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Penelope Featherington had always been good at waiting.
As a child, she’d waited for her sisters to grow tired of teasing her. As a teenager, she’d waited for her words to come out right, for someone to notice her beyond her quiet smiles and bookish habits.
And somewhere along the way, she realized she was waiting for Colin Bridgerton.
Not that she’d admit it, even to herself. Colin had been her best friend when they were children—her partner in tree-climbing, puddle-jumping, and every secret mission a bored pair of kids could dream up. He’d always been full of sunshine and trouble, making Penelope laugh until her stomach ached.
But then he’d grown restless.
He’d started traveling after university—first a summer abroad, then longer trips, until his postcards were the only proof he hadn’t vanished altogether. He wrote from Spain, from Morocco, from New Zealand. Wish you were here, he’d scribble in crooked handwriting, like he didn’t realize she really did.
Now, three years later, he was back.
Penelope didn’t expect him to walk into her library on a rainy Tuesday afternoon.
One moment she was shelving a stack of Austen novels, the next she heard the familiar lilt of his voice:
“Pen? Is that you?”
She turned—and there he was, standing in the doorway like he’d stepped out of one of her memories. Tan, grinning, hair a little too long, rain dampening his jacket.
“Colin,” she said, her voice catching awkwardly on his name. “You’re back.”
“Just got in yesterday,” he said, striding toward her. “Thought I’d find you buried under a mountain of books, same as always.”
Penelope tried not to smile too widely. “Some things never change.”
“And some things do.” His gaze softened, sweeping over her before he cleared his throat. “You look… different. Grown up.”
She resisted the urge to tug at her cardigan. “People tend to do that after three years.”
He lingered at the counter, dripping rainwater onto the floor, looking around the familiar library as if seeing it for the first time. “I missed this place,” he said. “Missed you, too.”
Penelope busied herself with the returns cart, hoping he didn’t notice the color rushing to her cheeks.
Because what was she supposed to say to that?
She missed him, too.
More than she could put into words.
When he finally left—after borrowing a book and promising to stop by again soon—Penelope found the first note.
It was tucked inside Pride and Prejudice, slipped between the pages like a secret.
“The librarian with the kind eyes doesn’t realize she’s the best part of this place.”
Penelope froze, heart thudding.
It wasn’t signed.
It wasn’t dated.
But for the first time since Colin had returned, she wondered if maybe—just maybe—the notes had something to do with him.
Colin kept his promise. The very next afternoon, Penelope spotted him strolling into the library, a beam of late sunlight clinging to his shoulders. He wore the same easy grin he always had, the one that used to convince her to climb trees she was terrified of and sneak biscuits from the Bridgerton kitchen.
Except now that grin did something strange to her pulse.
“Afternoon, Pen,” he said cheerfully, dropping a travel memoir onto the counter. “Finished this one already. Got anything else for a man trying to forget he has jet lag?”
Penelope reached automatically for the returns cart, grateful to have something to do with her hands.
“You know, most people would try sleeping.”
“Most people aren’t me.” He leaned against the counter, watching her with a hint of mischief. “Come on, surprise me. Pick something good.”
She handed him North & South before she could second-guess herself.
Colin raised a brow. “Industrial strife and Victorian romance? Bold choice.”
“You said you wanted a surprise,” she said, keeping her voice even.
He grinned. “Touché.”
He stayed longer this time. Found a table by the window, sprawled there with the book as if he had all the time in the world. Every so often, Penelope caught him glancing up, his gaze flicking toward her desk before darting back to the page.
It was… unsettling.
But not in a bad way.
That evening, when she reshelved Pride and Prejudice—the same copy from yesterday—her fingers brushed against something folded between the pages.
Another note.
“Some stories don’t start with fireworks. Some start quietly, in places like this.”
Penelope’s heart thudded in her ears.
She stared at the words for a long moment, her breath caught somewhere between wonder and suspicion.
Colin had borrowed this book before. Years ago, back when they were teenagers, he’d teased her for reading it over and over.
Could it be him?
But why now?
The next day brought North & South back to the counter—already finished.
Colin leaned on the desk, looking maddeningly pleased with himself. “Do I get another?”
“You read fast,” Penelope said, scanning the return slip.
“Or,” he said with a wink, “I just had a good reason to come back.”
Her face warmed instantly. She reached for another book before he could notice.
That evening, while shelving North & South, she found another note.
“If she knew how much I’d missed her, she’d never believe it.”
Penelope gripped the edge of the shelf, heart hammering.
Because that… that sounded like Colin.
