Archive of Our Own

Penelope Featherington had never been reckless a day in her life.

At least, not successfully.

There had been that ill-advised attempt to cut her own bangs during second year at university, inspired by a late-night identity crisis and a YouTube tutorial narrated by a woman with suspiciously perfect hair. The results had resembled a hedge that barely survived a run-in with a toddler hopped up on candy, and Colin had laughed so hard he’d cried before insisting he loved them anyway. At the time she’d found it endearing. Looking back now, she wondered if perhaps that should have been her first warning.

People always claimed heartbreak made them dramatic. They started podcasts about healing that no one listened to or booked flights to countries whose language they didn’t speak.

She, on the other hand, created spreadsheets. The file currently sat open on her laptop, which rested on the coffee table beneath a mug of chamomile tea. The document was titled Operation: Bad Girl in an elegant cursive font she'd spent far too long selecting, because even her rebellions needed to be aesthetically pleasing.

She sighed and hugged the throw cushion tighter to her, hating that Colin had stolen something from her that she couldn’t simply replace. They had been together since university. Before that they’d spent years circling one another as friends until eventually everyone else had grown tired of waiting and assumed they’d inevitably end up together.

She had convinced herself that she had been born for him and that there would never be anyone else. Then, somehow, there had been someone else for him.

Her cousin.

It wasn’t simply the betrayal so cliché it belonged in a daytime soap opera that lingered beneath her skin. It was the humiliation of realizing that she’d lived too cautiously, loved too earnestly, and been too boring.

Every romance novel she’d devoured in secret featured heroines swept into adventures by dangerously charming men, women who knew exactly how to flirt and tease and leave someone wanting more. Yet her greatest act of rebellion that month had been buying whole milk instead of skim.

She reached for her laptop and pulled up the single tab that held all her plans.

THE HOE-ERA MANIFESTO

Goal Status Notes

1. Wear red lipstick Not Started Buy one that doesn't make me look like a clown

2. No emotional attachment Not Started One-night stand experience required (research required)

3. Experiment with everything I've only read about Not Started Learn what aftercare is (probably important)

4. No more Miss goody two shoes In Progress Bought whole milk. It's a start.

5. Be mysterious Not Started How? Stop talking?

6. Be unavailable Not Started No double texting. No emojis. This will be hard.

7. Be...scandalous Not Started Define scandalous. Update: still unsure.

She stared at the screen and realised she had absolutely no idea how to accomplish any of these. She was the type of woman who arranged her books by hue and lost sleep over returning library books late.

This was going to take work.

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Several miles away, Alfred Debling was conducting his own identity crisis with considerably more reusable shopping bags.

He stood in front of his wardrobe contemplating a faux black leather jacket he’d purchased that afternoon after reading an online article titled Ten Ways to Command Respect Immediately.

The salesman had assured him it projected confidence. Alfred thought it projected an alarming inability to regulate body temperature.

He put it on anyway and thought he looked less like a dangerous rebel and more like a member of a geriatric punk band called “The Sciatica."

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered to himself.

Unfortunately, ridiculousness was beginning to feel preferable to invisible.

Earlier that morning his department head had congratulated another researcher for a conservation proposal he himself had spent six months writing. His name had appeared in the acknowledgements, squeezed between “special thanks” and the facilities manager who’d fixed the office printer.

He'd wanted to flip the desk and punch something, anything really, but instead he allowed someone else to accept the praise while he just smiled politely from the back of the room because interrupting felt rude.

Because that's what Alfred Debling did. He smiled. He accommodated. He made himself small so others could be comfortable.

On the tube home he’d realized that he was tired of being a pushover. He was tired of being overlooked. Tired of people assuming that the mildness in his eyes meant weakness.

So here he was now in front of his mirror in his small flat, surrounded by houseplants and vegan cookbooks and the framed photograph of the Amazon rainforest he'd been saving to visit for ten years, wearing black clothes, and reinventing himself from Alfred the plant-based pacifist into a dangerous man who lived on the edge.

Then, because he wasn't quite sure how to do it, he googled "how to look intimidating."

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Penelope had done her research.

She'd studied the heroines in her romance novels who walked into bars and owned the room, and spoke in double entendres and didn't care what anyone thought. She'd practiced her sultry gaze in the mirror until she looked constipated. She'd bought a dress that was definitely too short and definitely the sort of thing Penelope Featherington would never wear.

The problem was that Penelope Featherington was still in there, somewhere, fighting to get out.

