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The late afternoon sun poured through the living room windows of their flat in Notting Hill, casting long, golden stripes across the floor. The windows were cracked open just enough to let in a soft breeze that carried the scent of rain on concrete and the distant sound of a street performer singing something acoustic and aching.
Penelope Bridgerton curled up at one end of the couch in her husband’s oversized hoodie, her legs tucked under her, a half-empty mug of tea perched on the armrest. Her hair was pulled into a loose bun, wisps escaping around her temples. No makeup, no filter—just her.
Colin Bridgerton sat on the other end, legs stretched out, one ankle hooked over the other. A book lay forgotten on his chest, and he was watching her with a lazy sort of awe, like he’d never get used to the fact that this was his life now. That she was.
“You’re staring,” Penelope murmured without looking up from the crossword she was halfway through. “Which means you’re either about to compliment me or ask me to make you a sandwich.”
Colin grinned. “Both.”
She looked up then, mock-annoyed but already smiling. “You’re hopeless.”
“I’m married,” he corrected. “To you. Which is kind of the opposite of hopeless, don’t you think?”
She rolled her eyes playfully and went back to her crossword, but the smile lingered.
They sat in comfortable silence for a few more minutes until Penelope put down the puzzle and turned to face him fully. “Can I ask you something?”
“Always.”
“Do you… ever miss your life before all this? Before us?”
Colin blinked, then sat up slightly. “What kind of question is that?”
“I don’t know,” she said softly, her voice suddenly smaller. “It’s just—everything’s changed so fast. Sometimes I wonder if I pulled you out of some grand adventure you weren’t finished with.”
Colin stared at her for a long moment. Then, slowly, he reached across the couch and slid his hand into hers.
“Pen,” he said, his voice quieter now, more sure.
"I’ve done a lot of things. Traveled the world. Climbed literal mountains. Ate tarantulas in Thailand once—zero stars, would not recommend.”
She gave a tiny laugh, but her eyes were still searching his.
“But none of it mattered,” he continued, “until you were part of it. Even the memories that came before—they only feel real because they led me to you.” He squeezed her hand, gaze steady. “I’ve only lived my life with you in it.”
Her breath caught.
“I didn’t start living until you started taking up space in my world. And now? You’re the whole damn map.”
Penelope blinked, and a tear slipped down her cheek before she could catch it.
“You’re going to make me cry,” she said, laughing through it.
Colin leaned in, wiped her tear gently with the pad of his thumb. “Then cry. I’ll still be here. I’m not going anywhere.”
She kissed him then—slow and sweet and full of all the things words couldn’t carry.
And when they pulled apart, the world outside kept spinning, but inside their little living room, wrapped in afternoon light and shared silence, time was theirs.
Penelope woke up from a nap. The kitchen smelled like garlic and rosemary, with something bubbling on the stove and the soft sound of a jazz playlist playing from the Bluetooth speaker on the counter.
The lights were dimmed low, and Colin had lit the ridiculous candle he bought from a street market that claimed to smell like “Old Books & Rain.” Somehow, it worked.
Penelope moved around the small kitchen in socked feet, plating pasta while Colin opened a bottle of wine—then paused.
“Wait. You’re not having any?"
Penelope hesitated for half a beat too long. “Uh, yeah. I’m good with water tonight.”
Colin raised an eyebrow. “Since when do you say no to wine on a Friday?”
She smiled as she set the plates down. “Let’s just eat.”
Dinner was simple—pasta with roasted vegetables and fresh bread. But with the candle flickering, their favorite music playing, and rain tapping against the windows again, it felt like a scene from a movie. One of the quiet ones. The kind that made you ache a little.
Colin twirled his pasta and watched her over the rim of his glass. “You know what I was thinking?”
“Besides the fact that your sauce turned out better than mine ever does?”
“Well, that, obviously.” He smirked. “But also… how good this is. Us. Just like this. I’ve never felt more at peace.”
Penelope toyed with a piece of bread on her plate. “Even though we’re just in our flat eating carbs in socks?”
“Especially because of that.” He leaned forward, resting his chin in one hand. “I told you. My life only ever started feeling real when you were in it. You are everything. You are home.”
She stared at him for a moment, heart full to the point of bursting. Then she stood and came around the table to sit beside him, cross-legged on her chair.
“I have to tell you something,” she said. Colin looked instantly alert, though not alarmed.
“Okay…”
Penelope reached into the pocket of the hoodie she was wearing and pulled out a small envelope. She handed it to him wordlessly.
He looked at it, confused, then opened it slowly—inside was a folded piece of paper. It was the printout of a digital pregnancy test photo, along with a small handwritten note that said simply:
Coming soon: Baby Bridgerton, ETA April.
For a long moment, Colin didn’t move. He just stared, blinking. Then he looked up at her, stunned.
“You’re…? Are you serious?”
She nodded, suddenly emotional. “I found out a day ago. I was waiting for the right moment.”
Colin laughed, a disbelieving, teary sort of laugh, and then dropped his head into his hands for a second before looking back up at her.
“We’re having a baby?” he whispered.
“We are.”
And just like that, Colin Bridgerton, ever the adventurer, looked like a man who had found the greatest discovery of his life sitting right in front of him at a tiny dinner table in a warm, candlelit kitchen.
He stood, pulled her up with him, and wrapped her in the kind of hug that feels like a promise.
