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Assistant: Title: Into Your Ocean Eyes
        Author: alcopop_beetle alcopop_beetle 
        Chapter: 13/13 
        Summary: Months of letters unreturned, Colin Bridgerton suddenly hears that Penelope Featherington is to be wed, he is completely anguished and desolate—only to learn that it's a cover for something even more sinister: Penelope has been in a severe accident. Desperate to see her and protect her, Colin sets off for Ireland and arrives to find her unconscious in an infirmary, where he vows to never leave her again. As he fulfills his vow to take care of her, Colin realizes that he has been in love with her all along, but just as he begins to hope for a future together, he finds her room empty one day—Penelope has mysteriously vanished.Five long years of desperate searching, Colin unexpectedly meets a transformed Penelope, far from his Pen, now a resilient tradeswoman with no memory of their past. Determined to rekindle their lost connection, Colin faces the ultimate challenge of helping her remember the love she once held for him—a love he had squandered and taken for granted. Colin must confront his past mistakes and fight to win back the heart of the woman he now knows is his past, his present and his future.*****A Polin amnesia fic nobody asked for but I wrote anyway
            
            Colin grapples on figuring out Penelope's silence for months. He desperately looks for answers from thousands of miles away, and receives the most distressing news he'd hear for a while.
        Contents: Chapter 13: And I’m getting closer than I ever thought I might
    

    

        
          
          
            Colin and Penelope spend the next few weeks together working on Colin’s manuscript. During that time, Colin has some….interesting revelations with himself.
          
        

      
        
          To everyone who waited and are still here after a very long time, thank you all for your patience. This chapter is so special to me, it is a mix of slow burn finally simmering + mild angst + unapologetic hornyness 😭 Unbeta'ed as always, unedited too. I was just excited to bring this one to you all lol. I hope you enjoy this the way I enjoyed writing it.
            
            (See the end of the chapter for  more notes.)
            
      
  

  
  
    
    
  
 CHAPTER 13 —  And I’m getting closer than I ever thought I might 
  And even as I wander

  I'm keeping you in sight

  You're a candle in the window

  On a cold, dark winter's night

  And I'm getting closer than I ever thought I might
 
  
    June 1821
  

  
    It is in here that I find my restless clambering a welcomed reprieve, for the first time in so many years.
  
  
    The shores of Killiney, nestled and lined nicely along the southeast edge of Dublin, lay before me with a sort of solemn splendor: unfolding like a heavenly tapestry of sea and earth, where the bright wisps of sand caress the bubbling rim of the broad and ancient ocean, hurried yet calm, tumbling after the other, as though the very hand of God had fashioned them for solitary men to uncover. I climbed atop the nearest cliff my gaze had seen, my boots powdered with heather and salt, and beheld the silver strand unfolding lazily into the arms of a sea so azure and deep, it appeared to engulf itself. The air is a mist of salt and the faint scent of gorse, and the sea shines like molten sapphire under the ever-moving sky.
  
  
    There is a clean, unwritten prose here—where the wind whispers long since slept languages and even a lost derelict soul like myself, long unmoved by sentiment, feels some buried yearning stir. If I were to pen a brief note encapsulating this quaint little town I find myself blown in by the breeze: a sanctuary of quiet melancholy, fitted to the wanderer's heart and the writer who strives to hold what cannot be held. Overlooking the endless ocean that stretched far beyond what my eyes could see, where solitude finds a companion, and the weary soul, parched from the journey since yore, can slake its thirst at this little slice of nature… a deep stream of freeing rest and solitude.
  
 Penelope could’ve been reading that passage from Mr Bridgerton’s first drafts for more times than she could bother to count. He had such a way with words that always draws her in, making her read several lines without missing any word, internalizing them one by one, feeling the intense emotions weaved into them as he told a story out to the world with the sanctity of how he would talk to a single person only. It always felt like Colin Bridgerton was having a conversation with someone, the privacy and the familiarity of it all, and the world is just sitting around and listening in. She felt a gentle ache in her chest. Only if she was even a smidge of the excellent writer that he was. He was incredible. What would she give to successfully complete a whole book that she herself wrote, even a chapter or two would have been enough to tide her over. If you would tell Penelope Featherington that she would be able to get to know her most favourite author in a personal level, visit his estate even, be in his presence for almost all days of the week, she would say that you were mad. The very notion, should this had been years ago when she started reading his works, would have been ludicrous even. Mr. Colin Bridgerton—Colin—as he would like to be addressed (although she can’t quite bring herself to call him with such familiarity, and she wasn’t supposed to) was the most disarmingly pleasant and the most easy-going gentleman she had ever had the pleasure to meet. Not that she had any opportunities to meet noble people that often. He was down-to-earth and kind, as if he wasn’t a best-selling author. She would have never thought she would ever get to meet a brilliant mind such as his. Even with the rather…unusual circumstances to which they had first met (a ship, a life-saving mouth to mouth resuscitation, and a near-death experience-induced kiss and embrace), Penelope was prepared to conclude that once-upon-a-curious-time meeting and shelf it and him into the backrooms of her mind. Until Colin Bridgerton himself materialized beneath her on the streets of Killiney, saving her from being hit and dragged by a running carriage and subsequently hitting the ground. Not only that it seemed like a cosmic balance, her having saved him and him saving her later on, Mr Bridgerton was also the book author that resonated with her among all the books she had read. What were the odds? And the little problem that the man being annoyingly charming, boyishly dashing and suave, a child-like air around the soft but wearied edges of his countenance, like he had been the only man romance authors had based off their heroes? It was ridiculous…. 
  Was it?
 It was no matter. Because Mr Bridgerton was her patron, probably the biggest author their business had the chance cater. And she’s not about to fail this one, it could help their printing business a whole lot in so many ways, just because she has a little…childish crush with the man. He had come to her to ask for her help some weeks ago, to print his newest book, it was about Ireland this time. It was not yet completed, and he had asked her if she could help him get around town to familiarize himself with the place and the culture. He talked about how it would be very good to have input from someone who have lived in the place for a long time, adding an authenticity to his writings. He gave her an earnest, soft smile, his green eyes crinkling on the sides and said he would like to acknowledge her properly in his book as a gesture of gratitude. Penelope remembered vividly how her breath had caught at that display, her chest tugged she had put her hand on it and massaged it to ease the ache. From then on, they had created an amicable schedule that worked for them. Mr Bridgerton had started his writing with a couple few chapters a few months back as he had told her, but it was from his previous experience of visiting the place, some years ago he said. She remembered how he had appeared rather despondent when he mentioned that time sometime five years ago, the last time he had been in the country, and had subsequently redirected the topic after that. He had told her then that he wanted to scratch the whole thing off, write again from the beginning, hopefully with her help. Penelope had not the chance to read what he had initially written, but he was unwavering that he wanted to start again, something about writing the first chapters with his mind and his body completely at a loss at the time. It would not work well anyway, Mr Bridgerton had said, the person he was when he first wrote it compared to the person he was now was a whole lot different. He smiled curtly at her when he had explained that briefly to her, making her think that he did not want to speak of it anymore. A small part (big, really, but he did not need to know that and she really shouldn’t entertain this thoughts about a client) of her wanted to know, wanted him to speak to her about what troubled him so but really, she shouldn’t entertain this thoughts. It was beyond inappropriate. Curiousity aside, they had made a schedule, with her accompanying him to some part of the city, getting to know people and the culture, the shops, the dining houses, and him working on his observations on his journal, and putting it into writing that would later on make the cut for his book. She had brought him to a lot of interesting places in Killiney. The Hill Park, overlooking the Dublin bay, and the Obelisk summit, were a few places that Mr Bridgerton liked. He shared that he was inclined to trekking and mountain climbing activities every time he traveled in the past to countries with great terrains and ranges. He found the Dalkey Village fascinating, with all the charming artisan shops and the quiet ruins of the St. Begnet’s Church ruins. They had seen the narrow, hidden passages of the village, that was once a port time some time ago. Mr Bridgerton made a quip about how he could not pass the tunnels for his long frame, but she would exactly fit with her dainty one.  She remembered how she had just stared at him in awe and incredulity, and him stunned for a moment to have had told a jest with such familiarity with her that she thought he thought he might have crossed a line. She broke out an unlady-like snort, following a fit of giggles between the two of them. They had visited the Vico Baths, as well, where Mr Bridgerton was so eager to swim in. It was to her horror that he started to unbutton his dress shirt and took off his coat, her widen eyes scanning the tuft of dark wiry hairs in the opening of his chest had made him halt and threw series of apologies at her and her lady's maid (who had swiftly turned around unlike her) with a pink stain on his cheeks, realizing the inappropriateness of the situation. They had not spoken about that incident since. Mr Bridgerton would then have her read his draft after a few days, and she would input some words and sometimes, lines, that would work as a supplement. He was very gracious and enthusiastic about it, taking in everything she would say about the town and the experiences, later finding them in his writing. It felt validating in a way, Penelope felt seen. Nobody really thought much about the editor, not the way the readers focused on the final words in the parchment and the author behind it. And proofing, editing in some way, working with Mr Bridgerton…it makes her feel validated. Makes her feel like she was important. It was a heady feeling. It was new, it was interesting. It feels good. It makes Penelope feel good. They had built this rhythm, and it works. And if Penelope was starting to look forward to the days that she would see Mr Bridgerton and his warm smiles and his deep voice again, that was just her own business. She read the last line in his writing once more, feeling the words surround her like a warm blanket. 
  
