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“Wait, so,” Colin says, words muffled by a mouthful of popcorn, “it’s a show about historical monarchs who gossip and fuck? That’s it?”
Penelope lets out an exaggerated sigh, takes the bowl from his hands, and sets it in her lap.
“No. It’s about high-society London during the Regency era, centered on one family’s journey through scandal and love.”
He flops dramatically onto the sofa, his large frame taking up most of it.
“And this is the show women go crazy for?”
Penelope exhales through her nose, her patience thinning—but fondly.
“Yes, Colin.”
“And it’s not full of sex?”
She tries to fight a smile as the streaming service’s logo flashes onto the screen with a warm tudum, bathing them in red.
Colin watches her face, sees the grin tugging at her lips as she bites the bottom one, trying to suppress it.
“...It’s also full of sex.”
“I knew it!” he crows, shifting to get comfortable. He slings one arm along the back of the couch, just behind her head. She stills, just a second, before easing back into it.
He grabs another handful of popcorn just as she sips her drink and says,
“So it’s basically porn for women.”
Penelope chokes. Coughs, hard.
“What?” she croaks once she can breathe.
Colin shrugs. “That’s why it’s popular. It’s porn.”
Her cheeks flush a soft pink—the kind he’s always liked. Her lips part, struggling for words.
“It’s… no! It’s not—just because—” she stammers, wringing her hands. “It has sex and it’s popular with women, but that doesn’t make it about sex and—and! Porn for women exists, okay? This is just—just fantasy. Romance. It’s—”
Colin bursts out laughing, waving his hand like a white flag.
“Please—” he wheezes, clutching his stomach, “please stop. I’m just fucking with you.”
Penelope’s face burns as she offers a stiff, awkward smile.
“Oh.”
“Yeah, ‘oh’,” he grins. “So, are we starting this thing or what?”
She stares at him like he’s aged her thirty years in thirty minutes. Maybe he has.
She picks up the remote and points it at the screen. The title card appears: Harrington.
Colin sneaks a glance at her profile, the screen’s light flickering across her baby-blue eyes.
“Oh, Pen?”
She sighs, remote hovering. “Yes?”
“What do you know about porn for women?”
“I’m going to kill you. And then myself, probably.”
He laughs and laughs. She presses play.
“Okay, wait,” Colin says later, gesturing toward the screen. “She obviously likes him, right?”
Eyes fixed on the show, Penelope nods.
“Uh-huh.”
“So then explain this to me,” Colin frowns. “Are we really supposed to believe he’s so clueless he doesn’t see it?”
“Yep.”
“He cannot be that oblivious,” Colin mutters, right as one of the Harrington brothers leans in to talk to the shy, adorable girl-next-door.
“I mean, come on. Look at how he’s looking at her.”
Penelope shrugs.
“Sometimes we miss the things right in front of us—things everyone else can see.”
Colin clicks his tongue.
“Not this badly. They’re childhood friends, right? He has to see her pining. Jesus. He’s even flirting back.”
He waves a hand toward the screen, exasperated.
Penelope hums, not really answering.
Colin slumps into the cushions, arms crossed.
“Literally open your eyes,” he mutters. “Like get some vision, bro.”
At some point somewhere between a fancy ball and a long, yearning glance, Colin’s eyelids grow heavy. And somewhere after that, he drifts off.
He doesn’t fall into sleep so much as float—light, languid, as if slipping beneath the surface of warm water.
And then:
It’s bright. Painfully, viscerally bright. The kind that wraps around your eyes before you’ve even opened them. He feels the sun on his face, warm and pressing. Orange and gold flood his vision behind closed lids. The air smells of wet grass and crisp morning, the dew clinging to the scent like parentheses.
He blinks rapidly, trying to reorient himself. The blur of sleep lifts, and the world comes into focus slowly, like steam clearing off glass.
Huh.
Well.
This is weird.
Antique-looking white tents ripple in the breeze. Horse-drawn carriages glide by, wheels crunching on gravel. Men in top hats stroll with parasols tucked under their arms. Women float past in structured gowns that look like tiered wedding cakes. Everyone sparkles, like they’ve stepped off the set of a costume drama.
Okay, then.
If this is a dream, it’s a damn impressive one. And boy, does it go crazy.
Colin turns in a slow circle, taking it all in. A breeze rustles the grass at his ankles. The air is thick with birdsong and polite laughter. Nearby, a pond glitters like a jewel, dotted with rowboats and actual ducks. Ducks waddle brazenly along the edge, quacking like they own the place.
Colin watches the children feeding ducks by a glittering pond. There are so many ducks. Way more than he expected in a dream.
Huh. Fuck this is weird.
He steps closer to the water and catches a flash of his reflection—enough to make him recoil. Cautiously, he leans in again.
Sky-blue coat. Seafoam green waistcoat. A neatly tied… cravat? Necktie? Whatever.
He tilts his head, watching the reflection mimic his baffled expression. “Okay,” he mutters. “Cool. I’m in a BBC miniseries.”
He looks like he belongs in Pride and Prejudice.