The dress was uncomfortable, she was pretty sure she'd heard an old bitty in the shop whisper "well now, that dress is quite something, isn’t it?" when she'd bought it, and she wasn't entirely certain it had been a compliment. Her heels pinched and she’d had to reapply her liquid eyeliner four times because her hands kept shaking.

But she was doing this. She was going to The Dangerous Grind, the sort of place you went to forget someone, or at least to temporarily replace them.

She walked in with her chin lifted, and tried to look like she'd done this a thousand times before.

A tall man at the bar wearing a leather jacket that looked uncomfortably new and chewing aggressively on a toothpick, turned toward her. His stance was set in a way that was trying to be menacing, but there was an uncertainty in his eyes like he wasn't quite sure what he was doing here either.

He was beautiful and looked kind, the type of man who would indulge her if she asked if he would still love her if she were a worm.

There was nothing brooding or emotionally scarred about him that she was supposed to be searching for. Everything about him screamed “I call my mother every Sunday” and was actually listed under the ‘Need to avoid” column of her spreadsheet, yet she found herself walking toward him anyway.

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Alfred had done his research too, though it mostly involved Google searches in incognito mode.

He'd practiced his scowl for an hour. He'd tried to make his voice gravelly. He'd watched Scarface and tried to channel that energy, which mostly resulted in him pacing his flat repeating "say hello to my little friend".

Now here he was, at The Dangerous Grind, trying to look like someone who belonged in a place his coworkers had called "prime hunting ground", which was rich considering he’d never hunted anything in his life other than prime parking spots.

He'd ordered something called "The Grim Reaper" cocktail, which turned out to be bright blue and tasted like cough medicine and he was grimacing into it when she walked in.

It was her. The one. This was the woman he was going to marry.

He could see it already: lazy Sunday mornings at the farmers' market, her dragging him from stall to stall while he carried all her purchases like a good sport. Afternoons spent at the shelter, rescuing puppies together, probably naming them something ridiculous like "Mr. Wiggles" or "Lord Fluffington the Third." Evenings on the couch with her feet in his lap while he rubbed them without being asked, because that's the kind of attentive devoted partner he'd be, the sort of man who leaned in for Eskimo kisses just to watch her nose scrunch up.

And then he caught himself and deflated.

Bad boys didn’t go to farmers' markets or rescue puppies. They’d probably eat puppies, or at least wouldn't be caught dead cooing over one. Bad boys definitely don't rub feet or give Eskimo kisses or even think about matrimony. They had emotional unavailability and commitment issues.

He straightened his leather jacket, tried to scowl, and immediately felt like an idiot as the magnificent woman of his dreams walked towards him.

Just act natural. No, don't do that. Act like you're dangerous and you have a past.

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"Penelope," she introduced herself, extending a hand she immediately realized was sweaty.

"Alfred." His grip was gentle and considerate. He had the hands of someone who handled things carefully. Underneath his leather jacket, she noticed his shirt had a tiny embroidered elephant on the pocket. A conservation charity logo.

"So, Alfred.” she purred his name, pitching her voice an octave lower than usual. It came out sounding like a frog. “What's a guy like you doing in a place like this?"

He balked. "I...wait, are we doing pickup lines? Should I have prepared something?"

Oh no. I was right. He’s adorable. I needed him to be not adorable. Recalling chapter fourteen of The Duke's Dark Desire, she bit her lip. "I don't do 'prepared.' I'm spontaneous. The sort of woman who ignores propriety and scandalises drawing rooms with her presence alone, uhm, figuratively speaking that is.”

She attempted a sultry finger-trail around the rim of her wine glass, the kind that had driven the Duke to his knees. Unfortunately, she had never been good with fine motor skills under pressure. The glass wobbled, tipped, and surrendered its contents across the bar like her composure had just done the same.

"Oh no," she gasped. "Oh, God, I'm so sorry, I'm such a…" Stop. Bad girls don’t apologize. She straightened her spine. "That was on purpose. I'm a rebel without a cause."

"You knocked over your own drink?"

"To intimidate you."

"Why would that intimidate me?"

"It..." She faltered. "It indicates I'm willing to create chaos? That I'm...unpredictable?"

He seemed to consider this. "I think it indicates you're clumsy. Which is endearing. I mean…" He caught himself. "Not endearing. That's not...I'm a bad boy. I find nothing endearing."

"You just used the word 'endearing' three times," she pointed out.

"Because I'm mocking you. For being clumsy. Which I am not." He crossed his arms and attempted a rugged, Clint Eastwood scowl that unfortunately made him look like he had a migraine. "I never spill anything. Because I'm too cool and collected."

