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It was supposed to be just another Bridgerton party — chic, buzzing, and filled with the usual suspects. Penelope Featherington wasn’t even planning on staying long. She’d shown up mostly to support Eloise, and maybe to steal some of the mini desserts and sip her way through the open bar.
She wasn’t prepared for Colin.
Certainly not for Bald Colin.
He walked into the room like nothing had changed — same confident stride, same charming smile — but Penelope’s stomach dropped the second she turned and saw him.
His signature chocolate-brown curls — the ones she’d secretly daydreamed about running her fingers through — were gone.
Gone.
Buzz cut. Shiny. Bald.
She blinked. Took a long sip of her wine. Blinked again.
He was laughing with Anthony now, completely unaware of the emotional crisis unfolding across the room.
Penelope whispered, “No. Nope. No.”
Eloise appeared beside her, eyes sharp. “You okay?”
“I—” Penelope’s voice cracked. “I think I need a minute.”
She slipped outside onto the balcony with a fresh drink and a heart full of unprocessed feelings. The London air was cool, but her cheeks were burning.
She didn’t hate how he looked. That wasn’t the problem.
The problem was: She loved his hair. Silly as it sounded. She’d loved it since they were teens. The curls were Colin. They bounced when he laughed. They were messy when he traveled. She'd written an entire chapter of an unpublished fic just about them once. Privately.
And now... gone.
"Stupid," she muttered, wiping at the corners of her eyes before any tears could fall.
“Pen?”
His voice. Right behind her.
She turned too fast and nearly stumbled, catching herself on the railing. “Hi.”
Colin stood there, hands in his pockets, head fully exposed to the moonlight. “Are you crying?”
“No,” she said, wiping again. “Maybe. It’s windy. Allergies. Bald betrayal.”
“What?”
Penelope sighed, realizing she was officially too tipsy to filter herself. “You shaved your hair, Colin.”
He chuckled. “Yeah, I know. It’s my head.”
“You don’t understand,” she said, suddenly very emotional. “Your hair was important.”
“To... who?”
“To me,” she blurted. “God, I sound insane.”
Colin looked taken aback. Not offended — just surprised. “You liked it that much?”
“I loved it,” she confessed. “It had... volume. Personality. The curls were like... like emotional support noodles. And now you look like someone who owns a motorcycle and says ‘crypto’ with confidence.”
He laughed. “Is that a bad thing?”
She glared at him, wobbly but sincere. “Yes. Because now I don’t recognize you. And I was just starting to get used to loving you in a very quiet, unspoken, probably pitiful way. And then you went and changed. And I wasn’t ready for it.”
Silence. Wind. Penelope’s heart in her throat.
She froze.
“Oh no,” she whispered. “I just said that out loud.”
Colin took a step closer. “You love me?”
“Loved. Past tense. Ignore me. I’m drunk and allergic to dramatic changes in male grooming habits.”
Colin reached out and gently tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear — something he used to do all the time. The familiarity of it made her want to cry again.
“I didn’t know,” he said softly.
“You weren’t supposed to,” she murmured, eyes cast down. “It was just easier that way.”
He tilted her chin up.
“You liked my curls. I liked your eyes when you looked at me and thought I didn’t notice.” He smiled. “We’re both idiots.”
She blinked. “Are you saying—”
“I’m saying,” he interrupted gently, “that I’ve missed you. Curls or not.”
She took a shaky breath. “Do you think they’ll grow back?”
“I shaved it. I didn’t burn it off.”
Penelope gave a wet laugh. “Good. Because I’d really like to run my fingers through your hair one day. With consent, obviously.”
He stepped even closer, their bodies just inches apart. “You can start with my scalp, if you want.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Don’t make it weird.”
“Too late.”
Then, he kissed her.
It was soft. Familiar. Everything but weird. Like everything finally falling into place.
3 months later
The rain tapped gently against the bedroom window, a soft, steady rhythm that made the entire flat feel like it was wrapped in a sleepy cocoon.
The lights were low, the duvet was fluffed to maximum coziness, and Penelope was exactly where she wanted to be: curled up beside Colin, her hand buried deep in his gloriously restored curls.
“Mmm,” he mumbled into her shoulder, eyes closed, voice drowsy. “You’ve been doing that for thirty minutes.”
“I know,” she whispered, dragging her fingers in slow, lazy circles through the soft hair at the crown of his head. “It’s the highlight of my week.”
“You say that every day.”
“And I mean it. Every time.”
Colin sighed contentedly and nestled closer, his head resting on her chest now, arms wrapped around her waist like she was both a human pillow and a national treasure.
“You’re obsessed,” he murmured.
“You took away the curls for months, Colin. I’m still recovering.”
“They’re back, aren’t they?”
“They’re not just back,” she said, running her fingers through the thick, soft spirals, “they’re better. Fuller. Smugger. They know I missed them.”
“This is my favorite version of you,” she whispered. “Curly-haired and clingy.”
Colin let out a sleepy laugh. “You’re one to talk. You haven’t let me go all night.”
“You fit perfectly,” she murmured. “Like you were made for this. For me.”
Silence followed — the good kind. His breathing slowed even more, and she could feel the weight of his trust in every inch of contact between them.
There were no walls here. No secrets. No fear.
Just Penelope, curled around the boy she’d loved in silence for years — and who now clung to her like he was afraid to wake up and find it had all been a dream.
Silence stretched between them, the good kind — easy, warm, filled with comfort and the occasional dreamy sigh from Colin as she continued her gentle scratching. His curls fluffed and softened under her touch, and she wondered how she’d gone so long without this.
“You know,” he said eventually, voice slow and thick with sleep, “you could’ve just told me how much you liked my hair instead of crying at my bald head like I’d killed a beloved cartoon character.”
Penelope pinched his arm lightly. “I was vulnerable. And wine was involved. Also, I stand by my grief.”
He laughed, low and lazy. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m in love.”
“Same thing.”
She kissed the top of his head, then rested her cheek against his hair.
“Don’t shave it again,” she whispered.
“I won’t,” he promised. She closed her eyes. Her fingers kept moving, gentle and reverent, like the curls were made of gold.
And maybe, to her, they were.
And Colin, hair soft under her fingers and arms wrapped tight around her middle, finally whispered:
“I love you.”
She smiled, heart full and steady. “I love you too, Colin.”
And then he fell asleep in her arms — surrounded by warmth, curls, and the quiet miracle of being loved right back.