Chapter 1: The Suspicious Move-In
The fourth flight of stairs might actually kill her.
Penny shifted the box against her hip, feeling sweat pool beneath the baseball cap pulled low over her face. The cardboard corner dug into her ribs with each step, and the words "DEFINITELY NOT AWARDS" mocked her from the side in her assistant's cheerful handwriting—former assistant, she reminded herself. Jamie was officially unemployed as of yesterday, another bridge burned in Penny's increasingly desperate quest for invisibility.
"Authentic living experience," my ass.
Her publicist's voice echoed in her memory, all fake enthusiasm and calculated spin. "Think of it as method acting, darling. Live like a normal person for a few months, then come back with stories that make you relatable."
Relatable. As if three years playing a zombie-slaying teenage genius hadn't already made her the poster child for every fanboy's fever dream. As if she needed to be more relatable when she couldn't walk to Starbucks without someone asking if she was going to stake them through the heart.
The box slipped. Penny lunged forward, catching it before it tumbled down the stairs, and her shoulder slammed into something solid and warm.
"Whoa!"
The collision sent her stumbling sideways, the box flying from her arms. She watched in slow-motion horror as it hit the landing and burst open like a piñata, bubble-wrapped shapes scattering across the grimy hallway floor.
"Oh God, I'm so sorry!" The voice belonged to a slight man with dark hair and glasses, who immediately dropped his grocery bags and scrambled toward the mess. "Are you hurt? I didn't see you coming around the—"
"The packaging methodology is quite sophisticated," interrupted a taller man with longer hair, crouching to examine one of the bubble-wrapped objects with scientific fascination. "Professional-grade protection, suggesting either high monetary value or significant sentimental attachment."
Penny's heart hammered against her ribs. Through the translucent plastic, the shape of her People's Choice Award was unmistakable to anyone who knew what they were looking at. She dropped to her knees, frantically gathering the wrapped items before either man could get a closer look.
"It's fine! Totally fine! Nothing broken, just—" Her voice climbed two octaves, the Nebraska accent bleeding through despite years of vocal coaching. "—just some stupid stuff, really not important at all—"
"Hey, slow down." The first man—glasses, kind eyes, soft voice—knelt beside her, his movements careful and gentle. "Let me help."
His fingers brushed hers as they both reached for the same package, and something electric shot up Penny's arm. She looked up, meeting brown eyes behind wire-rim frames, and felt the world tilt slightly off its axis.
He didn't know who she was.
After three years of calculated smiles and predatory stares, of people seeing her face and immediately cataloging her net worth and IMDb credits, here was someone looking at her like she was just a person. A clumsy, sweaty person in a baseball cap, but a person nonetheless.
"I'm Leonard," he said, still gathering her things. "Leonard Hofstadter. This is my roommate, Sheldon Cooper."
Sheldon had moved on from examining the packaging to studying Penny herself. "Your cardiovascular response suggests either genuine distress or cardiovascular conditioning inconsistent with your apparent lifestyle choices. Are you engaged in regular aerobic exercise, or are these items of particular importance?"
"I—what—I mean, I just—" Penny's media training deserted her entirely. "I'm Penny. I'm moving into 4B. Hi."
"What kind of bowling trophies are wrapped with museum-quality materials?" Sheldon continued, holding up one of the packages.
The lie popped out before Penny could stop it. "Bowling trophies."
Leonard blinked. "Sorry?"
"Bowling trophies. These are... bowling trophies. From... bowling."
Smooth, Penelope. Really convincing.
Sheldon's eyes lit up with predatory interest. "Fascinating! What's your average? What league do you compete in? Are these from regulation ten-pin or candlepin competitions?"
"I—" Penny stared at him, her mind completely blank. She'd trained for six weeks to convincingly roll a bowling ball for that romantic comedy last year, but league terminology? Average scores? She might as well have claimed they were ancient Mesopotamian artifacts.
Leonard seemed to notice her panic. "Sheldon, maybe ease up on the interrogation. She just moved in."
