Chapter Text
Colin Bridgerton stepped off the car and onto the familiar cobbled streets of Mayfair, inhaling the crisp London air. He should have felt relief—after years of wandering, years of endless travel, years of waking up in different cities with new adventures ahead, he was finally home.
But he felt… unmoored.
The sight of Bridgerton House before him should have settled something inside him, but instead, it only reminded him of how much time had passed. Nothing had changed—not the polished brass knocker, not the ivy creeping up the side of the house, not the faint hum of laughter and voices spilling from inside. But he had.
The door swung open before he could reach for it.
“Colin!” His mother, Violet wrapped him in a warm embrace before he could even respond. “You’re thinner,” she tutted, pulling back just enough to inspect him, then hugging him again for good measure. “Why are you thinner? Are you eating properly?”
He huffed a laugh. “I eat three times a day, Mother.”
“Debatable,” Benedict quipped, appearing behind her with his signature lazy smirk.
“You do look a bit… windblown,” Eloise added, eyeing him critically.
"I like your mullet, brother." Hyacinth teased. "Is that how men of your age sport wavy locks these days?"
"Hy, it suits him." Francesca added.
"Why thank you for the compliment." Colin answered. "If it was meant to be one."
Anthony appeared last, standing at the threshold like some looming sentinel. “About time you returned,” he said.
"Where's Gregory?" Colin asked, as if counting his siblings faces.
"Spending the summer with Daphne and Simon." Violet explained. "They'll be back soon."
Colin took in their familiar faces—their warmth, their teasing, their absolute certainty in themselves and their places in this family. Everyone in his family belonged.
And what about him?
The Bridgertons gathered for breakfast, their usual lively conversations filling the grand dining hall.
Colin listened as his siblings shared their lives—Anthony discussing estate matters, Benedict grumbling about some pretentious art critic, Eloise passionately arguing about the latest social injustices, Francesca highly doubting her piano skills as she tried on a much difficult piece, and Hyacinth hushing impatiently to merely say that she was bored of waiting for her turn to visit Daphne and Simon at the countryside.
He ate quietly, Olivia, his girlfriend seated beside him. She was as elegant as ever, her golden hair pinned in an intricate twist, her gown highlighting her sharp, intelligent features.
“You’re quiet,” she observed, nudging her foot against his under the table.
“Am I?”
She arched a brow. “You tell me.”
Colin sighed, setting down his fork. “I suppose I’m just… adjusting.”
“To being home?”
To being back but still feeling like he was watching his life from the outside.
“To being still,” he answered instead.
Her lips curved slightly, though there was something wary in her gaze. “How long before you leave again?”
The question hit like a stone in his chest.
“I—”
“Okay, maybe don't answer that. You’ve been back for merely hours,” she interrupted gently, searching his face. “But it’s like you’re already planning your next trip.”
Colin had no answer.
Because she was right.
On the other side of Mayfair, in a house significantly less orderly than Bridgerton House, chaos reigned supreme.
“Elliott, honey, your shoes,” Penelope called, already kneeling in front of her son, her hands hovering over his tiny feet.
Her five-year-old sat cross-legged on the floor, grinning up at her. “They are on, Mum!” he pointed out cheerfully.
“Yes, but they’re on the wrong feet.”
His eyes widened as he examined them, wiggling his toes dramatically. “Oh noooo, I can't feel my toes! I can't feel my toes!” he gasped.
Penelope bit back a smile. “Here, let’s fix them.”
Elliott sighed like she was asking him to do something monumentally exhausting but reluctantly held out his feet. She switched the shoes, tying the laces carefully, and before she could finish, he flung his arms around her neck. “You're my favorite person,” he declared, smushing his nose against hers.
Her heart melted, like it always did. “I know.”
“Mum, when you come home tonight, I want a bedtime story.” Elliott announced as he pulled away.
“You always have a bedtime story.”
“Yes, but I want one that’s at least a hundred pages long.”
Penelope groaned. “Elliott, that’s not a bedtime story—that’s a novel.”
He blinked innocently. “Then you better head home early from the office.”
Before she could argue further, Portia Featherington swooped in, wrapping her arms around her grandson. “Oh, let him have his story, Pen. He’s got such an inquisitive little mind!”
“Mother, I—”
“And why are you arguing with him about shoes?” Portia continued. “Let him wear them however he likes. He’s expressing himself!”
