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Chapter Text

Italy is hot.

The kind of heat that makes tempers short, shirts shorter, and sunscreen absolutely essential.

The Bridgertons are on their annual one-month vacation—Anthony finally takes a break from running Bridgerton Enterprises and forces the entire family to retreat to their villa in Italy. The goal? Sun, rest, good food, and familial bonding. The result? Mostly sunburns and arguments. But they try. Emphasis on try.

Penelope Featherington, as always, is invited. And as always, she almost didn’t come.

She usually only stays a few days—just enough time to enjoy the chaos and charm of the Bridgertons before making up an excuse to leave. Her mother needs her. Prudence needs babysitting. She doesn’t want to overstay her welcome, doesn’t want to feel like a guest in a family that’s never treated her like one. Not that Anthony cares. She’s an honorary Bridgerton by now, woven into their tapestry with the same stubborn thread.

So here she is.

Basking in the sun with a thick layer of SPF 1000 (Colin’s words, not hers), a book in hand, her large sunglasses shielding her eyes, and her curls thrown into a lazy, half-assed bun. She’s wearing a modest one-piece and a gauzy wrap tied at her waist. Nothing fancy, but it feels right—simple, comfortable, her.

She tries to focus on her book—really tries—but her eyes keep drifting. First to the sky, then to the blinding sun, and then, inevitably, to him.

Benedict Bridgerton.

He’s under the shade of a cypress tree across the pool, lounging like he belongs in a Renaissance painting, sketchbook balanced on his lap. He thinks the shadows make him subtle. They don’t.

“You know he’s not so discreet,” Penelope says dryly, not looking away.

Eloise, sprawled beside her with bikini straps untied and limbs akimbo, hums in response. “Leave him be. He’s probably trying to… what does he call it? ‘Capture the moment’?” She makes air quotes with a smirk.

“More like stalk the moment,” Penelope mutters.

***

Benedict should be painting. That’s what this trip was meant for—recharging, relaxing, reconnecting with his art. But he’s been here a week and hasn’t painted a damn thing worth keeping.

Sketches litter the floor of his room. Half-hearted outlines, soulless compositions. He’s tried landscapes. Architecture. A tragic portrait of Colin, mid-yawn, that Eloise now uses as a coaster.

Nothing sticks.

And then Penelope showed up.

She arrived like a sigh of relief—unexpected, familiar, and somehow entirely new. He doesn’t know what’s changed exactly. Maybe it’s the way the sun catches in her hair, or the way she hums when she reads, or how she always seems halfway between laughing and challenging someone. He can’t pin it down. Which is probably why he can’t draw her properly either.

Every time he tries, the lines go wrong. Too harsh. Too soft. Too not her.

But he keeps trying. Watching. Sketching. Failing.

Until—

“Do you ever blink?” Penelope calls out across the pool, lowering her book. Her lips are curved in a half-smile, more amused than annoyed.

He startles slightly, caught in the act. “Just studying light and shadow,” he replies, quickly snapping the sketchbook shut like a teenager hiding a diary.

Eloise snorts. “You’d think you were sculpting the Venus de Milo, not creepily sketching Penelope in a swimsuit.”

Penelope sits up straighter now, eyeing him over the tops of her sunglasses. “You’re drawing me?”

“I—uh.” He rubs the back of his neck, laughing awkwardly. “Not intentionally.”

She lifts a brow. “Is that a compliment or a crime?”

He walks toward her slowly, the sketchbook tucked behind his back like contraband. “Depends. If it’s a good drawing, it’s a compliment. If it’s bad, I’d rather you not sue me.”

“Oh, I’d only sue for emotional distress.”

They’re teasing, like they always do. But something feels different. He can sense it in the way she’s looking at him now—not just amused, not quite guarded. Curious. Unspoken things balancing in the air between them.

“You’ve never drawn me before,” she says, quieter now.

“I guess,” he starts, then hesitates. “I guess I never saw you like this before.”

“Like what?”

He hesitates again. The world slows. The heat, the scent of lemons and chlorine, the distant clatter of cutlery from the kitchen.

“Like someone I want to get right.”

Chapter Text

The heat swirled around them, thick with the scent of lemons and chlorine. Time folded inward—the cicadas shrilling somewhere in the olive trees, the sun casting slanted shadows across the tiled patio. Penelope could feel the weight of Benedict’s gaze, more focused than the sun above them.

He hesitated again, pencil hovering just slightly above the page.

“Like someone I want to get right.”

The words slipped out of him like a confession, raw and unpolished. Penelope blinked, lowering her sunglasses just enough to meet his eyes. There was nothing flirtatious there. No sly grin. No teasing glint. Just honesty. Startling, quiet honesty.

“You’ve never said that before,” she said, her voice softer than she intended.

Benedict’s mouth tugged to the side, his brows drawn together like he was figuring out his own feelings as he said them aloud. “I didn’t know I felt it until today.”

A pause.

“Maybe you’re just afraid of messing it up,” she offered, trying to keep her tone light.

“Maybe,” he admitted, gaze still steady on her. “But some things are worth the risk.”

And there it was again—that shift in the air. A thread pulled taut between them, humming with something unspoken. Possibility. Penelope turned away first, adjusting her wrap even though it didn’t need fixing.

“You’re not as discreet as you think,” she murmured to Eloise, who was lounging beside her, nose buried in a half-wet paperback.

“I told him he looks like a haunted poet,” Eloise said without looking up. “He insists it’s ‘artistic observation.’ Personally, I think he just likes staring at you.”

Penelope flushed and stood, brushing her hands off on the edge of her sarong. “I need a drink before your brother starts sketching my soul.”

Dinner at the villa was as chaotic as ever. The long wooden table beneath the pergola sagged with food and family bickering. Grape vines twisted overhead, lanterns flickering as the sun dipped behind the hills. Laughter echoed off the stone walls, wine glasses clinked, and someone—probably Colin—was singing off-key in the kitchen.

Anthony stood at the head of the table, glass raised like a Roman emperor. “To family,” he declared, “and the rare miracle of a month without board meetings, spreadsheets, or shareholders breathing down my neck.”

“To miracles,” echoed Francesca, lifting her glass with a wry smile.

“Speak for yourself,” Colin grumbled, reaching for the bread basket. “Some of us like Wi-Fi.”

“You’ve checked your phone every ten minutes,” Eloise said, snatching a piece of bread from under his hand. “It’s called a digital detox, Colin. We’re embracing stillness.”

“You’re embracing gossip podcasts and pretending it's meditation.”

“That’s research,” she shot back.

Penelope sat nestled between Eloise and Francesca, letting the rhythm of the chaos wash over her like a favorite song. The conversation spiraled effortlessly—from weather to weddings to Colin’s unfortunate tan lines, which he insisted were intentional.

“I was going for golden,” Colin said, indignant. “It’s a sunkissed glow.”

“You look like a poorly basted turkey,” Benedict offered from across the table, not looking up from the olives he was skewering.

“You’re just jealous because your art hasn’t been kissed by the sun,” Colin retorted.

Benedict glanced up at that—just briefly—and across the table, his gaze landed on Penelope. It wasn’t a challenge, or a quip. It was quiet. Steady.

She looked down at her plate.

Francesca leaned in to whisper to Penelope, voice conspiratorial. “That was the fifth time he’s looked at you.”

“It wasn’t,” Penelope muttered, stabbing a tomato.

“It was,” Eloise chimed in, not even bothering to lower her voice. “He’s been staring at you like you’re a still life he wants to emotionally unpack.”

“Can we not do this at the dinner table?” Penelope asked, face burning.

Anthony looked up from pouring wine. “Do what at the dinner table?”

“Talk about feelings,” Eloise said immediately. “Or whatever we think Benedict’s been doing with his eyes.”

Anthony looked over at his brother, narrowed his eyes suspiciously, then returned to topping up Violet’s glass like the conversation had never happened.

After dessert—lemon sorbet and espresso, naturally—the family began to drift. Francesca disappeared to take a call with Michael, Colin launched into a heated debate with Gregory about the best gelato in Rome, and Eloise wandered off with her e-reader muttering something about men and mediocre plotlines.

Penelope lingered at the table, trying to decide if she should stay or make up an excuse to slip away.

That’s when Benedict appeared beside her, a bit awkwardly, one hand nervously brushing over the back of his neck.

“Would you…” he began, then paused. “I mean—only if you’re free tonight, of course. But would you be willing to sit for me?”

She blinked. “Sit for you?”

“To sketch,” he clarified quickly. “I’ve been trying to work on something, and I think—I think you’d help me find it.”

Penelope stared at him for a moment. The sounds of the villa faded—the dishes clinking, the laughter, even Colin’s ranting about pistachio flavors. It all blurred into something quiet and golden.

He hesitated again. The world slowed. The scent of lemons and salt hung in the dusk. The clink of glass faded.

“Like someone I want to get right.”

She swallowed. “Okay.”

And somehow, it felt like something had just shifted. Not loud. Not obvious. But deeply, undeniably meaningful.

Later, the garden was hushed, dipped in that gentle blue that comes just after sundown. Lanterns flickered along the stone path, casting golden halos across the flagstones. Penelope sat beneath the olive tree, a breeze lifting the edge of her shawl. Her curls, still damp from the pool, stuck to the back of her neck.

Benedict stood in front of her, adjusting his easel like it was a shield.

“You don’t have to pose like a marble statue,” he said softly, pencil in hand. “Just… be yourself.”

“I am being myself,” she said, back straighter than necessary. “This is what I look like when I’m deeply uncomfortable.”

He smiled. “You’ll relax.”

“No promises.”

He didn’t push. He simply began, the pencil gliding in soft arcs across the page. The silence between them felt intentional. Safe. Not strained, but thoughtful—like something was being built between the pauses.

“You’ve been drawing me for days,” she said eventually. “Why now?”

He didn’t answer right away. His brow furrowed, eyes flicking between her and the paper.

“Because it finally feels like I’m seeing you.”

That knocked something loose in her chest. She looked down, unsure what to do with her hands.

“Is it always this hard?” she asked.

“Drawing?”

She nodded.

He considered that. “It’s hard when you care. Anyone can sketch a face. But if you want to capture something real... that’s different.”

She let the silence stretch for a moment before speaking again.

“Maybe that’s why you want to get me right.”

Benedict looked up. His voice was softer than it had been all night.

“Exactly.”

She held his gaze, heart pounding so loudly she was sure he could hear it. She didn’t know what she was asking with her eyes, but he seemed to understand anyway.

“I hope I’m worth the effort,” she said.

“You are,” he said—no hesitation. “You always have been.”

