Chapter Text
Penelope had somewhat forgotten what London smelled like. The moment the airport doors slid open, it hit her—damp winter air, the faint bitterness of exhaust, the scent of rain-soaked pavement that always clung to the city. It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t Paris with its lazy patisseries. It was simply London, her London, the place she had spent years trying to leave so she could finally become herself.
She hadn’t expected the city to welcome her back so quietly.
The cold nipped at her plump cheeks as she wrestled her suitcase outside. One of the wheels squeaked—loudly, embarrassingly—every few feet. A sharp, repetitive chirp that echoed her own internal discomfort: out of place, out of rhythm, not quite fitting the way she once had.
“Brilliant,” she tugged it harder. The wheel responded with a dramatic squeeeeak.
She’d changed abroad. She’d grown. She’d survived deadlines, lonely train rides, and many, many nights eating cheap takeout on unfamiliar kitchen counters while editing manuscripts. She had become, in many ways, “adult Penelope.” Independent. Capable. Self-sufficient. Yet here she was, dragging an old suitcase through Heathrow like a lost child.
Everything was supposed to click into place, wasn’t it? Instead, she felt like an unknown polygon trying to fit into a shape she’d once called home.
Her eyes scanned the waiting crowd—families holding signs, couples kissing dramatically, tired businessmen with phones pressed to their ears.
“PEN! PENELOPE FEATHERINGTON!”
Eloise Bridgerton slammed into her with a hug so powerful her bones rattled.
Penelope laughed—high, breathy, uncontrollable. “El! You’re going to break me!”
“Good!” Eloise pulled back just enough to squeeze her shoulders. “You deserve to be broken for leaving me for two years. Twenty four months, Pen! Do you know how many mediocre intellectual conversations I suffered because you weren’t here to balance them out?”
“I missed you, luv.”
The words felt heavier than they should. She had missed Eloise. Terribly. And yet… seeing her best friend now—slightly older, somewhat calmer, wearing a confidence that wasn’t there before—Penelope felt a strange pang. She changed. Of course she had. People grow. People evolve. The world moves on whether you’re present or not.
Penelope swallowed.
Eloise tugged on her arm excitedly. “Come on, the others are—oh.” Her friend’s voice softened.
She didn’t need to turn to know who stood behind her for she felt him before she heard him.
“Pen?”
Her heart lurched.
Colin Bridgerton stood a few paces away, hands tucked in his coat pockets, scarf messily looped around his neck like he’d rushed out the door and didn’t bother fixing it. Snowflakes clung to his hair, melting slowly. He looked… older. Broader. More grounded. More—
Oh no. Her stomach dipped.
Because the version of him in her memories—boyish, endearing, frustratingly oblivious—was gone. This Colin looked at her differently. Carefully. Like he wasn’t sure whether to hug her or hold his breath.
“Hello,” she said, voice soft.
"Hi," his smile warmed instantly, slow and steady. “Welcome home.”
Two words, and she nearly dissolved.
He stepped closer. “Long flight?”
“Ninety minutes is always long,” she whispered.
Eloise intervened with a clap of her hands. “Right! Let’s get moving before Penelope collapses right here on the pavement from emotional overload.”
Penelope rolled her eyes. “What? I’m perfectly fine—”
Her suitcase wheel squeaked.
Colin’s eyebrow lifted. “Need help?”
“No, it's okay,” she said a little too quickly. “I got it.” It was automatic—the instinct to refuse help, to stand on her own, to prove she wasn’t the fragile Penelope of years ago.
Colin gave her that gentle look she hated because it made her feel seen. “I know you can do it. Doesn’t mean you have to.”
And then, before she could argue, he quietly took the handle from her hand. He didn’t make a show of it. Didn’t say anything else. Just walked beside her, wheeling it effortlessly.
Penelope opened her mouth to protest again—out of habit, out of stubbornness—but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, she said, softer than she meant to, “Thank you.”
He smiled without looking at her. “Anytime.”
Stop it, heart. We talked about this. We said we outgrew him.
But her heart did not want to listen.
Inside the car, Eloise was bouncing in her seat. “So, Pen, while you’ve been off gallivanting in le pays de la baguette et des croissants—” she gestured dramatically toward France—“you’ve learned to speak French, oui?”
“Just a little. Enough to survive conversations at cafes and bargain at markets. I thought I might teach you a few phrases while I’m here.”
"Yes!!" Eloise said, nearly rolling the words off her tongue. “Teach me!”
“Okay, basic greetings,” Penelope said, pulling her scarf tighter around her neck. “‘Bonjour’—hello in the daytime. Repeat after me.”
“Bonjour,” Eloise attempted.
“Très bien,” Penelope said, patting her shoulder. “Now ‘Bonsoir’—hello in the evening, like when you arrive at a party. You wouldn’t use it for the morning, or everyone will think you’re odd.”
“Bonsoir,” Eloise repeated, dramatically bowing her head. “Like a lady at a ball! How do I look, love?”
Penelope laughed so hard the car jostled. She hadn’t realized how much she had missed these small, ridiculous moments with her best friend—teaching foreign phrases, feeling like a teenager again, if only for a little while.
As she glanced out the window, she felt the tug of another presence. Colin's. He took the wheel of Eloise's car for the time being. He was quiet, seemingly observing, or waiting for a perfect opportunity to butt in their conversation. Though, knowing El, she had hogged all the time. Eventually, Colin put the car on neutral and got off first. As he stepped onto the kerbside outside the Bridgerton home, he leaned down to Penelope’s window. “Let me know if you want help unpacking later,” he said quietly. The offer was simple. Innocent. Yet it made something in her chest flutter violently, because Colin had always been her soft spot, her foolishness, her almost. And she had worked very, very hard overseas to steel herself against wanting things she couldn’t have.
