Work Text:
The sun was low enough to paint everything gold.
“There were just rows on rows of vines, and—honestly, it was really cool because—” Colin broke off mid-sentence to gesture at her, his hands flying with animation. “Wait—have you ever been to a vineyard before?”
Penelope shook her head, smiling, but he didn’t notice. He was already lost in the story again, words spilling over themselves like sunlight through leaves.
“You’d think it would smell like grapes, right? Sweet and fresh and… I don’t know, purple-y? But it’s not like that at all. It smells like dirt. Like proper earth. It’s weirdly grounding."
She smiled, chin resting in her palm. “Grounding,” she echoed. “Very poetic.”
Colin grinned without looking up. “You’re mocking me.”
“A little.”
He laughed, soft and unbothered, and kept talking—about the people he met, the wine he pretended to understand, the way the light fell across the fields in the late afternoon. The more he spoke, the more his words blurred into sound, warm and low, like water moving over stones.
"And that’s the wild part, you look at all that beauty, and underneath, it’s just soil holding it all together.”
His hands moved as he spoke, painting invisible landscapes in the air. She wasn’t really following the thread anymore; her mind had drifted somewhere quieter, somewhere warm.
The light touched the side of his face, glinting in his hair. He was talking with that open, easy joy she wished he’d let the world see more often. His eyes, bright and alive, flicked toward her for a second, and in that second, the rest of the afternoon fell away.
She smiled before she could stop herself.
He didn’t see it, or maybe he did. Either way, he kept going.
“Anyway, it makes sense, doesn’t it?” he said. “That wine would taste like the ground it came from. People say it’s earthy, but maybe it’s just honest… like it remembers what it used to be.”
She nodded, though she wasn’t agreeing so much as memorizing the sound of his voice: how it rose and fell, soft and sure, how it filled the quiet between them.
He looked up then, eyes catching hers, and for a heartbeat they both went still.
The moment stretched—not awkwardly, but tenderly, like the space before a kiss that might never happen.
Then he laughed, rubbing the back of his neck.
“What was I even talking about?”
She laughed too. “Something about honesty,” she said.
And maybe that was true. Or maybe it was just that being near him made everything—the air, the light, her heart—feel honest too.
"Oh! And also…" His hands drew invisible shapes in the air, always moving, and every now and then, he’d push his hair back absently, mid-sentence. There was a freckle near his temple she’d never noticed before, a small thing that felt suddenly, inexplicably precious.
“…and I think I get it now,” he was saying now, eyes bright. “I think wine connoisseurs—sommelier? I don't know what the difference is actually—there is some truth to how the soil informs the taste of the wine, to such a degree that those knowledgable know what part of the world the grape was crushed just by the taste and the way it streaks the glass.”
She didn’t answer. Her gaze had softened, caught somewhere between what he said and who he was.
The sunlight had shifted, slipping across the floorboards and pooling at his feet. He looked golden in it—golden and unguarded, smiling with his whole face. It wasn’t a sight many people got to see.
And it made something inside her ache, gently.
He must have noticed her quiet, because he glanced up. “What?”
“Nothing.” Her voice came out lighter than she meant. “Just—you’re really passionate about dirt.”
Colin barked a laugh. “You make it sound ridiculous.”
“Maybe it is,” she teased. “But I like when you talk about things like that.”
That caught him off guard. He tilted his head slightly, smile fading into something softer. “Things like what?”
“Things that make you happy,” she said simply. “You light up. It’s nice to see.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The air felt full, not heavy, just alive with everything unsaid.
Then he stood, stretching. “You’re just saying that because I'm the only reason you drink good wine.”
“Hey, I buy good wine,” she refuted without any bite; her grin gave her away.
"Good wine doesn't cost a fiver at Aldi, Pen," he tsked, crossing the small stretch of his living room, stopping beside her at the counter. She could smell the faint trace of his cologne—something woody, clean.