The cicadas sang louder. The breeze curled around them like a sigh. And Penelope, sitting still for once in her life, realized that maybe she wasn’t just someone to observe. Maybe, for Benedict, she had always been the inspiration he’d been too blind to see.

Chapter Text

The night settled over the villa like a silk sheet—quiet, warm, and softly shimmering. The lanterns lining the garden path cast golden circles of light that pulsed gently in the breeze, illuminating the stone tiles and olive trees with a painter’s care.

Penelope sat still beneath one of the trees, arms crossed lightly, her wrap falling in soft folds around her legs. She wasn’t used to being this still, not like this. She’d always fidgeted—adjusting a sleeve, curling a finger, tugging at the corner of a book page. But now she sat perfectly, almost reverently, trying to stay as she was because Benedict had asked her to.

He stood at his easel, back slightly hunched, brow furrowed as he worked. The silence between them had stretched thin, but not uncomfortable. Intentional. A shared hush.

“You don’t talk when you draw,” she said eventually, voice hushed, like she might startle the moment.

Benedict didn’t look up. “If I talk, I lose the shape of it.”

Penelope smiled faintly. “What shape am I?”

He paused for just a second too long. “Not simple.”

That made her laugh, a quiet sound that seemed to ripple out through the garden. “I could’ve told you that.”

He smiled too, briefly. Then the pencil resumed its path across the page.

She shifted slightly, just enough to stretch her spine, then stilled again. Her voice came softer now. “What made you want to draw me tonight?”

A pause.

“Because I couldn’t get the image out of my head,” he said. "You, earlier—under the sun, reading like the world didn’t need to move any faster than you wanted it to."

“That’s poetic.”

“It’s true.”

The breeze lifted a strand of her hair. She didn’t brush it away.

“What if I move?” she asked.

“Then I adjust.”

“And if you can’t get it right?”

He met her eyes, finally. “Then I keep trying.”

She looked away quickly, heart fluttering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She wasn’t sure what unnerved her more—that he was looking at her like that, or that part of her wanted him to keep looking.

Minutes passed. Maybe longer. The quiet was filled only by the chirping of crickets and the soft scratch of pencil on paper.

She broke the silence again. “How do you know when it’s done?”

Benedict looked at her—really looked. “When it feels like you.”

Penelope inhaled slowly, as if trying not to break. Her hands itched to move, to adjust something, to shield herself from his gaze. But she didn’t.

Eventually, he stepped back.

He looked down at the sketch. Then at her. Then closed the pad.

She blinked. “You’re not going to show me?”

“Not yet.”

“Why?”

He hesitated. “Because it’s not finished.”

She narrowed her eyes slightly. “You said it felt like me.”

“It does,” he said. “But I’m still figuring out how to hold that on a page.”

Penelope stood, brushing her hands off on her wrap, unsure what to do with the sudden tightness in her chest.

She didn’t press. Didn’t ask. Just nodded.

“Good night, Benedict.”

He watched her go, sketchpad still in hand.

“Good night, Penelope.”

And the garden was quiet again, except for the faint echo of pencil lines unfinished.

---

The next morning arrived soft and golden, sunlight dripping through the open windows like syrup. Penelope stirred beneath light linen sheets, blinking slowly at the pattern of shadows dancing across her ceiling. For a moment, she lay still, savoring the silence before the household began to buzz with Bridgerton chaos.

But her mind, traitorous and persistent, wandered back to last night. The feel of Benedict’s gaze, the tension in his jaw, the way he said: *"When it feels like you."*

She pressed a palm to her chest, then sat up abruptly, as if movement might shake the thought loose.

Downstairs, the kitchen was already full of life. Colin was burning toast. Anthony was arguing with someone on speakerphone. Violet sat calmly reading the newspaper as if none of it concerned her.

Penelope poured herself a coffee and was halfway through a sip when she heard him. Benedict’s voice—low, quiet, in conversation with Eloise by the veranda.

She didn’t mean to listen. She didn’t even catch what he said.

But when she stepped out into the morning sun and he turned to look at her, everything else fell away.

He smiled—not the distracted, boyish grin she knew—but something softer. Focused. Like she was a secret he was learning how to keep.

She felt that flutter again. And this time, she didn’t look away.

“Good morning!” Colin called out, startling them both. He was waving a wooden spoon like a flag of surrender. “We have pancakes! Sort of. They’re... structurally unstable, but edible!”

“You’re not supposed to flip them like a gymnast,” Eloise said, emerging from the fridge with a jar of jam. “They’re not auditioning for the Olympics.”

“I was testing the limits of physics,” Colin replied. “And butter.”

Anthony passed through next, muttering into his phone. “Yes, Giuseppe, I said no meetings for the rest of the month. The entire—no, *the entire* board agreed—yes, including Lord Hawkins—no, I don’t care what—”

Penelope laughed, the sound escaping before she could think twice about it. Benedict watched her with something unreadable flickering in his expression—something warm, something wondering.

“Do you want some?” he asked, gesturing toward the chaos inside.

She hesitated only for a moment. “Only if I don’t have to try Colin’s.”

“Deal.”

And just like that, they stepped inside—into the noise, into the warmth, into something beginning to feel like more than just a sketch.

Chapter Text

Breakfast at the villa was a loud, slightly burnt affair. The long kitchen table was covered in mismatched plates, crumbs, half-peeled fruit, and at least three different arguments.

“Colin, those aren’t pancakes, they’re edible regrets,” Eloise said, staring at the floppy, misshapen pile on a plate in front of her.

“They’re rustic,” he shot back.

Anthony ignored them both, scrolling through emails on his phone while drinking espresso like it was life support. Violet looked serene, as always, calmly slicing a pear like she hadn’t just witnessed Colin attempt to flambé batter.

Penelope slipped into her usual seat beside Francesca, who was already halfway through her second coffee. Michael leaned over and quietly passed her the sugar with a wink, as if to say brace yourself .

Kate, seated across the table with Anthony, arched a brow in amusement. "Are these the infamous Colin cakes?"

"Infamous, yes," Gregory muttered. "And possibly actionable."

The sunlight spilled in through the open windows, warm and lazy. It should’ve felt peaceful. It almost did.

Until Francesca, casually spooning jam onto toast, said, “Remember when you used to be in love with Colin?”

Penelope choked on her orange juice.

“I was not in love with Colin,” she wheezed.

“Oh, come on,” Eloise said with a grin. “You absolutely were. You had that notebook. With the hearts.”

“That was over a decade ago,” Penelope groaned, covering her face.

“Doesn’t make it any less real,” Francesca added, entirely too amused. “You practically swooned every time he walked into a room.”

“I was fifteen. I swooned when tea steeped properly.”

Colin, for his part, looked vaguely confused. “Wait, what notebook?”

“Nothing,” Penelope said quickly. “There was no notebook. There was never a notebook.”

Benedict hadn’t said a word.

He sat across from her, motionless, toast untouched. His eyes flicked between her and his plate, as if trying to keep them from settling anywhere too long. She glanced at him once. He looked away.

The teasing passed, eventually replaced by an argument over who finished the last of the honey and whether or not Gregory had hidden the good jam again. But something in the air had shifted—something Benedict couldn’t name.

Kate, watching it unfold, gently nudged Anthony’s arm. “You see that?”

Anthony didn’t even look up. “If you mean Benedict getting all moony-eyed and not realizing it yet, then yes. I’m choosing not to intervene.”

Michael, sipping his coffee, murmured, “He doesn’t even know he’s the one being painted. That’s the fascinating part.”

Later that afternoon, Penelope and Eloise went into town to restock the kitchen. They returned with bags of fresh fruit, pastries, and two bottles of wine from a charming vendor Eloise claimed was either flirting with her or upselling her.

Benedict watched them from the villa steps, sketchpad closed, pencil forgotten in his hand. He saw the way Penelope laughed—head tilted back, eyes crinkled, absolutely unguarded.

She was glowing in the Italian sun, cotton dress swaying, curls catching the breeze. And something twisted in his chest before he could name it.

She could have had anyone.

She still could.

He didn't know what that meant, not really. Only that the thought of being the one she looked at like that—like he mattered—made something inside him tighten and retreat all at once.

He didn’t sketch that night.

Instead, he wandered down to the terrace after dinner, finding quiet in the glow of the lanterns. The sounds of the family drifted behind him—Colin and Gregory still arguing about gelato rankings, Eloise reading aloud from something she insisted was literature.

Benedict sat with his sketchbook open on the table in front of him. Penelope’s face stared back at him in pencil, unfinished. As always.

He traced the lines of her mouth, then stopped. Something wasn’t right.

He turned the page.

Tried again.

Didn’t finish that one either.

Colin passed by at some point, a spoon of gelato in hand. He paused, peering at the open page.

“You really can’t stop drawing her,” he said casually, licking pistachio from the edge.

Benedict didn’t answer. He didn’t look up.

Colin left. The gelato melted.

Michael, passing by moments later, paused just long enough to say quietly, “Francesca never looked at me the way she does now until I let myself be honest. Took me years longer than it should have.”

He didn’t wait for a reply.

Benedict stared at the blank page and thought: What if she sees something in me I’ll never live up to?

Somewhere across the villa, Penelope sat curled up with a book she wasn’t reading. Her thumb rested between two pages. Her eyes drifted toward the terrace.

She didn’t know why. Only that she suddenly wanted to be there.

With him.

But she stayed where she was, staring into the dusk, wondering what he was thinking.

And on the terrace, Benedict lifted his pencil, then lowered it again.

He still didn’t draw.

But he thought about her.

And she smiled to herself without knowing why.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Penelope woke to the sound of birds and Benedict’s laugh.

It came from the garden—light, unguarded, real. She stood barefoot at the window, watching him toss a ball back and forth with Gregory and Hyacinth like they were ten years old again. Sunlight caught in his hair. His sketchbook was nowhere in sight.

She hated how warm that laugh made her feel.

She closed the curtain.

They didn’t speak until midafternoon.

It wasn’t intentional. The villa simply moved around them. Family pulled them in different directions. Anthony wrangled Michael into a strategy call. Kate and Violet escaped to town for a spa day. Eloise dragged Penelope into helping reorganize the library after declaring the current system “an abomination of logic.”

Penelope didn’t mind the quiet. But it lingered.

When she finally saw Benedict again, it was just past golden hour. He was sitting on the back steps with a pencil between his fingers and a half-filled page in his lap.

“Still can’t get it right?” she asked, surprising herself.

He looked up, startled. Then he smiled—small and sheepish. “No. You’d think after five attempts I’d at least manage the eyes.”

Penelope hesitated, then sat beside him. Close, but not touching. The space between them felt electric.

“Maybe you’re trying too hard.”