Didn’t it?
He kept coming back. Almost every day now. Sometimes he read, sometimes he just chatted while she worked. He told her little stories about his travels—camel rides in Morocco, hiking in the Andes, getting hopelessly lost in Venice.
But he never mentioned the notes.
And Penelope never asked.
Because what if she was wrong?
What if it wasn’t him, and she ruined the fragile magic blooming between the pages?
By the end of the week, there were four more notes in her dresser drawer.
“The librarian doesn’t know she’s the best part of my day.”
“Some people look for adventure. Some people are the adventure.”
“She laughs, and the whole place feels lighter.”
“Maybe I’ve been traveling in circles just to find my way back here.”
Penelope lay awake that night, staring at the ceiling, her heart twisting in quiet, desperate hope.
Because if it was Colin…
If it had always been Colin…
She wasn’t sure whether she was more terrified or thrilled to find out the truth.
The rain had returned to London in earnest by the time Colin stopped by again.
Penelope watched him shake the water from his hair as he crossed the library floor, grinning as if he had walked into sunshine rather than the grayest afternoon of the month.
He carried the last book she’d recommended—The Count of Monte Cristo, its pages now slightly warped from the damp.
“Finished already?” she asked, taking it from him.
“Of course,” he said. “Couldn’t sleep. Blame the jet lag. Or maybe,” his smile turned mischievous, “blame your book choices.”
Penelope fought a smile as she stamped the return slip.
He didn’t leave right away.
Instead, Colin wandered the aisles, trailing his fingers along the spines like he was searching for something. Penelope watched him from behind the desk, pretending to sort paperwork while her heart thudded far too loudly.
He stopped in front of the classics shelf. “Do you remember,” he said suddenly, “when we were kids, and you made me read Pride and Prejudice just so you’d have someone to talk about it with?”
Penelope blinked, startled by the memory. “You said it was boring.”
“I was thirteen,” he said, grinning over his shoulder. “Thirteen-year-olds are idiots.”
“You’re admitting it now?”
“Of course. I’ve grown.” He paused, scanning the shelf. “Besides, I actually liked it. Just didn’t want you to know.”
Penelope turned back to her papers before he could see her smile.
When he finally checked out another book and left, she waited until closing to reshelve The Count of Monte Cristo.
And there it was.
Another note.
“Sometimes you have to leave home to realize where you belong.”
Penelope stared at the handwriting, her heart fluttering in ways that felt both terrifying and inevitable.
Because the more she thought about it, the more certain she became.
It had to be Colin.
The next afternoon, he showed up again, shrugging off the rain like it was an old friend.
“Thought you might recommend something lighter this time,” he said, leaning on the counter. “Less revenge. More romance.”
Penelope’s cheeks warmed. “Romance?”
“Why not?” His grin was teasing, but his eyes held something quieter. “You always said I needed more of it in my life.”
She handed him Persuasion without a word. Later, when she shelved the returned books, she found another note waiting between the pages of Pride and Prejudice.
“She doesn’t know it yet, but she’s the reason I came back.”
Penelope sat down hard on the nearest stool, the words blurring slightly as her heart slammed against her ribs.
Because there was no denying it anymore.
It was him.
It had been him all along.
Penelope spent the next twenty-four hours in a state of nervous chaos.
Every time she replayed the note in her mind—She doesn’t know it yet, but she’s the reason I came back—her heart tumbled over itself like a stack of falling books.
Colin.
It had been Colin.
Her childhood best friend, the boy who once dared her to climb the oak tree by the park, the one who always teased her out of sulks, who wrote postcards from corners of the world she could barely pronounce.
The boy she had never stopped missing.
It was him.
She didn’t see him the next day. Or the one after that.
Two full days without Colin strolling into the library like he owned the sunlight felt… strange. Like someone had lowered the volume on her entire world.
And then, on the third day, the door chimed.
Penelope looked up sharply.
Colin stood there, rain-damp and grinning, holding two coffees.
“For you,” he said, setting one on the counter.
Penelope wrapped her hands around the cup mostly so he wouldn’t see them trembling. “Thank you.”
“Figured you could use it.” He leaned his elbows on the counter. “You’ve been busy. Every time I stop by, you’re running around like you own the place.”
“Someone has to.” She tried for a smile but felt it wobble.
His gaze softened. “You all right, Pen?”
She hesitated. She could ask him right now—about the notes, about everything.
But the words tangled on her tongue.
Colin checked out Persuasion, but this time, he didn’t leave immediately. He wandered the aisles before finally sitting near the back, pretending to read.
