Work Text:
The uber door shuts, leaving them standing on a cobblestone bridge surrounded by Amsterdam’s frozen canals.
Penelope instantly buries her face into her knitted scarf, her cheeks burning from the wind blowing off the water. Around them, the historic village of shops is glowing with frosted glass windows, fairy lights twinkling under snow-covered eaves, and the warm scent of woodsmoke floating in the air.
Next to her, Colin steps onto the pavement, completely unbothered, hands shoved into his coat pockets while his camera strap hangs loosely across his chest.
"If you keep hunching like that, Pen, you’re going to end up the size of a keychain... which is not so terrible as I can put you on my camera straps," he says, his voice bright against the muffled quiet of the snowfall.
"I am thirty-one years old, Colin," Penelope mumbles through her scarf. "I am allowed to protect my vital organs from hypothermia."
"You're a romance novelist," he chuckles, bumping his shoulder against hers as they start walking down the shop-lined alley. "Where’s your dramatic appreciation for the romantic... and winter-y scene?"
"It’s currently frozen in my sinuses," she shoots back with a pout.
She tries to keep her voice light, but her chest aches with that familiar warmth of being with Colin. On paper, Penelope Featherington is a best-selling author who writes sweeping, breathless love stories for a living. In reality, she is thirty-one, single since birth and helplessly in love with her childhood best friend.... who also happens to be her best friend's older brother.
When Colin flew her out here for an all-expenses-paid birthday trip, her logical brain warned her not to read into it. Colin is a travel vlogger; his entire life is an endless loop of flights, destinations, and spontaneous generosity. He is just being... Colin. Wonderful, attentive, agonizingly charming Colin.
"Come on," Colin says, taking her elbow and steering her toward a vintage storefront with a soft yellow glow. "First store before you turn into a popsicle."
Colin catches the shop door before it slams shut behind them, the sudden blast of radiator heat hitting them like a warm blanket.
Day one, he reminds himself, taking a quiet, steadying breath as Pen unwraps her scarf. Today is the day.
At thirty-three, Colin has traveled to nearly fifty countries, filmed the most breathtaking sights in the world, and built a massive career out of being everywhere at once. But three years ago, in the middle of a fight with Penelope, and sitting alone in a crowded airport terminal on his thirtieth birthday, the truth had hit him like a freight train: none of it meant anything if Penelope wasn't there to see it with him.
He’s been in love with her for three full years. He’s spent the last twelve months trying to confess... and failing miserably every single time. A missed train in London, a loud diner in New York, a sudden rainstorm in Paris. Always something. But today, surrounded by snowy canals on her birthday, he isn't leaving Amsterdam until she knows.
"What is this place?" Pen asks, peering down an aisle packed with retro 90s junk, cassette tapes, and racks of ridiculous knitwear.
"It’s shelter to keep us warm... but don't tell the shop keeper," Colin says, wandering toward a hat display. "And a chance to fix your terrible fashion sense."
He pulls a hideous, oversized 90s knit bonnet off the shelf: neon orange, with two massive yellow pom-poms dangling off the sides.
"Colin, no-"
Before she can dodge, he gently slides it onto her head, pulling it down over her damp curls.
"Stunning," Colin declares, leaning back to inspect his work with deadpan approval. "A runway masterpiece."
"It makes me look like a displaced teletubby," Pen counters, though her lips twitch with a suppressed smile.
"Nonsense." He steps into her space, his fingers reaching up to adjust the brim. His thumbs brush against the soft, warm skin of her cheekbones, and his breath hitches. He doesn't pull his hands away. "Mind you... the last time I saw you in a bonnet, it was a lot more violent."
Penelope stops trying to pull the hat off. Her blue eyes meet his, sudden and soft. "That wasn't the bonnet's fault."
"It flew off your head and attacked me!" Colin protests, his voice softening as a warm memory takes over. "A gust of wind caught those yellow ribbons of yours, sent the hat sailing straight into my face, and knocked me clean off my bicycle."