“Maybe.” He tapped the pencil once against the page. “Or maybe I’m not trying hard enough in the right way.”

She looked at the sketch. It was good. Beautiful, even. But something about it felt... cautious.

“I don’t think you’re afraid of getting me wrong,” she said quietly. “I think you’re afraid of what happens when you get me right.”

He stilled.

The pencil stopped.

The sun dipped lower behind the cypress trees. Shadows stretched long across the villa walls.

Penelope stood before he could say anything. “Dinner’s soon. I think Colin’s grilling. Which means we should probably hide.”

He let out a short laugh. “Fair point.”

She stepped away. But not far. And not fast.

Dinner was loud, as always. Smoke from the grill drifted over the patio. Francesca played DJ with a Bluetooth speaker. Colin nearly set a towel on fire trying to flambé peaches. Anthony banned him from open flames for the remainder of the trip.

Benedict didn’t sit near Penelope that night. But he watched her when she wasn’t looking.

And later, in his room, he stared at the latest sketch—still unfinished.

He turned to a blank page.

And started again.

Penelope couldn’t sleep.

The villa had gone still, save for the hum of crickets and the occasional creak of old wood settling into the night. She lay in bed, blanket twisted around her ankles, book facedown on her chest. She hadn’t turned a page in over an hour.

Her thoughts were annoyingly persistent. And they all circled back to one man.

She turned onto her side and stared at the ceiling.

He looked at me differently today.

Not just with intensity. Benedict always looked like he was thinking ten things at once. But this—this was something new. Like he was waiting for her to say something he didn’t have the words for yet.

And she... she didn’t know how to give him that answer. Not when she didn’t know the question.

She thought about the sketches. The way he closed them too quickly. The way he never let her see.

She wondered if he ever would.

Eventually, she got up. Padded across the cool tile floor. Opened her window and leaned on the sill, breathing in the scent of rosemary and lemon drifting up from the garden below.

The moon hung low and pale. Somewhere, a door creaked gently shut. A light flicked off.

And she whispered into the stillness, barely loud enough for herself to hear:

"Why does it feel like he’s already drawing something I haven’t said yet?"

The breeze didn’t answer. But she stayed by the window a while longer, hoping for something—anything—that might explain the quiet ache in her chest.

She didn’t sleep much that night.

And neither did he.

The next morning, Penelope lingered in the kitchen longer than usual. The villa was already in motion—Kate and Violet chatting by the herb garden, Anthony on another call, Hyacinth trying to convince Michael to play her in chess and accusing him of tactical cowardice when he refused.

Benedict was nowhere in sight.

Which was fine. It was. She didn’t need to see him. She just...

Eloise entered mid-thought and flopped dramatically into the chair across from her. "You’re doing that thing."

Penelope blinked. "What thing?"

"Staring into the void like it owes you answers."

She huffed a laugh. "Maybe it does."

Eloise studied her with unusual seriousness. "You know, you don’t have to fall in love just because it’s Italy."

Penelope rolled her eyes. "I’m not—"

"Mm-hm." Eloise stood and patted her head condescendingly. "Be careful. Benedict’s allergic to clarity."

Before Penelope could respond, she was gone—off to wreak havoc elsewhere.

Later, Penelope found herself walking through the olive grove behind the villa. Her sandals scuffed the dirt. Her fingers grazed the silvery leaves.

When she came around the bend, she stopped.

There he was. Sketching. Alone. Back turned.

She should’ve gone. Should’ve turned around and given him space. But her feet didn’t move.

He looked up, sensing her.

She smiled.

He smiled back—small, quiet, but real.

She didn’t join him. Not this time.

She walked on, heart loud in her chest.

And Benedict, once again, started a new page.

Chapter Text

It was Violet’s idea.

“We’re having a proper family dinner tonight,” she announced over lunch, hands clasped, smile innocent. “Outside, under the pergola. Lights, music, wine—the full thing.”

Kate, ever the enabler, added, “And I think it would be lovely if Penelope and Benedict helped with the setup. You're both so artistically inclined.”

There was no escape.

They ended up arranging lanterns.

The sun was still warm, though it had begun to tilt, casting gold across the garden. Benedict climbed a ladder while Penelope handed him string lights and tried not to stare at the way his forearms flexed with each adjustment.

“You’re awfully quiet,” she said finally.

“Trying not to fall,” he replied, looping another set of lights around the trellis.

She handed him another strand. Their fingers brushed.

He looked down. She didn’t look away fast enough.

When he climbed down, the silence stretched between them like a wire pulled too tight.

“You okay?” she asked, voice softer now.

He hesitated. “Yeah. Just... thinking.”

“Dangerous habit.”

His smile flickered. "So I’ve been told."

They stood there a moment longer. Not saying what they were both thinking.

From the patio, Kate and Michael watched the two of them fumble through their proximity.

Inside the kitchen, Francesca leaned on the counter, sipping lemonade while Eloise peeled fruit with surgical precision.

"He's hopeless," Francesca said.

"He's Benedict," Eloise replied. "Hopeless is practically his baseline."

Gregory, rummaging for snacks, added, "If he doesn’t kiss her by the end of this trip, I’m staging an intervention."

Daphne entered just in time to hear that and raised a brow. "Don’t you dare rush it. This is the most romantic thing that’s happened in this family since Anthony stopped growling at Kate."

"He still growls," Francesca muttered.

"Affectionately," Daphne said, deadpan.

"Do we think Penelope knows?" Gregory asked, finally finding a biscuit tin.

"That he’s an idiot? Yes," Eloise said. "That he’s in love with her? Not yet."

Francesca shrugged. "They’re circling each other like bees around the same flower. Eventually, one of them will land."

"Hopefully without stinging anyone," Daphne added.

“She’s falling for him,” Kate murmured.

Michael raised an eyebrow. “And he hasn’t figured it out yet, has he?”

“Not even a little.”

“I give it a week.”

Kate shook her head. “You’re generous.”

That afternoon, Penelope disappeared into town with Hyacinth and Eloise, ostensibly to buy wine and cheese. They returned with gossip, gelato, and three mismatched espresso cups Hyacinth swore were a bargain.

As they walked up the drive, Benedict caught sight of them from the window. Penelope was laughing—unrestrained and radiant, holding her cup like a prize.

He didn’t realize he was smiling until Michael clapped him on the back.

“Careful,” Michael said lightly. “You’ll start believing you deserve that kind of joy.”

Benedict scoffed. “I’m just observing.”

Michael raised a brow. “You’ve been ‘observing’ all week. Maybe it’s time to act.”

Benedict didn’t answer. He just looked out the window again. Penelope had vanished inside.

Dinner that night glowed. The pergola glittered with lanterns, and long shadows curled around the table like vines. Everyone was sun-kissed and wine-warmed.

Penelope sat two seats down from Benedict. Close enough to hear him laugh, far enough that she didn’t have to pretend not to watch him.

She didn’t speak much. But she listened.

And when he told a story about their disastrous art class in school—the one where he spilled ink across the entire canvas and blamed it on the wind—she laughed. Loud and real.

He looked over at her in that moment, almost like he forgot he was mid-sentence.

She looked away first.

Later, when the others drifted off in pairs and groups—Colin arm in arm with Hyacinth, Eloise dragging Gregory toward the record player—Penelope wandered toward the olive grove again.

Benedict was already there.

He wasn’t sketching.

Just sitting. Watching the stars slowly begin to blink into existence.

She sat beside him without speaking.

For a long time, they said nothing.

But something between them settled. Not closer. Not further. Just... there.

“I never get the hands right,” he said finally.

She looked over. “What?”

“In sketches,” he clarified. “It’s always the hands. Can’t capture the tension. The stillness. The story.”

Penelope turned her palm upward in her lap. “Maybe they’re not meant to be still.”

Benedict looked at her hand.

He didn’t take it.

But he didn’t look away.

And neither did she.

That night, long after the villa went quiet, Penelope sat in bed and scribbled a few lines in her journal.

I don’t know what this is.
I don’t know if he sees it too.
But I feel it.
And that might be enough for now.

She closed the book. Switched off the light.

And dreamed of unfinished sketches and stars that never stopped watching.

Chapter Text

The morning after the lantern-lit dinner was slower than most. The villa was quiet, heavy with the kind of silence that followed too much wine and just enough emotional undercurrent.

Penelope woke early, before the sun had fully warmed the stone floors. Her journal still sat on the nightstand, shut tightly as if it could keep the feelings locked inside. She didn’t open it.

Instead, she wrapped herself in a light robe and padded barefoot to the kitchen. The house creaked gently—the shutters hadn’t been opened yet, and the kitchen smelled like citrus and espresso grounds.

To her surprise, Kate was already there, hair braided down her back, spooning honey into her tea.

“Morning,” Kate said, soft.

Penelope smiled sleepily. “Didn’t think anyone would be up yet.”

Kate handed her a clean mug. “Couldn’t sleep. You?”

Penelope hesitated. “Just... thinking.”

Kate’s eyes were warm but perceptive. “It’s a beautiful kind of mess, isn’t it? That moment right before everything changes.”

Penelope blinked. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

“Mm.” Kate took a sip. “Maybe not yet.”

Outside, Benedict stood barefoot in the grass, coffee in hand, watching the horizon where the morning mist still clung to the olive trees.

He wasn’t sketching. He hadn’t, not since the grove.

Every time he tried, the lines trembled. He told himself it was because he needed rest, not because he was afraid.

Afraid he wouldn’t capture her.

Afraid he already had, and it had meant too much.

Michael strolled up beside him, two steaming mugs in hand. He offered one.

"You keep watching her like she's a mirage," he said casually.

Benedict took the coffee. “I’m not—”

“You are,” Michael cut in. “And if you don’t figure out what you’re doing soon, someone else will. You’re not the only one who sees her.”

Benedict said nothing.

“She used to like Colin, didn’t she?”

Benedict tensed. “That was ages ago.”

Michael gave him a look. “Still made you flinch.”

Benedict stared into his mug. “She deserves someone who knows what they’re doing.”

“Then maybe start acting like you do,” Michael said, and walked away.

Later that day, the Bridgertons loaded into two cars to drive into town for the weekly market. Benedict sat in the front of one, Penelope in the back of the other.

They didn’t speak.

But every so often, their reflections met in the windows.

And neither of them looked away.

The market was buzzing with color and noise. Stalls overflowed with peaches, fresh cheeses, baskets of tomatoes still warm from the sun. Children darted between legs, old women bartered fiercely in Italian, and the smell of baked bread made Penelope's stomach growl.

Hyacinth and Gregory immediately launched into a gelato hunt. Francesca, Daphne, and Eloise wandered off to inspect linen stalls. That left Benedict and Penelope, somehow alone despite the crowd.

