottest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

And now she was looking at him like he was something worth unwrapping.

He cleared his throat. “So… we’re okay?”

Penelope’s eyes flicked to his. “Are you asking if I’m offended?”

His ears burned. “I really hope not—”

“You made a folder.”

He looked away. “I’m aware.”

“With lingerie photos.”

“That was not the intention. Gen ambushed me.”

“You kept them.”

“…Also aware.”

Penelope tilted her head, lips quirking. “How long?”

Colin blinked. “What?”

“How long have you… been collecting me?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Since… probably that day at the park. You were in that green dress. The one with the little buttons. I took a photo to show Eloise how good the lighting was, and then—” He stopped, visibly embarrassed. “Then I didn’t delete it.”

Her expression didn’t change, but something flickered behind her eyes.

“You looked like something out of a film,” he added quietly. “Like a girl you fall in love with on a train platform and never see again.”

Penelope bit her lip. She was still. Too still.

He rushed to fill the silence. “I know it’s weird. And selfish. And maybe a little pervy. I swear I never meant for anyone to see it. I would’ve deleted the whole thing if I’d known—”

“Don’t.”

He blinked. “Don’t?”

“Don’t delete it.”

Colin stared at her.

“I don’t want you to,” she said, barely above a whisper. “I… I like knowing you saw me. That way.”

Their eyes locked briefly. The air shifted. Thicker now. Charged.

Penelope turned to him, eyes glittering with mischief. “You know… they can’t see us anymore.”

“Tragically for them,” Colin said, trying to keep his voice even.

“But they can still hear things.”

Colin blinked. “That sounds vaguely threatening.”

She smirked. “Should we give them something to talk about?”

Colin let out a strangled sound.
Okay. Okay. Deep breaths.
She was just sitting there. Being hot.
His balls were officially aching. His cock was demanding answers.
And if she licked her lips one more time, he was going to black out and wake up French kissing a jet stream.

“I’m dangerously close to malfunctioning,” he whispered.

Penelope grinned. “Good.”

🎶 “Let’s love, baby…” 🎶

Then—slowly, deliberately—Penelope lifted her arms.

“Pen,” he said warily.

Her fingers drifted behind her neck.

“Wait—what are you—”

She untied the knot.

The red bikini top slipped beneath the water with the barest ripple.

Colin made a sound like a prayer and a panic attack rolled into one.

Penelope grinned, entirely unbothered. “You okay there?”

He cleared his throat. “Define ‘okay.’”

She glided toward him, the bubbles high enough to veil, just barely. He instinctively backed up. She followed.

And then—without preamble—she straddled his lap.

Colin froze.

Her legs slid alongside his beneath the surface, anchoring across his thighs. Her skin on his. Her bare chest just beneath the surface, breath warming his cheek.

“Pen,” he choked, “Jesus Christ, give a man ten seconds to prepare!”

“Oh no—oops,” she said silkily. “… am I distracting you?”
(She then rolled her hips slowly, just to prove the point)

He was trying desperately to maintain eye contact. He failed.

Then—

She paused.

Her brow lifted. “Oh.”

Colin went rigid. “Oh no.”

She glanced downward. Or at least, in that general direction.

“Oh,” she said again, slower. This time, it was less surprised and more… fascinated.

“I can explain.”

“You could have warned me. Jesus, Bridgerton.”

“I swear I wasn’t—”

“You were…. Christ, that’s… impressive.”

“Okay, yes, but I did not will it’s appearance on purpose—”

She tilted her head, hand splaying over his chest. “Okay, now I am afraid. But like, in a fun way.”

Colin groaned into his hands. “Please don’t say that.”

Penelope’s eyes sparkled. “So that’s what was happening under all that fidgeting.”

“I was trying to hide it!”

“Darling… there’s no hiding a weapon like that.”

She was laughing now. Quiet. Low. Dangerous.

Then she leaned in, breath hot against his jaw.

“Do you know how long I’ve wanted you to look at me like this?” she whispered.

He didn’t trust himself to speak.

She shifted, hips pressing into him, and he nearly came undone.

“Do you know how many nights I’ve imagined being this close to you?” she added. “Touching you. Feeling you shake like this.”

“Penelope—”

“I’ve loved you for years,” she said. “But this… this is different.”

He blinked. “Different how?”

She brushed her lips against his ear.

“I want to ruin you.”

Colin gasped.

“I want you wrecked,” she continued. “I want the man who hoarded my laugh and lingerie and freckles to fall apart with my hands in his hair.”

“Holy hell.”

“Do you still think you’re the pervert in this tub?” she whispered, mouth brushing his cheek.

“I’m not sure what I think anymore.”

She brushed his lips with hers.
“No more secret folders,” she said. “We make the next one together.”

Colin blinked. “You mean—”

“You direct, I undress. Equal partnership.”

He nearly blacked out as she leaned in.

Their lips met.

It was soft at first. Testing. Asking. Her mouth on his—featherlight, then firmer, her hands finding his face, his neck, then curling into his hair.

Colin groaned into the kiss.

His hands slid to her waist, then up—holding her, grounding her, fingers brushing the warm skin of her bare shoulders. She melted into him, hips pressing tighter, kiss deepening. His head spun.

Above, muffled slightly through the awning:
🎶 “There’s nothing wrong with me loving you…” 🎶

And then—

“Should we be concerned?” Benedict’s voice echoed faintly.