"You were eleven and speeding," Pen says, a sweet, fond smile finally breaking across her face. "I was eight! I thought I’d killed you."
"You were crying so hard your little shoulders were shaking," Colin whispers, his thumbs stroking lightly against her jawline now. "And there I was, sitting in the mud with a split chin, bleeding through my shirt, trying to make you laugh so you’d stop crying."
"It worked," she says softly, her voice barely a whisper. "You wiped the blood off your chin, gave me that ridiculous crooked smile, and told me my hat was just trying to fly to Paris."
"It was a very ambitious hat," Colin murmurs, his gaze dropping to her lips.
"I can't believe you remember." Penelope blinks.
"I remember everything about you, Pen."
The banter fades completely, leaving a thick, heavy quiet between them. "I’d split my chin open ten times over if it meant seeing you smile like that, Pen."
Penelope’s breath catches in her throat. Her pulse flutters wildly right beneath his fingertips. For a second, the entire world shrinks down to just the two of them standing inches apart.
Tell her, Colin thinks, his heart hammering against his ribs. Tell her right now.
"Colin..." Penelope whispers, her eyes searching his, completely wide and unguarded.
Panicking at the sudden, overwhelming heat between them, Penelope suddenly yanks the neon bonnet off her head, and transfered it ove his head covering his eyes.
"You're ridiculous," she says, her voice a little breathless and higher than usual as she steps away. "Come on. My feet are warm now, let's go."
By the time Colin pulls the hat off his face, she is already at the counter buying a tiny vintage keychain, her back turned to him. Colin stares at her, letting out a long, shaky breath, and shakes his head with a quiet chuckle.
Close. Very close.
The snow falls thicker now, they walk side-by-side along the canal, their shoulders bumping with every few steps. Penelope's heart is still doing acrobatic flips from the vintage shop. I’d split my chin open ten times over if it meant seeing you smile like that. He didn't mean it like that. He couldn't have. He is... Colin. He says sweet, dangerous things without realizing how they wreck her.
"Look at this place," Colin says softly, breaking into her thoughts. He gestures with his chin toward the bridges, the warm fairy lights reflecting off the dark water of the canal. "It's practically begging for a rom-com soundtrack. Honestly, Pen, if I were trying to woo someone, I’d bring them right here."
Penelope snorts into her scarf, using humor as her trusted shield. "Oh, please. How many girls have you used this exact line on, Colin? Let me guess... you have a designated 'romantic canal walk' route mapped out on your phone for all your global flings?"
Colin stops walking.
Penelope takes two more steps before realizing he isn't beside her. She turns around to find him standing under the warm yellow glow of a streetlamp, snowflakes dusting his dark hair. The teasing, playful look on his face is completely gone, replaced by an intensity that makes her pulse stutter.
"None," Colin says quietly.
The wind rustles, filling the silence between them.
"Colin-"
"I’ve never brought anyone here, Pen," he says, stepping closer until he is standing right in front of her. His voice is steady, devoid of his usual lighthearted deflection. "I’ve traveled all over the world for work, but I saved this place for you. It's always just been you."
Penelope’s breath hitches in her throat once again, her mind scrambling for something... anything to say.
Before she can spin out, Colin reaches down and wraps his warm, bare fingers around her icy, gloved hand. He doesn't make a big show of it; he simply guides their joined hands directly into the deep pocket of his winter coat.
"Your hands are like ice," he murmurs, his tone softening back into that cozy, familiar warmth as he starts walking again, pulling her gently along beside him. "And I'm not letting you freeze on your birthday."
She doesn't pull away. The heat inside his pocket is suffocatingly nice, and her mind is still reeling from the gravity of his words when the rich scent of dark chocolate and warm butter drifts across the street.
"Look," Colin says, his boyish grin returning like a sunburst. "Your favorite."
"Oh my!" Penelope gasps.