They stood side by side at a flower vendor’s stand.

“These remind me of you,” Benedict said abruptly, gesturing to a cluster of small orange and yellow marigolds.

Penelope blinked. “Why?”

He shrugged. “You’re...bright. Warm. A little stubborn.”

“A little?” she teased.

Benedict grinned, then hesitated. “And you come back. Even when no one expects you to.”

She looked at him, startled. But before she could say anything, Eloise called her name from across the square.

Penelope turned. “We should—”

“Yeah,” he said quickly.

She walked away. He watched her go.

A few stalls over, Francesca, Daphne, and Eloise stood behind a rack of scarves, watching the entire thing unfold.

"He is so obvious," Eloise said, rolling her eyes. "It's like watching a Victorian ghost pine."

"He looked at her like she'd handed him the sun," Francesca added. "Did you see the way his voice softened?"

"He's either about to kiss her or write a tragic poem," Daphne said. "And knowing Benedict, it's definitely the poem."

“Do we intervene?” Francesca asked.

“No,” Daphne said firmly. “But we absolutely observe.”

Benedict didn’t buy anything after Penelope left his side. He wandered through the stalls with Michael and Colin, who were debating pasta shapes with the passion of two men avoiding their emotions.

“You’re quiet,” Colin said at one point.

“I’m always quiet,” Benedict replied.

Colin narrowed his eyes. “Not when you’re sketching. Not when you’re happy.”

Benedict offered a noncommittal shrug.

Michael, watching him carefully, changed the subject. But the silence clung to Benedict’s shoulders like humidity.

And across the market, Penelope couldn’t stop thinking about marigolds.

That night, Penelope found a marigold tucked into the spine of her journal.

No note. Just the flower. Pressed but not wilted.

She smiled. And for the first time in days, she opened the journal.

Tonight, I felt seen. Not all the way. But more than before.

Maybe that’s what this is.

A little more. Each time.

And when she closed it, she touched the petals like they were a secret.

Because maybe they were.

Chapter Text

Penelope woke late the next morning, the marigold still pressed between the pages of her journal like a secret waiting to be shared. She touched the petals absently, her chest tightening with something warm and weightless. It wasn’t a confession. But it felt like the prelude to one.

The dream she’d had was already fading—something with sunlight and laughter and a voice she didn’t recognize but somehow knew. Maybe it had been Benedict’s. Maybe it had been her own, speaking truths she wasn’t ready to say aloud.

By the time she made it to the patio, the villa was already alive—Eloise reading out loud from a book she clearly hated, Colin arguing with Anthony about the ethics of Vespa rentals, and Violet insisting they all eat before someone passed out from dehydration and ego.

“Morning, darling,” Violet greeted, kissing Penelope’s cheek. “You missed Colin insisting he could pilot a Vespa with his eyes closed.”

“Because I could,” Colin said confidently. “It’s like a bike. Just Italian.”

Michael snorted. “That’s exactly how people end up with road rash and bad stories.”

Kate, brushing crumbs off her lap, chimed in without looking up from her espresso. “I once saw a man drive one straight into a fruit stand. He also said he could ride with his eyes closed.”

Across the table, Benedict looked up. Just briefly. Enough for their eyes to meet and hold. It wasn’t a moment, not really. But it felt like the promise of one.

Penelope looked away first this time.

Later, while the rest of the family scattered—Anthony and Kate going wine tasting, Daphne and Francesca heading into town, Eloise dragging Gregory into a bookstore—Penelope found herself alone in the back garden.

Or, almost alone.

Benedict sat at his easel, brows furrowed, pencil paused.

She hovered near the trellis, fingers toying with the hem of her sleeve.

“You’re not sketching,” she said softly.

He didn’t look up. “Trying to remember how.”

Silence stretched between them again. Familiar now. But no less charged.

“I liked the marigold,” she said, almost too quietly.

That made him pause.

“It wasn’t meant to say anything,” he said.

“I know.”

Another pause. Then she added, “But it did.”

He finally looked up.

Penelope crossed the space between them and sat beside him—not close, but not far either. Enough that she could see the blank page in front of him.

“It’s hard, isn’t it?” she asked. “To make something honest.”

He nodded.

She didn’t ask what he was afraid of. She already knew.

“I used to write,” she offered, surprising even herself. “Silly stories. Things I never let anyone see. Because once it’s out... it’s real.”

Benedict glanced sideways at her. “You should write again.”

She shrugged. “You should sketch again.”

A beat. And then they both smiled.

They sat like that for a while. Not touching. Not speaking. Just existing in a silence that felt like it belonged only to them.

From the balcony above, Hyacinth leaned against the railing beside Daphne.

“They’re talking again,” she whispered.

Daphne didn’t look away. “Good. They need to.”

“Do you think this will end in a declaration or a slow spiral into mutual longing?”

“Definitely longing,” Daphne said. “But the good kind.”

Kate joined them with a glass of sparkling water. “He’s scared,” she said simply.

“Of what?” Hyacinth asked.

“Of what it’ll mean if he lets her in.”

“And her?”

Kate sipped. “She already has.”

Michael stepped up beside them, hands in his pockets, a bemused look on his face. resting his hand gently on her back. “You know, if we start placing bets, I want in.”

Daphne laughed. “Too late. Eloise already has a spreadsheet.”

That night, Benedict sketched again.

Not her face. Not her smile.

Just her hand, resting gently on the table. Fingers ink-stained from turning pages. A marigold beside it.

And this time, the lines came easier.

He didn’t know what it meant yet.

But it was a start.

Inside her room, Penelope opened her journal again.

She wrote without thinking, without filtering. It poured out of her like breath.

He makes me feel like I’ve always been more than I believed I was.

And I don’t think he knows.

But I think I want him to.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Penelope rose early. Not out of obligation, but instinct. The villa was still quiet, touched by the softest golden light. Birds chirped lazily in the olive trees, and a faint breeze whispered through the open shutters.

She padded barefoot down the stone hallway, journal in hand, hair loosely braided over one shoulder. She didn’t know what she was looking for exactly—just that she wanted to be outside before the noise of the day began.

To her surprise, someone had beaten her there.

Benedict was already on the patio, barefoot, his curls damp, a half-finished sketch resting beside a cup of coffee. He looked up at her like he hadn’t expected to be found either.

“Morning,” he said, voice still warm from sleep.

Penelope hesitated. “I didn’t think anyone else would be up.”

“I didn’t sleep well.” He gestured to the chair across from him. “You can sit, if you want.”

She did. And for a while, they just sat.

Later, the rest of the house stirred to life. Gregory emerged in swim trunks, trying to convince Eloise to join him in a game of water volleyball. Kate and Anthony returned from an early jog, bickering about pace. Violet began setting out a breakfast spread, humming to herself.

“You two are up early,” Francesca commented as she passed. Her tone was neutral, but her eyes twinkled.

Penelope didn’t answer. But she did glance at Benedict, who had returned to his sketchpad.

Around the breakfast table, the family gathered in various stages of alertness. Colin buttered a croissant while Daphne tried to hide a yawn. Hyacinth poured herself coffee, only to add sugar until it resembled syrup.

“What’s the plan today?” Gregory asked, already bouncing his leg under the table.

“Coastal cliffs,” Anthony replied, reaching for grapes. “And before anyone complains, yes, there will be snacks.”

“And shade?” Violet asked pointedly.

“And hydration,” Kate added, handing out water bottles like party favors.

“Can we bring the speaker?” Hyacinth asked.

“Only if you promise not to play your ‘Italian Love Ballads’ playlist again,” Colin groaned.

“It was romantic!” she insisted.

“It was mournful,” Francesca corrected. “Like being serenaded at a funeral.”

“You’re all tone-deaf,” Hyacinth huffed.

Penelope laughed, her shoulders easing as she sipped her orange juice.

After breakfast, they set off. Daphne and Simon would meet them at the cliffs. Sunhats were packed. Towels gathered. Anthony made a speech about hydration. Eloise tuned him out in favor of dramatizing their upcoming hike to Michael, who declared he would rather be buried under a pile of tourist maps than walk another kilometer.

Benedict found himself walking beside Penelope on the narrow cliff path, their elbows brushing every so often.

“I don’t usually like group hikes,” she said.

“But?”

“But this one isn’t awful.”

“High praise.”

She smiled, and he felt it like warmth under his skin.

At the overlook, while the others took selfies or argued over who packed the better sandwiches, Penelope wandered toward the edge, eyes fixed on the horizon. Benedict watched her with a sketchbook tucked under his arm, debating whether to draw her again.

“Careful,” he said as she stepped closer to the ledge.

She turned, amused. “You don’t think I’m reckless, do you?”

“No,” he admitted. “But I do think you sometimes like pretending you are.”

She raised a brow. “And what makes you think you know me that well?”

His smile faltered, but not in a bad way. “Because I’ve been paying attention.”

Her expression changed—just slightly. Something flickered behind her eyes.

“Don’t do that,” she said.

“Do what?”

“Say things that sound like more than they are.”

He didn’t respond.

But he didn’t stop watching her either.

That evening, Penelope sat with Eloise and Francesca on the balcony, wine glasses in hand, the sun bleeding pink across the sky.

“He said I like pretending,” she said, laughing a little too tightly.

“Which you do,” Francesca replied. “You pretend not to care when you care the most.”

“Ugh,” Eloise groaned. “Can we all agree that my brother needs a license before saying emotionally charged things like that?”

“He’s not doing it on purpose,” Penelope said. “He doesn’t even know.”

“Know what?”

“What he’s doing to me.”

Downstairs, the rest of the family had gathered in the sitting room with aperitifs. Anthony was trying to get Gregory to sit still long enough to play a board game. Hyacinth was explaining the intricacies of tarot to Michael, who looked both intrigued and mildly concerned. Colin handed Violet a cocktail he claimed was “experimental,” earning a suspicious sip.

“Family game night?” Kate offered, glancing toward the balcony.

“Only if I get to be on Penelope’s team,” Hyacinth called. “She has secret rage and sharp memory.”

“I do not,” Penelope protested from above.

“You do,” Eloise and Francesca said in unison.

Benedict sat with Michael and Colin in the garden later, the three of them sipping wine, picking at cheese, and pretending to be indifferent.

“She’s brave,” Michael said, watching Penelope’s silhouette above.

Benedict followed his gaze. “She’s Penelope.”

“That’s not an answer,” Colin noted. “That’s a deflection.”

Benedict didn’t argue. But later, when the moon was high and the garden empty, he opened his sketchpad again.

This time, he drew the cliff. The wind in her skirt. The moment before she turned around.

He didn’t know why he kept trying to draw the feeling.