    Overlooking the endless ocean that stretched far beyond what my eyes could see, where solitude finds a companion, and the weary soul, parched from the journey since yore, can slake its thirst at this little slice of nature… a deep stream of freeing rest and solitude.
  
   
Penelope looked up at him from reading, only to see him already looking at her with quiet intensity, as if he was holding on to every word she has to say about his writing. She smiled and handed him back the journal he wrote about a cliff in Killiney, not too far from her and Theo’s cottages. “As if you need me to correct any part of this paragraph. It is well-crafted as always.” It was an excellent read, she briefly thought if he really needed someone editing his work, he clearly didn’t require it despite what he had said to her when he sought Chancery Lane’s help to print his book. Mr Bridgerton breathed, a freeing sigh like it loosened up the knot he has in his chest. How could he even doubt his talents? His books were one of the reasons why she had dreamt of publishing herself. But he need not to know that, he would think that she was this obsessed fanatic of his works instead of a professional merchant of the print house that he sought to do business with. It was getting harder and harder every minute, every day, to subdue her fanatical sensibilities (not everyone gets to meet their favorite authors, do they?) Her reverence of his craft, and she would now admit, him, as a person, was just beneath the mask she wears in his presence. Penelope was still a businesswoman, first and foremost. “But you see, it is your expertise and your agency as a native of town that is what I needed.” Mr Bridgerton’s eyes sparkled, there was a mischievous quality to it, something akin to that first time she had met him aboard the ship. The undulating sea shined under the setting sun, it all seemed to reflect in the green of his eyes. Penelope shook her head from how her thoughts had gone astray. “I couldn’t proceed with this edition with much…vigor without your help.” “Mr Bridgerton.” She wanted to remind him that she hadn’t done anything significant for him yet. She read and gave inputs here and there. She had introduced him to the city, yes, the culture and some of the members of the community. He looked liked he had enjoyed it, far more even, than she had expected of him for a little town like theirs was. She had expected that a worldly traveller like him would have seen far grander cities with much more movement and exciting action, but his enthusiasm and genuine ease as he spoke to the farmers, fishermen and the vendors felt like a balm to her soul. He looked one with the people of Killiney. He looked younger than the gray hairs that betrayed his wavy chestnut ones, Penelope felt something unclench inside of her because of it. She also wanted to tell him that while he read his writing with purpose of helping him refine and put an air of locality in it, it was embarrassing actually that she had acted more of a reader, a fan than the editor that she should have been as a part of their contract arrangement. He definitely did not need to know that. Focus up, Penelope. He tilted his head at her and gave her that adorably exasperated expression as if to say ‘haven’t I already asked you to call me ‘Colin’?’ as he did a week into their acquaintance. As much as she wanted to, Penelope thought that it was too early. And as friendly and warm as he was, Mr Bridgerton was still a client. Nothing more. No matter how much she felt safe and comfortable in his presence, even at ease more than the people she have met in her years as a merchantwoman in this line of work. She sighed and shook her head, and gave him a soft apologetic smile as if to tell him, ‘You know I can’t do that.’ She would never admit to anyone, much less Mr Bridgerton, but the childish sulking every time was endearing, needless to say. She then felt the familiar need to compensate, seeing the slight disappointment in his visage. “I actually, uhm,” Penelope started. Mr Bridgerton was kind, that was sure as the sun rises east. He was surprisingly humble for someone that had written and published several well-loved books across the British lands. He had grace far more grounded and soft-spoken than any of the writing agents and authors she had come to meet in years. Surely letting a little bit of her woes as a person trying to be an author herself would receive a bit of kindness and hopefully, insight from him. “I have been dabbling a little bit of writing myself.” Penelope didn’t like the way she had inadvertently lowered her voice and slumped her shoulders. And yet, she powered through the insecurity. “It’s not very good, I can barely string up a good chapter—” “If you helping me finesse my writing this past few weeks is any indication, I can certainly say that you are good at it.” He smiled and nodded, as if it was a truth he had already known for a long time. How can he be so genuinely benevolent with his compassion? As if he has extra, limitless kindness in the breast pocket of his coat, giving it freely to anyone who needs it desperately. She gave him an incredulous, albeit mock stern look. “You haven’t even read anything I’ve written yet, Mr. Bridgerton.” “I can. I mean, I could,” His voice and his eyes shifted into a softness she did not expect.“If you want me to peruse on them, that is.” If you would tell Penelope Featherington that she would have a talented, brilliant published author taking a gander of something she had written years ago when she started to take on the quill, she would say that you are certainly mad. “Would you really?” Penelope swallowed when he nodded and smiled, running his hand through the silky strands of his hair. She briefly wondered what had she done in the past life for this reality in her life to manifest. “Uhm, I, I don’t have the funds for your time and expertise and I know you’re quite busy enough as it is—” “Miss Featherington.” Mr Bridgerton effectively stopped her from rambling. “You don’t know how much it means to me that you’re here, to, uhm, help me with my work, showing me around.” An uncharacteristic nervousness and reticence marred his face, along the slight ruddiness across his cheeks, which, again, Penelope finds really (and disarmingly) pleasant. “And if this is something that would really help you, I would love to have the opportunity to assist. Proof your work for you as you did mine.” What does she say to that? When aside from being so kind and endearing in everything he did, he looks at her, too. Really looked at her as if everything else that surrounds them were background noise, that he couldn’t care less if his garden was on fire or if his staff had planted vegetables instead of flowers like he requested. And that too. One day Penelope arrived in his garden with a complete team of gardeners and horticulturists working and moving around. When she asked him what was with the sudden interest with flora, he simply told her, 
  Well, I saw your flower beds by your cottage and I could tell you loved looking at them as you start your mornings. I figured you would like to see them here, too, as we work along my writing.
 Penelope could feel her chest race, along with him now across from her with a ridiculously sweet smile like he himself invented sugar. Do you… do you like them? He would then ask with an air of shyness around him, the familiar light tint of pink across his face that just made her really, really warm herself. They’re beautiful. Penelope had said in return. Though she wasn’t sure if it was the flowers she was meaning about or if it was…. Her recollections paused and brought her back to the present as he turned his attention back to his writing, a gentle afternoon breeze blew in, making his brown wavy tresses flow in tune. She felt a little morose, now that his eyes were not on hers anymore, but it was replaced with a sudden a wordless marvel as his lips moved into various shapes, reading his sentences silently to himself. There were beads of perspiration on top of his lips, and Penelope couldn’t tell anyone, even herself, why it held her attention so much that she couldn’t hear Erin call on her from across the garden, where she and Mr Bridgerton’s gardener and coach Seamus and another of his staff were working on a new flower bed. She immediately pulled herself back in her proper senses and excused herself from Mr Bridgerton, who nodded eagerly, giving her that same sweet smile. One of this days she would have to learn to temper down the sudden jolt in her chest that happens whenever he does that. She hurriedly moved and busied herself with Erin and the others, pouring in her thoughts about what would be best to plant on them, prattling on about marigolds and