Penelope tried to focus on her work, but her pulse jumped every time she felt his eyes on her.
She didn’t know what terrified her more: the thought that she might be wrong… or the thought that she might be right.
When closing time came, she gathered the returned books, her heart pounding like a drum.
And there it was.
A note.
But not just a note.
An envelope.
Her name written across the front in his unmistakable scrawl.
Penelope slid a finger under the flap, her breath shallow.
Inside was a single sheet of paper.
“It was always you, Pen. Even when I was halfway across the world, it was you. Maybe I should have said it years ago. Maybe I was too much of a coward. But the notes… they were the only way I knew how to start. If you don’t feel the same, I’ll stop. But if you do… meet me tomorrow. Same coffee shop as always.”
Penelope sat there for a long moment, the library silent around her, her hands shaking.
Tomorrow.
She could go.
She could stay home and pretend she never saw it.
Her heart already knew which choice she’d make.
The bell above the café door chimed as Penelope stepped inside, the warm scent of espresso and sugar wrapping around her like a blanket.
She spotted him immediately. Colin sat at a corner table, fidgeting with the sleeve of his coffee cup, glancing at the door every few seconds. The moment he saw her, relief washed over his face like sunlight breaking through clouds.
“Pen,” he said, standing so quickly he nearly knocked over his chair.
“Colin.” Her voice came out softer than she intended.
He gestured to the empty chair across from him. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”
“I wasn’t sure either,” she admitted, sliding into the seat.
Colin sat down, running a hand through his hair in that nervous way she remembered from childhood. “I wasn’t subtle, was I? With the notes.”
Penelope shook her head, a tiny smile tugging at her lips. “Not… after the last one.”
He laughed under his breath. “I kept thinking I’d tell you in person. But every time I saw you, I couldn’t find the words. So I left them in books, like a coward.”
“A romantic coward,” she said gently.
Colin’s eyes met hers, suddenly serious. “Pen, I meant every word. I’ve traveled to places people only dream about. But every time I came home, it was you I wanted to see first. It was always you.”
Her breath caught.
They had been friends for so long—whole summers of scraped knees and secret jokes, winters of shared hot chocolate and late-night talks. Somewhere along the way, her heart had started to hope for more.
She just never believed he might feel the same.
“Why didn’t you ever say anything?” she asked softly.
Colin’s smile was small, almost sheepish. “Because you were… you. Brilliant, kind, far too good for the mess I was. I thought maybe if I figured myself out first—traveled, lived a little—I’d finally be worthy of you.”
“Colin…” Her voice trembled. “You were always worthy. I just didn’t think you’d ever look at me that way.”
He leaned across the table, his hand finding hers. “I’ve been looking at you that way for years, Pen. I just finally stopped running long enough to admit it.”
Penelope’s heart swelled, years of waiting and wondering unraveling in a single breath.
“So what now?” she asked.
Colin’s thumb brushed over her knuckles. “Now I stop writing notes and start saying things properly.” His smile softened. “Starting with the fact that I’m hopelessly in love with you.”
Penelope’s laugh caught on a sob. “Good. Because I’m in love with you too.”
The first kiss was nothing like the ones she’d read about in her favorite novels.
It wasn’t perfectly timed or cinematic. Colin nearly knocked over his coffee, and Penelope was pretty sure her chair squeaked loudly as she leaned across the table.
But his lips were warm and certain against hers, tasting faintly of sugar and rain, and the world tilted in a way that felt exactly right.
When they finally pulled back, Colin rested his forehead against hers, grinning. “So… dinner tonight? Or should I keep leaving notes in books until you agree?”
Penelope laughed, her heart lighter than it had been in years. “Dinner. But keep the notes. I like them.”
Six months later, the library had never felt so full of light.
It wasn’t just the early summer sun streaming through the tall windows or the fresh flowers Penelope kept on the counter. It was Colin.
Colin, who stopped by nearly every day. Colin, who read through half the classics section in record time, always returning books with a crooked smile—and, more often than not, another folded note tucked inside the pages.
Sometimes the notes were sweet: “You’re my favorite part of every day.”
Sometimes they were ridiculous: “I think the librarian might be in love with me. Can’t blame her. I’m very handsome.”
And sometimes they made her heart ache in the best way: “I used to think the world was the adventure. Then I realized it was you.”
Today, Penelope found one in Persuasion.
It simply read: “Dinner tonight? My place. Dessert included.”
She shook her head, smiling, tucking the note into her pocket like she always did. Her drawer at home was full of them now, an accidental diary of their story.