But he knew who gave it to him.

Chapter Text

The morning after game night arrived with laughter already drifting through the villa. Someone had made espresso, someone else had burned toast, and Hyacinth was loudly trying to convince Anthony to let her rent a convertible.

"Absolutely not," Anthony barked. "You don’t even have a license."

"Technicality," she replied breezily.

In the dining room, the family was loosely gathered over breakfast—croissants, fresh peaches, the remnants of last night’s game scattered across the table. Colin had fallen asleep on a deck of cards. Francesca was painting her nails with quiet precision. Violet floated between rooms humming Vivaldi.

Penelope sat between Kate and Daphne, sipping coffee and listening to them discuss the local gardens. She liked mornings like this—soft and meandering, where conversation wove in and out without expectation.

"We’re going to the antique market in the next town over," Kate said, nudging Penelope gently. "You should come."

"They have estate books and vintage fabrics," Daphne added. "Very on-brand for you."

Penelope glanced toward the hallway, as if expecting someone else to appear. She didn’t say no.

The market was a collage of sound and color—canopies in every shade, tables heavy with old brass, linen, ceramics, and lace. Penelope wandered beside Francesca and Eloise, pausing now and then to admire a silver hair comb or a water-stained leather journal.

She reached for a pale silk scarf at the same time Benedict did. Their fingers brushed.

"You again," she said lightly.

"Seems I have good taste," he replied, releasing the scarf.

She held it up between them, sunlight filtering through the sheer weave.

"It suits you," he added.

She didn’t know if he meant the scarf or the moment.

They didn’t walk together, but they stayed close. They didn’t talk much, but the silence felt less like absence and more like something being built.

Across the square, Hyacinth tried haggling for a brass sextant. Colin, watching with mild horror, muttered, "She’s terrifying."

Michael and Anthony trailed behind them, arms full of baskets. "I feel like an extra in a Jane Austen novel," Michael said. "The underappreciated brother-in-law."

Anthony didn’t even blink. "You married in. There’s no escape."

Back at the villa, afternoon sun slanted across the patio. Benedict stood in the kitchen with Daphne, quietly slicing fruit.

"You’re quieter than usual," she noted.

He shrugged. "Not much to say."

She gave him a look. "You’ve been watching her all day."

He didn’t deny it.

"She doesn’t need you to be anything other than yourself," Daphne said. "But you do have to let her see that version."

He glanced toward the window, where Penelope sat with Eloise, ankles tucked beneath her, laughing.

"I don’t know if that’s enough," he said.

"Then show her what else there is."

That evening, dinner was laid out in the garden. Long shadows stretched across the lawn. Wine glasses caught the last of the sun. There was music playing—Francesca’s doing—and soft candlelight flickered as dishes passed hand to hand.

Benedict pulled out the chair beside Penelope.

"Did you end up getting the scarf?" she asked.

He shook his head. "Didn’t feel like mine to take."

She hesitated, then reached into her bag and set it beside his plate.

"Now it is," she said.

He looked at it. Then at her.

And smiled.

Later, while the family played cards or read or wandered inside one by one, Penelope walked alone along the garden path. The scarf fluttered in her hand, catching the breeze.

Behind her, footsteps.

She didn’t turn.

But she didn’t walk faster either.

They were tethered now, in tiny, invisible ways. Not lovers. Not yet. But something was beginning to hold.

And neither of them wanted to cut the thread.

Chapter Text

The villa buzzed with lazy afternoon energy—too hot to move quickly, too golden not to bask in. Anthony had retreated indoors to escape the sun, leaving Michael to teach Hyacinth how to juggle tangerines with Colin as an overly eager coach. Violet and Kate were making pesto in the kitchen, the scent of garlic and basil wafting through the open windows. Simon had arrived earlier that morning, kissing Daphne’s cheek like they’d spent no time apart at all. Francesca and Eloise were in the parlor, playing a half-hearted game of cards, both more focused on exchanging family gossip than counting points.

Penelope had intended to spend the day reading. She was curled beneath the canopy near the garden, book in lap, but her eyes kept drifting across the page. She could feel Benedict’s presence before she saw him—heard the soft scuff of his sandals on stone, the rustle of a sketchpad under his arm.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just sat across from her, shaded by the lemon tree.

She looked up. “No sketching today?”

He hesitated. “Taking a break.”

She raised an eyebrow. “That’s new.”

He shrugged. “Sometimes you have to stop drawing the thing to figure out what it means.”

Penelope closed her book. “And have you?”

He didn’t answer, but his gaze lingered on her, the way her curls caught the light, the curve of her mouth when she smiled even just a little.

Inside, laughter erupted—Gregory had tried the juggling and, apparently, failed. Hyacinth howled. Colin shouted something unintelligible. Daphne’s laughter rang clear, and somewhere in the distance, Anthony’s voice barked out an order to someone who wasn’t listening.

Penelope glanced toward the house, amused. “You ever feel like everyone here is orbiting each other, and we’re the only ones trying not to collide?”

Benedict leaned back in his chair, gaze skyward. “Maybe we already did.”

She stared at him, expression unreadable. Then, quietly, “Then what are we now?”

He looked at her and for a moment, just breathed.

“I don’t know,” he said. “But I think about it more than I should.”

They didn’t speak for a long time after that, but the silence hummed with something almost fragile. Something becoming.

That evening, the family dined outside again. A summer breeze curled through the trees, bringing with it the scent of grilled peaches and wine. Hyacinth had made a game out of impersonating each sibling with frightening accuracy—Kate’s furrowed disapproval, Colin’s mock seriousness, Eloise’s conspiratorial eye-roll.

“Do Penelope,” Colin dared.

Hyacinth smirked, flipping her hair and clutching an invisible book to her chest. “Actually, I think you'll find that—”

“Okay, that's enough,” Penelope laughed, swatting her playfully.

“You’re too elegant to impersonate,” Michael offered, raising his glass.

“Or too terrifying,” Gregory added. “Unpredictable. Like a swan with a switchblade.”

Penelope rolled her eyes, but the warmth settled in her chest all the same.

“I think she’s unflappable,” Daphne said, resting her chin on Simon’s shoulder. “Like she’s seen too much and now nothing surprises her.”

“Or maybe she’s just the only one who reads the itinerary,” Kate added with a smirk.

Across the table, Benedict watched. Watched the way she blushed, how she laughed with her whole face. Something in him ached—not unpleasantly, but sharply. He hadn’t drawn her all day.

He didn’t need to. She was already pressed into his mind like ink on parchment.

Later, as the moon lifted over the hills and the party scattered—Francesca to call Michael, Anthony and Kate deep in discussion near the wine rack—Penelope found herself on the patio, elbows resting on the railing.

Benedict joined her without a word.

They stared at the moonlit olive groves, the sound of distant crickets folding into the hush.

“Do you think,” she said softly, “that some people come into your life quietly, and you don’t realize they’ve rearranged everything until you can’t imagine before?”

He looked at her. Really looked.

“Yes,” he said, voice hushed.

She turned toward him, eyes wide, but he was already looking away, as if afraid of what he'd just admitted.

A beat passed between them. Then another.

She reached for her wine, fingers brushing the stem. “It’s strange. I think I used to believe I was invisible to you.”

“You weren’t,” he said.

Penelope turned her face slightly, trying to read him. “Then why didn’t you ever say anything?”

He didn’t have an answer. Or maybe he did, and just couldn’t find the words yet.

Neither of them moved.

The space between them wasn’t empty.

It was full.

A flicker. A flame. Not yet a fire. But growing, steadily, beneath the surface.

Chapter Text

The next morning began in soft murmurs. The villa, once again, was full of movement—Anthony calling for coffee, Hyacinth dragging chairs across the patio for a "sunlight experiment," Violet clipping herbs in the garden. But for Penelope, the world moved a little slower. Last night lingered like warmth on her skin.

She hadn’t expected Benedict to say anything. And yet, he had. Not in declarations or sweeping gestures, but in the soft honesty of being seen.

In the kitchen, Kate handed her a cup of coffee without a word. Just a knowing look and a smile that said, “We’ll talk when you’re ready.”

The family decided on a picnic by the water that day. A bit of swimming, maybe a boat ride. Francesca organized the baskets; Daphne debated blanket choices. Gregory and Colin fought over who would row. Benedict offered to sketch the shoreline—though he’d secretly already packed his pad and pencils.

As the family spread out along the small, rocky beach, Penelope set up under a striped umbrella with Eloise and Hyacinth.

“I think Colin has a crush on that gelato vendor,” Hyacinth announced, licking peach sorbet from her spoon.

“He does not,” Eloise countered. “He just appreciates proper scooping technique.”

“You’re both insufferable,” Penelope muttered fondly.

“Only because you love us,” Eloise replied, nudging her shoulder.

Further down the beach, Benedict waded into the water, sketchbook left safely under a tree. Michael and Colin were attempting to race while Violet called out swimming tips from the shallows.

“Are you going to talk to him?” Eloise asked casually.

“About what?”

“About whatever’s been making you look like you’re starring in a romantic tragedy every time he walks into a room.”

Penelope gave her a look. “No one asked you to narrate my inner life.”

Eloise just grinned. “Too bad. I’m doing it anyway.”

Later that afternoon, while the others napped or dried in the sun, Penelope wandered to the edge of the cove. Benedict was sitting on a low wall, sketching the horizon.

She didn’t speak, just sat beside him.

He didn’t flinch or shift—just handed her a second pencil.

“I’m terrible at this,” she warned.

“Good. There’s less pressure to impress.”

They sketched in silence. She drew a crooked olive tree. He drew her hand, resting on the paper.

“I used to think you saw me as a fixture,” she said suddenly. “Background noise. A friend of Eloise’s. Just... there.”

He didn’t stop drawing. “I used to think the same about myself.”

Penelope looked over. “You?”

Benedict nodded. “The second son. The in-between. Talented, but not brilliant. Kind, but not unforgettable.”

She opened her mouth. Closed it again.

“I’m sorry,” she said finally.

“For what?”

“For never knowing you felt that way.”

He met her eyes. “You weren’t meant to. It’s not your job to fix how I see myself.”

She exhaled. “No. But I could start by telling you that you’ve never been background to me.”

Benedict didn’t respond. But the pencil in his hand paused for just a beat.

That night, dinner was loud—Colin attempted a toast in Italian that went terribly wrong, and Gregory accidentally knocked over the wine. Francesca and Michael told a story so elaborate—him narrating, her providing dramatic reenactments—that Violet made them swear it wasn’t fiction. Kate laughed until she had to dab her eyes.

Across the table, Penelope caught Benedict watching her again—not with intensity, but with understanding.