"Good wine is what you make of it, Colin," she jested, leaning just a tad bit closer in his direction when his hand brushed the edge of the stool as he reached for a napkin, and his fingers skimmed hers. It wasn’t intentional, probably. But he didn’t pull away right away either.
Her breath caught, though she tried not to show it. His hand lingered just a heartbeat too long. When she finally looked up, he was already looking at her.
The world seemed to narrow, like the light itself had decided to hold still.
She could see the tiny flecks of gold in his eyes, the soft curve of his mouth, the question caught behind it. He looked at her the way he looked at the world—open, curious, unafraid.
Her heart tripped over itself.
He cleared his throat, finally pulling his hand back, rubbing his neck like he always did when unsure. “Anyway,” he said, the word breaking the spell a little. “I think we still have that bottle from last week?”
“Mm,” she said, voice a little too quiet. “The one that tastes like the ground it came from?”
He smiled again, shy this time. “Exactly that one.”
When he turned to find the corkscrew, she watched the back of his neck flush faintly pink. And for the first time, she wondered if maybe—just maybe—he’d been aware of her watching all along.
He poured two glasses and handed her one. Their fingers brushed again, deliberate this time, and the look they shared over the rim of the glasses was soft and searching and full of something unnamed.
Neither of them spoke for a while. The music from downstairs played on, lazy and distant.
And when he smiled at her again, sunlight catching in the wine between them, she smiled too—because it was him. Because it had always been him.
The bottle was nearly empty.
They’d drifted from the kitchen to the couch, sitting cross-legged again, the soft music from downstairs still humming through the walls.
Colin’s laugh was quieter now, loose around the edges. “You’re the worst influence,” he said, pouring the last inch into her glass.
“I didn’t force you to open it,” she said, smiling against the rim. “You were already halfway there.”
He grinned, eyes half-lidded, the kind of grin that came only when he’d stopped overthinking things. For a while, they talked about nothing—stories from their shared past, a movie they’d both hated, an old song that came on and made them nostalgic for a time that wasn’t even theirs.
Then, somewhere between one laugh and the next, the talking slowed. It was easy, it was them. It was Colin and Pen without the weight of the world and its expectations pressing them like grapes in a bottle of 1998 Cabernet Sauvignon.
The room had gone still except for the faint buzz of the city outside.
She could hear his breathing, steady and near. His arm rested along the back of the couch, close enough that a single movement would bridge the gap.
Her head tipped slightly toward him without permission. The wine, the warmth, the dimness… all of it blurred the edges between thought and impulse.
Colin looked at her then. Really looked.
His gaze flicked down to her mouth, quick and involuntary, and something unspoken passed between them, electric and delicate all at once.
She laughed softly, nervous. “What?”
He shook his head, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “Nothing. I just—” He stopped. Swallowed. “Never mind.”
But neither of them moved.
The air between them was thin now, fragile. She could feel his hand inching closer along the cushion, fingers brushing against hers in the smallest of touches—an accident that wasn’t one.
Her heart tripped once, twice.
He leaned in a fraction, just enough that she could feel the warmth of him, smell the faint trace of wine and soap on his skin.
For a heartbeat, they hung there. So close she could taste the moment waiting for them.
Then he laughed again, softly, shakily, as if trying to shake it off. “Thanks for always letting me just talk, Pen. I always feel like I'm… a lot.”
“You're perfect," she said, voice barely above a whisper, the words escaping her lips before she could wrangle them back to her.
His ears blushed prettily, eyes flicking between hers.
Then, with a quiet, breathless sort of resolve, he said, “Pen—”
And he kissed her.
It wasn’t careful, not really. It was startled and certain all at once, like the world had already decided for them. Penelope's hand found his shirt; his fingers curled around her jaw. For a second, everything else—the room, the music, the day behind them—just dropped away.
When they finally broke apart, they both laughed again. Not out of humor, but disbelief.
“One more?” he murmured.
“One more,” she echoed, still close enough that the word brushed his lips.
The city kept humming outside, unaware, but inside the small flat, the air felt utterly changed, quiet, golden, alive with the feeling that something true had finally happened.