The bakery is tiny yet smells like heaven. Colin casually enters with her, he orders a box of fresh chocolate eclairs, paying the cashier before Penelope even has her coat unbuttoned. They sit down at a small marble bistro table near the front window, watching the snow blur everything.
He slides the pastry box toward her. "Happy Birthday, Pen."
Penelope’s face lights up as she opens the lid. "Colin Bridgerton, I would literally commit a minor felony for one of these right now."
"I know," Colin says, resting his elbows on the table with a grin as he watches her pick one up. "You’ve eaten at least one eclair on every single birthday since I’ve known you."
"They're a holy experience," she says, taking a bite and closing her eyes with a soft sigh of pure happiness. "Though my emotional attachment to eclairs goes way back."
She pauses before smiling brightly "Oh.. oh... remember in high school when I ran that charity drive for the women's shelter?"
Colin takes a slow sip of his coffee, keeping his expression completely neutral as he remembers every single second of it. "Vaguely."
"I spent entire weeks baking and selling them in the courtyard just to hit my target," Pen babbles happily, wiping a smudge of chocolate from her lip. "I was so convinced I was going to fail miserably in senior year. I was five hundred dollars short on day two, borderline hysterical, and then out of nowhere this mysterious hero kept showing up. Sending those tiny elementary school kids to my booth every afternoon with envelopes of cash to buy out two dozen eclairs in bulk."
"Ah, yes," Colin says mildly, leaning back in his chair. "Your anonymous angel investor."
"I asked those kids every single day who sent them, but they’d just giggle and run off with the pastries," Pen chuckles, shaking her head. "The weirdest part was that every cash envelope had a silly sticky note inside. I still have them in a box at home."
"Well," Colin says casually, taking another sip of coffee. "If you're buying two dozen eclairs a day, you have to leave a note saying 'I'm eclair-ing my devotion to your cause' or it's a wasted opportunity."
Penelope stops mid-chew.
Colin freezes as he realize his mistake, his coffee cup hovering an inch from his mouth. Dammit.
A heavy, excruciating silence falls over the small marble table. Penelope sets her pastry down slowly, her blue eyes narrowing as she stares directly across at him meeting his denim blues.
"I never told anyone what those notes said, Colin," she says, her voice eerily calm. "I never even read them out loud."
Colin blinks once, twice, and immediately attempts to bluff. "What? Of course you did."
"No. I didn't."
"Pen, you definitely did," Colin says, putting on his best, most earnest I-am-a-completely-innocent-person face. He takes a very deliberate, casual sip of coffee. "High school. One of our Sunday movie nights on your living room couch. You were reorganizing your keepsake box, pulled out the notes, and read them to me while we were watching The Princess Bride."
"I did not."
"You did! You read the 'eclair-ing my devotion' one and laughed so hard you nearly choked on your popcorn," Colin insists, leaning forward with easy confidence, waving a hand in the air. "You said, 'Colin, look at this atrocious pun.' And I said, 'Whoever wrote that belongs in jail.' You just forgot."
Penelope doesn't blink. She folds her arms across her chest, tilting her head with a look of terrifying, unyielding certainty. "Colin. I kept those notes locked in my desk drawer until college. And Princess Bride is just our second go to!"
Colin’s confident posture instantly deflates. His brain short-circuits.
"Right," he stammers, his cheeks turning bright red as his eyes dart wildly around the quiet bakery. "Right, right, right. Not The Princess Bride... maybe it was When Harry Met Sally? No, wait.. it was... a dream! I had a vivid dream that you told me! You know how strange my dreams get when I eat dairy late at night-"
Smack!
"Ow!" Colin winces, rubbing his upper arm where Penelope just landed a solid yet offended wallop across the table.
"It was you?!" Penelope squeaks, her hands flying to her face as her eyes widen to the size of saucers. "Colin Bridgerton, it was you all along!"
Colin completely gives up, letting out a quiet, sheepish groan as he buries his face in his hands. "Okay, fine! Yes! It was me!"