Later, in her journal, she wrote:

"It’s not love. Not yet. But it’s something. And it’s mine."

Chapter Text

The morning after the beach picnic was all blue skies and warm breezes, with the scent of rosemary and lemons drifting through the open windows of the villa. Penelope woke slowly, the light shifting on the tiled ceiling above her, thoughts still thick with the weight of yesterday’s quiet revelations.

Benedict had seen her—not just glanced at her, not merely looked. He had listened. And somehow, that was more disarming than any compliment could’ve been.

Downstairs, the Bridgertons were gathered in scattered pockets of conversation. Daphne and Kate were deep in discussion about an upcoming art exhibition in Florence; Gregory and Colin were playing chess on the patio, both cheating in plain view. Francesca, resting beside Michael, flipped through a worn guidebook with a pen poised for notes.

Hyacinth was attempting to braid Eloise’s hair while quoting dramatic lines from an Italian soap opera she had picked up the night before.

Benedict was nowhere to be seen.

“He went into town early,” Anthony said, passing by with two espressos in hand. “Said he needed ‘new pencils and a clearer head.’ I didn’t ask.”

Penelope bit back a smile. She liked him like this—vague and mysterious, yet terribly obvious to anyone paying attention.

The town square was quieter than usual. Benedict wandered through the stalls, fingers brushing absently over handmade papers and jars of local paint pigments. But it wasn’t the pencils he needed—it was time.

He hadn’t meant to say what he did yesterday. It had slipped out, like so much with her seemed to. Effortless. Dangerous.

He thought about her drawing—the crooked olive tree—and the way she’d looked at him after he’d admitted how he felt about himself.

Was it foolish to crave being understood?

Was it more foolish to have found someone who did?

He paused by a stall selling handmade journals and leather-bound sketchbooks, running his hand over one with a deep emerald cover. He bought it without thinking—an instinct.

Back at the villa, Penelope helped Violet and Kate prepare lunch. They peeled oranges and sliced fresh mozzarella while Hyacinth debated which pasta shape was the most romantic.

“I’m just saying,” she insisted, “farfalle looks like it was made to be flirted with.”

“Only if the flirting is chaotic and somehow sticky,” Kate replied, earning a laugh from Violet.

“I think pappardelle is tragically romantic,” Eloise chimed in. “Like, sweeping gestures and inevitable mess.”

“And yet you always choose rigatoni,” Francesca said.

“It has range,” Eloise replied primly.

When Benedict returned just before lunch, sun-dazed and flushed from the walk, his eyes sought Penelope instinctively. She didn’t move, but something inside her straightened.

They didn’t speak during the meal, but their eyes found each other like clockwork. The table buzzed with easy chaos—Colin animatedly reenacting a scene from earlier, Hyacinth sneaking bites from Anthony’s plate, and Gregory declaring he was writing a ranking of every gelato they had tried so far. Francesca and Michael exchanged fond glances as if long accustomed to the rhythm of this family chaos.

It all felt like something golden. Something she hadn’t realized she’d missed until now.

That evening, Penelope wandered out into the vineyard with a glass of wine and no plan. She heard footsteps crunching softly behind her a few minutes later.

“I figured you’d be here,” Benedict said, careful not to startle her.

She didn’t turn right away. “The vines are peaceful.”

He stopped a few feet away. “You’re peaceful.”

She glanced at him over her shoulder. “That’s a lie, and you know it.”

He smiled. “Fine. You’re steady. Like a fixed point.”

Penelope turned fully now, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Are you drawing metaphors from astronomy now?”

“Maybe,” he said. “I’m reaching.”

They fell into step, walking the rows slowly. The dusky air smelled of grapes and heat-softened earth.

“Thank you,” she said after a moment.

“For what?”

“For yesterday. For not making it weird.”

He shrugged. “It’s only weird if we pretend we’re not both thinking about it.”

She looked at him sidelong. “Are you?”

“All the time,” he admitted, and then blinked. “That was too honest.”

“Maybe,” she murmured. “But I don’t mind it.”

They stopped at the edge of the vineyard, facing the horizon where the sun had begun to dip.

“I don’t know what this is yet,” Penelope said softly. “But I think I want to find out.”

Benedict looked down at their hands, almost touching. “Me too.”

She didn’t move away when his fingers brushed hers.

“I bought a sketchbook today,” he said, voice quieter now. “One that’s just for you.”

Penelope’s breath caught in her throat.

“You haven’t even drawn me properly yet.”

“I know,” he said. “But I will.”

The silence between them wasn’t strained—it was patient. Something was forming in the space between words. Something new.

The sky darkened by degrees. And still, neither of them moved.

Chapter Text

The day had already begun to settle into its rhythm by the time most of the family drifted into the kitchen. The sun was already climbing, casting golden light through the villa windows. Laughter echoed off the stone walls, and the smell of fresh coffee mingled with the sweetness of fruit left out from breakfast.

Benedict sat on the patio, sketchbook in hand, though his pencil rested idle against the edge of the page. He wasn’t drawing. He was thinking.

Through the open French doors, he heard Penelope’s voice—light, teasing—as she sparred with Hyacinth over jam flavors. She was laughing. God, he was getting used to that sound. It clung to the corners of his thoughts like sunlight caught in linen.

“Sketching breakfast now?” Colin asked, stepping outside with a slice of toast and a suspiciously large amount of butter.

“No,” Benedict replied easily. “Just existing.”

Colin raised a brow. “That sounds suspiciously like feelings.”

“Don’t start.”

“Too late.”

Inside, the dining table had turned into a battlefield of fruit, crumbs, and orange juice.

“Gregory, if you break that machine, you’re explaining it to the barista,” Kate warned.

“I’m enhancing it,” Gregory insisted as steam hissed dramatically.

“You’re going to make it explode,” Daphne added.

Francesca nudged Michael with her elbow. "Go on then, Mr. Guidebook. What’s the cultural significance of espresso accidents in Italian villas?"

Michael straightened with mock seriousness. “In ancient Roman times, it was believed that a poorly made espresso could summon vengeful spirits.”

Francesca deadpanned, “So, you.”

Penelope was seated beside Eloise, her curls pinned up messily and her dress dotted with pastry flakes. Benedict couldn’t look away. Every time he tried to return to his page, his gaze flicked back like a habit he wasn’t ready to break.

“Are you going to stare at her all day or finally ask her to pass the marmalade?” Eloise said under her breath.

“I wasn’t—”

“Benedict,” Violet called sweetly from the doorway, “please stop brooding and have a croissant before Hyacinth eats the last one.”

“I’m not brooding,” he mumbled.

“You always say that,” Colin said.

Later that day, the group headed into town again. This time for the market—and gelato, of course. Violet had declared it a cultural necessity.

The siblings and their partners split up in pairs, weaving between stalls selling local art, sun hats, herbs, and handmade sandals.

Penelope and Benedict walked together, occasionally bumping shoulders. She was trying not to read too much into it, but his presence had changed. Less aloof. More present.

“You keep doing that,” she said at one point.

“Doing what?”

“Looking at me like I’ve said something profound.”

He smirked. “Maybe you have.”

“Oh, please.”

“You’re very quotable.”

“I’m very skeptical.”

She stopped by a flower stall, fingers trailing over a cluster of lemon blossoms. The vendor handed her one with a wink.

“Pretty flowers for a prettier girl,” he said with a thick accent.

Penelope flushed. Benedict stepped forward before he could help himself.

“She’s taken,” he said without thinking.

Penelope’s head whipped toward him. The vendor raised a brow. Benedict blinked.

“I mean—taken as in—busy,” he stammered. “She’s busy. With… with a lot of reading. And writing. Very busy.”

Penelope gave him a look. The vendor laughed and turned to his next customer.

“You’re terrible at that,” she said.

“At what?”

“Being subtle.”

“I wasn’t trying to be.”

She tucked the lemon blossom behind her ear, the curve of her smile sharp and knowing.

“You don’t have to claim me, Benedict,” she said, her tone softer now.

“I know,” he replied, more serious than he meant to sound. “But sometimes I want to.”

She didn’t respond. She didn’t need to.

From another part of the market, Colin shouted, “Tell me that wasn’t the vendor who flirted with me last week!”

“That’s literally every vendor,” Gregory responded.

Later, they sat side by side on a low stone wall near the town’s overlook, watching the late afternoon sun bathe the hills in gold.

“Do you think it’ll always be like this?” Penelope asked.

“What—Italy?”

“This. Being here. Feeling like we’ve all stepped out of our real lives.”

Benedict thought about it. “Maybe we needed to.”

She nodded. “Maybe I did, too.”

“You’ve changed, you know,” he said, surprising himself.

She glanced at him. “Is that a bad thing?”

“No,” he said quietly. “It’s like watching something come into focus.”

She looked away quickly, too quickly, and he wondered if he’d said too much.

She didn’t say more, and neither did he. But she leaned into him slightly, and he didn’t pull away. His sketchbook sat unopened in his bag, and he didn’t mind.

There were some moments worth living before capturing.

Chapter Text

The evening air smelled of rosemary and grilled peaches. Dinner had ended, but no one made moves to leave the table just yet. Empty plates sat scattered around, wine glasses tilted at lazy angles, and the Bridgertons lingered the way only people who were entirely comfortable with each other could.

“Italy’s working its magic on us,” Kate said, stretching back into her chair beside Anthony.

“Speak for yourself,” Anthony replied. “Gregory fell asleep mid-chew.”

“I’m just resting my eyes,” Gregory muttered.

“Sure,” Colin said, raising his glass. “Resting your eyes on dessert.”

Francesca was laughing at something Michael had murmured into her ear, her smile soft and real in a way that Penelope couldn’t help but admire. Across the table, Eloise was holding court with Hyacinth and Daphne, arguing passionately about whether Shakespeare was a romantic or a menace.

“You’re all wrong,” Eloise said. “He’s both.”

Benedict sat at the edge of the table, watching it all unfold. His gaze drifted, inevitably, to Penelope—quietly observant beside Francesca, her fingers twirling the stem of her glass. She looked soft in the lantern light, golden and warm. She laughed at something Michael said, and Benedict felt it again—that twist low in his chest.

“Do you want to walk?” Penelope asked suddenly, turning toward him.

He blinked. “Sure.”

They slipped away from the table unnoticed—or maybe just undisturbed. The villa grounds stretched in comfortable silence, gravel crunching softly beneath their shoes.

“I like this part of the evening,” Penelope said. “When the air cools and everything slows down.”

“I like it when you talk like that,” Benedict said before he could stop himself.

Penelope glanced at him sideways. “Talk like what?”

“Like you’re narrating something I want to remember.”

She snorted. “That might be the cheesiest thing anyone’s said to me.”