Honestly? He’d make a great Mr. Darcy.
He tugs at the cravat—it feels like a silk noose. “How did anyone survive this level of discomfort and emotional repression?”
He’s still fidgeting when he hears it.
“Colin!”
The voice rings out clear, familiar, and strange all at once.
He looks up.
And there she is.
Penelope.
The smile comes instantly, then falters.
It’s her—but not quite. Not the Penelope he fell asleep next to. This version looks like she’s been styled by a whimsical great-grandmother with too much money and no filter. She’s wearing a floral gown in clashing shades of pink lemonade, short yellow gloves, a rose-shaped clutch, and the kind of posture that suggests courtly training since birth.
Her red hair is longer, falling in structured ringlets to her back, catching the sunlight like spun copper. It’s so different from her usual style—shoulder-length, straightened. Her face, without makeup, appears rounder. Softer. Brighter, somehow.
And then it hits him.
This Penelope is younger. The one from before. The version his brain defaults to when he thinks of her, before time and distance got in the way. He hadn’t even noticed the difference until now.
She’s adorable.
And also, a little absurd.
Colin stares. “Why does everyone look like pastries…?”
“How are you enjoying the day?” she asks, her voice light and sweet, like it used to sound when she spoke to him. Childish, girlish.
“I—” he clears his throat. “Good. Swell!”
Fuck. Nailed it.
“You are rather excitable this morning,” Penelope says with a sunny smile, gliding toward him with practiced grace. “What have you been up to?”
“Uh...” Colin scrambles for an answer. “Feeding ducks.”
“Well, I’m sure the ducks are most grateful,” she smiles, fiddling with her glove. Her perfume is a subtle blend of floral and faintly citrusy notes, wafting in the air around them. He can’t place what it is, but it is such a Penelope scent.
He tries to play along. “And what great conversationalists they are.”
She laughs. It’s softer than in real life. Softer than memory. Dream-filtered.
They walk past gazebos with small ensembles, families picnicking on manicured lawns, and a gentleman reading poetry to a swooning young woman. Penelope leads with perfect Regency grace—demure, polite, practiced.
She isn’t playing dress-up here. She belongs to this world.
Colin leans closer. “This dream is fucking crazy, Pen.”
She glances at him, startled. “Pardon?”
“Nothing. Stupid joke.”
She frowns, then smiles again. “You’re in high spirits today.”
“I’m dreaming,” he says, more to himself than her.
“If you are,” she replies gently, “I hope it is a good one.”
They fall into silence, watching boats glide across the pond.
She talks—about the weather, her sister’s engagement, the new Lord Featherington, and Eloise’s latest gossip hunt. But there’s something else. In the way her lashes flutter when she glances at him. The way her fingers twist her little lemon-colored clutch when he smiles too long.
She likes him.
And he somehow hadn’t noticed. Not until now.
His mind flickers, as if nudged by memories.
Penelope at nine, watching him climb a tree, her eyes shining as he gallantly rescues her yellow kite.
Penelope at fifteen, sitting beside him during shitty comedies close but never touching, pretending to enjoy them.
Penelope at twenty, helping him bake a cake for his Mum, brushing flour off his cheek in the kitchen, hands lingering.
All those years. All those blushes.
He thought she was just being Penelope.
But now?
“Colin?” she asks, concerned. “Are you well? You’ve gone quiet.”
He blinks. “Walk with me?”
She nods, and he takes her hand. She stiffens in surprise but follows. They leave the path for a small cluster of trees. The breeze stirs the leaves, dappling her face in gold.
He turns to her. “Penelope... have you—have you had a thing for me? For a while?”
She frowns. “I don’t follow.”
Colin considers his next words carefully. “Do you have feelings for me? Romantic feelings?”
Her eyes widen. Her fingers tighten around her clutch. She opens her mouth, closes it, and looks down at her slippers.
And then, softly: “Indeed, I fear my affections have long outrun my better judgment.”
Colin exhales, wonder and guilt curling in his chest.
“And me?” he asks. Have I been leading you on—err…confusing you?”
She hesitates. “It has not been easy identifying the intentions of your charms.”
Startled by her own words, she adds, “But please don’t think I expect anything in return. I never meant to make you uncomfortable—”
“Pen,” he breathes. A laugh escapes, soft and stunned.
She meets his gaze—brave and exposed, just like the real her. “I have always loved you. Since we were kids. Even when you didn’t see it.”
He swallows hard.
In the real world, he’s never heard it this clearly. She always stopped short, masking it with sarcasm, laughter, or patience.
But here, in his dream, she says it as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
And he feels something shift inside him. The fog of the dream, maybe. Or just the fog of him.
“I was an idiot,” he says, barely above a whisper.
She looks at him, surprised.
“I never saw it,” he goes on. “I mean, I did. But I didn’t see it. You’ve been right there this whole time.”
Silence.
He reaches up and brushes a curl away from her cheek. Her breath catches.
He leans in.
And he kisses her.
Soft. Slow. Like he’s testing a theory he’s suddenly very sure of.
