As Colin enters their bedroom suite, he can see the dim candle light coming from beneath the bedroom door. He smiles, knowing that Penelope is already there, waiting for him. He slips in quietly, noting that she is already in her nightgown—and noting that she does not hear him enter. So, he stands there for a moment, watching—appreciating—the way she takes down her hair, how her long red locks cascade down around her shoulders, how she shakes her head gently to free them, the way her hand pulls her curls apart almost effortlessly. Smiling softly to himself, he watches as she reaches for the sheer scarf sitting on her dressing table beside the mirror, carefully slipping it underneath her hair, letting the two sides fall over her shoulders as she evens their length.
Breathtaking, he thinks to himself. He brightens as Penelope spots him, grinning back at him through the mirror as she ties her hair up, pulling out a few loose curls at the front.
"You are stunning," he tells her, finally crossing the room toward her.
She rolls her eyes, but grins as she turns to face him. "I am in a nightgown and—"
"Are ravishing," he interjects, wrapping his arms around her, sighing contentedly as she leans back into him. "My sister certainly kept you busy today."
"As we anticipated," she says. "As we planned, actually."
"I know, I know," he murmurs. "But it does not change that fact that I missed you."
"Did you get much writing done?"
Colin nods, straightening up a bit—chuckling softly when he is unable to stand fully upright and still hold onto her properly.
There are so many things he's come to love and appreciate about his wife—things he's always loved and appreciated and the new things he discovers as their days together pass. Some of them are the things that make her the woman she is—her independence and her wit, her intelligence and her way with words, the way she cares for those who are special to her, and her unapologetic ambition.
But then, there are other things.
Little things that on the surface don't mean much of anything, that could easily go unnoticed.
The way her eyes glimmer when she is reading something she enjoys, the way she shivers and curls into him as the embers at the hearth dwindle in the middle of the night, the way there are always ink stains on her fingers and the way she listens with such genuine interest when people talk to her.
But one of his favorite things about his wife is her height.
Growing up, Penelope was always the shortest in their crowd and he never thought much of it. It was just a thing about her—just as his eyes were blue, Penelope was short. It did not matter, it was not something he thought about.
He'd first noticed it—really noticed it—the first time he'd asked her to dance. Even then, there was nothing significant about it. It was just something that drew his attention as they positioned themselves on the dance floor, something that was easily forgotten as soon as they began to move to the music.
But as their relationship shifted from friendship to love and he began to know her in a more intimate way, her height became one of those things that he came to appreciate about her, one of those things he came to love about her.
He loved the way she fit into him, how he could hug her into his side and how she just barely came up to his shoulder. He loved that he could wrap his arms around her fully and rest his head atop hers, holding her close. He loved that sometimes when he did this, she would close her eyes and listen to the beat of his heart. He loved the way she felt laying beside him in their bed—when they were face to face, her feet would skim gently against his calf in a way that was so soothing, and when their feet were entangled her cheek rested on his chest or shoulder. Sometimes, he would tease her playfully about using him as a giant pillow—she would laugh and cuddle closer, holding him a bit tighter, but would never deny using him in such away, just as he did not deny that he loved it when she did.
When they were intimate together, her height was also a surprising benefit—the way she could position herself, the way her legs could wrap around him, the way she could straddle him.
He loved going for walks with her—her short strides made him slow down, made him take the time to appreciate the moment they were in, and even he loved the way their shadows looked side-by-side on the gravel path—complete opposites that somehow just fit.
He loved that there was a little stool next to their bed that she sometimes used to climb into it, and he loved the way she could curl herself up in the armchair by the window in their library when she read.
Sometimes when she kissed him, she would have to lean up on to the tips of her toes and more often than not, when she hugged him, her arms would link around his waist rather than his neck. He knew she did this because it was more comfortable for her to do so, but because she did, her hugs were always tight and warm. They were comforting in ways that he could not explain and there was a security about them in which he relished.
He loved that when they argued or she had something important to say, she would sometimes step onto the stairs to put herself at his level, so she could look him in the eye; and in contrast, he loved when it was his turn to say something important and he would take her hands in his and lead her to a place where they could sit down together so he could look her in the eye.
He loved that she was small, but mighty—a tiny tornado when she was either angry or excited. Despite her short stature, somehow Penelope seemed to tower over everyone else whenever they were in a crowded room.
"Can I read them?"
Colin blinks. For a moment, he had been lost in thought.
"In the morning," he tells her, taking a step back. "There are just a few details I wish to add, and…" His voice trails off as a coy grin tugs on to his lips. "After spending my whole day with those pages and away from you, there are other ways I wish to spend this time we have together now."
Her brow juts up and her soft laugh rings out as he pulls her back to him. His arms once more circle around her and his lips find that sweet spot on her neck, fluttering against her skin. He smiles against her as her fingers slip between them, working the buttons of his waistcoat and he draws in a breath as the warmth of her fingertips press against his shirt, then slowly—teasingly—she backs away. He catches her hands as she moves away from him, letting her lead him to their bed—and he cannot help the gruff little chuckle that escapes him as she hoists herself up, her feet dangling over the side of the bed.
Yet another thing he loves about her height.
Then, as she tugs at the ribbons of her nightgown, opening it up to him, her height is suddenly the last thing on his mind.