"You spilled your drink too," she pointed to his fruity blue cocktail that had sloshed over the rim when he'd gestured and was now forming a small puddle around his elbow.

He looked down at it, horrified. "That's not a spill. That was me pouring one out for the homies. I'm mourning."

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He’d been here for precisely three minutes and thirty-seven seconds and he’d already fumbled this.

"Poured one out for the homies" was not a phrase he'd ever used before in his life and would never use again if he had any say in the matter.

But he couldn't help it. She was absolutely, terrifyingly, wonderfully bad-ass. That was the problem. Not in the mysterious way he'd been expecting from a woman who walked into a bar like she owned it. No, she was something far more dangerous. The way she'd introduced herself with a sweaty hand and then looked utterly horrified by her own palm, that took guts. The way she'd knocked over her wine glass and then doubled down on the lie with such fierce commitment that he'd nearly choked on his toothpick, was the kind of boldness he could only dream of inspiring.

That was exactly the kind of unhinged energy he'd been trying to cultivate and was failing miserably at.

He loved her already.

No, you don’t. Stop that. Bad boys don't fall in love at first sight. He found himself leaning closer, his "bad boy" facade cracking at the edges like the cheap pleather he was wearing. "So, Penelope. Are you here alone? Because I'm here alone too. Not because I can't get anyone to come with me. Obviously I have friends. So many friends. I just...wanted to be alone. For the vibe."

She nodded seriously. "The vibe. Of course. I'm also alone for the vibe." And after a thoughtful pause asked, "What is the vibe, exactly?"

He looked around the smoky bar with its sticky floors and drunk couples fused together on the dance floor in a way that suggested they were either about to procreate or had already started. "I think it's rebellion? Doing things we're not supposed to?"

Like falling for a woman you just met. Like wanting to scoop her up and keep her forever. Like already knowing I'm going to mess this up because I can't stop smiling at her.

"Right. Yes, that’s it." She leaned in conspiratorially. "I recently went through a breakup. The wanker cheated on me with my cousin. So now I'm having an era."

Why did I say that? Why did I tell him about Colin? He was going to think I was a mess. Which I technically was, but that was beside the point. The point was I was supposed to be mysterious and unavailable and I just told him my entire tragic backstory within three minutes of meeting him. Bad girls didn't trauma-dump, they kept their cards close.

"An era?"

"A hoe era," she whispered, like it was a secret. "I'm going to be naughty. I'm going to have casual flings and do all the things in my erotic romance novels."

There. That's better. That's the kind of thing a bad girl says. Casual flings. Erotic romance novels. He's probably impressed and thinking, wow, this woman is so confident and sexually liberated and definitely not composing a stanza in her head about the sexy way his toothpick wobbled when he talked.

His excitement flickered and died. She wasn't actually interested in him. She was looking for anyone to help her forget, someone to use, someone who wasn't him in the way he wanted to be. Nodding slowly, he tried to project supreme indifference. "You write erotic romance novels?"

"I write poetry," she admitted, then seemed to catch herself. "I mean, no. I read smutty, painful things."

"You write poetry?"

Why did he keep asking about the poetry and look genuinely interested? He was supposed to be too distracted by my boobs to ask follow-up questions about my creative pursuits. This was not how chapter fourteen went. The Duke didn't ask about the Duchess's hobbies. He just growled and ravished her. "Aggressive poetry. With...whips and chains."

I want to crawl under the bar and never come out. What the fuck did I just say? No, this was fine. I’m a bad girl now. Bad girls said things like whips and chains and meant it and didn't apologise for oversharing.

He felt himself smiling, he couldn't help it. He wanted to write poetry about her. Sonnets about her eyelashes. Odes about the way she bit her lip. He wanted to draft a full collection of haikus about her glorious breasts. But that was not a bad boy thought, well perhaps that last one was, so he cleared his throat, and tried to look menacing. "I'm also having an era as well. I'm a bad boy now. I’ve stopped being a pushover and I'm taking what I want now. I'm..." He searched for the right word, something dangerous and primal and unlike anything he'd ever been. "I'm going to fight someone. Soon. Probably tonight."

Her eyes widened. "Who?"

Great question. Who indeed? I didn't have enemies, only mild disagreements in my head with people who didn't use their direction indicators. I have a neighbour who plays loud music, but I've never even knocked on his door. Instead, I sent him a passive-aggressive note once and then apologised for it the next day. "I don't know yet. I'm still looking."