“But effective?”

“Surprisingly.”

They walked past the lemon trees, their scent thick and heady in the cooling air. Cicadas hummed in the distance, the stars just beginning to blink awake.

“You’ve been quiet lately,” she said softly.

“I’m thinking.”

“About?”

He hesitated. “About what happens when this trip ends.”

Penelope slowed her steps. “Oh.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing, Pen. With my art. With anything, really.” He laughed under his breath, self-conscious. “I keep sketching and sketching and none of it feels… right.”

She stopped, turning to face him fully. “That’s okay. It doesn’t have to be right all at once.”

He looked at her then, really looked. “How are you always so sure of me?”

“I’m not,” she said honestly. “I just think you’re better than you believe you are.”

He exhaled slowly. Without thinking, he reached out and tucked a loose curl behind her ear. Her breath hitched.

“I used to think Colin hung the stars,” she said suddenly. “When we were kids. I was so sure he was the best person in the world.”

Benedict froze, his hand falling back to his side.

“But then I grew up. And I realized I wasn’t looking at Colin anymore—I was just looking for someone to see me.”

Benedict swallowed. “And now?”

“Now I think… I’m not waiting to be seen. I already am.”

Her words hit him in the ribs. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. But in the stillness, something between them shifted again—just slightly.

From the villa came faint laughter. A guitar string strummed. Maybe Colin, maybe Gregory.

Benedict finally said, “Do you ever think we’re all just trying to unlearn the people we thought we were supposed to be?”

“All the time.”

They kept walking.

Their hands brushed once—twice. On the third time, she didn’t pull away. Neither did he.

“Penelope!” Hyacinth’s voice called from the distance. “Eloise is threatening to recite sonnets again!”

“Rescue mission?” Benedict asked.

She grinned, but didn’t let go of his hand. “Let’s go.”

And as they turned back toward the house, fingers still lightly entwined, Benedict couldn’t stop the thought that had quietly embedded itself in his mind:

She could have anyone.

But maybe—just maybe—she chose to walk beside him.

Chapter Text

The next evening, the villa was cloaked in the amber hue of sunset, the sky streaked with peach and violet as the family settled into their familiar routine. Laughter echoed across the stone courtyard, where Francesca and Kate were locked in a surprisingly intense game of cards while Anthony and Michael looked on, trading commentary like seasoned sports announcers.

Eloise lounged on a wicker sofa, book in one hand, a plate of figs beside her. “I maintain that Francesca is cheating,” she called lazily.

“Or you’re just terrible at poker,” Francesca replied without looking up, flicking a card onto the table with triumphant flair.

“Which one of you is actually winning?” Michael asked, leaning closer to examine the spread of cards. “Because Anthony is clearly just narrating.”

“I bring flair,” Anthony said defensively.

Across the way, Benedict stood leaning on the villa’s columned railing, sketchbook tucked beneath his arm. He wasn’t drawing—just watching. Specifically, he was watching Penelope.

She sat cross-legged near Hyacinth and Daphne, absorbed in stringing together little wildflowers they’d gathered during a walk earlier. Her fingers were nimble, her lips curved into a quiet smile. He could feel it again—the pull of her.

He didn’t know when it had started. He only knew that once it had, it never stopped.

“You’re staring again,” Colin said from beside him, popping a piece of cheese into his mouth.

Benedict didn’t look away. “Am I?”

“You’ve been staring for a week. Don’t worry. No one’s noticed except everyone.”

Benedict sighed. “It’s not like that.”

“It’s always like that,” Colin said with a grin. “You just haven’t realized it yet.”

Down in the courtyard, Penelope glanced up. Her eyes found Benedict’s, held for a beat too long. She tilted her head in question, and he gave a small, crooked smile.

Eloise’s voice carried again. “I’m assembling a small rebellion to liberate me from Hyacinth’s relentless optimism. Penelope, you in?”

“Only if there’s dessert after,” she replied, standing and brushing off her skirt.

“Always,” Hyacinth said. “Especially if I lose.”

As Penelope walked toward the kitchen, Daphne murmured to Hyacinth, "You think he’ll follow her?"

"He always does," Hyacinth said smugly.

Benedict followed shortly after. He found her in the kitchen, leaning over the counter and examining the gelato options.

“Lemon or hazelnut?” she asked when he entered.

“Hazelnut,” he said.

“Coward. Always playing it safe.”

“I thought I was being bold following you in here.”

Penelope rolled her eyes, handing him a spoonful of lemon gelato. “Try this. Tell me it doesn’t taste like the essence of summer.”

He took the spoon. His fingers brushed hers. “You’re right,” he said quietly.

“About the gelato?”

“About a lot of things.”

She paused. The kitchen was quiet now, the clatter and banter muffled by stone walls. Only the two of them, surrounded by low flickering light and the distant sound of cicadas.

“I feel like everything’s changing,” she said softly. “But I’m not scared.”

Benedict’s heart beat unevenly. “Why not?”

“Because for the first time, I’m not the one waiting.”

He didn’t fully understand what she meant, but he felt the weight of it. The quiet certainty. The calm in her voice that mirrored the stillness he’d been chasing for months.

Penelope stepped a little closer, fingers brushing the counter.

Benedict’s hand was still wrapped around the spoon. He offered it back to her, but she didn’t take it. She was looking at him like she was waiting—for a question, a moment, something he wasn’t sure how to give.

“Pen—”

“Don’t,” she said, gently. “Not yet.”

He nodded.

Not yet. But soon.

From the hallway came Anthony’s voice, calling everyone out to the terrace for wine and a surprise musical performance courtesy of Hyacinth’s ukulele.

Penelope smiled and stepped away. “Let’s not keep the chaos waiting.”

Benedict followed her, his heart still racing.

And even as the family erupted into laughter and song beneath the stars, his gaze never left her.

Later that night, Penelope sat out on the terrace alone, the scent of lavender drifting from the garden. The stars were clearer here than in London, scattered like spilled sugar across the navy sky. She held a glass of wine loosely between her fingers and let the cool night press against her skin.

Footsteps approached softly behind her.

"Couldn’t sleep?" Benedict’s voice was low.

Penelope shook her head. “Too quiet.”

He sat beside her, not too close, but close enough that the heat between them stirred again. A long silence stretched. Comfortable.

“I used to think quiet meant loneliness,” Penelope said. “Now it feels like… possibility.”

Benedict looked at her, fully this time. The slope of her jaw, the soft curl of her hair, the expression unreadable on her face.

“You’re full of surprises,” he murmured.

She smiled faintly. “You just weren’t paying attention.”

“I am now.”

Her breath caught, but she said nothing. Neither did he.

The cicadas sang.

Chapter Text

The rooftop terrace wasn’t officially part of the villa’s “approved hangout zones,” as Eloise had once called them, but that hadn’t stopped Colin and Gregory from hauling two lounge chairs and an old rug up there. It had become a sort of secret family nook, especially for late-night talks and sibling conspiracies.

Tonight, it was Benedict and Penelope who found their way up the winding stairs, barefoot and quiet, each carrying a glass of wine.

Below, the sounds of the villa had faded—Hyacinth’s final ukulele chord still echoing, Anthony’s booming laughter cut off as the heavy doors shut behind them. Up here, only stars and silence stretched overhead.

Penelope took the first sip of her wine and tilted her head back. “You can see every star out here.”

Benedict sat beside her, knees almost touching. “It’s always better away from the city.”

She hummed. “Do you think we’d all talk like this back in London?”

“No,” he said honestly. “There’s something about this place. It... slows everything down.”

Penelope turned to look at him, hair tousled by the breeze. “Even you?”

He smiled, sheepish. “Even me.”

They lapsed into silence again. But not the uneasy kind. Just space to breathe. The kind that meant there was more to come.

“Do you ever wonder if people only see one version of you?” she asked suddenly.

He blinked. “All the time.”

Penelope traced a finger along the rim of her glass. “I used to think it was easier to be invisible. To be the background. But now... I want to be seen. Really seen.”

“You are,” Benedict said. “At least—I see you.”

Penelope let the words settle. Then, softly, “Do you ever feel like what you are isn’t enough?”

Benedict’s breath caught. He didn’t expect the question. Didn’t expect it to hit so close.

“Every time I pick up a pencil,” he said. “Every time I stand in front of a blank canvas. It’s like... what if I can't capture what I feel? What if my best still isn’t good enough?”

Penelope looked at him, eyes steady. “It’s enough for me.”

He stared at her, speechless. Her tone hadn’t wavered. She wasn’t trying to comfort him. She meant it.

Footsteps interrupted them—Colin and Kate, carrying leftover cake and clearly expecting to find an empty terrace. They paused mid-step when they spotted the pair.

“Oh. Didn’t realize you two were—”

“—having a rooftop summit,” Kate finished.

Penelope laughed, scooting over to make space. “Plenty of room.”

Colin plopped down beside Benedict. “We brought cake.”

Kate handed a plate to Penelope. “You looked like you were in need of something sweet.”

“Always,” Penelope said, grateful for the momentary reprieve from the weight of earlier confessions.

The four of them sat, nibbling on cake, discussing nothing in particular—Kate’s new obsession with local ceramics, Colin’s failed attempt at learning Italian, and the time Francesca convinced them all the house was haunted (it wasn’t, but Hyacinth hadn’t slept for a week).

Eventually, Kate and Colin headed back inside, leaving Benedict and Penelope alone once more.

Penelope looked at the now-empty plate. “That was good cake.”

“I think you just like being distracted.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You make that sound like a bad thing.”

“It’s not,” he said. “But I like talking to you. Even when we’re not saying much.”

“You say a lot, Benedict. Even when you think you don’t.”

He leaned back on his elbows, watching her quietly. “What do I say?”

She shrugged, not meeting his eyes. “You’re careful. But when you’re with me... I think you forget to be.”

He turned his head, gazing up at the stars. “Maybe you’re the only one I don’t feel I need to perform for.”

She glanced at him then. Long and thoughtful. “That’s a good thing, right?”

“The best,” he said, barely louder than a whisper.

And for a moment, the rooftop was quiet again. No laughter, no music. Just a growing tension between them—unspoken but undeniable.

Penelope stood first. “I should go in before someone comes looking.”

He didn’t ask her to stay. But he stood with her.

“Goodnight, Benedict.”

“Goodnight, Pen.”

He didn’t sleep for a long time after she left.

Chapter Text

The villa was unusually still that morning. The sun filtered gently through the kitchen windows, casting soft golden stripes across the tiled floor. Penelope stood at the counter, slicing ripe peaches for breakfast, already feeling the cling of the day’s heat.

She didn’t hear him come in.

“Morning, Nel.”