“I already thought this was the happiest I’ve ever been,” he said against her hair. “But somehow, you keep proving there’s more."
She laughed softly. “We’re really doing this, huh?”
“We are,” he whispered. “And I still can’t wait to build a life with you.”
The dishes were done, the candles had burned low, and the apartment had settled into that perfect kind of hush—soft and glowing, the way homes do when everything important has already been said... except for a few things that still linger in the quiet.
Penelope lay stretched out on the couch, a throw blanket over her legs, her head resting on Colin’s chest. His hand lazily traced circles along her arm. Her eyes were half-closed, body content—but her mind was still awake, humming.
“Tell me about one of your trips,” she murmured.
Colin smiled, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Haven’t I told you all of them already?”
“No,” she said. “I want the ones you never bothered to write about in your travel blog. The weird, real ones.”
He chuckled. “Okay. Let’s see…”
He paused, looking at the ceiling like it held a constellation of memories.
“There was this time I got lost in rural Vietnam,” he said. “Tried to find this tiny village that supposedly made the best bánh cuốn in the country. My motorbike broke down. I had no signal. Ended up getting invited into someone’s home. They fed me rice and watermelon and laughed at me for sweating so much.”
Penelope grinned sleepily. “Classic.”
“Then there was Petra,” he went on. “I hiked through the canyon before sunrise. I was completely alone when the light first hit the Treasury. Everyone talks about how it’s beautiful—and it is—but being there by myself? It felt… lonely, in a way.”
Penelope looked up at him gently. “You were always chasing something.”
“Yeah,” Colin said, his voice lower now. “Turns out it wasn’t a place.”
She said nothing, just curled a little closer.
“You know, I used to think the point of life was collecting stories. Passport stamps, photos, things to tell people about at parties.” He looked down at her. “But none of it really meant anything until you were the one I wanted to tell it to.”
Penelope blinked slowly, overwhelmed by him.
“I’ve seen some incredible places,” he continued.
"Sailed through Greece. Hiked the Andes. Got food poisoning in Morocco and made friends with a street cat in Lisbon who followed me for blocks.”
She laughed, tears pricking the corners of her eyes.
“But none of it—and I mean none of it—comes close to loving you. That’s been the greatest adventure of my life.”
She was quiet for a beat. “Even now? Even with… diapers and exhaustion and me possibly becoming a hormonal nightmare in a few months?”
“Especially now,” he said. “This? Building a family with you? It’s the journey I want to come home from—because you are home. I love you with everything I am, everything I've been, and everything I hope to be. I love you with my past, and I love you for my future. I love you for the children we'll have and for the years we'll have together. I love you for every one of my smiles and even more, for every one of your smiles.”
She kissed him, slow and soft. “and I love you,” she said, steady now, “with the quiet parts of me — the parts I used to hide. I love you with every chapter of my story I never thought anyone would care to read. You make all the messy, complicated parts of me feel… beautiful. Worthwhile.”
She leaned in closer, her forehead resting against his.
“I love you for the way you see me. Not just the girl I was or the woman I am — but the person I’m still becoming. And the fact that you love all three?” Her voice cracked, just slightly. “That’s everything.”
Her hand found its way to his heart, resting there.
“I love you for making me feel like I’m home — not just in a place, but in you. I love you for every day we haven’t lived yet. For the tiny feet that will one day run down our hallway. For the quiet Sunday mornings, and the noisy dinner tables. For the years that will turn us grey and soft and still, somehow, more ourselves.”
She smiled then, tender and full.
“I love you for every one of your smiles — even the smug ones. And I promise to spend the rest of my life earning them.”
Penelope lay draped across Colin like they were two puzzle pieces designed to fit together. Her head rested just below his collarbone, her ear pressed to the steady thrum of his heartbeat, while one of her arms looped gently across his waist.
Her legs were tangled with his under the blanket — the kind of lazy, effortless closeness that only comes with deep familiarity.
Colin had one arm around her shoulders, his hand brushing up and down her arm in slow, absent circles, the movement more comforting than conscious.
Their bodies were warm from the earlier pasta, the wine he’d had, and the sheer comfort of shared stillness. The scent of rosemary lingered faintly in the air, along with the faint warmth of her shampoo and the candle still burning low on the windowsill behind them.
Outside, the world moved on—cars humming in the distance, a siren somewhere blocks away—but inside, time had gone slow and syrupy, folded in on itself. Nothing existed but this quiet corner of the couch, the soft pulse of music still playing, and the weight of Penelope’s body nestled so completely into his own.
She shifted slightly, burrowing closer into his chest, her fingers curling into the fabric of his T-shirt. Colin smiled into her hair and tilted his chin down to kiss the crown of her head.
“You’re too warm,” she mumbled, though she didn’t move an inch away.
“I’m perfect,” he murmured back. “I’ve achieved optimal cuddle temperature.”
She gave a sleepy chuckle, and he felt it more than heard it, vibrating softly against his chest.
The kind of laugh you only give to someone who’s seen every version of you — and loved each one more than the last.
He pulled her closer, if that was even possible. And as they melted into each other, with no plans and no expectations, just love stretched out between them like a blanket, Colin whispered softly:
“This right here? I could do this forever.”
And Penelope, with her eyes closed and her heart full, simply said, “Me too. Our life is the greatest book I will ever read."
Penelope and Colin Bridgerton lay wrapped around each other—two souls, one story, and the greatest adventure just beginning.