"Looking for someone to fight?"

"Yes. To establish my dominance. That's what bad boys do."

For fucks sake. I don’t even know what dominance looks like. I’ve had baristas hand me the wrong coffee order and I smiled and thanked them and drank it anyway. The only thing I've ever dominated is a jigsaw puzzle and even then, I left the sky for last.

"Are you going to fight that man?" She gestured vaguely toward a man who was at least twice his size.

That man? That man looks like he could crush me with one hand. If I even looked at that man wrong, I'd be reduced to a pile of dust and regrets. "I could," He answered, though his voice cracked as he did. "I absolutely could take him."

"You could not."

Thank God she knows I’m a fraud and I don’t actually have to prove this. "I could not," he agreed. "But I want to. The intention behind it is the point."

But the intention actually was the point. The intention was that he wanted to impress her by making her think he was brave and daring. He was willing to do anything to keep her looking at him like he was everything she was looking for, even though he knew he was not.

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They'd moved to a booth, ostensibly to "make out," which is what bad people did in bars. But instead they'd started talking about poetry.

This is not how this was supposed to go. We're supposed to be tangled together in a dark corner, doing the kind of depraved things that end up leaving behind a wet spot on his pants, not discussing iambic pentameter.

"You said you write poetry," Alfred said, his "bad boy" persona crumbling like a sandcastle. "What kind?"

"Dark stuff," she said, trying to sound ominous. "About psychological torment and feelings.

"Feelings?"

"Intense ones. The kind that make you want to break things."

"Like your drink?"

I know bad boys don’t make jokes, they brood and glower and say things like “you’re mine’, but I can’t help myself. She makes me forget this entire fake persona.

She glared at him. "Like hearts. I break hearts, Alfred. So many hearts."

"How many?"

How many hearts have I broken? Zero. I've broken zero hearts. I've had my own heart broken into approximately six thousand pieces, but I've never been the breaker. I've been the breakee. The one who sobs into a pint of ice cream, not the one struts away in heels while someone begs her to stay. Why did I say I break hearts? I don't even know how. "A significant number. More than one."

"So, two?"

"Could be three."

She's lying. I don't know how I know, but I know that she’s never broken a heart in her life. There’s something gentle and earnest about her that wouldn’t make her capable of doing so.

He nodded solemnly. "Impressive."

He must know. He's looking at me with those kind eyes and he knows I'm a fraud and yet he’s not calling me out on it. He's just letting me ramble about hearts I've never broken and violent poetry I don't write about. Who does that? Who lets someone lie to their face and just nods along like it's the most fascinating thing they've ever heard?

They sat in silence for a moment. Penelope realized she'd been tracing circles on the condensation from her glass. She stopped abruptly, trying to look like someone who didn't trace patterns on things. "Do you write poetry?" she asked instead.

Shit! Does she know I've already composed six lines about wanting our babies to inherit her hair in my head? "No," he said quickly. "I don't do anything that sensitive. I’m a conservationist so I do big bad manly things like taking on big oil and facing down corporations."

"You talk to corporations?"

I talk to absolutely no one. "I send emails," he admitted. "Very strongly worded emails. With exclamation points sometimes."

He sends strongly worded emails. With exclamation points. That's the most adorable thing I've ever heard. I want to read every one he's ever written and annotate them with hearts. "That's very assertive."

"Thank you. I'm known for it. They call me The Emailer." The Emailer? Seriously? Bad boys have nicknames like Viper or The Reaper, not The Fucking Emailer.

"Who calls you that?"

Please don't be some office floozy with a perfect bob and who knows his coffee order and sends him memes. If there's a woman at his work who gave him that nickname, I'll find her email address on LinkedIn and sign her up for every spam newsletter known to mankind. I don't even know if she exists yet and I'm already prepared to destroy her.

"People. In my head."

I've just admitted that I have voices in my head who give me nicknames. I've officially lost every shred of credibility I had. She's going to walk out of this bar and find a real bad boy who doesn't have imaginary friends who call him The Emailer.

She snorted, then covered her mouth immediately, horrified. Great, I full-on snorted like a pig in front of the man I'm supposed to be seducing. This is the worst hoe era in history.

"I shouldn't have laughed like that. Bad girls are supposed to cackle menacingly."

"That's very threatening," he agreed, though he really preferred her snort and wanted to be the reason she did it everyday. "The cackle is key."

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He should kiss her. That's what bad boys did. They kissed women in dark corners of bars without asking permission. They leaned in and took what they wanted. They didn't pause to consider feelings or boundaries or, God forbid, whether she'd actually finished her drink first.

