Chapter Text
Colin Bridgerton had never forgotten a certain yellow scarf.
At twelve years old, he had been flying down the lane on his bicycle, certain of his invincibility, when—whip!—a knitted scarf had streamed across the path like a trap. It wrapped around his handlebars, yanked tight, and sent him tumbling into the dirt in a spectacular sprawl.
He lay there, groaning, gravel stinging his palms. “Ow—bloody hell!”
Penelope Featherington aged eight years old, came pelting toward him, curls bouncing, face red with panic. “Oh no! Are you dead?”
“No,” he said dramatically, rolling onto his back. “But your scarf tried to kill me, Pen!”
Her eyes widened. “It was your fault for showing off!”
“You owe me now,” he announced, struggling upright with all the wounded dignity of a twelve-year-old.
“Owe you what?”
“My life. Friendship. Forever.”
She huffed but her voice shook when she said, “Fine. Forever.”
And forever, it seemed, had stuck.
⸻
Two decades later, Penelope often remembered that oath.
Or rather, she remembered that “forever” meant Colin Bridgerton sprawled across her sofa, raiding her fridge as if it were his own.
“You know,” she said, leaning against the doorway to her little sitting room, “you could at least pretend this is my flat before you eat everything in it.”
Colin, long limbs thrown carelessly across her cushions, didn’t even look guilty. He bit into the sandwich he’d just constructed from her bread and cheese. “What’s the point in pretending? I basically live here half the time.”
“You do not.”
“I do. I’ve got a toothbrush in your bathroom.”
“That you abandoned six months ago.”
“Still counts. It’s a claim.”
Penelope rolled her eyes but smiled despite herself. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet you keep letting me in,” he said cheerfully, crumbs dotting his grin.
She sank into her armchair, tucking her feet beneath her. “I must be cursed.”
Colin leaned his head back against the cushion, studying her with a grin that was far too pleased. “Best curse you’ve ever had.”
⸻
For a while, the flat was filled only with the sound of Colin crunching crisps far too loudly. Penelope sipped her tea and tried not to notice how naturally he fit into her space, how it always felt brighter, noisier, more alive with him in it.
Then he tilted his head, watching her. “Tell me something, Pen. Why do you never talk about your dates?”
She stiffened. “What?”
“Dates,” he repeated. “You never mention them. Don’t deny it—I’d know. I hear about everything else. What biscuits are on sale, what book you stayed up all night with, which cardigan you’re debating returning. But never your dates.”
Penelope fiddled with the sleeve of her cardigan. “Because they’re boring.”
“Boring?”
“Yes.” She forced a shrug. “Nothing worth talking about.”
Colin frowned. “They can’t all be that bad.”
“They are,” she said lightly, though her voice betrayed her.
He leaned forward, curiosity sharpening. “Bad how?”
Her laugh was short and brittle. “Bad as in—they don’t look twice. Or if they do, it’s in that polite she’ll do until someone prettier walks in way. Men don’t want girls like me, Colin. They want thinner. Sleeker. Someone who fits.”
For once, Colin didn’t have a quip ready. He stared at her, stunned silent.
She tried to laugh it off, waving a hand. “That’s why I don’t tell you. They never lead anywhere.”
“No.” He set his sandwich aside, voice unusually firm. “That’s rubbish. You’re gorgeous, Pen. Any man who can’t see that is a fool.”
Her heart stuttered.
She tried to scoff, to make light of it. “You’ve had too much coffee.”
“I haven’t had nearly enough,” he said, leaning back again. “Otherwise I’d be giving you a speech about it.”
She tried for a glare but ended up laughing, nerves bubbling in her chest. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Maybe,” he allowed with a grin. “But I’m right.”
When she returned from the kitchen with fresh mugs of tea, she found him wrapped like a smug burrito in her throw blanket.
“That’s mine,” she said.
“You weren’t using it.”
“I was about to.”
“You can share.” He patted the space beside him.
She narrowed her eyes. “Not a chance.”
“Then you’ll freeze.” He burrowed deeper, grinning. “Survival of the fittest.”
“You are the most annoying man alive.”
“And yet,” he said, peeking at her over the blanket edge, “you feed me. Interesting choice.”
She threw a cushion at him. He caught it with one hand and smirked. “Admit it. You’d miss me.”
She tried to bury her smile in her tea, but he followed her into the kitchen anyway, leaning against her counter as she moved about.
“Don’t hover,” she warned. “You’re a menace in kitchens.”
“I’m an excellent sous-chef.”
“You once set noodles on fire.”
“That was a very flammable pan.”
She shoved him aside, rolling her eyes. In his “helpfulness,” he managed to set a slice of bread smoking in the toaster, which set the alarm shrieking.
Penelope flapped a towel at the ceiling, muttering darkly, while Colin doubled over with laughter.
“This is your fault,” she accused.
“Disagree. Fate wants me in your kitchen.”
“Fate wants me to strangle you.”
“You’d miss me too much.”
He grinned, the dimple in his cheek undoing her resolve.
When the chaos finally settled, they ended up collapsed together on the sofa again, flipping through channels until a saccharine rom-com filled the screen.
“You can’t seriously want to watch this,” Colin groaned.
“What’s wrong with it?”
“It’s absurd. Nobody pours their heart out in the rain like that.”
“Not every man is you,” she muttered.
“What was that?”
“Nothing,” she said quickly, heat rising in her cheeks. “It’s romantic.”
“It’s unrealistic.”
“It’s aspirational,” she countered, hugging her pillow. “Women like romance.”
He laughed, stretching an arm along the back of the sofa behind her, close enough to make her heart trip.
She rolled her eyes, but her pulse skittered anyway.
As the credits rolled, he stretched lazily. “My sister tried setting me up the other week.”
Penelope’s stomach tightened. “Oh?” she asked, keeping her tone light. “Did you like her?”
“Didn’t bother. Not interested.”
“You’re too picky.”
“Or maybe I’m just waiting for the right person.”
Her spoon clinked against her mug. She forced a smile. “Well, don’t wait too long. Half of London’s lining up for you.”
“And yet here I am, wasting my evening with you.”
“Charming,” she muttered.
He winked. “Admit it. I’m your favourite waste of time.”
She laughed despite herself, shaking her head. “Impossible.”
When he finally left, the flat seemed too quiet. Penelope leaned against the door, breathing out slowly, before slipping into her bedroom. She opened her wardrobe and pulled out the little bag hidden at the back.
Silk. Lace. Stockings.
She let the fabric spill through her fingers, imagining—dangerously, recklessly—Colin seeing her not in cardigans and skirts but like this.
Her cheeks burned. She shoved it back quickly and closed the drawer.
⸻
Out on the street, Colin walked home with her words ringing in his ears. Men don’t want girls like me.
Rubbish. Absolute rubbish. He wanted to tell her so, to make her see herself the way he saw her when she laughed, or argued, or filled a room just by being in it. But another thought crept in, one he shoved down hard: How long have I been noticing?
He swore under his breath, shoving his hands in his pockets. She was his best friend. His anchor.
⸻
Back in her flat, Penelope sat on her bed and typed a message:
Do you really mean it, Colin?
Her thumb hovered, then she deleted it. Instead she wrote:
Remember to buy your own biscuits next time. You’re a menace.
His reply came seconds later:
Menace? Charming. Admit it—you’d miss me if I stopped raiding your cupboards.
She smiled into the empty room, her chest aching. “Oh, Colin,” she whispered. “You have no idea.”