“Only if she drowns him with her thighs,” Genevieve muttered.

Penelope burst out laughing, forehead falling against Colin’s shoulder. “We have to stop them.”

“I’m not sure we can. They’ve gone feral.”

“Let’s distract them.”

“With what?”

She pulled back, smiled, and kissed him again.

This kiss was different—less gentle, more intent. Her hands slid into his hair, fingers curling tight. His arms locked around her waist, and he pulled her flush against him, breath catching as she pressed down.

And upstairs—

“DID YOU HEAR THAT?” Benedict screamed. “THAT WAS A SPLASH. A MOVEMENT SPLASH.”

“Definitely a shift,” Genevieve confirmed. “Vocal register change. Possibly hands in hair. Possibly lap straddling. Possibly—OH MY GOD, BENEDICT, WHAT IF THEY’RE DOING IT RIGHT NOW?”

“THEY’RE DEFINITELY DOING SOMETHING.”

Colin’s hands gripped the edge of the tub.
“I swear to God, I will break that Bluetooth cable in half.”

Penelope arched closer, lips brushing his jaw.
“Break me first.”

Colin barked out a laugh that sounded more like a plea.
“Sweetheart, you’re playing with fire. Say it again, and I’ll make sure you forget how to stand.”

“We’re mid-moment, Bridgerton.” she whispered, pulling him back in. “Stay focused.”

The music carried on, They were deep in it now—They’d moved past kissing and straight into “hello, tonsils, nice to meet you” territory.
🎶 “Don’t you know how sweet and wonderful life can be…” 🎶

“Oh my God,” Benedict said again. “They’re suddenly quiet. They’ve never been quiet. That’s a red flag!”

“Very suspicious silence,” Genevieve agreed. “Too much ambiance. I don’t trust it.”

“They’re definitely kissing.”

“Definitely.”

Benedict gasped. “Do you think she’s still wearing the bikini?”

“OH MY GOD, BENEDICT,” Genevieve shrieked, “I WILL PAY YOU TO SHUT UP.”

Colin groaned against her skin. “They’ve truly lost it.”

Penelope giggled softly. “We should be embarrassed.”

“I passed embarrassment ten minutes ago.”

“Colin,” Genevieve shouted, “if I don’t hear moaning soon, I’m making you an educational PowerPoint!”

“WITH GRAPHICS!” Benedict added.

“You two have no shame,” Penelope called breathlessly.

“You’re welcome!” they sang in unison.

🎶 “Come on, come on, come on, come on, come on, darlin’…” 🎶

Penelope kissed the corner of Colin’s mouth. Then his jaw. Her hands smoothed down his chest, then back up to his neck. The kiss turned deeper. Hungrier. Their bodies shifted, hands grasping. Colin couldn’t think. Could barely breathe.

“You’re shaking,” she murmured.

“You’re half-naked on my lap,” he replied. “Forgive me for losing structural integrity.”

She kissed him again, slower. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?”

“No,” he said honestly. “But I’d like to.”

Another splash. Another moan, soft and low.

Above: a gasp.

“THAT WAS A MOAN!” Genevieve shrieked.

“I DIDN’T EVEN DO ANYTHING!” Benedict shouted.

“NO, YOU IDIOT. THEM. THE MOAN CAME FROM THEM!”

Penelope and Colin collapsed into each other, laughing breathlessly.

🎶 “I ain’t gonna push / I won’t push you, baby…” 🎶

Genevieve sighed. “I don’t even need visuals. This is better than Netflix.”

“I want them to fall in love,” Benedict declared, uncharacteristically solemn.

“They already have, idiot.”

A pause. Then:

“…Wait, really?”

“Yes, Benedict. Really.”

“AWWWWW…..I thought they were just horny.”

Colin didn’t respond.

He couldn’t.

Because Penelope had just whispered, lips to his ear:

“Let’s see if I can make you forget your own name.”

And as her hands slid down again, under the water, wrapping him in the kind of warmth that short-circuited thought—

Colin decided he’d rename himself Hers.

Penelope’s hands were underwater, doing things that short-circuited language. His jaw slackened. His grip on the edge of the tub went white-knuckled.

And then she smirked.

“Speechless already?” she teased, her mouth brushing his ear as she pressed closer. “I haven’t even gotten serious yet.”

He let out a broken, breathy noise that might once have been a name, possibly his own, maybe God’s. Who knew?

“I mean,” she whispered, playfully wicked, “I could stop…”

Her hands stilled. He made a wounded sound.

“Cruel,” he choked. “Absolutely feral behaviour.”

Penelope raised an eyebrow, utterly delighted. “Oh? You like feral?”

“Woman, I like you. Which is a much bigger problem.”

From inside Ben’s bedroom — window slightly cracked and all decorum completely absent — Gen hooted.

“She’s eating him alive out there!”

Ben popped a piece of popcorn in his mouth and grinned from his bed. “He deserves it. He’s had a decade to make a move. She’s just doing community service at this point.”

“You think they’ll actually do it?” Gen whispered, eyes gleaming.

Ben: “Oh, 100%. That man’s about to combust from the dick up.”

Gen: “Honestly, I’m impressed he’s still forming sentences….Her tits are magnificent enough to kill a man.”