But regrettably he was not a bad boy, he was a man who'd once apologized to a mannequin he'd bumped into at a department store.

Just lean in. Be the morally grey villain.

His heart was trying to escape through his ribcage, but he did it, and then, miraculously, she leaned in too.

They stopped centimeters apart, close enough that he could count her eyelashes if he weren't so busy trying not to hyperventilate. Close enough that he could swear he could see a hint of vulnerability behind that fierce, badass persona.

"I'm going to kiss you," he heard himself say outloud. "Is that okay? I don’t want to assume."

Her eyes went wide.

What is he doing? He was supposed to just do it. That's what bad boys did in the books. They didn't ask. They growled something dirty and possessive and claimed your mouth like it's their territory and suddenly you're pinned up against a wall giving up your autonomy.

But he wasn't doing that. He was looking at me like I was a beautiful rare bird that had landed on his windowsill and he was terrified that if he breathed too hard, I'd fly away. And the worst part? The absolute worst part?

I didn't mind.

"Assume, Alfred," she said, braver than she felt. "Be dominant and take what you want." But even as she said it, she knew she was lying. She didn't want him to take. She wanted him to choose her. To want her so badly that he couldn't help himself, but also to ask. To give her a way out if she needed one.

Because that's what actually made her feel safe.

"But what if you don't want it? That would be...that's not..." He swallowed hard, his throat dry as sandpaper. "I need consent, Penelope. That's non-negotiable."

There. There's the truth. I'm not a bad boy. I'm a man who has a pinned tweet comparing consent to birdwatching. Observe, wait, let them come to you. Don't grab. Don't chase. Let them fly away if they need to. It got fifty-three likes. My mum was one of them. And I still stood by every word.

"I want you to kiss me, Alfred." Her voice came out squeaky, nothing like the sultry dominatrix she'd been aiming for. She was desperately trying to sound like the heroines in her books, all husky confidence and bedroom eyes, but it sounded more like constructive feedback. "I want you to be the one I try all those kinky things from the books with."

Alfred’s soul left his body for a fraction of a second. Kinks? My idea of adventurous is using a different brand of tea in the morning. But he couldn't let her think he was soft. "Oh, absolutely. I’m all about the raw, unbridled, wildly kinky lifestyle. Name your wildest fantasy, babe."

What are you DOING? STOP TALKING.

"Everything," she gulped, hopeful and terrified all at once. "The handcuffs. The riding crop. The...the Red Room. Except I don't have a red room, so maybe just the bedroom with the lights dimmed and a red scarf draped over the lamp. That's basically the same thing, right?"

Riding Crop? Red Room? My small friendly cactus named Gerald in my bedroom is the extent of my bedroom’s danger. "Done, and afterward, we can engage in some intensely primal, rough-and-tumble degradation. Like…” He scrambled for the most depraved thing he could think of. “I might not even fold my laundry."

"My god," she whispered in shock. "You're a monster."

He took that as the highest form of flattery from a woman who read about minotaurs and orc kings. Determined to prove he was every bit the monstrous bad boy she deserved, he dipped his head and began to close the gap.

Penelope, fully committing to the bit, fisted her hand in the collar of his leather jacket to yank him the final inch forward.

Rrrrriiiippp.

She stared at the torn leather seam hanging limply from her fingers, then back at his exposed collarbone, then back at the jacket. "Oh no. No, no, no. Alfred, I destroyed it. Your sacred bad-boy armor! That was probably handed down from your outlaw biker grandfather who ran bootleg Beatles records before they were officially released!"

She started fanning him with her free hand, as if that would undo the tear. "I'm so sorry. I can sew! I can't sew, but I can learn! I'll sell a kidney! I'll…"

"Penelope." He caught her flailing hand. "It's fine. Look." He plucked at the torn edge. "It's not real. It's pleather."

"Pleather?" She stared at him baffled. "But...you're a bad boy. Bad boys wear real leather. They oil it with the tears of their enemies."

His shoulders slumped in defeat and he ran a hand over his face, letting out a long, weary sigh. "I can't do this anymore. I've been lying to you, Penelope. To myself. I despise leather.” he muttered miserably. “It’s not cruelty-free and honestly, this jacket made me sweat in places I didn’t know I could sweat.” He cringed tugging at the sleeve. “I don't own a riding crop, I own a very gentle back-scratcher. I don't want to whip you; I want to hold your hand while we walk past the duck pond. And I've never committed a crime in my life. The closest I ever came to breaking the law was downloading a PDF of a textbook instead of buying it, and I felt guilty for three weeks."