“He’s expressing himself straight into a broken ankle,” Penelope muttered.
Philippa, who had been powdering her nose at the breakfast table because why wouldn’t she, smirked. “You’ve created a tiny tyrant, Pen.”
"What is a tyrant?" Elliott asked.
Penelope shot a look at her sister, as if to let her deal with such questions.
Elliott beamed. “Does that mean I get biscuits before breakfast?”
“No,” Penelope said firmly.
“Yes,” Portia said at the same time.
“Mother!”
“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” Portia scoffed. “One little biscuit never hurt anyone.”
“That’s what you said last time, and then he ate five.”
“A growing boy needs nourishment.”
“Biscuits are my favorite!” Elliott declared, throwing his arms in the air. "Can I play in the swings later?"
“I shall take Elli to the park today,” Prudence announced, fanning herself dramatically.
“No, I shall,” Philippa countered.
Elliott, delighted by the competition for his favor, beamed at his aunts. “We can all go! And then we can have biscuits.”
Penelope groaned. “Absolutely not—”
“Absolutely yes,” Portia said cheerfully, already reaching for the biscuit tin.
Elliott cheered. "I love you, grandmum. You're the best one in the world." He gave a cheeky little grin and turned to his aunties. "I love you, Auntie Pru and Auntie Pipa."
"We love you, too, Elliott." The three Featherington ladies spoke together. Penelope sighed, rubbing her temples as her son basked in the adoration of his grandmother and aunts. It was impossible to discipline him when he had the entire household wrapped around his little finger.
He was thoroughly spoiled and she wouldn’t change a thing. Because Elliott was her entire world.
She didn’t need anything else. At least, that’s what she told herself.
Colin sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the unopened trunks and suitcases scattered across his bedroom. He should unpack. He should settle in, fold his clothes into the drawers, hang his coats in the wardrobe, place his books on the shelves. That’s what people did when they came home for some time.
But he didn’t move.
Because that would mean staying. And Colin wasn’t sure he knew how to do that anymore.
Instead, he reached for one of the trunks, flicking open the clasps just enough to retrieve a fresh shirt. That was all he needed, wasn’t it? Just the necessities. He’d been living out of suitcases for years—what difference did it make now?
A sharp knock interrupted his thoughts, followed by the creak of his door swinging open. “Unpacking already?” Benedict asked, strolling in without invitation.
“Barely,” Anthony added, stepping in after him. His sharp gaze flicked to the unopened suitcases. “Or rather, not at all.”
Colin sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ll get to it.”
Benedict plopped onto the bed. “Or, hear me out—you can let your wonderful brothers help.”
“Since when have you two ever volunteered to unpack?”
Anthony crossed his arms. “Since we saw you just staring at your trunks like they personally offended you.”
Colin shot him a dry look. “They might have.”
Benedict grinned. “What did they do? Betray you in a past life?”
Colin huffed a laugh but didn’t answer. Instead, he leaned back against the headboard, arms folded.
Anthony, perceptive as ever, studied him for a moment before speaking. “Colin, if you need space, just say so. But if you need help—”
“I don’t.” The words came out sharper than he intended.
His brothers exchanged a look.
Colin sighed. “I mean… I don’t need closet space. I’m used to keeping things packed.”
Benedict frowned. “You have an entire room, Col.”
“Yes, Ben, I’m aware.”
“So use it.”
Colin exhaled, frustrated. “It’s not that simple.”
Another knock sounded before he could finish. Eloise and Hyacinth poked their heads in, eyes scanning the room before landing on Colin. “Ah, so you are alive. I was beginning to think you were a ghost.” Eloise commented.
Colin managed a smirk. “Happy to disappoint.”
Hyacinth stepped inside, arms crossed. “Officially, welcome back.”
“Officially accepted.”
Eloise's gaze flicked to the suitcases, then to her brothers, reading the room instantly. “Right, so are we helping him unpack, or are we just standing here in emotional turmoil?”
Colin groaned. “We’re not unpacking.”
“Ah.” She raised a brow. “So, emotional turmoil, then.”
Before he could retort, Hyacinth added, “By the way, Olivia left pretty quickly. Thought she’d want to stick around.”
Colin forced a casual shrug. “She was just tired.”
Eloise tilted her head. “Right.”
His siblings were quiet for a beat too long.
They were expecting something. Maybe a smile, a sigh of relief, some sign of happiness at finally being reunited with Olivia after two years apart. Instead, Colin looked away.