Colin appeared not long after, leaning against the counter with that same familiar grin.
“Found my note?” he asked innocently.
“I did,” Penelope said. “You’re very persistent.”
“Worked, didn’t it?” He reached over, brushing a stray curl from her face with easy affection.
It still made her heart flutter, the way he touched her like he’d been waiting years to be allowed.
Later that evening, after the library lights dimmed and the last book was shelved, Colin walked her home through the warm summer air.
“You know,” he said, sliding his hand into hers, “I was thinking we should start writing notes together.”
“Together?”
“Why not?” His grin was teasing. “We could leave them for other people to find. Start a whole mystery romance epidemic.”
Penelope laughed, leaning into his shoulder. “Maybe we will.”
But she knew her favorite notes would always be the ones tucked into the pages of her own story—the story of a boy who went looking for adventure and found his way back to the girl next door.
Sometimes it lived quietly between the lines, waiting for someone to turn the page.
Years later
Colin stared at the blank sheet of paper, pen poised, heart thudding far harder than it had any right to.
He’d climbed mountains, crossed oceans, gotten lost in foreign cities where he didn’t speak a word of the language… and somehow, this—writing wedding vows—felt like the scariest thing he’d ever done.
Because how was he supposed to put Penelope into words?
She deserved more than clichés. More than the usual “love, honor, cherish” vows that anyone could say.
She deserved something true. Something that sounded like them. Assuredly, fervently, loudly.
He tapped the pen against his chin, thinking of all the notes he’d left for her—tucked into Austen novels, hidden between the pages of Brontë and Dickens, little pieces of his heart scattered through the library she loved so much.
Maybe that was the answer.
He smiled to himself and began to write. As has he finished writing, he set the pen down, reading the words again.
Not perfect. Not polished. But real.
And he knew—knew without a single doubt—that when Penelope heard them, she would smile that quiet, radiant smile that made him feel like he’d finally, finally stopped running.
The sun poured golden light over the small garden behind the Bridgerton home, where rows of white chairs curved around a flower-draped archway. The air smelled of roses and summer rain, soft music floating above the chatter of family and friends.
Penelope stood just beyond the hedge, her heart thudding beneath layers of lace and silk.
Colin was waiting at the end of the aisle, grinning like he couldn’t help himself, like he couldn’t believe she was real and here and his.
She could hardly believe it either.
The ceremony blurred by in a sweep of petals and music and warm breezes.
And then it was time for the vows.
Colin turned to face her, his usual easy confidence tinged with something quieter now, something that made Penelope’s throat ache.
He unfolded a small piece of paper—the same kind he used for all those secret notes—and began to read.
“Penelope,” he said, his voice steady but soft enough that only she could truly hear, “you always said the best stories weren’t the ones with dragons or heroes, but the quiet ones about ordinary people finding something extraordinary together.”
Penelope’s breath caught.
“I think that’s what we are,” he continued. “My favorite story. The one that started with tree-climbing and postcards, with a girl who read too many books and a boy who didn’t read enough. The one that took me halfway across the world just to realize the best adventure was next door all along.”
Her eyes blurred before he even reached the end.
“I promise to keep leaving you notes,” Colin said, smiling through his own nerves now, “even when we’re old and gray, even when we share the same bookshelf, even when you already know exactly what I’m going to say. I promise to make you laugh when life feels heavy, to bring you coffee on rainy days, to always come back home to you.”
His eyes found hers, steady and sure.
“I love you, Pen. Always have. Always will.”
There wasn’t a dry eye in the entire garden.
Penelope laughed softly through her own tears before unfolding her vows—written, of course, on one of his old notes she had kept all this time.
She looked at him with a smile that reached every corner of her soul.
“Colin Bridgerton,” she said, voice trembling, “I used to find your notes in the library and wonder who in the world could see me like that. Turns out it was the same boy who always stole the last biscuit at tea and made me climb the oak tree in the rain.”
Colin grinned, his own eyes bright.
“I promise,” Penelope said, her voice gaining strength now, “to keep finding your notes. To keep laughing at your terrible jokes. To remind you when you’re being ridiculous and to love you even when you are. I promise to be your safe place after every adventure—and maybe the greatest one of all.”
When they kissed beneath the flower archway, the entire world seemed to exhale around them—like every secret note, every quiet moment, every year of waiting had been leading here all along.
Later, at the reception, Penelope found one last folded slip of paper tucked under her plate.
“The story begins here.”
And she knew, with absolute certainty, it was true.