heathers, primroses, zinnias, anything to distract herself from the very blatant ogling she couldn’t stop herself from doing around her client. Erin had helped her a lot with the flower beds in her own cottage, and she had brought her in too as a chaperone in her liasons with Mr Bridgerton, in Theo’s behest. Penelope had told him that she didn’t need a chaperone, that this was not England and they were not even members of high society, or if high society was even a thing here in Dublin. Or if chaperones were even a thing. But Theo was very adamant, immovable about it, even. She wondered what that was about. He said that he would feel better if he knew she was accompanied, and had blatantly expressed his clear disagreement in taking in Mr Bridgerton as their newest patron. Penelope couldn’t tell why Theo was so uncomfortable about all this, when they had worked with a lot of gentlemen of various shapes and sizes as clients before. She couldn’t tell why there was this uncharacteristic unease in her dear friend whenever she would bring up Mr Bridgerton in their conversations. If he was worried about her time being spread thin between the operations of the print house and attending to little Charles, Penelope had made sure that it wasn’t going to cause problems, as they would take turns on taking care of the little babe and his governess and nursemaid takes him in if they couldn’t. It wasn’t a problem, Penelope was certain, which was why there was something entirely else that bothered Theo, that for a fact she thought, something that she promised to herself she would learn soon for herself. If he was worried about Mr Bridgerton’s conduct, it was baseless. He had been nothing but a proper gentleman with her, and with her assistant Erin, and would often times engage her in their conversations to make her feel included. Penelope had this rather… innate inclination to stand up for Colin—Mr Bridgerton, that is. As if it was just natural. Theo would press on then, making it clear to her that this issue he has with the man is far beyond something of her knowledge, or even sense, and Penelope was not having any of it. She had made a point to him that she was as much as a partner in this enterprise as he was, and if she believed that taking in Mr Bridgerton’s account is lucrative for Chancery Lane, she knew it was and he would just have to trust her instincts about it. They had never explicitly talked about it after, but she knew that Theo only had her best interest at heart, at the end of it all. And she was thankful for him, as she would always be. So she had compromised and brought Erin with her every time then after. Now, a few moments had passed by, as Penelope could successfully say that she had been appropriately distracted with everything flora, when a voice loudly rang from the outdoor benches where she left Mr Bridgerton. “Colin Bridgerton, how I missed you so!” Penelope turned to a familiar face she had only seen and got to meet once back when she was in London. — These past four weeks had been opalescent blur of kaleidoscopic heaven, Colin felt like he had been dug up from six feet under and brought back up like a whole new man. He felt like the same boy that grew up carefree and happy, before the world came caving in with the reality, and it was all because of Penelope, his Pen, now across him in his garden, reading the initial writings he had for his newest book. If you would tell Colin months ago that this was how his immediate future would look like, he would explode in a broken, pained, hollow laughter and say that he had long given up the notion of happiness. But his happiness had come back crashing in, like a long lost ship emerging from the horizon. His happiness who was now helping him work on his writing, accompanying him around town to observe and experience everything the town has to offer, and would soon help him print his newest book. None of it matters for Colin now, truthfully. He couldn’t care less about anything, if he was being honest. What matters was Penelope. As she'd always been. He had been given a second chance in life and he would rather be dead than squander this precious chance to be in her presence once more. But it was the only plan he had come to build to be able to be close to her and speak with her at length. He couldn’t hover around her and breathe the air around her like he had always wanted to do, and follow her around like a besotted pup (he was, he really was, but she didn’t need to know that just yet) without looking like a bounder or a rum cove, a very odd character, without scaring her off before he could even begin to work his way through her heart and inhabit her memories again. He could or could not write anymore, to be honest, there was no need. But he needed an excuse. A valid one. Penelope was here and so was he, he was now rooted here where she was. If she was now a townswoman of Dublin, so was Colin. To be able to see her in the flesh again, feel her warmth, hear her speak and laugh, see her smile….he wasn’t entirely sure if he really didn't drown in reality and this was now his heaven. He had traveled far and wide yet nobody told Colin that heaven was actually a place on Earth and it was here in the charming town of Killiney in Ireland, right by her side. Even though Colin had to pretend like he had just met Penelope. Like he didn’t know all these little and big details of her, like he didn’t have all this overflowing devotion inside of him wanting to break everyday that he gets to see her. Even though Colin had to pretend like he didn’t want to kiss her and embrace her and love her so openly every single minute in her presence. Sometimes he still feels like he’s on edge, like he’s just waiting for the shoe to drop, like all of these were just created by his dying mind not able to withstand the reality of having lost Pen in the real world and not caring what happens next in his own life. Like this was all just a precursor, an illusion, a little reprieve of what he wished to have in his heart of hearts, before they took him finally, whoever deity was up there. However, it kept to be proven real, time and time again, by Penelope herself. Colin looked at her the past few weeks with transfixed admiration, an utter, breathless awe that did not diminish and only grew exponentially more as he spent his time by her side. The way her warm body radiate to his side as they walk the cobblestone streets of the quaint Killiney, finding their way to every nerve endings he has and finally up to his heart. His previously battered and bruised heart that sat waiting in agony and despair for a long, long time, now glowing and beating profusely, a well-oiled mechanism of urgency, red and warm and alive, very much alive he can practically hear it and feel it whenever she was near. The way she spoke, her voice honey and velvet and ambrosia to his ears and his senses, being bereft of it for years on end, how her voice that he’d tried so hard to preserve in his mind being plucked out of his dreams, the reality was so much sweeter than he remembered. The way the barest of touch from her electrifies his skin, when she hands him his manuscript after reading a passage he had wrote. The way she leaves a familiar warmth on the parchment, and his fingers would linger on the warmth as if she left a piece of her in it too that he wanted to consume for himself, his previously tired body reacquainting to her very presence, leaving parts of him throbbing, pulsating, parts of him he thought was dead a long time ago. Sometimes Colin thinks he needed another vessel, a spare chest, a twin heart of himself so he could put all these overflowing love, this devotion, this…burning ache for her that only grew the more time passed by that he could not tell her, or make her feel even a small bit of. It was overwhelming, it was too much, it was consuming him, fire licking his spine, his toes, everything. But he’d never have it any other way. Never in all the days he had lived had he felt something burn so brightly and all-encompassing within him. When Colin finally saw Penelope after all these years, everything he thought that perished inside of him had suddenly…awaken. Without warning, his skin was abuzz whenever they touch, even as innocuous as fingers brushing or a hand shake, even, her warmth ensconcing him into heaps of his own, he felt like a kind of restless animal whenever she was around it was becoming a….problem, of some sorts. In one instance, the very first time Pen had touched him inadvertently was when he was walking her back to her cottage after a day of conversation about books, editing and brainstorming for his newest manuscript. His carriage had met a minor accident, a spoke had slipped from the hub of a wheel, causing it to wobble slightly and