Ben: “He’s seconds away from full-body detonation — starting at the tip.”

Outside, Colin had clearly decided surrender was the best strategy. He leaned back in the water, letting her settle fully in his lap, hands gripping her hips under the surface.

“So, hypothetically,” he murmured, trying to keep his voice steady as she rolled her hips ever so slightly, “if I asked you to ruin me… what would that entail?”

Penelope laughed — low, warm, sinful. “That sounds like consent.”

“Enthusiastic.”

She kissed him then — and the world tilted. She pressed forward with full intention, hot and slick and unforgiving. The water splashed up and over the edge, hitting the deck with an unapologetic slap.

“Oh, for the love of—” Ben snorted from the bed. “They’re going to flood the house.”

“Worth it,” Gen replied instantly. “We live for this chaos.”

Back in the tub, Colin had gone from quippy to ruined in seconds. She had him in the palm of her hand — and both of his on her waist.

She guided herself against him again, hips teasing, letting his body slide perfectly against hers.

He growled. Growled. Like some kind of nobleman-turned-wolf. “Penelope Featherington, if you keep that up—”

She grinned, deliberately rolling her hips. “You were about to say something clever.”

He gasped, fingers digging into her waist. “Can’t. Blood’s not in my brain anymore.”

She shifted deliberately against him, smirking as he twitched beneath her.
“I know,” she whispered, lips at his ear. “I can feel where it went.”

She teased him, kissing the corner of his mouth. “You look like you’re about to break.”

“I am about to break.”

“Good.” Her teeth grazed his throat. “Then I’m doing it right.”

He groaned, catching her mouth in a kiss that was all tongue and desperation. “You’re evil.”

She smiled against his lips. “And you love it.”

They moved together again, the splash of water rising louder, the rhythm turning deeper. Less teasing. More need. And when she finally shifted forward, her body opening to his, sliding onto him — everything stilled.

Breaths caught.

Eyes locked.

No more laughter now.

Just that impossible intimacy — the kind that rewrites you.

“Oh,” Penelope breathed, freezing halfway down.

Colin’s hands immediately stilled on her hips. “Too much?”

She blinked at him, eyes wide. “Just confirming the threat level hasn’t gone down. Nope. That’s a lot of Bridgerton, Colin.”

His jaw dropped — then he burst out laughing. “I—what?”

She pushed herself up a bit, then let herself sink again slowly, adjusting. “It’s like being impaled by a very charming battering ram.”

“That is,” he groaned, “absolutely not the visual I needed right now.”

“Really?” she panted, already breathless from the stretch, “Because I find it kind of motivating.”

He grabbed the edge of the tub like it might keep him from exploding on the spot. “I don’t know whether to apologise or get you a medal.”

She rocked her hips experimentally — and he whimpered. Like, actual sound of distress.

“Okay, definitely a medal,” he gasped.

She grinned, wicked and delighted. “What? Not used to someone being able to take you?”

His head thunked back against the tub’s edge. “I am being persecuted.”

“Oh, poor baby,” she cooed, rolling her hips again. “You’ll live.”

“I won’t,” he hissed, clutching her tighter. “I’m being throttled to death by the love of my life and I have never been so happy.”

From the open bedroom window:

Gen: “Okay, they’re really going for it now.”

Ben: “If this tub ends up on its side, I’m not fixing it.”

Gen: “She’s riding him like vengeance out there, and honestly? I support women’s rights and women’s wrongs.”

Ben: “Same. Cheers to that.”

Back outside, Penelope leaned forward — not to be sweet, but to make him lose his goddamn mind. Her chest was suddenly right in front of his face, full and slick with steam, and he let out a strangled groan.

“Oh, Christ, Penelope—”

“Hmm?” she asked innocently, deliberately adjusting so they bounced.

“I—can I put my mouth on—”

“Absolutely. Immediately. Permanently.”

He obeyed with zero hesitation, dragging his tongue across the curve of her breast, biting lightly as she gasped. Her nails dug into his shoulders and she ground down harder in response.

“God, you’re so loud,” she whispered.

“You’re blaming me for being loud?” he half-laughed, half-choked. “You’re the one making me see entire new dimensions.”

She started to bounce faster now, water sloshing rhythmically over the tub’s edge with every rise and fall.

“Shut up and enjoy it,” she hissed, flushed and breathless.

“I am enjoying it—oh, fuck, I’m—Pen—Penelope—”

Her hand fisted in his hair and she yanked his face up to meet hers. “Tell me.”

“What?”

“Tell me how good I feel.”

He moaned — not because she asked, but because she earned it. “You’re… Jesus, you’re perfect. You’re—tight, and warm, and you’re going to kill me and I’m grateful.”

“Yeah?” she gasped, hips stuttering as she felt him swell inside her. “You going to come for me, Bridgerton? Fill be up baby?”

He was unraveling, completely, hands gripping her like a man hanging off a cliff.

“I love you,” he burst out, voice cracked and ruined and honest. “I love you, I love you, I—”

That did it.

She clenched around him, and he cried out, loud and shaking as he spilled inside her, face buried in her neck, arms locking her in. Her own orgasm followed fast and fierce, pulled from her by the sound of his voice and the way his body trembled beneath her.

Water lapped quietly around them now, soft in the aftermath.

Inside Benedict’s room….