She let out a shaky breathless laugh as her entire body sagged with a relief so profound she nearly melted into the barstool. "Thank goodness," she breathed, clutching her chest. “Because I have never even stayed out past midnight on a weeknight, and the thought of 'rough degradation' makes me want to hyperventilate. And I only mentioned the riding crop because I panicked and thought you'd think I was boring if I asked for a foot rub."

"Foot rub?" His face lit up. "I love feet!" He slammed on the mental brakes so hard his neck jerked. "I mean I love the concept of foot rubs. The idea of them. In a completely non-fetish, entirely wellness-oriented capacity. I have a degree in over-explaining and a minor in putting my foot in my mouth. Speaking of feet…" He stopped, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. "I'm going to stop saying the word 'feet' now. For everyone's sake."

She howled with laughter until tears gathered in the corners of her eyes and the eyeliner she’d so painstakingly applied threatened to surrender along with the weeks of anxiety, and humiliation, and pretending she had done. "You're the most ridiculous man I've ever met," she gasped.

"And you're the only woman who's ever made me grateful for that," he admitted, grinning despite his mortification. Then he swallowed hard and reached out to catch a stray tear on her cheek. “I’m sorry. I should have admitted that I don't own a single black t-shirt, let alone a real leather jacket. But I do have quite the collection of novelty socks. I've been lying since the moment we met because I wanted you to think I was…” He gestured vaguely toward the shredded remains of his jacket. “Whatever this was supposed to be.”

“A vegan biker?”

He scoffed. “The most 'motorcycle' thing I ever did was rent a Santander cycle but I couldn't figure out how to adjust the seat. I spent ten minutes yanking on it, then gave up and just cycled with my knees practically touching my chin. A group of teenagers filmed me and I’m pretty sure there’s a viral video of me circulating out there somewhere.”

She collapsed against him, dissolving into giggles again against his torn pleather shoulder. And after a moment, he started laughing too, relieved that he could finally be himself.

"I'm sorry too," she apologized earnestly when the laughter finally subsided.”I should have told you from the start that I'm not some fearless vixen. I just wanted to be someone who didn't care so much. Someone who couldn't get hurt again." She reached out and touched the torn collar of his jacket, not to inspect the damage, but to feel the warmth of his shoulder beneath it. "We're both idiots," she said softly. "Pretending to be things we're not."

"Certified idiots. But at least we're idiots together now."He let out a slow breath, relieved that the performance had finally ended and neither of them had any costumes left to hide behind. “Penelope, may I ask you something?”

She nodded.

“When you said you only wanted…” He searched carefully for the words. “…something without commitment, was that true? Or was that part of the act too?” He’d agreed because he thought that was the only version of himself she’d accept, even if something inside him had wilted a little. If pretending to be casual was the price of seeing her, he would have paid it. “I’ve been trying very hard to convince myself I was comfortable with that,” he admitted. “But is that really what you want?”

She looked down at her hands, then back up into his wide, honest eyes. The thought of walking away from him with a casual wave made her chest ache.

"No," she whispered with a fierce certainty settling over her. "No, I don't. I was terrified of getting attached. But I don’t want to spend my life pretending people don’t matter to me, I just want someone who sees me and likes what they see.”

His face split into an enthusiastic grin. “Good. Because I really want to take you on a proper date.”

She looked up. “A date?”

“I thought perhaps dinner? Somewhere nice with cloth napkins and candles that aren't just red scarves over lamps. I want to pick you up at your door and bring you flowers and ask about your day and actually listen to the answer. And then maybe a museum afterward? Or there's this little independent bookshop I frequent that I just know you would love? Or the wildlife sanctuary outside the city? I checked and they’ve got rescued otters.” His smile became sheepish. “I’ve…actually made a spreadsheet.”

“You made a spreadsheet?”

He nodded, completely unashamed. "Seven tabs. Color-coded by category. Green for outdoor activities, blue for cultural, pink for food-related. I have a column for estimated cost, another for travel time, and a notes section where I wrote things like 'good lighting for photos' and 'check if they serve decaf.' There's also a tab for backup options in case of rain."

Seven tabs. Color-coded. A notes section.

I am going to marry this man. Not now, because that would be insane. But eventually, I'm going to marry him and we're going to have edit access to each other's accounts, which is more intimate than sharing a Netflix password, and he's going to make spreadsheets for our grocery shopping and I'm going to climb him like a tree because he’s so unbearably sexy.