his coach Seamus had the presence of mind to pull them over before a greater mishap could occur. They were fortunate, as Pen’s cottage was only a mile away from where they were stopped. Colin’s walk with Pen to her cottage were filled with even more conversations and insights about everything and nothing, as if they hadn’t spent the majority of the day exchanging words already. He had enjoyed her presence so much that he nearly tripped over a small boulder in the dirt road he had not the mind to notice, but Pen clutched on his arm and pulled him back up and towards her to avoid the protrusion in the road. Oh, are you alright! She exclaimed, worry coloring her sweet voice but he barely heard her. His heart was pounding so very much on his ribcage for the first time since he had seen her finally in the ship weeks ago, and all of it had nothing to do with such a miniscule rock he could have kicked himself if he so choose. Pen’s tight grip on his bicep caused his heart to rattle wildly inside his chest, the heat of her palm defying science, as if his clothing was never there as a barrier. Her nails dug a bit to his skin, the sharp pang hurling a thousand little volts of electricity all over his body, pumping so much blood inside of him that all of it were concentrated to his c@ck. He remembered jolting, he actually flinched on the sudden sensation, the familiar heat, the race, and the buzz, the pooling of something so familiar, so delicious, so scandalous in his nether regions he had so forgotten the last time he had even felt it, causing Pen to jolt as well and pulled her grip from him, might have thought she had hurt him without intention. It took everything in Colin to fight the strong impulse to pull her hand and place it back again to his body that craved it so very much. Colin could consider himself fortunate—and equally unfortunate, both at the same time that evening. For her cottage was only a hare’s breath away when his libido made itself known after such a long time, and he had made the hasty excuse that it was getting dark and he’d better help his coach Seamus fix the carriage right away (a whole bunch of half lies really, as he mainly needed to come home and to take care of his immediate problem). Pen, his sweet, kind, and oh, so lovely Pen that had no idea of the unrestrained debauchery running in his mind just in her proximity alone, offered him tea and refreshment inside her cottage before he left and God, what he would do to thank the heavens above for such an opportunity to be ever so closer to her than he can as of the moment. But the same heavens have decided that he was only allowed to have one kindness a day because of the ever growing stiffness from under his breeches he very much needed to attend to, preferably not in her home, and preferably not in her delicate presence. So he bid her goodbye albeit reluctantly, seeing a tinge of disappointment in her ocean blue eyes that he might or might not have imagined on his own for how fast it came and went, made him abandon propriety and morals in his head that he briefly considered stifling the problem in her bathroom just so he could be with her for much longer. But he powered through it, as painful as it was to decline the wonderful opportunity to be with her for a bit more than propriety allowed, deciding that she didn’t deserved to be in presence of this ungentlemanly dilemma he has yet to control, and went on his way back to his carriage not too far in the road. He fled into the privacy of his bedchambers as he arrived from Pen’s later that night, feeling like an uncouth degenerate as he dropped to his knees after having the door locked, barely pulling his breeches all the way down, taking his aching and swollen member out and stroking himself once, twice, and thrice more, spilling himself wildly to his carpeted floorboards. The image of Penelope looking up at him with stuttered breaths and her dainty hands clutching his muscular arm bringing him to the pinnacle of his carnal pleasures. Colin was in so much trouble. Every day after that was a whole lot of other problem of its own. They would meet thrice or four times a week to convene, after exploring the town so he could add more to his writing which then he would give to Pen to proof and edit, and which they would discuss in person after a couple of days apart. In the mornings and in a third person’s vantage point, Colin was the affable writer, a curious traveller learning the city through his new interesting acquaintance and somewhat of an associate in his current work, a lovely, more than capable young lady named Penelope Featherington who also helps him edit his work, transforming his writing into a much reacher plane, bore from enjoying and immersing into the Irish culture unlike he did with those other times he explored cities for his book. Colin could even consider himself her friend now, as shameless as it was to claim, for how much they have spent the last month together. But when the night comes, he was just a man. A man who is so very much in love with this amazing, enchanting woman he had longed for so many years. The inevitable hurt of being a stranger in her eyes would ache and sting, but the pain ebbed and flowed. And all that he’d focus on is she was here, she was alive, and that was the biggest blessing of it all. Then he’d focus next on how his day had went with her presence, how her hair flowed in the gentle breeze like it was under water, how the sunlight would struck it and it glowed to the most ethereal red he’d ever had the opportunity to see. How her skin shined like alabaster, her lips puckered when she’s concentrating, how it would shape a thousand other ways when she speaks. How a bead of sweat traverse the cream of her neck, the sides of her soft, darling face, how it would find its way down her shoulders, her collar bones, to the soft, oh God, the soft, delicious swell of her ample chest. The drop of it would then vanish in the valley of her décolletage, round creamy globes hidden beneath her charming dresses, doing nothing to water down the desire coursing through him like unruly waves against rocks at the bottom of the cliff—relentless, hard, chaotic and mad. Oh, how he’d want to run his tongue on her skin so badly. Lick that sweat off, taste what he was sure was something akin to the food of the Gods. Latch his mouth on every delicate inch of her and let his hunger and madness take over. The nights, Colin would let himself wander. Hands finding his breeches, his c@ck, her pretty face flashing through his mind. Fantasize. Dream. Relieve himself just a little bit. And that little would grow, full on wretchedness of his grip on his aching shaft dreaming for her touch. He’d pump himself over and over, his bottom lip under his teeth he’d bleed sometimes for how his climax would devour him, all the while the image of Penelope rocking herself on top of him as he dreams of her warm tight walls sheathe him, clenching and pulsating until there was nowhere else for him to go, her name a prayer tiding him over as he spills himself all over his pelvis. He was only a man. A pathetic man that wants nothing but to sink into her depths and never let go. And Penelope was all woman. An epitome of how a woman should be. She had grown into something else entirely this past five years. ‘Desirable’ is a modest word. All curves and ampleness, abundant and lovely, frame that begs to be towered over and protected, cherished, venerated, worshipped, and f@ck it to hell, Colin wasn’t a saint. He wasn’t a good man. He had long freed his mind from repressing the thoughts that he couldn’t think of the woman who owned his heart this way. He wanted Penelope, and he had kissed her once, and that kiss replayed in his mind like fireworks every time. The kiss had developed into something more in his dreams, he had made love to her over and over in the privacy of his mind more than he could care to count. He wanted her so bad it hurts. It hurts, but it hurts so f@ck@ng good. And in the days, he was never not half-hard every time they met, having to strategically seat behind his study’s thick desk or cross his legs whenever the discretion of the location where they sat for their sessions was not available. The beginnings of their meetings Colin was like a green boy looking at the very first grown woman in delicate frocks he’d seen, and that’s saying something for a well-traveled gentleman of eight and twenty. But he had learn to collect himself, for Pen, for she did not deserve a scoundrel that ogles on her in the open. She deserves a proper gentleman, a man of honor, a man that would slowly earn her good graces and her affections slowly, surely and appropriately. She deserves to be respected for the amazing, capable woman that she is, to