Gen: “He said it. While literally inside her.”

Ben: (grinning) “Now that’s a confession.”

They high five.

Gen: “That was us.”

Ben: “We’re basically foreplay.”

Chapter Text

The door creaked open on quiet hinges, and Penelope stepped into the Bridgerton kitchen wrapped in a towel and giddiness, her damp curls clinging to her neck and shoulders. The house was dim and warm, the kind of late-night silence that made everything feel just a little more magical. Colin followed behind her, equally towel-clad, barefoot, and grinning like a lunatic.

“I still can’t believe we didn’t get caught and told off,” she whispered, even though there was no one around to hear.

Colin snorted. “For what? Excessive heat? Public flirting? Benedict yelling ‘ravish her’ from the window like a drunken bard?”

“He was the worst part,” she agreed, sliding into a barstool. “Also the best.”

“I’m deeply concerned by what that says about your standards.”

“You’re the one with a folder of me in lingerie,” she shot back sweetly, resting her elbows on the counter.

Colin pointed. “You promised not to weaponize the folder.”

“I promised nothing.”

“Vixen.”

“Obsessive.”

He grinned. “Guilty.”

Still barefoot and dripping slightly, he strode toward the fridge like a man on a mission. Penelope watched, both amused and a little turned on, as he pulled the door open and squinted inside like it might contain treasure or answers to the universe.

“Right,” he said. “Post-sexual-epiphany protocol. We need champagne. Cheese. Crackers. Chocolate. Grapes. Possibly toast. And—hold on, do we have cake?”

“You’re raiding your mother’s fridge like a raccoon.”

“I am a refined raccoon,” he said, pulling out a wedge of Brie and sniffing it thoughtfully. “One with excellent taste in dairy.”

Penelope couldn’t stop smiling. Her cheeks ached. “How are you hungry right now? You just—”

“Spontaneously combusted in a hot tub?”

She laughed. “Exactly.”

“Emotional breakthroughs require calories.”

He rummaged deeper, emerging with strawberries and a tin of shortbread. “There’s a science to this. Celebration snacks must cover all food groups: sweet, salty, bubbly, and crunchy.”

“You forgot ‘insufferable.’”

“Oh, that’s me. I bring that to the table personally.”

She groaned as he continued narrating his snack conquest like it was a royal banquet.

“I dub this meal: ‘Post-Coital Delights with a Side of Horny Guilt.’”

Penelope laughed so hard she nearly fell off the stool. “Colin!”

“I stand by it. Oh, and look!” He held up a jar triumphantly. “We do have pickles.”

“Put them back.”

“Blasphemy.”

He loaded the goodies onto a wooden tray with far more ceremony than was required. Penelope watched him in this domestic moment—ridiculous, charming, fully himself—and her heart did that traitorous, swelling thing she wasn’t even trying to hide anymore.

She stood, nudging the fridge shut behind him. “You’re really about to take an entire buffet upstairs?”

“Absolutely.”

“And carry it?”

“Even better.” He handed her the tray. “You carry the snacks. I’ll carry you.”

Before she could protest, Colin leaned down, swept her into his arms, and grinned against her startled gasp.

“Colin!”

“What? You’re light. And I’m feeling powerful.”

“I’m holding the cheese!” she shouted, laughing.

“You’re holding our future, Penelope Featherington.”

“That was dramatic.”

“Thank you. I practice.”

She adjusted the tray in her arms, careful not to drop the champagne. “If you trip and ruin the cheese, we’re over.”

“Duly noted.”

They made it to the staircase, giggling like schoolchildren, the kind of dizzy joy that made their limbs feel lighter than they were. Their towels were damp. Their skin was warm. The silence of the house swallowed them whole.

Penelope glanced down at the tray. “Wait. You grabbed the weird crisps?”

“Truffle. Benedict’s stash. I’m claiming it as a romantic tax.”

“That’s theft.”

“It’s love.”

“Same thing, apparently.”

They reached the top step, still breathless with laughter and delight and disbelief. Penelope shifted the tray in her arms and leaned her head against his bare chest.

“I can’t believe this is real.”

Colin smiled, kissing the top of her head. “It’s very real. Especially the part where I’m not wearing pants and you’re holding a wheel of Brie.”

“A dream come true.”

“For both of us.”

They reached Penelope’s bedroom door. Colin kicked it open with a little too much flair.

Penelope nearly dropped the champagne.

“Careful! One more dramatic move and you’re sleeping with brie in your hair.”

“Worth it,” he said, carrying her inside like she weighed nothing.

She rolled her eyes but didn’t protest as he set her down gently on the edge of the bed. The tray of snacks wobbled but survived.

“Nice form,” she teased, adjusting her towel. “You’ve clearly practiced carrying swooning women.”

“Only the one I keep foldered.”

“Colin!”

He grinned, unrepentant.

Penelope slid the tray further up the bed and patted the mattress. “Come on, Romeo. Your crisps are getting lonely.”

He joined her, sprawling out with a soft sigh as the bed dipped beneath him. “My crisps and I are deeply emotionally connected.”

“Is this the kind of pillow talk I can expect?”

“Oh no. I’m much filthier when cheese isn’t within reach.”

She laughed, toes brushing his ankle. “God help me.”

He sat up, reached for the champagne, and popped it with a flourish. The cork shot across the room and thunked off her wardrobe.