The knife paused against the cutting board.

She turned slowly. Benedict was leaning in the doorway, hair tousled, shirt unbuttoned at the collar. Casual. Unbothered.

Her lips curved. “Nel?”

He shrugged, walking in. “It suits you. Simple. Warm. Kind of like honey.”

“That’s a stretch.”

“Still true.”

Penelope went back to slicing, but her smile didn’t leave.

Across the villa, the rest of the family was beginning to stir. Kate and Violet could be heard debating herb sprigs in the garden. Gregory and Hyacinth were arguing over the merits of plum jam versus apricot. Francesca and Michael were still asleep, having returned late from a midnight walk.

Benedict grabbed a mug and poured himself coffee. “Want to come into town later?”

Penelope blinked. “Just us?”

He hesitated—then, “Yeah. Just us.”

The word us settled somewhere under her skin, warm and dangerous.

The walk into town was lazy, meandering through olive groves and sun-baked roads. Benedict carried the canvas bag, Penelope carried the shopping list. Neither mentioned the way their arms kept brushing.

“Are you going to sketch today?” she asked.

He sighed. “Maybe. Depends if my muse cooperates.”

She rolled her eyes. “That’s not a compliment if I don’t get a cut of the profits.”

“I’ll pay in peaches.”

“Deal.”

They stopped at the flower stall first. The vendor, a woman with sharp cheekbones and a no-nonsense attitude, handed Penelope a small bouquet with a wink. “Your boyfriend has good taste.”

Penelope froze. Benedict didn’t.

“She does,” he said simply, already handing over coins.

They didn’t talk about it as they walked away. But Penelope’s fingers tightened around the flowers.

They wandered deeper into the town, weaving through narrow cobbled streets and side alleys bursting with color. Street musicians played gentle ballads on old violins, and the scent of rosemary and fresh bread drifted from open windows.

At the bookshop, Benedict picked up a small sketchbook and handed it to her. “For you. So you can draw me when I’m pretending to be poetic.”

Penelope laughed, the sound light. “I think you’re confusing poetic with dramatic.”

“Not the worst confusion.”

In the courtyard outside, they sat under a faded red umbrella and shared espresso and small almond biscuits.

“You’ve been quiet today,” she said eventually.

“I’ve been watching you,” he admitted. “Not in a weird way.”

She raised a brow. “Definitely weird now.”

He laughed, nudging her with his shoulder. “You’re different here.”

“I’m just not in London,” she said. “No expectations. No noise.”

“No hiding,” he added.

She met his eyes and nodded.

Back at the villa, the chaos resumed. Anthony was on the phone pacing the patio, trying to “sneak in” a five-minute business call. Colin and Hyacinth were organizing a makeshift bocce tournament. Kate was laying out a cheese board with more intensity than necessary.

“Is that a truffle brie?” Francesca asked, leaning over. “You know how Gregory gets.”

“Let him fight me,” Kate said.

Penelope dropped the bag of produce onto the kitchen counter. Benedict set the canvas tote beside it.

Colin looked up from peeling an orange. “You two took your time.”

Benedict shrugged. “We had flowers to buy. Peaches to select. Elders to charm.”

“Were you charming or being charmed?” Eloise asked.

“Bit of both,” Penelope said, sliding past them toward the stairs.

Benedict watched her go. Then looked down at the small bloom she had tucked behind her ear.

Later that evening, the villa buzzed with music and the scent of grilled vegetables and lemon-soaked fish. Violet insisted on a “proper dinner” and had strong-armed everyone into helping. The long table was dressed with candles and citrus, wine flowed easily, and laughter rose above the clinking of silverware.

Michael and Francesca shared quiet jokes across the table, while Kate tried—and failed—to beat Gregory in a game of trivia.

Benedict sat beside Penelope. Not too close. Just enough.

“Do you ever think about staying?” he asked.

“In Italy?”

“In stillness.”

She considered that. “Sometimes. But I always think it’ll slip through my fingers.”

“You hold on tighter than you think.”

She smiled, eyes low. “So do you.”

That night, after the stars had pushed through the sky, Benedict found her again—this time on the terrace, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders.

“Nel,” he said softly.

She looked up.

He sat beside her.

They didn’t speak.

Didn’t need to.

Just the sound of the cicadas, the night, and something unspoken stretching gently between them.

He reached for her hand. She let him.

And in the hush of everything, the nickname stayed.

Like it always belonged.

Chapter Text

The late afternoon sun spilled through the olive branches, warm and mottled as it danced along the villa’s tiled floors. The family had gone quiet after a long lunch—some napped, some read, others vanished into side conversations and shady corners of the house.

Benedict was in the makeshift studio he’d set up on the second floor balcony, trying to sketch. Or pretending to. He’d stared at the same page for ten minutes.

Penelope. Again.

Not posed. Not still. Just the way he remembered from earlier—laughing, head tilted toward the sun, curls damp from the heat, a peach in her hand and a crooked smile on her lips. It was impossible to get it right.

He muttered a curse, flipped the page.

“Maybe you need a new muse,” came Colin’s voice from the open doors.

“I don’t recall asking for your critique.”

Colin wandered in, holding two glasses of iced tea. He handed one over. “You’re brooding again.”

Benedict took the glass. “It’s called focus.”

“It’s called ‘you stare at her like she’s going to evaporate if you blink."

Benedict gave him a look.

“Not judging,” Colin added. “Just saying... whatever this is? It’s new. For you.”

Benedict didn’t answer. He sipped his tea and looked back at the blank page.

Downstairs, Penelope sat with Eloise and Francesca on the cool tile of the veranda, flipping through a decades-old photo album Violet had dug out from storage. Each picture was sun-bleached and curling at the edges.

“That’s you?” Penelope laughed, pointing at a tiny Eloise in a tiara, her face smeared with what looked like blackberry jam.

“I was staging a royal coup,” Eloise said. “Colin was the court jester. As it should be.”

Francesca nudged Penelope with her shoulder. “You’re good for him, you know.”

Penelope blinked. “Who?”

“Benedict.”

“I’m not… I mean, it’s not like that.”

Eloise snorted. “Please. He calls you Nel like it’s a prayer.”

Penelope looked down at the photo in her lap, cheeks warm. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

“It does to him,” Francesca said.

That evening, the villa came alive again. Michael had organized a wine tasting “with absolutely no qualifications,” which meant half the family was tipsy by the time dinner rolled around.

Kate sat beside Penelope and passed her a slice of tomato tart. “So. Benedict.”

“Is this an ambush?”

“No,” Kate said, too quickly. “Just a strategic conversation over carbs.”

“He’s... complicated.”

Kate sipped her wine. “He always has been. But he’s looking at you like he’s finally seeing clearly.”

Across the table, Benedict laughed at something Colin said. Then his eyes flicked back to Penelope.

“See?” Kate said.

Penelope didn’t answer. But she didn’t look away, either.

Later, long after the table had been cleared and lanterns lit the courtyard in gold, Penelope wandered out alone with a bowl of cherries and a book she wouldn’t open.

She found Benedict in the garden, sketchpad balanced on his knees.

“You’re avoiding the party,” she said.

“I’m working.”

“Mm. With no pencil in your hand?”

He looked up, caught. Smiled. “Busted.”

She sat beside him on the grass.

“You know,” he said, “sometimes I think I’m not very good at this.”

“At sketching?”

“At knowing what I want. Or how to say it.”

She handed him a cherry. “Maybe you don’t have to say it yet.”

He took it, his fingers brushing hers. “Then what do I do?”

Penelope looked ahead, where the hills rolled dark and quiet beyond the trees.

“You wait until it’s loud enough that you can’t ignore it.”

They sat in the silence that followed, sweet and heavy with something they couldn’t name yet.

He looked over at her again.

“Nel.”

She turned.

He didn’t say anything else.

He didn’t need to.

Chapter Text

The villa was still. The quiet kind that settled after too much laughter and just enough wine.

Benedict was awake before the others. Not to sketch this time, not really. He wandered through the empty kitchen barefoot, absently slicing a peach while the sun broke over the garden.

He found her in the courtyard.

Penelope was curled on a cushioned bench, a cardigan pulled tight over her shoulders. Her curls were a little wild from sleep, her book resting open but unread in her lap.

“You’re up early,” he said.

She looked up. "So are you."

He took the seat beside her without asking, offering her a peach slice. She took it without comment.

They didn’t speak for a while.

“You know,” she said finally, “this is the first summer I haven’t wanted to leave early.”

Benedict turned to her, the early light casting soft gold along her cheekbones. “Why?”

Penelope shrugged, but her voice was quieter now. “Maybe I just stopped waiting to feel like I belonged.”

Benedict didn’t know what to say to that, so he didn’t. Instead, he nudged her foot with his. She smiled.

Later that morning, the rest of the family emerged in waves—Colin bickering with Eloise over espresso, Anthony already dictating breakfast orders while Kate rolled her eyes beside him. Francesca and Michael joined a little later, both of them serene and sun-kissed.

“Are you two attached at the hip now?” Eloise asked, motioning between Penelope and Benedict as she buttered her toast. “Should I start preparing the wedding invitations, or...?”

Penelope flushed. Benedict choked slightly on his coffee.

Kate raised a brow. “Don’t tease them. They’re still in denial.”

“We are not—”

“Exactly,” Francesca said with a grin. “Denial.”

That afternoon, Anthony announced a last-minute boat day. “We’re going to the cove,” he declared, already pulling on his sunglasses.

“I didn’t pack for maritime chaos,” Eloise grumbled.

“Good thing Penelope did,” Benedict said softly beside her.

She glanced at him. "Are you implying I have forethought?"

“I’m saying you’re magic.”

The words slipped out before he could catch them. She froze just slightly. Then turned away with a half-smile.

On the boat, the air was thick with salt and sun and sunscreen. Colin tried to captain. Michael tried to stop him. Kate laughed so hard she nearly dropped her hat into the sea.

Benedict sat beside Penelope, both of them barefoot, legs stretched out, shoulders brushing.

“You’ve been quiet,” she said.

“I think I’m just… content.”

“Dangerous thing to be.”

He looked over. “Why?”

“Because it never lasts.”

He didn’t argue. But he didn’t agree either.

“I like it when you call me Nel,” she added suddenly.

He turned to her, startled by the admission.

“It feels like it’s only mine,” she continued. “Like it’s not about who I’ve been to everyone else. Just who I am to you.”

Benedict’s throat went dry. He wanted to say something—something important. But his mind spun and his heart beat too loudly.

So instead, he reached down and picked up her hand, gently. Her fingers curled around his without hesitation.

They sat like that while the boat rocked gently over the waves, quiet in a storm of noise.