be celebrated and venerated, and if he could earn her close friendship again soon, she deserves a companionship that nourishes her, connection that would help her business and those people around her. Right now, Penelope’s friendship is the most important aspiration for Colin. And he could feel that they are heading towards it, if her smiles and her warm reception, and her rare moments of wit and their banter was any indication, even though he could feel her still being guarded up by the business relationship that they had initially established, as a patron and a merchantwoman. He would break through that barrier soon enough, he would work hard for it. What are Bridgertons but synonymous to competitiveness, and the fiery resolve to win. He was a Bridgerton man, after all. And along the careful plan of earning Penelope’s affections, was the ever insistent thought of what could have really happened five years ago, when everything went south. These past few weeks got him ruminating about the events that had happened in Galway. Often times he would dream of Pen, in that infirmary bed, so frail and sickly, but still the Pen he cherished and treasured. The thought of her like that, one memory of her helpless and unconsciousness in that tiny wheeled bed….it was enough for him to crumble on his knees every night, in the privacy of his thoughts. The accident that would have led his Pen to suffer and lose her consciousness and eventually her precious memories….it was enough for him to fall in the spiral of his grim thoughts. He knew now, after looking in the report his runners had gave him, putting in everything he knew like puzzle pieces coming together. That it had been Theo Sharpe that took her away just right after he’d realized the depth of his devotion for her. How this Theo character and that nurse attendant, Sophie may have known each other, he might have paid her to help him take Pen, considering she was nowhere in sight now, their connection, and how Pen had mixed in with them something that Colin wanted to know so badly but knew somehow that it no longer mattered. He tampered the urge, the strong, clawing necessity to march there on the b@st@rd’s house (the audacity to live near his Pen!) and demand answers, demand the b@st@rd to tell him who he really was and what does he want from Penelope that he needed to abduct her, take her away from him and be the villain of his life for the next five years. Colin resisted, with gritted teeth and white knuckles, tried so very hard to reel this madness in, thought hard every night that if he’d let himself fall into the pit of darkness, not only he’d be a murderer, he’d never know the truth of it all and Penelope would never forgive him. But it never lessened the abhorrence, the burning contempt, the deep seated fury he feels for that man. He just learned to control it, for Penelope’s sake. Never forgetting that it was only her that could calm the storm in his heart. Once he would finally earn Pen’s friendship again, he would tackle the looming dark cloud that was Theo Sharpe. Colin would know soon, he was certain of it, but he has to be smart and calculating about this. Be back in Penelope’s proximity and a friendly capacity first, that was the first step. He sought comfort, as tangible as it was, to the fact that Pen was now here, was she not? That was all that really mattered for Colin Bridgerton, at the end of the day. She was alive and well, she was thriving, she’s independent, a woman living her best life five years later, away from the society that only imprisoned the iridescent light that was her soul. She had made a killing with her business. She was incredible, amazing, the woman of his dreams. 
  But she doesn’t remember you, she had forgotten who you were, every memory of you no longer took space in her mind.
 A dark thought would come to Colin unbidden once or twice in the depth of the night—perhaps he was the one that held her back. Perhaps he held her from becoming this beautiful, freed bird that she was supposed to be. The reason why she had to forget about him, to make space for the future that awaits for her without him in it, the reason why he couldn’t find her for five dreadful years no matter how he had tried. He had not let himself simmer on such a wild notion. He was being preposterous. All the heavy unrest in his mind that seem to fester in consciousness, all fades away as he looked at Penelope, who was now speaking with her lady’s maid and his gardener and butler nearby, the topic of interest must have been the flower beds that he had instructed his staff the grow in the garden surrounding the outdoor benches where they usually have their literary sessions. Colin had hoped that Pen would feel good and at home in his estate the longer they spend their time together, even if it is just in the purpose of business for her. And if there was a quiet hope inside of him that this house could become a place she would want to stay in for long in the future, then that was just his private business. He could not tell how long had he been silently observing Pen from afar, her adorable warm smiles and the way she spoke so kindly with her maid and his staff, a surge of devotion towers and washes over him again and again. He smiled when she smiled, nodded when she did, and he hadn’t even noticed someone creep up from his side and sat themselves in outdoor bench adjacent to him. “Colin Bridgerton, how I missed you so!” Colin jumped on his seat and turned to see Michael Stirling emerge from his side and pulled him in for an embrace. “Stirling!” He managed to utter, his vision flying to Pen from across the yard and back to his friend who tapped his back eagerly, a surging panic creeping in from his lungs to his airways. “How are you—why are you here?” Michael let him go and ignored him completely when he turned to the far end of the garden as a figure stood up from the ground. His face lightened up as he saw Pen arrange her skirts from being hunched down along with the others. Colin could feel an uncomfortable foreboding from somewhere deep inside of him, its presence begging to be acknowledged. “Oh, but it is the sweet fountain lady! What are you doing here?” His friend turned to Penelope with an excited and amused expression, like seeing a baby deer in the wild. Sweet fountain lady? “My Lord,” Penelope, his sweet darling Pen, cordial and friendly as always, drops a short curtsy at Stirling, looking at him with the same amusement, but a little less excitement than the man. “It is nice to meet you again, I would have never thought—” “It seems that fate has gazed upon us and decided it is destined for us to meet.” Stirling, ever the merry rake that he was, stepped closer to her and to Colin’s  horror, reached out for her hand and brought to his lips for a kiss. The panic was replaced immediately with a thinly veiled contempt. “Stirling.” The pointed and deep snarl from him made him shiver, even he himself didn’t recognize the simmering fury underneath him. Colin fought with gritted teeth to not march to the both of them and yank his snake of a friend’s grasp from Pen, his Pen! The sheer audacity of this man! This was Penelope, for God’s sakes! His Penelope. Granted that she doesn’t know that yet, but she also doesn’t know that Colin was completely, wholly, ultimately hers. He’s going to have to work harder for it to become a reality soon enough. “Bridgerton, how do you know her?” Michael Stirling brought him back to his earthly senses, he was now a few steps farther from Pen, who was now blushing profusely in the apple of her cherried cheeks. Did Stirling brought that out from her? Oh he’s gonna have to dust-off his hunting pistol and call on Dunwoody to be his second at dawn. Michael, completely oblivious to Colin’s internal dilemma of beating the hell out of his person in the privacy of his mind for being a total rake, kissing Penelope’s hand and making her blush, continued on taking his silence as an affirmative. “Colin, remember back in London when I told you I’d like you to meet a fan of yours that I had the opportunity to meet at Nathaniel Hartigan’s soiree?” 
  Wait…what?