She gasps, startled, but doesn’t pull away.
When he pulls back, he murmurs, “You can kiss me too.”
She blinks.
“A kiss,” he says, “is for two people.”
“What do I do?” she whispers.
“Whatever you want.”
She lifts a shaky hand to his jaw.
And then they kiss again. This time together. This time it’s real.
Until—
“Miss Penelope! Mr. Bridgerton!”
A voice shrieks. Colin jolts.
A scandal.
Women gasp, fans flutter, pearls are clutched. Somewhere, a monocle drops into a teacup. Anthony—dressed like an absolute knob—storms toward them, face red, steam practically rising from his ears.
Penelope looks like she’s about to faint.
Colin just smiles and pulls her close.
“Don’t worry, Pen. It’s you and me. Against the world.”
Her eyes are wide. “We’ve caused quite the scandal.”
“Oh well,” Colin grins. “I’m dreaming, remember?”
She bites her lip. “Do you think you’ll remember this? When you awake?”
He kisses her forehead. “I hope so.”
The world begins to shimmer. Sunlight fades, laughter distorts, the pond ripples with static.
“Colin?” she pleads. “Don’t go.”
“I’ll find you,” he promises. “The real you.”
Her hands reach for him as light overtakes everything.
“Don’t forget me,” she whispers. “Please.”
Time slows.
The dream folds in on itself, golden at the edges, until her face fades to black.
And then—
A breath.
Cold and sharp.
Colin jerks awake.
The screen is glowing faintly. The room is dark, except for the fading credits of Harrington flickering in soft reds and blues. The popcorn bowl is half-empty on the coffee table. His neck aches from sleeping with his head tilted at an odd angle, and one of his legs is completely numb.
He blinks slowly.
Penelope is beside him.
A blanket is draped over him, and Penelope is curled beside him on the couch. Not in lemonade-colored gowns or lace gloves, but in a hoodie and leggings, her legs tucked under her, a blanket over her lap.
She’s scrolling absently on her phone, frowning, lost in thought. She hasn’t noticed he’s awake yet.
He studies her, heart pounding.
The curve of her nose. The way her mouth is slightly parted. The crinkle in her eyes when she laughs. The freckles that dust her cheekbones. The way she always looks at him is like she’s trying not to get caught.
Nothing fantastical. No dream filter.
And yet, somehow, more magical than anything his sleeping mind could conjure.
He shifts. She turns.
“Well, well. Sleeping Beauty wakes.”
“Yeah,” he says, voice hoarse.
“You fell asleep during a major reveal. Rude.”
“I had a weird dream.”
“About Harrington?”
“Kinda.”
She glances at him. “You okay?”
He nods, but doesn’t look away.
Then, softly: “You were in it.”
That catches her off guard. She tilts her head. “Oh?”
“You were in this ridiculous pink lemonade dress. With a rose purse. And ringlets. And ducks. So many ducks.”
Penelope blinks. “Yikes. Sounds like a nightmare.”
“It wasn’t.” He hesitates. “You told me something. In the dream.”
She raises a brow. “What? My deepest darkest secret?”
He doesn’t smile. “You told me you loved me.”
Silence. Thick and complete.
Penelope’s expression shifts, just slightly. “Oh?” she whispers.
He reaches out, fingers brushing her hand where it rests on the blanket. “Was dream-you wrong?”
She freezes. Her cheeks pinken.
He opens his mouth. “Pen, I—”
He stops. Breathes.
“Screw it.”
He leans in.
And kisses her.
For real.
When she kisses him back—hands fisting his hoodie—he knows.
It was always her.
She pulls back just enough to breathe, wide-eyed and stunned.
“What was that?” she asks.
He presses his forehead to hers. “That was me catching up.”
Her breath hitches.
“I saw you,” he says. “In that absurd dress. With all the ducks. So many ducks. Why were there so many ducks—God, I sound insane.”
“A little insane,” she grins. “But the good kind.”
He leans closer.
“I think I’m in love with you too, by the way.”
She inhales sharply. “Are you sure?”
“Very. Yellow dresses and all.”
He pauses. “Though, I have a bone to pick with dream-you.”
“Oh?”
“You let me walk around in seafoam green. I looked ridiculous.”
This time, she does laugh—a real one. “I’m sure you looked very pretty.”
The moment stretches, warm and golden, her eyes taking him in, softer now.
Then she looks at him again and Penelope cups the side of his face.
She rubs her thumb gently against his cheek, and he leans into her touch.
And Penelope kisses him first this time.
Not like a dream.
Real. Clumsy. Theirs.
When they finally part, Colin murmurs, “Does this mean we have to rewatch the episode I missed?”
She smirks. “Yes. And every episode after that.”
He grins. “Still think this show’s porn for women.”
“You’re such a dork, Colin Bridgerton.”
“Yeah, but you like me.”
“No,” she whispers, brushing her lips to his. “I love you.”
He pulls her closer.
They don’t catch much of the rewatch—the first or second time.
Looks like the Harringtons aren’t the only ones tangled in love, sex, and scandal.