Penelope raised her brows. “That’s the second thing in this room you’ve assaulted tonight.”

“Third,” Colin said, pouring the champagne into mismatched glasses. “You forgot my dignity.”

Penelope giggled and took the glass he poured for her, eyeing him over the rim. “You, shirtless and smug, breaking furniture and breaking hearts.”

“Your wardrobe survived,” he pointed out. “For now.”

They clinked glasses.

“To terrible timing and dangerous towels,” she said.

“To bubble-induced clarity,” he replied.

They drank. And for a beat, the room went quiet.

It was cozy. Close. Water droplets still lingered on their skin. The air between them thickened again, with something quieter now—expectation. Vulnerability.

Penelope twirled the stem of her glass between her fingers. “So…”

Colin glanced over. “So?”

She tilted her head, trying for casual. “Back in the hot tub… you said something.”

He froze for a fraction of a second. “I said a lot of things.”

“You said,” she continued, not looking at him, “that you were in love with me.”

He was still.

Penelope forced a light laugh. “Was that… you know. Heat of the moment? Or was that just Marvin Gaye speaking through you?”

Colin set down his glass slowly. Turned toward her.

Then, softly: “You really don’t know?”

She finally met his eyes. “I… I’m not sure I want to get this wrong.”

He breathed out, low and wrecked. “It wasn’t the wine. Or the steam. Or the jets. Or Benedict’s cursed playlist.”

She swallowed hard.

Colin set his glass aside and turned toward her, eyes searching. “I meant it.”

Penelope’s breath caught. “You’re sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

She tried to keep her smile light, teasing—cheeky banter, don’t cry—but a single tear betrayed her and slipped down her cheek.

“Wait, no,” Colin said quickly, panicking. “Don’t cry, please—unless that’s a happy tear? Is it a sexy tear? That’s a thing, right?”

Penelope laughed through the tear, wiping it quickly. “You’re such an idiot.”

“Only for you.” His voice gentled. “Penelope… I’m in love with you. Deeply. Stupidly. Probably irreversibly.”

She stared at him, blinking.

“I love the way you argue when you’re nervous. I love the way you snort when you laugh too hard. I love your mind, your freckles, your laugh, your terrible singing—yes, I’ve seen it—and I especially love that every time I thought I knew what I wanted, it was actually just you in disguise.”

Her voice was quiet. “You make me sound like magic.”

“You are,” he said simply.

She reached for his hand, but still couldn’t meet his gaze. “I’ve loved you since I was eight.”

Colin blinked. “Eight?”

“When I knocked you off your bike. Completely by accident. You hit a tree.”

He gasped. “Since then?”

“And I panicked and ran away.”

“You said you were getting help!”

“I was getting distance.”

He laughed, stunned. “You’ve been in love with me since then?”

She nodded, sheepish. “I don’t remember a version of me that didn’t think you hung the stars.”

Colin’s chest tightened. “Pen…”

“And then you grew up and started charming the entire continent and never once looked at me like you are now.”

His fingers slid under her chin, lifting it gently until their eyes locked. “Because I was a bloody fool. And because the second I did, really saw you—something shifted and I’ve never been the same.”

She was soft and speechless in his hands.

“And then the blue bikini happened,” he added.

She groaned, laughing. “You’re never letting that go, are you?”

“You stepped out of that pool and I forgot how to speak. I nearly swallowed my tongue.”

“That’s not possible.”

“Try being sixteen, painfully repressed, and freshly slapped in the face with your best friend’s tits. It felt like a medical emergency.”

Penelope was flushed and grinning now. “So the folder—”

“Oh God, the folder.” Colin dropped his forehead to her shoulder. “That was supposed to be private. A way to survive. Not proof that I’m completely obsessed with you.”

“I don’t mind,” she whispered.

He looked up.

She smiled, tears sparkling again. “Actually… I kinda love it.”

Colin exhaled, wrecked. “You’re going to destroy me.”

Penelope straddled his lap, leaned in, lips brushing his ear.

“Then let me start now.”

⸻

Penelope reached for the popcorn, smirking as she dropped a piece in her mouth with exaggerated flair.

Colin’s eyes followed the movement like it was slow-motion cinema. “You trying to kill me?”

She licked her finger clean. “Just snacking.”

“Lies. That was weaponized popcorn.”

She laughed, shifting a little to grab the champagne. Her thigh brushed his. On purpose.

Colin groaned under his breath. “If you keep doing that, I’m going to black out and blame the cheese.”

“You’ve survived worse,” she said sweetly, handing him a glass. “Tell me about the folder.”

He almost choked on the sip. “Still?”

Penelope shrugged one bare shoulder under the blanket, dangerously close to smug. “I like your shame. It’s endearing.”

“I’m not telling you what’s in it.”

“Why? Is it alphabetized?”

“I’m taking this to my grave.”

She leaned in until their noses brushed. “We could always make a sequel.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Receipts 2.0,” she whispered, grinning.

Colin made a strangled noise in the back of his throat.

“You know,” she went on, voice velvet, “for posterity. Proof of concept. Something to get us through future Tuesday mornings.”

“Are you trying to murder me?”

Penelope slid a strawberry into his mouth and smirked. “Little bit.”

Colin chewed, watching her like a man besotted. “That’s evil.”

“You love it.”

