It had been raining all night.
Not the kind of romantic drizzle that makes you want to dance under streetlamps, but the relentless kind that seeps through cracks, soaks through socks, and leaves the world heavy and gray.
Still, somehow, Penelope felt warm.
Maybe it was Marc's hoodie—two sizes too big, sleeves swallowing her fingers—or maybe it was the way he'd walked her home without saying a word, his presence more comforting than a thousand apologies.
She stood by her window, watching the world blur behind glass. In the reflection, her face looked like someone else's—a girl who had seen too much and said too little.
Downstairs, the doorbell rang.
Penelope blinked.
She wasn't expecting anyone.
When she opened the door, Marc stood there, soaked from head to toe. His eyes were wild with something more than rain.
"I couldn't sleep," he said breathlessly. "I kept thinking… what if I never told you?"
"Told me what?" she whispered.
"That I didn't come here by accident."
Penelope's heart stilled.
Marc stepped in, dripping water on the mat, but neither of them noticed. He reached into the inner pocket of his leather jacket and pulled out a folded photograph—aged, cracked, but unmistakable.
It was a picture of Penelope. At a fairground. Smiling, years ago.
"You were twelve," Marc said. "And I was fourteen. I took that picture before you even knew my name."
Penelope took a step back, eyes wide. "How… how do you have this?"
Marc ran a hand through his hair, his voice shaking. "Because I've known about you longer than you've known about me. My dad… he was your father's business partner. We used to come over to your town for summer meetings. I used to watch you from the Ferris wheel. You were always with that red balloon."
Her breath caught.
He wasn't lying.
She remembered the balloon. She remembered the feeling of being watched but never scared—like someone was out there making sure she was okay.
"I didn't think I'd ever see you again," Marc continued. "But then I did. That day in the café. And suddenly, everything I thought I'd forgotten came back."
Tears welled in Penelope's eyes. "Why didn't you say something before?"
"I didn't want to scare you," he said. "And part of me was afraid you wouldn't remember."
"I didn't," she whispered. "Until now."
There was a long pause.
Then Penelope reached for the photo, her fingers brushing his. A quiet electric charge passed between them.
"I thought Scott was the one," she said suddenly, voice trembling. "I thought… he saw me. But he doesn't. Not really. Not like you just did."
Marc smiled faintly. "I don't need to figure you out, Penelope. I've been carrying pieces of you around for years."
And in that moment, under the low hum of the hallway light and the ticking of the old kitchen clock, Penelope kissed him.
Not a cautious kiss. Not the kind where you test the waters.
But a kiss filled with history, aching, and finally—home.
---
Meanwhile...
Veronica sat on the edge of her bed, scrolling aimlessly through her phone. Scott hadn't messaged her in two days. Not since their almost-date, not since he said he "needed time."
"Boys always choose her," she muttered, tossing her phone aside. "Penelope, Penelope, Penelope. Always."
But just as the thought festered into bitterness, her phone buzzed.
A message.
From Scott.
> I'm outside. Come down if you want honesty.
Veronica grabbed her jacket, her heart beating like it was late for something.
She found him leaning against his car, his hoodie pulled over his damp hair. His eyes met hers, and for once, he didn't smile.
"I haven't been fair to you," he said.
Veronica crossed her arms. "No. You haven't."
"I thought I liked Penelope," he admitted. "I think part of me always did. But with you… I feel like I don't have to pretend."
She blinked.
"You drive me crazy," he added with a chuckle. "You're loud, dramatic, and you snort when you laugh."
"Thanks for the roast," she muttered.
"But when I think about who I want to argue with in five years… or kiss under a stupid mistletoe… it's not her."
Veronica's breath caught.
"It's you," Scott said, eyes softening. "You and your stupid snort."
And then, Veronica kissed him too—right there on the wet pavement, under the yellow light of the streetlamp.