 “This is her!” Michael chirped excitedly, leaving a bewildered Penelope, looking at him and then Colin, then back at Michael, trying to decipher the connection he was saying. “Miss— Wait a second, I haven’t had the opportunity to know your name, my Lady.” Colin didn’t remember much the last time he was in London, after the recent weeks where his life had been completely turned around for the better the least he had expected it, the months, even the years prior seemed so insignificant now. It seemed that his memory of the last five years had naturally vacated itself to create space for the new ones he was currently making with Penelope, and that is all that he sees now, her, and the future ahead with her, how vague it would seem to him currently. Yet he remembered the dinner his mother orchestrated before he left, the kind of unspoken dissonance in the dining table, the one he had with his family for years ever so present, and the moment he broke apart years of pent-up despair and misery in front of his sister, never having a clue that his life was about to change the moment he was out Mayfair and embarked on the same ship that boarded the long lost love of his life. But he had remembered talking with his friend at Number 5, too, mentioning a soiree that he should’ve been, Michael meeting a…..woman….that admired his work. A woman that would have wanted to meet him because of it. 
  My god.
 Penelope. Penelope. It was her? What had been a simple drink of catching up with a friend, could have been the moment he finally saw her after so many years…. Colin doesn’t…he doesn’t know how to make of that. The two carried on in front of him, unknowing of the maelstrom of thoughts running inside his head, paralyzing him in his feet. “Oh, my apologies! My name is <PRESIDIO_ANONYMIZED_PERSON>.” His Pen’s sweet melodic voice reeled him back in from the spiral of his musings. He sees the exact moment Stirling paused, the beaming excitement in his visage falters, shifting into gaping disbelief, as he worked out the brand new information she had just told him. Michael knew Colin was looking for a love he lost for so many years. But the depth of the story, the beginnings of him and Pen, that was only for him. In his travels he had never told anyone of Pen, even in the company of drunken sailors and lost travelers like himself, afraid that if he’d say it out loud, say the tragedy of his failures and regrets and the things he wished were different, things he wished he changed, all of it, will just be real. And he knew it was real. The pain was real. It’s a void, an empty hole, gushing of blood like a spring water emerging from the dirt of the earth that had been dug deep too much, never ceased on stopping. No bottle of alcohol, nor any psyched substance could’ve dampen the pain. The last five years of barely leaving in her absence in his life hurt and festered and stayed and ate him alive, but letting someone else know of the story of it all makes it all the more real, letting it out of the privacy of his own secluded and isolated suffering, having someone else peer into the devastation and the frayed, ugly ruins of his heart and his life? He couldn’t bear it, he absolutely cannot. Colin knew then he needed help, but he also knew he didn’t deserve the grace. Proof of that is the wedge that he himself lodged between his family. Asking for help from them, from anyone, is admitting how much of a failure he was. But he must’ve did once, though. Must have told him her name only to feel, just once, like she wasn’t a figment of his imagination, that here was the beautiful beginning of it all. The letters they exchanged, the words they shared and the dances that brought them closer together, they were all real. She was real. Once upon a time, Colin Bridgerton and Penelope Featherington were dearest friends. He took small comforts in the thought that she was real, she had to be. And even in the mess of his mind and body on those painful years, one thing Colin knew to be real was Penelope was once his friend. The sobriety was the wound, scratching and gnawing, and the intoxication was the brief relief and release. The lowest of the lowest he had been. And now his friend knew, his friend finally had a face to connect to the misery of him. This was her, this was Pen. The woman that drove Colin Bridgerton to the pit of madness, the pitiful mess of a hollowed-out man he had to save countless times in foreign lands, awarded him the grace of dignity by not telling a word to his family of how much of a pathetic being he was, city or country withstanding. “Penelope…Featherington. You are…” Stirling looked back at him with an eye of quiet surprise and recognition. “Penelope?” It was like he was confirming to Colin more than confirming to Penelope herself. She turned to him briefly and gave him a subtly perplexed look, like a look that silently asks him what was happening. He thought it might have been a wrong time to feel like it but God, Colin loves this. He longed for this for so many years. And now he’s swimming in it, this look, all of the looks, the silent ones she gives him that he feels and understands, the hint of budding trust and familiarity Penelope must slowly feel every time she looks at him and trusts that he knows what she asks or means just by the look she gives is making him feel emotional and beyond happy and tethered to her even more. It makes him feel like they’re building back what they have lost, what he had lost, the friendship, the familiarity, all of it, slowly but surely, making this into a new delicate, but just as beautiful friendship with just the two of them, no Eloise, no one else. It makes him feel like he’s getting a piece of her back slowly, but also building something new and warm and wonderful and just theirs—like a new life, a second chance in life, without the pain of the past hurting them, without the expectations of high society that prevented them from getting close. It makes him feel like perhaps, even if there was a possibility that she wouldn’t remember him ever, what they’re building now could tide him over, breathe in a new brand air into his lungs that could sustain him until the end of his days. Create something new with her now, and maybe, just maybe, Penelope would feel the love he has for her waiting to be freed from deep within his bones, all the compressed and ever-flowing devotion he has for her that never ceased to grow as the years went by. That is also why it fills him with copious amount of panic and anxiety, this, the outside world closing in on them. Closing in the delicate bubble he had crafted with her. Colin swallowed the effervescing panic in his throat, his hands twitching at his sides, wanting nothing more than to reach for Pen and take her away from this moment, from the world slowly and finally closing in on their little paradise. Runaway to far, far away lands, protect her from remembering the past, the pain he had caused her, the pain that he had contributed. Fill her with his love and devotion and adoration, that she would hopefully want for nothing from the outside world. “I am.” Michael snapped his head at him, his eyes widening and his mouth slack-jawed, unable to utter something in return, leaving Penelope bewildered more than ever. Not a day goes by that he’s plagued by his guilt, of wanting to tell her everything. Tell her he knew her, they knew each other, tell her she was his most treasured person, that once upon a time there was Colin and Penelope, giggling and laughing in their own little world in the corners of the b@lls, tell her that there had been hundreds of missives exchanged over the years between the two of them, that they talked about their dreams and finding their lives’ purpose, of wanting to be free. That they danced countless times in each other’s arms, that looking back now, the only moments he had ever felt like he was himself, the most genuinely happy and free he had ever felt was with her, all of those moments with her in the past, even when he was traveling and he’d still feel her in his chest, her letter tucked neatly on his breast pocket, refusing to leave his lodgings and begin his trips without bringing in a semblance of her wherever he found himself in. That when she had been purposely taken away from her home, from Mayfair, from him, he had traveled lands and seas, only to find her once and lost her again shortly after like an utter fool. That he was merely a vessel of his old self when she was gone, that when he did tried to find her, turned the world in his hands inside out just for a mere glimpse of her, he had stopped living too, feeling, that he was merely existing all of those times in her absence. That he was a blind and complete idiot, for having so many opportunities in her presence only to squander them all, for only realizing the depth of his true heart when the woman that held it vanished from the face if the earth, never to be seen again. Everyday. Everyday with her was a blessing he would never trade for anything else, and a torture all the same, having to keep lying to her, just so he could bid more time until she finally remembers his betrayal, the words he had spoken behind her back, the last words of him she might have heard before it all went south. Colin knew he was the most selfish, the most manipulating man in the world. He also knew that he wasn’t perfect, and if keeping her in the dark