“I do.”

“And you love me.”

He nodded. “Also true.”

Penelope gave a fake sigh, leaning dramatically against his shoulder. “Well, fine. I guess we’ll have to be very, very naughty to gather new material.”

“Tragic,” he murmured, running a hand slowly down her thigh.

“I’m quite photogenic, you know.”

“Oh, I know.”

She tipped her head back, laughing. “We’ll call it The Evidence Collection.”

“And file it under Highly Classified,” he added.

“With password protection,” she said with mock seriousness.

“Or facial recognition. Except it only unlocks when you say something filthy.”

“I’ll test that theory,” she said, kissing his jaw. “Repeatedly.”

Colin’s breathing had gone shallow. “Penelope Featherington, you’re a menace.”

“And you love it.”

“I worship it.”

She brushed her lips over his, featherlight. “Good.”

And then, with a shared grin and a few scattered strawberries, the snacks were forgotten—again—and the blankets became a tangle of limbs, silk, and laughter.

Whatever Receipts 2.0 became… Colin had no doubt it would be legendary.

⸻

Colin’s hands curved around her waist, thumbs brushing bare skin under the blanket. Penelope’s body was soft against him, warm and open, a slow-burning fire barely contained.

He kissed her again—gently this time. Reverent.

But Penelope had no patience for reverence.

She shifted, straddling him, tugging the sheets around them like a conspirator with a secret mission. “Do you know how long I’ve waited to be the one touching you like this?”

Colin groaned softly. “I’m not going to survive this.”

She rocked forward just enough to make him suck in a sharp breath. “Good.”

Their mouths met again—hungrier now. His hands wandered up her back, exploring every curve, every line he’d memorized in photographs and daydreams. But reality made fiction look timid.

She kissed him like she already owned him.

And he let her.

“Tell me what you want,” she murmured into his mouth.

“You. Every inch. Every breath.”

Penelope smiled against his lips, then kissed along his jaw, nipping gently at the stubble she loved.

She traced his chest with greedy fingers. “All those Bridgerton muscles, finally useful.”

Colin snorted. “Would’ve been sooner if you’d just looked at me like this five years ago.”

“I did. You were just too busy flexing for the entire female population of Mayfair.”

“I don’t flex,” he argued.

“You’re flexing right now,” she said, straddling him deeper.

“I’m reacting to stimulation.”

“Same thing.”

Her freckles glowed warm in the dim light, and his hands trembled as they found her waist. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he said hoarsely.

Penelope’s smile faltered—not from insecurity, but from the weight of being wanted.

And then his lips were on her neck, her shoulder, her collarbone—kissing, tasting, mapping her like something sacred. She gasped softly when his hands slid up to cup her, thumbs grazing with a tenderness that made her ache.

“Colin…” Her head dropped back, lashes fluttering.

His mouth followed her skin like it was instinct.

She arched against him, hands threading into his hair, tugging when the sensations overwhelmed her. He groaned, burying his face against her chest, the sound low and raw.

When she tugged him down with her, Colin moved easily, pressing her into the mattress with a devotion that made her feel claimed.

Every kiss was deliberate. Every touch was a promise.

They were still half-laughing, half-breathless, whispering nonsense between kisses. Penelope moaned when his hand slid low beneath the blanket, and Colin froze, reverent again.

“Say when,” he whispered, lips at her throat.

Penelope pulled him closer. “Now. God, now.”

Their laughter gave way to soft gasps and tangled sheets and the kind of stillness that hums under the skin when two people forget where they end and the other begins.

And when he moved against her—slow, deep, unhurried—it wasn’t fire.

It was worship.

Their bodies moved in perfect rhythm: need and affection and years of missed chances finally, gloriously colliding. Her fingers dragged down his back, anchoring him. His lips never left her skin, trailing kisses as if trying to memorize her taste.

“You’re shaking,” she whispered again, breath caught between pleasure and disbelief.

“So are you,” he breathed.

She laughed. “Good.”

And when they finally came apart together—lips tangled, hearts pounding—Colin held her like she was the only thing keeping him alive.

She whispered something into his neck. He didn’t even hear the words.

But it didn’t matter.

Because whatever came next, it was theirs.

⸻

The morning sun streamed through the lace curtains of Penelope’s bedroom.

Colin stirred first, tangled in sheets, limbs, and freckles.

He blinked once. Twice. Then smiled like a man who’d just won a duel and dessert at once.

Penelope was tucked against his chest, hair wild, a content little crease between her brows. She shifted slightly, murmuring something unintelligible.

Colin pressed a kiss to her temple. “Morning, menace.”

“Mmm.” She nuzzled closer. “Five more minutes. Or forever.”

“I’d accept both.”

⸻

Eloise was in a fine mood that morning.

The sun was out, her tea hadn’t gone cold, and for once, the house was blissfully quiet. Which was suspicious in and of itself—but she was choosing optimism. She hadn’t seen Penelope since yesterday afternoon, but assumed she was just enjoying the rare opportunity to sleep in without Featherington house rules breathing down her neck.

Tea in hand, she padded down the corridor toward Penelope’s guest room.

She knocked once, lightly.

“Pen? Wake up, you lazy thing. You’re missing breakfast and Benedict is already being intolerable.”

Silence.

She tried again, louder. “Penelope?”

Still no response.