He lowers his hands, a crooked, embarrassed grin breaking through as the flush spreads all the way to his ears. "I ate so many choux pastries over seventy-two hours I thought my stomach was going to collapse, Pen. I hid them in my locker... those elementary student couldn't eat them all."
Penelope stares at him, her chest rising and falling softly. "You spent five hundred dollars on pastries... just so my fundraiser wouldn't fail?"
"I couldn't stand seeing you look like the world was resting on your shoulders, Pen," Colin says quietly. The easy, playful banter evaporates, replaced by a weight that makes the air between them feel dense. He reaches across the marble top, his fingers gently sliding over hers. "Because it was you. It’s always been about making sure you get what you deserve."
Her eyes are wide while searching his face, her pulse visible at the base of her throat.
Colin doesn't pull his hand back. He holds her gaze, stepping right over the boundary line. "Pen... I didn't bring you to Amsterdam just for a nice birthday trip. The truth is-"
"Colin, stop," Penelope says softly.
She doesn't pull her hand away harshly, but her fingers go still beneath his. A sad, guarded smile touches her lips, the defense mechanism of a girl who spent her youth believing she was unlovable.
"You are the best friend anyone could ever ask for," she says, her voice gentle, but pulling the curtain down between them. "You really are. But you don't have to keep playing my knight in shining armor. I'm thirty-one now. You don't have to take care of me like a charity case."
She quietly slips her hand out from under his to wrap her scarf back around her neck, standing up from the table. "We should keep moving before it gets too dark.... shall we?"
Colin stays seated for a long beat, looking down at his bare, empty palm. The subtle rejection hits harder than if she had yelled at him. She didn't just dodge his confession, she filed it under platonic pity and shoved him right back into the best-friend box.
He swallows the lump in his throat, grabs the pastry box, and stands up. "Right... of course... lead the way."
Penelope feels like an idiot. They have been walking in near silence, and the guilt is eating her alive because she ran. Colin opened a door, just a crack, and she panicked and slammed it shut in his face. Because she is terrified. She is thirty-one, she has never been in love with anyone else, and if she misreads his sweet, protective nature for romantic feelings, she loses him forever.
The wind picks up, blowing snow sideways down the quiet street. Up ahead, a creaky wooden sign swings above a dark storefront: Moments of Love.
"In here?" Penelope asks, turning to Colin.
His face is quieter than usual, his jaw set, but he nods gently. "Sure."
The antique shop is silent, insulated from the storm outside. It smells of old parchment, leather bindings, and dried lavender. Floorboards creak beneath their boots as they wander down the narrow aisles of ancient books.
Desperate to break the suffocating tension, Penelope’s eyes land on a small display case of 19th-century leather-bound logs. Spotting a gold-embossed spine tucked in the corner, she opens the unlocked glass door and picks it up, desperate for a distraction.
"Look, Colin," she says, forcing a light tone as she holds up the faded brown cover. "It's a travel journal written by a 'C.B.'" She scans and smiles. "Maybe your alter ego lived in the 1800s. He travels the world, gets lost constantly, and eats pastries like an overgrown kid."
Colin steps up beside her, his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets. "Fascinating."
"I'm serious," Pen says, opening the yellowed pages and skimming the elegant cursive. "He’s traveling with a woman. Look at how he describes her hair... he calls it 'a fiery sunset caught in a knot.'"
Colin leans over her shoulder, his chest pressing lightly against her back. He reaches out, taking the edge of the open page in his bare fingers, his gaze scanning down the faded black ink.
"Read the next line, Pen," Colin murmurs, his voice low against her ear. "He calls her by name right here. 'My dear Penelope... a freckled Penelope.'"
A strange, sudden warmth floods Penelope's cheeks, but she quickly hides behind her defensive armor.
"Well," she says with a nervous, breathless chuckle, staring down at the page. "The freckled description... it’s just sweet. Like that silly poem you wrote me back in sixth form. You called my freckles 'copper dust.' You were just being fond... uh... like a brother. Like a sweet best friend writing to a sister."