"OH MY GOD," she yelled, loud enough that the couple in the corner looked up from their drinks. "I'M HORNY FOR SPREADSHEETS."

Giddy with an unhinged surge of affection that bypassed her brain entirely, she fisted her hands in the torn collar of his jacket, the good side this time, and pulled him down into a kiss, not caring at all about who was watching or about being a bad girl or a good girl or any version of herself that wasn’t this happy and ridiculous and kissing a man who colour-coded his date plans.

She pulled back just enough to look up at his delightfully stunned eyes.

"I'm sorry," she breathed, not sorry at all. "I don't know what came over me."

The bar patrons slowly returned to their drinks, someone muttered "young love" into their pint, and the barman gave them a knowing nod of approval.

Alfred glanced around, suddenly self-conscious, then turned back to her with a goofy grin. "So does that mean the otters are a yes?"

She kissed him again, softer this time. "The otters are a definite yes. I’d love to go on a proper date with you.”

Relief washed over his face with such force she thought he might actually float off the floor. “Wonderful.” He hesitated and rubbed the back of his neck. “And if you’ll allow me, may I take you home?”

Her eyebrows lifted.

“I should clarify,” He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Not because I expect anything. I don’t. Truly. I’d simply sleep better knowing you arrived safely.”

She had spent so long believing romance required grand gestures and dangerous men. She hadn’t realized how profoundly attractive it could be to hear someone say they simply wanted her to get home safely.

“I’d like that very much.”

He beamed. "Great. Would you like to walk, or STFUATTDLAGG?"

She froze. "Excuse me? Alfred, what exactly do you think that acronym stands for?"

"Take Sustainable Transport For Urban Areas To Temporarily Decrease Local Air Generated Gases." He answered, looking rather proud of himself. "It's a sustainability initiative," he continued earnestly. "We could take the Santander cycles, I've gotten much better at them, I promise, or the bus, or walking is fine if you'd prefer. The acronym is a bit of a mouthful, but I think the message is important. Why? Does it have another meaning?"

She shook her head, fighting off her laughter. "No. No, it doesn't have another meaning. That's exactly what it stands for.” she lied, not wanting to change anything about him. “And I’m fine with walking.” 

I'm pretty sure I'd walk to the end of the earth with you.

They gathered their things and made for the door, but just as they reached the exit, Alfred abruptly stopped in his tracks. His eyes locked onto the bar counter, where a ceramic bowl sat unattended next to a sign reading Complimentary Pub Pretzels.

He grabbed Penelope’s wrist, and leaned toward her conspiratorially. "Wait."

"What is it?" she asked suspiciously.

He pointed a trembling finger toward the bowl. "Look at them. Unprotected and free for the taking. This is our moment to become international smugglers."

She followed his gaze to the bowl of dry, salted snacks, then glanced back up at Alfred’s deadpan, intensely serious face with a wicked grin. "My god," she whispered, playing along with a theatrical gasp. "You're a criminal mastermind."

"On three," He hissed under his breath."One... two..."

They both lunged forward and plunged their hands into the bowl, grabbing fistfuls of pretzels, and then they bolted out the heavy wooden doors of the pub and onto the cool street, before bursting into helpless, breathless giggles. They ducked behind a brick pillar like international jewel thieves evading Scotland Yard, clutching their stolen dry pretzels and gasping for air.

"That was exhilarating," She wheezed, leaning against the brick wall and wiping tears of laughter from her eyes. "We’re absolute menaces to society.”

"Like Bonnie and Clyde if they had anxiety and excellent manners," Alfred agreed proudly, popping a single, salt-crusted pretzel into his mouth as they finally started walking down the pavement toward her flat.

They walked in comfortable silence for a moment, with their hands occasionally brushing, then Alfred broke the quiet as they crossed a residential street.

"You know," he said, glancing sideways at her. "You're wonderful, Penelope. Anyone who couldn't see that, or was capable of letting you go or didn't appreciate how brilliant and kind you are, is an absolute idiot."

"I agree," she said, surprising herself with her own honesty. "They were. But I was an idiot too, for thinking I needed to change myself into someone else just to be worthy of being chosen."

He nodded and reached out and took her hand. "I'm not changing either," he said. "I don't need to be tough. I need to be me. The person who writes strongly worded emails about customer service and loves animals more than people half the time and who keeps getting passed over for promotions because he's too polite." He paused with a wry little smile touching his lips. "Well...maybe I'll still work on the promotion thing. That's a legitimate professional goal."