With a dramatic sigh, she pushed the door open. “Fine, I’m coming in. But if you’re drooling on the pillows again, I—”

She stopped.

No. She froze.

Because Penelope was not drooling on pillows.

She was kissing someone. Wrapped up in someone…naked. Tangled limbs and tousled hair and—

Dear God.

Colin.

It took Eloise two seconds too long to recognize the curve of his shoulder, the way his hand was pressed possessively against Penelope’s hip, the sleepy smile tugging at his lips.

Then the pieces clicked.

Then she screamed.

“OH MY GOD!”

Penelope shrieked and dove under the covers. Colin let out a groggy grunt of confusion, barely able to lift his head before flopping back into the pillow with a groan.

“Eloise!” Penelope gasped. “I—wait—hang on—”

“No! No explaining! I don’t want to know! My EYES!” Eloise turned on her heel and practically ran into the hallway, slamming the door shut behind her. “I came for TEA, not TRAUMA!”

She stormed down the stairs, hands in her hair, trying to physically scrub the memory out of her mind.

“I cannot believe—Penelope Featherington and Colin Bridgerton—in bed—NAKED—in this HOUSE—IN THE MORNING! They could’ve at least had the decency to sin away from this house!”

By the time she made it to the breakfast room, she was muttering full sentences to herself.

Benedict looked up from his paper, sipping his tea calmly. “Well, you look like you’ve been struck by lightning.”

Eloise flung herself into a chair. “I’ve just walked in on the world’s most horrifying tableau.”

“Ah,” Benedict said, setting his cup down with an amused smile. “You found out about Penelope and Colin.”

“Found out?” she hissed. “I saw it. In detail. Skin. Limbs. Groaning. I think I saw Colin’s arse, Benedict.”

Benedict looked positively delighted. “You know, most people are happy when their brother and their best friend finally realize they’re in love.”

“I was happy,” she groaned. “I was supportive! But I didn’t need to witness consummation in progress!”

He burst out laughing. “You caught them mid-debauch?”

“I walked into her room because I thought she overslept!”

“Did you at least knock?”

“I knocked! She didn’t answer!”

He gave her a smug grin. “That’s because Colin had her mouth otherwise occupied.”

Eloise slapped her hand over her ears. “You’re the worst.”

Benedict leaned across the table and patted her shoulder with faux sympathy. “You’re fine. Drink your tea. Burn your memory. And get ready to call her your sister.”

She poured a cup with trembling hands, muttering, “If they come downstairs holding hands, I’m setting the table on fire.”

Benedict just chuckled. “Love really does bring out the worst in you.”

From upstairs came a faint thump and a muffled burst of laughter. Eloise didn’t even look up.

“I swear to God, if they’re doing it again, I’m moving out.”

⸻

As the door slammed shut, silence settled over the room like a thick fog.

Penelope lay flat on her back, staring at the ceiling, sheets yanked up to her chin, heart still hammering in her chest. Colin groaned beside her, face half-buried in a pillow.

“Well,” he muttered. “That went well.”

Penelope turned her head slowly to look at him. “She saw everything.”

“She definitely did.”

“My best friend. Your sister. Walked into my room and saw us—saw you—naked. Naked and very much not asleep.”

Colin winced. “I was hoping she thought we were hugging.”

“HUGGING?”

He shrugged helplessly. “Very… intimate hugging?”

Penelope let out a strangled laugh and buried her face in the pillow. “She’s never going to look at me again. She’ll avoid me at every family event for the rest of our lives.”

He rolled onto his side and propped his head on his hand, smiling at her with infuriating calm. “Or she’ll get over it because she’s Eloise, and you’re her best friend. And also, we’re in love. Which slightly softens the trauma.”

“Slightly?”

He leaned down and kissed her temple. “Look, it’s not ideal. But it’s honest. We weren’t doing anything wrong. Just… maybe not anything breakfast-hour appropriate.”

Penelope groaned. “I should move to Scotland.”

“You’ll have to take me with you.”

“You’re the reason I need to move!”

He chuckled and stole a quick kiss. “Come downstairs with me. Let’s face it head-on.”

“No. I’m staying here until I die. I’ll send for toast and tea and live a quiet, monastic life.”

Colin raised an eyebrow. “You’re hiding from Eloise. At Bridgerton House. Where she lives.”

She buried her face again. “This is a nightmare.”

He gently peeled the blanket off her head. “We’re going to go downstairs, pretend like nothing happened, and eat scones while my brother makes inappropriate jokes.”

Penelope gave Colin a look. “Do you think Benedict and Gen will say anything?”

Colin smiled, amused. “Please. Benedict’s been smug since last night, and Gen barely looked surprised. I think they were just waiting for us to catch up.”

Penelope groaned. “Right. Subtlety has never been our strength.”

“Especially when you’re sitting on my lap in steaming water,” he said with a grin.

⸻

Penelope hovered in the hallway just outside the room, heart in her throat. She could hear clinking teacups. Quiet laughter. And… silence. Too much silence.

Colin appeared beside her, now dressed and infuriatingly calm. He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. “We’re fine. We’re grown adults. And it’s not like we were caught by your mother.”

“Honestly, I think Portia would’ve taken it better.”

They stepped into the room together.

Eloise didn’t look up from her tea. She was sitting stiffly, eyes fixed on her plate, as if she were still trying to spiritually cleanse herself with marmalade.