Colin’s hand on the book stiffens. He steps directly into her space, turning her toward him until her back is pressed against the wooden bookshelf.
"It wasn't sisterly, Pen," Colin says, his voice dropping an octave, heavy and defensive. "And C.B. isn't writing to a sister. No man writes about a woman’s freckles like they're scattered stars across her skin unless she is the absolute love of his life."
"Or maybe he's just affectionate!" Penelope argues, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she holds the journal tighter between them. She flips a page, her finger pointing blindly at the text as their proxy war turns completely raw. "Look at this entry! They're arguing over tea! She's holding him at arm's length because... because she knows the truth... she knows that if she misinterprets his grand gestures, if she dares to believe he wants more and she’s wrong, she loses her best friend forever! Has C.B. ever considered how terrifying that risk is for her?"
"And has she ever considered how agonizing it is for him?" Colin counters, his blue eyes blazing as he steps even closer, crowding her against the shelf. "To stand right in front of her, pouring his heart out, while she keeps filing him under 'platonic best friend' and shutting the door in his face?"
"Because she's scared!" Pen shouts softly, her eyes stinging. "She's terrified!" she gulps. "She may lose him"
"She wouldn't lose him!" Colin fiercely whispers, grabbing the top edge of the book as their hands clash over the leather cover. "She couldn't lose him! Because he’s already hers!"
In the heat of the moment, as their fingers pull against the binding, the slick leather slips from their grip.
Thud.
The journal tumbles out of their hands and hits the wooden floorboards, bouncing open face-up right at their feet.
The sharp slap of the book hitting the floor echoes through the quiet shop. They both freeze, breathing heavily, their faces inches apart, before slowly dropping their gazes down to the open page on the floor.
It sits open to the formal, gold-embossed front leaf:
Travelling with My Wife
By C.B.
"To my beloved Penelope, and our five loud, chaotic children who made every mile an adventure."
The silence between them stretches, ringing in their ears. Penelope stares down at the words while her jaw slacks slightly. Her mind scrambles to process the ink staring back up at her.
"...His wife," Penelope whispers, her voice barely audible.
Colin stares at the page, then slowly raises his gaze to her, a long, shaky exhale escaping his lips. "His wife... and five kids."
Penelope’s chest rises and falls softly. All the noise in her head, the doubt, the fear of misreading his intentions, the protective walls she had built around her heart since high school then shatters into dust. C.B. wasn't just being a protective friend. Book Penelope wasn't his sister... he loved her.
And Colin loved her.
"Colin..." Penelope whispers, her voice cracking with raw emotion.
She steps over the book on the floor, closing the last inch of distance between them. She reaches up, her hands coming to rest solidly over his racing heart, feeling the wild thumping beneath his coat.
"I was wrong," she says, her blue eyes locked onto his, completely open, and unguarded for the first time in her life. "At the bakery... I was so scared. But I don't want you to be my knight in shining armor. And I don't want to just be your best friend anymore. I want-"
CLICK. And he lights go out.
The antique shop is instantly plunged into pitch darkness, illuminated only by the icy blue glow of the snow filtering through the front window.
From the back room, the Dutch shopkeeper grumbles loudly about the storm blowing the main fuse, followed by the metallic clatter of a heavy switchboard.
The heavy emotional spell breaks. Colin lets out a ragged laugh against her forehead, dropping his brow onto hers in the dark as his hands find her waist.
"I give up," he mutters, his warm breath fanning across her lips as he shakes his head in utter defeat. "The universe is officially plotting against me."
Penelope lets out a giddy, breathless laugh that bubbles straight up from her chest. "Come on," she whispers, taking his warm hand tightly in the dark. "Let's get out of here before he thinks we're looters."
They tumble out of the antique shop into the biting wind, their hands still tightly laced together in the gloom.