for a little while just so he could be with her for what little bid of time he still has until his mistakes would finally catch up to him and present themselves in her memory, then so be it. He swallowed down the familiar thickness of guilt filling his lungs, as he always did. “I first met Mr Bridgerton on the ship back on the way here. And he has sought my help to print his newest work. I work in a printing house, you see.” Stirling looked at him with his mouth agaped, his brows furrowed.He knew what is going on in his mind right now, and Colin could feel the panic creep in his airways, along with the uncontrollable twitching in his suddenly cold hands. Before his friend could even voice out his questions and see the first signs of his crumbling down, Colin needed to clutch. He wasn’t ready. Not yet. God, he was pathetic. A coward of the highest esteem. “Stirling, c-can I talk to you in private?” He winced at how small his voice had become. Michael looked at him with furrowed brows, then to Penelope, then back at him, a soft recognition dawning in his expression. “Uhm, of course! I’m— I apologize, Miss Penelope, I will be right back.”His friend moved back to the house first, leaving Colin and Penelope, who was now looking at the door with the same furrow on her brows, the uncanny exchange leaving her bemused he could tell. “My apologies, Pen—Miss Featherington,” Colin stopped in front of her, wringing his wrists to alleviate some of the anxiety that had festered ever since his friend materialized on the door. A slight amusement in her eyes for him calling her Pen. He pushed down the warmth in his heart. He didn’t deserved any of it as of this moment. “I—uhm,” “No need to explain, Mr Bridgerton.” Pen smiled at him, warm and soft and sweet, leaving him a little breathless as if it was the first time he’d ever saw it. “I’ll be fine right here.” He nodded, smiling back at her, hoping to match even a sliver of warmth her presence have always awarded him. Whatever confusion she was in earlier, it all faded as she smiled at him back, her eyes crinkling at the sides as she rocked on her heels slightly, the gentle breeze blowing from the largest window of the study swept her hair to a soft wave. He didn’t know how long they have been standing there, lost in the trance of looking and smiling at each other, him absent-mindedly rocking on his own heels matching her when his friend came back down the garden and called his name rather loudly. “Bridgerton, are you—” Stirling stopped on his tracks as he stared upon the two seemingly locked on the little bubble casing them, smiling like lovelorn fools at each other. Colin was pulled back to his worldly senses when he heard Michael call him, blinking down on Penelope as she herself stirred back. “Oh!” Pen squeaked adorably in surprise, leaving his heart fluttering inside like a caged bird. “Right, my apologies.” Colin turned to his friend and moved towards the door, Michael giving him odd looks and rallied an amused smirk between him and the miss in the middle of the room who was obviously flustered beyond reproach, now looking at anything else other than his friend who was just as equally flustered. Before he vanished through the door, Colin left Pen with a shy smile and a wave in his hand. If he was a better, collected man, he would’ve felt shame course through him for acting like a green boy barely out of leading strings (waving your hand, truly?), but it didn’t. Not when Pen waved at him back with a smile as abashed as he was. — “Bridgerton—” “Please, Michael, don’t tell her." Colin whispered his plea helplessly, defeat weighing him down as they entered the library far away from the garden, where he left Penelope to explain all of it to his friend and fervently hope for his discretion about the situation. He leaned on the nearest bookshelf and rested his forehead on the wood, the smell off old books that always calmed his nerves and the coldness of the surface on his skin offering no reprieve to the storm of raging emotions inside of him. “Don’t tell her what? What is going on?” Michael stepped closer to him, gripped his shoulder and spoke in a hushed whisper, genuine hope coloring his tone. “Bridgerton, you have found her, truly?” Despite the reality closing in on him and the immediate future of needing to tell Penelope the truth loomed over the horizon of his fears, Colin smiled faintly and nodded, a silk of happiness wrapping his tattered but glowing heart in a warm embrace only Penelope could make him feel even if she didn’t know it. “Bridgerton! I am so glad for you!” His dear friend tapped his back enthusiastically, laughing in adulterated happiness for him, even though his delight gnawed at his chest. If only it were that simple. If only everything was that simple. Colin didn’t deserve it, he doesn’t deserve a congratulatory tap in the back, he doesn’t deserve his friend’s ingenuous support. Stirling calmed down a beat later, seeing how he hadn’t joined in, brewing concern painting his face. “But you don’t…you don’t look pleased by the fact.” Colin breathed out shakily, his fingers trembling as he reached out for the decanter at the side of the book shelf’s landing and poured them both a drink. He did not drank his, however, he couldn’t, instead he held unto the sides of his desk, head low, gripping hard enough like it would give him a slight reprieve from the panic barreling inside of him like tumbleweeds in a barren wheat field. “Hold on a moment, why did she say she first met you on a ship?” Michael accepted the glass and took a sip. He turned back to him then, and leveled to his vision, confusion marred his countenance. “And did she say she works in a…printing house? I thought she was your neighbor back in Mayfair.” It didn’t take long for Stirling to put two in two together. “What is—what is going on?” And just like that, Colin was a dark, heavy cloud that broke out into a full raging storm, the entire story—from the yellow bonnet of hers that flew to his face when he was but three and ten, to the years of comforting and warm friendship, to the last time he’d foolishly lost her in the infirmary when she needed him most, and now to the selfish, semblance of a plan he’d crafted to crawl back into her good graces and eventually, hopefully, her precious memories. It all came hurtling back, like an avalanche from the summit of Ben Nevis, and Colin was just in the outskirts of it all, waiting for the gargantuan cold to bury him. By the end of it all, Colin was out of breath, his hair wild from having been the attention to of a very busy raking, and Michael looked at him with what he could only surmise as pity and sorrow for him, and God, he sees the same deep melancholy reflected back at him that make him want to drop to his knees and cry. He knew his friend was one of the few people he could fully trust, that compassion and empathy was deeply engraved in his being, and it proved to be the truth time and time again, especially now, as he silently let him slowly stew in his own lot in life. “So, Stirling, I implore you. You cannot tell her anything. Not yet.” He pleaded, his own fight with himself leaving him. “Of course, Bridgerton. I would never…” He nodded, sitting beside him on the floor, his hand on his shoulder, gripping him the way his father used to do, and it makes him want to crawl out of his corporeal body, that grief and this grief, the grief of the inevitable fall out with Pen crushing him inside. “There is nothing else I want than my dearest companion finally being with the woman he so loved ardently. You both deserve to be happy, Colin,” It did nothing to nip even a bud of the anguish he felt. After a beat, Michael continued. “But…” He paused, as if trying to weigh on the repercussions of his next words. And in a soft, almost gentle note, like how his mother speaks to him before imparting something profound and life-changing, “But don’t you think Miss Penelope deserves to know?” And that was the crux of it all, was it not? Because Penelope deserves everything. What she doesn’t deserve is a lying man, preventing the door of her memories from being opened. Because he was a coward, and he knew all of this slice of heaven will come crumbling down on him when she finally remembers. “This is not only your memories, your life, Colin, it is hers, too. And I think that…” “I know. I know it all, Michael.” He stood and started pacing, truth tumbling out of him like vomit that just kept on going. “And believe me, not a day goes by that I am not, tormented, harrowed, by the very fact that I am lying to her. I am lying like the world’s biggest charlatan to the woman I love everyday.” He walked to and fro, rounding the room with his hands on his head, raking his bird’s nest of a hair, pulling and