Benedict looked up, took one look at their joined hands, and grinned like a man who’d just won a bet.

“Well, if it isn’t the couple of the hour,” he said brightly. “You both look well-rested.”

Colin rolled his eyes and pulled out a chair for Penelope.

Eloise finally spoke, voice tight. “If you so much as mention bedsheets, I will throw this toast at you.”

Penelope sat down slowly, trying to appear casual, which was difficult when her ears were practically glowing red.

“Eloise,” she began softly, “I’m so sorry—”

Eloise held up a hand without looking at her. “No. Don’t. I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to think about it. I want to rewind time and go back to when I thought Colin was a clueless moron and you were a blushing innocent.”

Colin tried to look contrite. He mostly looked amused.

“I love her, El,” he said, gently but firmly.

Eloise finally looked up. “Yes, and that’s beautiful. But also, next time? LOCK THE BLOODY DOOR.”

Penelope choked on her tea.

Benedict raised his cup. “To doors—and the adventures that happen behind them.”

Eloise tossed a crust of bread at his head.

Penelope was halfway through her cup of tea and already on her third silent prayer to disappear when the kitchen door creaked open.

Genevieve breezed in, phone in hand, hoodie oversized, expression deeply smug.

“Morning, lovers,” she said, sliding into the chair beside Benedict.

Colin groaned. Eloise’s face hit the table with a dull thud.

“You’re not allowed to speak to me ever again,” Penelope muttered without looking up.

“Oh, please,” Genevieve said, sipping from a comically large iced coffee. “After last night? You owe me a thank-you card. Our playlist choices were perfectly timed.”

“You DJ’d my sex life,” Penelope hissed.

“We curated the vibe,” Genevieve corrected. “There’s a difference.”

“You were also shouting out the window,” Colin pointed out, deadpan.

Benedict grinned. “She did most of the yelling. I just requested the Marvin Gaye.”

“I hate both of you,” Eloise muttered, still face-down.

Genevieve shrugged. “You’re welcome for the soundtrack to your future wedding speech.”

Before Penelope could die on the spot, the front door opened and closed again—then Violet Bridgerton walked in, humming and carrying a fresh bouquet from the florist.

She turned toward the kitchen and paused in the doorway just long enough to hear Benedict’s voice cut clean through the air:

“Seriously, if you’re going to scream ‘I love you’ while doing… that, you’ve got to at least acknowledge you created waves large enough to knock over the flamingos.”

Penelope froze.

Colin closed his eyes.

Genevieve silently mouthed: Oh, no.

Violet stepped fully into the room, gaze sharp, lips pursed. “Excuse me?”

Benedict blinked. “Not directed at you.”

“Evidently,” Violet said coolly, placing her flowers on the counter. She turned to her youngest adult son. “Colin. Have you got something to say?”

The entire room held its breath.

Colin sat up straighter, voice calm. “Yes. Penelope and I are together.”

Penelope nodded, cheeks flushed. “It’s… true. We didn’t exactly plan to tell you like this, but—yes. We’re together. As of last night.”

Violet’s expression didn’t flicker for a long moment.

Then she exhaled slowly, and her tone softened. “Thank goodness.”

Penelope blinked. “Wait—you’re not… shocked?”

“Oh, I’m shocked by the mentioned location,” Violet said pointedly. “But the feelings? Hardly. I’ve been waiting for you two to stop orbiting each other since your sixth awkward tea party.”

“You knew?” Colin asked, clearly stunned.

Violet smirked. “Sweetheart, everyone with eyes knew.”

Benedict coughed. “Ears too, now.”

The kitchen door banged open again as Gregory and Hyacinth stormed in, still in pajamas, hair messy, eyes wide.

“Did you have sex in the hot tub?” Gregory asked immediately.

“Gregory!” Violet snapped.

“What? It’s all over the group chat!”

“There’s a group chat?” Penelope squeaked.

Hyacinth beamed. “We made it the moment you two started doing weird eye contact at dinner last month.”

“I said it would happen before summer,” Gregory muttered. “Hyacinth said it would be a slow burn.”

“I’m always right,” Hyacinth said smugly.

At that moment, Anthony appeared in the doorway, looking like he’d only come downstairs to find coffee, not his entire family unraveling.

“Why are the teenagers shouting about sex?” he asked flatly.

Everyone pointed to Colin and Penelope.

Anthony turned to his brother. “Seriously?”

Colin shrugged. “We’re in love.”

Anthony looked at Penelope, who nodded once—calm and sure.

He sipped his coffee. “Fine. Just don’t do it in the hot tub again.”

“Deal,” Colin said quickly.

“Seconded,” Gregory mumbled, still scarred.

Violet reclaimed her teacup with a sigh. “Well. To love, then. And to my poor hydrangeas, which will never recover from what they witnessed.”

Benedict raised his mug. “To thoroughly scarring the family.”

Genevieve clinked hers against it. “To acoustics.”

Eloise lifted her head just long enough to say, “To everyone shutting up before I throw myself in the Thames.”

Colin laced his fingers with Penelope’s under the table. She smiled despite herself.

It was chaotic, embarrassing, loud—and deeply, undeniably Bridgerton.

And somehow, for the first time ever, Penelope knew with absolute certainty: she belonged here.