The air outside is freezing, but Penelope’s face feels like it is on fire. Her heart is hammering against her ribs, echoing the unspoken truth left hanging in the dark. His wife. And five kids. She had been seconds away from confessing everything. Now, blinded by the swirling snow and breathless from the sudden shift in gravity between them, she blindly follows as Colin pulls her down a narrow side street, hunting desperately for shelter.
"In here," Colin gasps, his voice rough as he pushes open a glass door bathed in a buzzing magenta glow.
They step inside, the door shutting behind them to block out the howling wind.
For three long seconds, they just stand in the foyer, breathing heavily, their chests rising and falling in sync. Penelope’s eyes are wide, her cheeks flushed, her mind racing with the urge to pick up right where they left off... to grab his lapels and finally say the words.
Then, her eyes adjust to the lighting.
Penelope freezes while Colin’s head turns slowly to the left.
Surrounding them are rows of velvet-lined shelves, metallic displays, silk restraints, lace lingerie, and a glowing acrylic stand featuring silicone toys in every pastel shade imaginable. A sultry pop song hums over the shop speakers.
The emotional weight of two centuries of romantic travel logs instantly evaporates, replaced by a stunning buzz.
"Well," Colin says, his voice dropping into a strangled, pitch-perfect register. He doesn't move a muscle. "This isn't the shoe store."
Penelope’s mouth snaps shut while her cheeks, already warm from the cold, turn a violent, feverish shade of crimson. She wants to laugh, but her throat seals tight. She swallows hard, her eyes darting from a pair of feathered handcuffs to a display of scented body oils. Standing in an adult shop next to the man she has secretly craved her entire life leaves her utterly speechless, a sudden, molten heat coiling deep in her stomach.
"Hello!"
A tall, effortlessly chic Dutch shopkeeper with bright red lipstick and a silk blouse glides out from behind the counter. Her eyes sweep over them, lingering for a long, appreciative second on Colin’s height and sharp jawline before settling on their joined hands.
"You two look like you were just rescued from the storm," the shopkeeper says, her voice distinctly flirty as she leans against a display case. "Or perhaps... searching for something to keep you warm tonight?"
Panic instantly short-circuits Colin’s brain. Desperate to act natural, he blindly reaches for the very closest display stand, grabbing a fancy metallic box and holding it up with absolute, dignified urgency.
"We were actually looking at this!" Colin blurts out, his voice cracking slightly as he tries to sound like a sophisticated connoisseur. "Just... browsing your... high-end wares!"
Penelope’s eyes drop to the box in his hand, and her breath dies in her throat.
Written in bold, shimmering font across the sleek packaging is: Nipple Clamps and Warming Gel Set.
Penelope lets her hands fly over her mouth as her eyes bug out in absolute shock.
Colin looks down at what he’s holding. His eyes go wide as saucers while his face turns a color that hasn't been discovered on the visible light spectrum.
The shopkeeper’s eyes flick from the box directly to Penelope’s lush, generous curves beneath her winter coat, a wicked grin spreading across her lips. "Ah," she purrs, leaning her elbows on the glass counter. "A man of taste. Excellent choice for a woman blessed with such... exceptional assets. You must spend hours admiring them."
Penelope squeaks behind her hands, her face burning hot enough to melt the snow outside. She looks at Colin who is standing frozen like a statue, holding a bust-enhancement kit, completely gagged and unable to utter a single word.
"I can tell you're eager," the shopkeeper adds, her eyes drifting downward with an amused, knowing smirk. "Though it seems you don't even need the clamps to get excited."
Penelope’s eyes follow the shopkeeper's gaze down to the distinct, uncompromising ridge straining against the front of Colin's fitted dark jeans.
Penelope's jaw drops, and a wave of pure, agonizing heat rushing straight down her spine. Colin notices where they are both looking, and his brain completely collapses.
"We'll take it!" Colin squawks in total, frantic hysteria.
He slams the box onto the glass counter and shoves a hundred-euro note toward the shopkeeper with trembling fingers. "Keep the change! Happy holidays!"