But Sheldon was like a dog with a particularly fascinating bone. "It's simply unusual to see such careful preservation of sporting memorabilia. What's your handicap? Do you bowl left-handed or right-handed? Have you experimented with different ball weights to optimize your pin carry percentage?"
"Right-handed," Penny managed, since that seemed safe. "And I... like... heavier balls? For the... momentum?"
Leonard smiled, and it transformed his entire face. "That makes sense. More mass means more energy transfer when you hit the pins."
The approval in his voice made something warm bloom in Penny's chest. When was the last time someone had looked at her like she'd said something clever instead of just something scripted?
"Although," Sheldon continued, "the optimal ball weight is typically calculated as ten percent of body weight up to sixteen pounds maximum, which for someone of your apparent build would suggest—"
"Okay!" Penny scrambled to her feet, clutching the re-wrapped packages against her chest. "Thanks for the help, guys, really, but I should probably get these upstairs before they... expire. Bowling trophies are very time-sensitive."
Leonard stood too, brushing dust off his jeans. "Do you need help with the rest of your boxes? There looked like there were more in the car."
The offer was so genuine, so free of ulterior motive, that Penny almost said yes. Almost let this sweet, awkward physicist help her haul her carefully hidden life up four flights of stairs. Almost risked exposing herself further just to keep him nearby for another few minutes.
"That's really nice of you, but—"
"Actually," Sheldon interrupted, "unsolicited physical assistance to unknown neighbors violates several basic safety protocols. We have no knowledge of her background, criminal history, or potential infectious diseases."
"Sheldon," Leonard said, his voice carrying a warning.
"I'm just saying, Leonard, that helping strangers move heavy objects without proper background checks and insurance waivers is statistically inadvisable."
Penny found herself smiling despite her panic. "He's got a point. I could be a serial killer. A bowling-obsessed serial killer."
Leonard's laugh was warm and completely unguarded. "Well, when you put it that way..." He adjusted his glasses, a gesture Penny was already cataloging as nervous habit. "But the offer stands. We're right across the hall in 4A if you need anything."
"Apartment 4A," Sheldon corrected. "And we should inform you that our building has specific quiet hours, shared laundry protocols, and restrictions on aromatic cooking that you'll need to—"
"Sheldon." Leonard grabbed his roommate's arm and steered him toward their door. "I'm sure Penny can figure out the building rules."
Penny watched them go, Leonard still apologizing over his shoulder while Sheldon launched into what sounded like a dissertation on proper moving etiquette. They disappeared into 4A, leaving her alone in the hallway with her heart still racing and her arms full of evidence.
She fumbled with her keys, finally getting 4B open and stumbling inside. The apartment was sparse, deliberately anonymous—nothing that screamed "famous actress" or "someone with an eight-figure net worth." Just a couch, a few pieces of furniture, and boxes labeled with generic descriptions like "BOOKS" and "KITCHEN STUFF."
Penny leaned against the door and closed her eyes, listening to the voices filtering through the thin walls.
"—peculiar attire choices for moving day. The baseball cap alone suggests either follicular insecurity or a desire to avoid solar exposure, but paired with what appeared to be designer sunglasses—"
"Maybe she's just private, Sheldon."
"Privacy is merely secrecy with better marketing, Leonard. Mark my words, there's more to our new neighbor than meets the eye."
Despite everything, Penny smiled. If only Sheldon knew how right he was.
Her phone buzzed against her hip, the sound sharp and insistent in the quiet apartment. The screen showed seventeen missed calls from Marcus, her agent, and a text that made her stomach clench: "WHERE ARE YOU? Emmy voting closes in 48 hours—you need to be VISIBLE!"
She stared at the message for a long moment, then powered the phone off entirely. For the first time in three years, she wasn't going to be visible. She wasn't going to smile for cameras or give carefully crafted sound bites or pretend that being Penelope Queen was the only thing that mattered.
She was going to be Penny from 4B who was maybe terrible at bowling but definitely good at lying about it.
And maybe, just maybe, she was going to figure out what it felt like to be seen by someone who didn't already know exactly who she was supposed to be.
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