She squeezed his hand and stepped a little closer so her shoulder brushed against his. "You should. But on your own terms and on your own timeline. And for yourself, not because someone else told you you ought to be.”

"Deal."

By the time they reached her building, neither of them seemed particularly eager for the walk to end.

Penelope unlocked the front door before turning back toward him.

“So…” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear to gather up her courage before it deserted her. “Would you like to come up?”

His eyebrows rose.

“We don’t have to do anything,” she hurried to clarify. “We can just talk, or read. Or eat leftover Thai food on the floor while watching nature documentaries on the mating rituals of birds.”

His face lit up with a brilliant, breathtaking smile. He closed the remaining distance between them and gently framed her face in his hands with infinite care. "Cold noodles and horny pigeons?," he said, brushing his thumb softly along her cheek, “You really know how to show a guy a wild Friday night."

He didn't give her a chance to argue the definition of wild given that he leaned down and gave her a kiss that would have gotten a five star rating on Goodreads.

When he pulled back, his thumb gave her cheek one last, lingering stroke before he let his hands drop.

"Come on, vixen," he murmured, his eyes bright with mischief as he gestured toward her door. "Lead the way to the carnage."

😈😈😈😈😈😈

They didn't do anything from the books that night.

They sat on her couch, surrounded by bookshelves and cozy blankets, and talked for hours. About poetry, about conservation, about their families and their dreams and their fears. He learned that she was funny, that she made terrible tea but excellent scones, that she organized her books by color because it made her happy.

She learned that he kept a journal, that he’d just recently taken up poetry writing, that he'd been saving for a trip to the Amazon for ten years, and that he cried during documentaries about endangered species and wasn't ashamed to admit it.

When she finally fell asleep, well past her sensible bedtime, with her head resting on his shoulder, Alfred looked at her and thought about all the dangerous and untouchable things he'd wanted to be tonight. He was grateful that none of it had worked.

This was real. This vulnerable, quiet, and perfectly un-bad moment.

He carefully shifted to get more comfortable, and she stirred, muttering something in her sleep.

"You're safe," he whispered. "I've got you."

Even in sleep, her lips curved into a smile.

"Bad," she mumbled, drowsily, "We're supposed to be naughty."

"Tomorrow," he promised. "We'll be the worst tomorrow."

He didn't mean it, and she probably didn't either. But it was a nice thought, that they could pretend, just a little longer, that they were something they weren't.

In reality, they were exactly what they needed to be.

Themselves.

Epilogue

Three months later, Alfred got the promotion. Not because he'd learned to be tough, but because he'd finally learned to speak up. He'd used the exact same research and passion he’d always possessed, but he'd delivered it with confidence this time, like he deserved it, because he did.

Penelope published a collection of love poems, mostly about a man who was so careful with her heart that she'd never needed to be anything other than who she was.

Her ex, Colin tried to slither back into her life the moment her cousin announced she was pregnant with another man's child, and in typical fashion he had assumed the poems were about him. She immediately published a second collection, this one detailed with everything she'd never said aloud, and a few things she'd only ever allowed herself to think in the dark. It was so vicious and scathing that he fled the country within seventy-two hours. She heard through mutual friends that he'd relocated to a remote village in Chile, grown a beard, and was working on "finding himself."

She hoped he continued to find himself somewhere far, far away from her.

They still read the books together, sometimes he made spreadsheets that Penelope considered foreplay. It was, they agreed, far better than anything that could be found in a Red Room. And occasionally they'd reminisce and laugh about the time they'd tried to be bad and failed so spectacularly.

But they'd found their own small private versions of rebellions. They'd jaywalk across empty streets just to feel the thrill of doing something vaguely illegal. Occasionally they'd sneak entire bags of contraband gummy bears into the cinema, giggling through the previews like teenagers. They’d ordered silk scarves from a website that definitely wasn't for wine tasting, or maybe it was, depending on how you defined "tasting" and they'd use them to blindfold each other before a particularly good vintage, pretending they were sophisticated hedonists. And sometimes, on nights when the world felt too serious and they needed to be someone else for a while, she'd pull out her worn copy of A Court of Thorns and Roses, he'd dust off his Legolas cosplay from that one Comic-Con disaster, and they'd spend the evening in their bedroom that became Prythian or Middle-earth or wherever the mood took them. 

Then they'd go back to the quiet life they'd chosen, the one they'd made together, the one that was perfect precisely because it wasn't trying to be anything else.

😈😈😈😈😈😈