He snatches the velvet gift bag, grabs Penelope's wrist, and practically drags her out the front door into the snow.
They pop back out onto the sidewalk right in front of the warm, glowing shop window.
The icy wind hits their faces, but neither of them can take a single step further. Penelope stands there, clutching her stomach as a hysterical, giddy laugh finally breaks through her silence.
"I cannot believe you just bought that!" Pen wheezes, her cheeks bright red, tears of laughter springing to her eyes in the freezing air. "Colin Bridgerton, you just handed a stranger a hundred euros for-"
"I panicked, okay?!" Colin exclaims, though a helpless grin breaks through his mortification as he clutches the tiny velvet bag like evidence of a crime. "You were standing there completely silent, she was staring at my... at my jeans... and it was the only exit strategy my brain could manufacture!"
Penelope buries her face in her gloved hands, her shoulders shaking with laughter. "You looked so dignified holding the box! Like a sommelier presenting a fine wine!"
"It was high-end packaging!" Colin defends himself, stepping closer, his own breathless laugh mixing with hers in white clouds. "How was I supposed to know it was for your-" He cuts himself off, his cheeks flushing darker as his eyes drop to her lips.
The laughter dies down between them, replacing the comedy with that same scorching, inescapable heat.
"You really are ridiculous," Pen whispers softly, her eyes searching his.
"Only for you," Colin murmurs, his voice dropping an octave.
He doesn't care that they are on the sidewalk now, he drops the bag into the snow, steps forward, and cups her cold face in his warm hands, crashing his lips onto hers right there under the pink neon light of the storefront.
It is urgent, deep, and breathless with twenty-three years of her quiet devotion and three years of his burning realization colliding at once. Penelope lets out a soft gasp against his mouth, her arms wrapping tight around his neck, pulling him down flush against her chest.
TAP-TAP-TAP!
The shop door swings open with a little brass chime, and the Dutch shopkeeper leans out, clapping her hands with a bright, wicked laugh.
"Bravo! Very romantic!" the woman calls out, waving them off with a cheeky shooing motion. "Now off you go, you two! Move it along, you're blocking my doorway for paying customers!"
A giddy laugh bubbles up from Penelope’s lips as they break apart. Colin grabs the velvet bag from the snow, takes her hand tightly, and pulls her quickly around the corner into the quiet, dark alley beside the shop.
Tucked against the warm brick wall, sheltered from the wind and the street, the world grows silent. The snow falls softly around them under the blue glow of a single streetlamp.
Colin’s hands come up gently, framing her face, his thumb wiping a stray snowflake from her cheek. All the frantic panic from the shop melts away, leaving only unyielding vulnerability in his blue eyes.
"No more running, Pen," Colin whispers softly, his voice steady and low. "I am thirty-three years old, and three years ago, I sat in an airport terminal on my birthday feeling completely empty. Because we were fighting... and yoy were ignoring me... because you weren't there. Because traveling the world means nothing if I can't come home and share it with you."
Penelope’s eyes shine with unshed tears, her hands resting over his heavy, steady heartbeat beneath his coat.
"You're not my little sister. You're not a charity case," Colin murmurs, his lips brushing against her cheekbone. "You are the only woman I have ever truly wanted. I love you, Pen. I’ve loved you for so long."
Penelope lets out a soft, trembling breath, leaning up on her tiptoes. "I've been in love with you since I was eight years old, Colin."
A soft, breathtaking smile breaks across Colin's face, and this time, he leans down and presses a tender, lingering, sweet kiss to her lips, slow and full of quiet devotion.
When he pulls back, his arms wrapped securely around her waist, Penelope glances down at the velvet bag dangling from his fingers, a mischievous, playful smirk touching her lips.
"So," Pen whispers, nudging his chest with her forehead. "Are you actually planning on using those on me later, or not?"
Colin lets out a deep, booming laugh that echoes down the quiet alley, pulling her in even closer. "How about start with dinner, Pen... date me... and then we'll see."