Penelope, ever hyper-independent, gave the only answer she could manage: “I’ll manage on my own.”
He nodded once but the disappointment—quiet and real—flickered briefly in his eyes. “Of course,” he said. “See you the soonest. And Pen, don’t be a stranger.”
The words landed harder than she expected. Don’t be a stranger. It was casual. Kind. Familiar. But to Penelope, it felt like a rust in the armor. A reminder that even across miles and months apart, someone still noticed her absence—and still wanted more than the polite independence she projected.
She blinked rapidly, trying to swallow the prickling sensation behind her ribs. It wasn’t that she didn’t care what he thought—she did. It was the way he said it, as though he expected her to come back into his orbit willingly, without question.
He stepped back.
Eloise pulled shifted to drive.
Penelope watched him in the side mirror until he disappeared from sight.
She gripped the seatbelt, inhaling sharply. I am fine, she told herself. I’ve been fine.
At the Featherington home, everything felt in disarray.
Penelope's room was exactly as she left it though—same posters, same bookshelf arrangement, same half-burned vanilla candle on her desk. But she felt like she was stepping into someone else’s life, a museum exhibit called Before She Left. She unpacked mechanically. Clothes. Pastries. Journals. Notebooks filled with scribbled ideas from cafes and polaroids she took while trying to find pieces of herself.
She placed them on her shelves and stepped back. It was odd for they didn’t look like they belonged with her old stuff.
A knock on her door pulled her out of her spiral. Her mother peeked in with a warm, practiced smile. “Dinner’s ready, sweetheart. I asked our cook to make your favorite dishes.”
Penelope nodded. “I'll be down in a few minutes.”
Dinner was familiar but distant. Philippa teased her like no time had passed, Prudence stole potatoes off her plate with the same shamelessness as always, and her mother asked polite questions about her blossoming writing career. Penelope answered each one with practiced ease, the way she always had. But it felt like a performance.
Afterward, she escaped upstairs, sinking into her bed with a sigh. London was supposed to feel like slipping into an old sweater. Easy. Comfy. Snug. Instead, it felt like she’d outgrown the sleeves.
Was she overthinking it? Probably. It had only been a few hours since her return. She shouldn’t be so quick to judge.
Suddenly, her phone lit up.
Colin: Hey Pen, if you need anything. Anything at all. I’m here.
Penelope stared at the words for a long time. She started typing, erased a few words, then typed again.
Finally, she sent:
Penelope: Thanks Col. I’m okay. Just tired.
A second later:
Colin: Of course. Rest well, Pen.
Pen. Her name, shortened the way only he ever said it. Soft. Familiar. Dangerous.
Penelope set her phone aside and closed her eyes. A sudden thump against her window made her jump. She hadn’t expected anyone to be outside, especially not at this hour. Curiosity, though, won. She crept to the window, toes quiet against the floorboards, and peeked through the edge of the curtain.
Her breath caught.
It was Colin.
He stood there, the garden light illuminating his face.
“Penelope?”
It hit her like a memory she hadn’t realized she was still carrying. They had done this before—late-night friendly conversations under the moonlight, secrets shared while the world slept. Here he was, doing the exact same thing. Years apart.
Instinctively, she ducked behind the curtain, hoping the movement hadn’t been noticed. Too late, the slight sway of the fabric betrayed her. She froze, chest tight, praying he hadn’t seen.
His eyes lifted slowly toward her window. A small, knowing smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
He had seen her.
She had seen him.
Penelope let the seconds stretch, heart hammering, unsure if she should call out, run, or stay hidden. When she peeked again moments later, Colin was already gone, leaving the faint echo of her whispered name and the soft imprint of snow on the grass.
Why did he come all the way to see her? Was it because he wanted to chat?
Case and point: He didn't get the chance while at the El's car and it wasn't entirely his fault. His sister, her best friend, took the spotlight.
Penelope's gaze wandered back to her dresser. A small cluster of photographs caught her eye. She picked one up gingerly—the edges worn. One was of her and her sisters, sitting cross-legged on the living room rug, laughter frozen mid-giggle. The notorious redhead Featherington sisters in their element. Another captured her and Eloise on a sunny afternoon in the park, frozen in mid-spin during a spontaneous twirl, hair and skirts flaring like the world had paused just for them. The cutest besties having the time of their lives. The photograph that drew her in the most was a candid of her and Colin. Taken ages ago, it was simple: they were sitting on his mother's garden bench, elbows brushing, eyes meeting, caught in a moment neither had intended anyone to capture. Friends enjoying each other's company. The frame was small and unassuming, but it had always held a quiet significance.
Coming home was supposed to be simple. Joyful. Reassuring. Instead, Penelope felt as though she was peeling back layers she hadn’t even realized she’d grown—layers of independence, distance, self-sufficiency—and it unnerved her how easily Colin’s presence, Eloise’s chatter, London’s air, and even a handful of photographs could slip through the cracks.
She wasn’t ready for this kind of vulnerability. Not again. The holidays always had a way of stirring old feelings, even the ones you swore you’d buried. And yet… Penelope wasn’t sure she was ready for the things that might bloom in the December light. For now, she eased beneath her trusted quilted duvet... the one that had always held the same familiar scent, the same comforting weight. It wasn’t answers or clarity, but it was warm. It was hers.
Today, at least, she was home. Tomorrow, she can face the new day.
Wrapped in that small, steady certainty, she finally drifted off to sleep.