squeezing, occasionally pressing his palms to his eyes to prevent the maelstrom of tears from heating up and eventually, pathetically, flowing out. His heart seized and his feelings had grown a feet of their own, escaping him before he could even catch up. “Do you think it is easy for me to water down all this longing, this aching, this love and devotion overflowing inside of me, to tamper this innate need and urge to pull her in and encase her in my arms so no more danger shall befall upon her? And act like a proper gentleman, pretend like I don’t think about her lips everyday for the last five years, even more? Act like I’m this charming stranger, when in fact I used her business and my writings as a medium, just so I could be in her proximity? Smiling with her, touching her hand and pretend it was accidental, soaking all the light and the warmth that she so freely gives, while my chest caves inside that I couldn’t tell her the story of us, the past we once shared, that I couldn’t tell her about all these years that she’s the only one I thought of?” There was no stopping now, was there? “That when she looks at me, she sees a person that she only met weeks ago, that, God,” He breathed, the all too familiar pain peeling off Pen’s presence that covered the cracks. “That I pretend here that I’m not gutted when I see no traces of recognition, that to her I am <PRESIDIO_ANONYMIZED_PERSON> the author, and not Colin Bridgerton who was her friend, who danced with her, who exchanged letters with her because how could I be? The Penelope now doesn’t know me.” “That I couldn’t drop to my knees and ask her to forgive me for taking too long to face my feelings, took to long to find her, that when I did, I failed her again and allowed some stranger to take her away, to ask for her hand and allow me to repent for the rest of our lives. That every time she leaves my house now, a part of me breaks again and she takes it with her, that I am cursed, cursed every night with visions of the future that could’ve been, thinking that if I hadn’t messed it all up and just figured out my true feelings from the very start, none of this would’ve happened.” Colin stopped and held onto the frame of his office’s window, turning to his friend, exhaustion catching up and it was suddenly so hard to breathe. “Believe me, Michael, I know it all. I feel it all, right here.” He laid his palm to where his heart was, thumping so fast, feeling like it was too big for his chest somehow. “But I couldn’t. If—when I tell her everything, there will be no lies anymore. And if I am not lying, I will have to tell her the last time we saw each other, and what happened, and all of the foolish things I have said, probably the last things she had heard from me. All of it. And she’s going to remember, I believe she will, because even through all of these, I want nothing more but for her to regain all of her memories because she didn’t deserve this.” He made a mistake and looked at his friend again, who now had a glass of tears in his eyes. “Penelope deserves everything and I will give it to her in time, I promise, everything I have is hers. All of it. I just…I need time. It’s all I’m asking.” Colin shut his eyes and dejectedly sought the comfort of the chaise nearby, his head falling into prison he made of his hands. Tears had always visited him every night in the privacy of his bed chambers, though he had never thought he’d allow himself to cry in the light of the day ever since he found her, much less her being just outside, not far from where he was. “I’m relishing the remaining days till she finally remembers everything, how I hurt her so, how I failed her. She’ll cast me out then and she should. And I deserve that. I know I do. But I…. I just can’t.” Not yet. God, he cannot lose her. Not this time. Never again. He would just simply die. Colin thought it was a far better fate than to see Pen look at him with disdain and resentment. Michael didn’t spoke a word after, understood that he didn’t need anything more at the moment but a compassionate, silent support and presence, someone who would understand the feeling of a love that cannot be told. Colin stayed behind his office, collecting himself from the outburst of his fragile emotions, while Michael understood his need of quiet. His friend then came back out to Penelope and regaled with tales of his own travels, effectively staving off her inquiries of Colin, if he was to come back out as well and join them. He couldn’t, he just couldn’t. No matter how he wanted nothing more than be with her every minute of every day, he just can’t right now, not when he was still weak, the reality of being a fraud that kept on lying to her weighing him down for the day. Colin gave instructions to Dunwoody to tell Penelope that he had suddenly felt sick from something he had ate earlier that day, that he would be a ineffective host and company to her in this state, and that he promised to make it up to her the next day. She didn’t deserve to be in the presence of this state of him. He spent the entire night in a daze, wrung out and exhausted for having let his heart out in front of his friend. But there was a sense of little freedom, having to finally let it all out, everything that he had compressed and raged the last five years in the privacy of his mind. He had allowed himself to breathe, truly breathe for the first time in such a long time, to remember the blessings he has in his hands, finally finding his long lost love and what he would do to keep her, even though his future in her grace is vague and unclear. He would take everything, anything the universe has to give, anything Penelope is willing to give. But Colin should have known better. Everything with her, this past few weeks felt too perfect—sweet enough to sting later. He should’ve known happiness never lingers without a price. Bliss like this doesn’t come without consequence. It was almost suspicious, but he let himself dream. So many years that his reality was grim and a cesspool of everything dreadful, suddenly he was plucked out from under the bottom of the sea and into the light, decided that he can now finally breathe? It was all unreal and he should have known better. In every life, in every universe, Colin would hold onto every piece of Penelope, real or not, fleeting and gossamer sand slipping through the crack of his heart, and even though deep in his heart of hearts he knows he did not deserve her, this little piece of heaven he had carved out selfishly for himself in her presence, but he let himself dream anyway. He should have known. Because not a week later, and not even a month that he had finally found her, the horizon of his fears had finally closed in. “Mr. Bridgerton, you have visitors,” Colin looked up quickly to his valet from perusing his papers. Odd, he never gets visitors. And if it was his Pen, she needed not to be introduced, he’d long instructed Dunwoody to let her in no matter what. He wonders if she had clocked it, but if she did, he could not tell. He did not need to wonder long, as two familiar faces bursted in his study behind Dunwoody, windswept from what he could surmise is a long, ardent, and anxiety-ridden travel. Not familiar, but family. “WHERE IS SHE. WHERE IS MY BESTFRIEND.” Eloise Bridgerton comes up to him from behind his desk like a firestorm in the woods, sidestepping a smiling Benedict who was a complete contrast to his sister’s hurricane. She gripped his arms tight, too tight, pulling him up to stand from his seat with what incredible force she has. But with a tone that shifted into a softer note painted with something he could very well relate to, years-long distraught and exhaustion, “Colin. For the love of God, where is Penelope?”  
  
  

    
      
        
        
          So Colin DID wrote that letter to Ben. But he of course forgot about that part because duh, this heaven of finally seeing Pen and getting to be by her side? Only the two of them in this secluded part of the world? Nothing else mattered before, isn’t that right, Col? 😆 He never would have thought that Ben would come here, much more bringing Eloise, or more likely Eloise tagging along, who Colin have been estranged from in years.How would their visit pan out next? Would Pen and El meet? What would Colin do? And more importantly, what is Theo up to 👀🫣And also, Michael rizzing Pen up in front of Colin’s salad???😭😭BTW guys I made a playlist for this fic: Jump here to listen 🎧 (all the chapter titles are in here and disclaimer: these songs are SAD sad lol)Visuals:Colin’s Dublin estatePenelope’s Dublin cottage Penny for your thoughts? Comments and kudos are always appreciated.🥰—Chapter title based on REO Speedwagon - Can’t fight this feeling'
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