The silence stretched.
Benedict was the first to break it. “You two okay?”
Colin’s jaw tensed. “We’re fine.”
Anthony studied him, expression unreadable. Eloise, never one to tiptoe around anything, simply said, “You don’t look fine.”
Colin sighed, standing abruptly. “Can we not do this right now?”
“Colin—”
“I’m exhausted,” he interrupted, running a hand through his hair. “Jetlag is killing me. I need sleep.”
His siblings didn’t look convinced, but they relented. Anthony gave a short nod. “Fine. Get some rest.”
Benedict patted Colin’s shoulder before following him to the door. “Sleep well, world traveler.”
Eloise lingered, studying him one last time. Then she sighed, giving his arm a light squeeze. “Goodnight, Col.”
Hyacinth tucked in one of the sleeves from Colin's trunk. "If you're done resting, just holler."
He nodded, waiting until they left before exhaling deeply. Then, he turned to his suitcases.
Still untouched. Still packed. Still ready to leave.
Just like him.
Later that evening, as Eloise was halfway up the steps to Bridgerton House, she caught sight of a familiar figure pulling into the drive across the street.
Penelope Featherington.
She hadn’t seen her up close in years, though their paths inevitably crossed. London was vast, but their circles had always orbited near one another—just never quite colliding anymore. Penelope stepped out of her car, adjusting the shawl draped over her shoulders. The streetlamp’s glow caught the tired set of her face, the way her lips pressed together as if bracing for something. Eloise hesitated. For a second—just a second—there was an impulse to call out. A moment where she almost filled the silence with something, anything, to bridge the aching chasm between what they used to be and what they were now. Instead, she gave a small nod. Penelope’s gaze flicked to her. A beat passed. No warmth, no hesitation. Just acknowledgment. A nod in return. Then she turned away, shutting the car door behind her.
The moment should have ended there. But then, as if on cue, a small blur of movement shot out from the Featherington house. A little boy—no older than five—bolted down the steps, feet thudding against the pavement as he launched himself into Penelope’s legs with unbridled enthusiasm.
Penelope stumbled back a step, a startled laugh escaping her lips as she steadied herself. "Elliott, careful!"
Eloise stilled. She had seen this before. This exact moment. Three times now. Penelope. With a child. She had spotted them in Hyde Park once, the little boy zooming ahead of Penelope on unsteady legs, his bright laughter carried by the breeze. Another time, outside a bookshop, where he had tugged impatiently on her hand, hilariously pleading for eclairs. And now—right here, in front of her.
Eloise squinted. If only she had binoculars. Then maybe she could make sense of it. Because something was gnawing at her, something oddly familiar about the boy. It wasn’t just the way he clung to Penelope with complete trust. It was something about his face. She frowned, studying him more closely. His features weren’t entirely Featherington. There was a shape to his jawline, a slant to his smile… a twinkle in his eyes that tugged at her memory. She knew that face. She was sure of it. And yet, she was just as certain she had never seen this boy in Bridgerton House. Had she? A strange unease settled in her chest.
Across the street, Penelope crouched, brushing a strand of hair from Elliott’s forehead. He spoke, his little hands moving in wild gestures as he animatedly recounted his day. Penelope listened, rapt, like there was no world beyond him. Eloise knew that kind of love. She had seen it before—on her mother’s face, on Daphne’s, on Kate’s, on Sophie’s. So why did it feel so strange to see it on Penelope’s?
She exhaled sharply, arms folding across her chest as she leaned against the doorway, watching. She tried to remember why the Bridgertons and Featheringtons had stopped speaking, why their families had become so estranged. Nothing came to mind. Only that there had been a major falling out between Violet Bridgerton and Portia Featherington years ago. A gradual unraveling, until polite smiles turned to cold avoidance, and avoidance turned into an unspoken rule—Bridgertons and Featheringtons no longer mixed. And somehow, in the mess of it, Eloise and Penelope had unraveled, too. Strangers with memories. Eloise sighed, pushing off the doorframe. She had meant to ask her mother for a real explanation. But whenever she tried, she was met with vague dismissals. It’s better this way. Was it?
Across the street, Penelope scooped Elliott up, carrying him inside as he chattered on. The door closed behind them, locking away whatever conversation, whatever life, existed beyond its threshold.
Eloise lingered for a moment longer, staring at the empty steps. Why did it feel like she was missing something important? Something big?