She wanted to smile. She wanted to cry. She wanted to run at him and kiss him senseless. So like always, she did nothing, and for once, it felt like the right thing to do. The urge to touch him might have been so strong she needed to fist her hands and hide them behind her back, but Penelope needed a moment, just a moment, to catch her breath. With the blood pounding in her ears, it was a miracle she could hear or think, but her mind was tripping over itself trying to understand what was happening.
"I seem to find better company this way," she said a little uncertainly, taking slow, small steps away from the door and toward him.
Her initial embarrassment had fled, but Penelope still felt her heart hammering uneasily, and realized she suddenly felt scared of him. It was baseless (or rather, it was not because he had done anything) but she did not think she could bear it if he hated her—or worse, deemed her irrelevant to him— for the way she treated him. But he should. Penelope even expected it, but she could not say it wouldn't kill her a little, if he did. And if this conversation meant she had to hear it, she wasn't certain she wanted it to continue. But she was more than that, now. If there were tears welling in her eyes from earlier, she blinked them away and straightened her spine. If the urge to wrap her arms around him felt overpowering still, she remembered why she walked away. Not childish, not selfish, not this time.
Stopping, her hands twisting nervously behind her back, she looked up at him to say, "Charles, I—I am sorry. For before. I couldn't—" the tears she'd been proud of holding back threatened to sneak into her voice, slither out the corner of her eyes, "I just want you to know I'm sorry."
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