Archive of Our Own

The Crisler Arena—now known as The Crisler Center—was large enough to hold the entire state of Michigan in both spirit and population. Michaela Stirling, infamous for her own liveliness, thought she’d find it to be a bit much. She understood the fire one needed to root for a team, she practically grew up watching the SWNT on TV, but Americans loved basketball and for reasons she didn’t care to try and understand, they worshiped it when played at the collegiate level. 

Michaela felt no real stake in the game, no loyalty to the maize and blue, and no true attachment to the insanity known as ‘March Madness’. However, the relationship she had with Francesca Bridgerton—the stunning, six foot three, absolute beast of a power forward on the court—had absolutely sucked her into the world. 

“When are they comin’ out?!” Michaela asked impatiently. 

John shrugged, “I have no idea.”

Tonight's game was completely sold out. Their seats were only three rows above the court. Due to the high demand of March Madness tickets, each player on the team was given free ones. Most of the players used them on members of their families, but Francesca's folks were still in London and they’d need way more than three tickets for everyone to be able to attend. 

So, for the first time ever, she invited John and Michaela,  and left the third ticket for the Stirling Siblings to decide together. 

They almost had to let it go to waste. John had plenty of friends but none who could make it. Michaela thought his own presence tonight to be surprising. He was an engineering major after all, and they only ever enjoyed themselves once they either graduated or switched fields of study. 

But, Michaela made a new friend just in time. 

Sasha. 

And by new friend, she meant “I just met this girl about six hours ago” kind-of-new. 

The University of Texas took the court about five minutes after they found their seats. The women were incredibly fit, tall, and quite serious–looking. Too serious if you asked Michaela. But, she assumed ‘serious’ was exactly what one needed to be to look as talented as they did dribbling the ball around. 

“Sow, arh they eny gudt?” Michaela turned to ask Sasha. 

In the few hours they’d known each other, Michaela learned that Sasha was born and raised in New York City and was inherently a huge fan of basketball. Plenty of other sports too. Now, whenever she had questions about how the game was played, she’d actually get answers instead of shrugs from John.

 She was grateful she met Sasha when she did: she’d been writing at a new off-campus cafe when she overheard one of the baristas, aka Sasha, making valid points during a conversation about the regression of Women’s Rights. Michaela had only gone to the cafe for a change of scenery, something she thought to be beneficial in her creative writing process, and by the time she sat down, Sasha sat across from her. 

“What’d you say?” Sasha replied.

Michaela didn’t end up editing a single sentence but she quite liked Sasha. She was outgoing and opinionated—and not in an aimless sort of way either. The only thing that she truly found annoying about this quick-to-blossom friendship was how often she had to repeat herself. 

“She wants to know if Texas is any good,” John translated effortlessly. 

He didn’t have a Scottish accent because he grew up in Connecticut. Their father divorced her mother when Michaela was only one year old. He moved to America and married John’s mother, Janet, the next year. Then, he and Janet split when John was around four. Anything after that was irrelevant to them both.

“Oh, sorry,” Sasha chuckled, “Yeah, the University of Texas has the number one seed in the region. Right now, we’re number two,”

Michaela glanced back at the women in orange and white. 

Swish!

“But, this is just a regular game, aye?” 

“No,” Sasha replied, her lips lingering in the shape, “This is the Elite Eight,”

“Fuck’s an elite eight?”  

Her tone—and foul language—made John and Sasha erupt into a fit of laughter.

“The NCAA tournament starts with 64 teams, then it goes to 32, then, the Sweet Sixteen, then the Elite Eight, the Final Four, and the National Championships,” Sasha explained quickly, “Basically, they’re competing for a spot in the Final Four,”

Michaela glanced at the court again and swallowed hard

“Your girlfriend didn’t explain all this to you?” Sasha inquired teasingly. 

“No . . . all she ever tells me is when she has games and practice,” Michaela answered, eyes widening as the use of the ‘g-word’ dawned on her, “An’ she's no’ me gurlfriend! . . . We’re mates. That’s all,” 

The silence from John and Sasha was louder than the arena itself. She found herself shrinking between them—and Michaela Stirling was not one to shrink for anyone. 

“Michaela,” John sighed, “Are you ever going to tell her you like her?”

John wasn’t ever supposed to learn about her feelings for Francesca. She promised to do whatever it took to keep them buried away. She thought she had done a good job, but John simply knew her too well. He’d seen what crushes did to his sister and it was safe to say, this was the worst he’d ever seen her.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Michaela scoffed, “I canny. I—she—Frannie is—well, she can be a wee bit hard to read sometimes, ya know?” 

Although that may have been true, Michaela withheld a very crucial part of this story. 

It happened two nights ago, on an ordinary ‘Puzzle-Monday’ evening at Francesca’s flat. They were alone, working on the landscape puzzle they started the week before when Michaela suddenly leaned in for a kiss. She didn’t know how she managed to get so close, how her hand ended up beneath Francesca’s, or what thoughts were happening behind those gorgeously hazel-green eyes—all she knew was she had to get out of there. 

So, she faked a stomach ache and ran back to her and John’s flat. 

They hadn’t spoken since the incident. Not technically. Michaela spent the entirety of the next day drafting text messages that couldn't survive the backspace button, then, right before she shut her eyes for the night, a notification sounded from her phone. 

It was a message from Francesca. 

A pdf of her ticket for tonight's game and nothing else. 

Not a single word. 

Michaela figured that was Francesca’s own unique way of trying to get them back to normal, to a time when the almost-kiss hadn't happened—so, Michaela would try too.

The three fell into a long and uncomfortable silent hold. Sasha hardly knew either of the women and John likely knew too much, and so, he wasn’t interested in playing the middleman. 

“I know,” John said softly and simply, “But, I still say you talk to her. You never know what could happen,”

Then, he took a large bite of a foot-long hot dog, dropping some of the chili-cheese onto his lap. 

“Disgustin’,” Michaela thought to herself. 

Suddenly, the overhead lights cut off. The maize-colored court and the giant jumbotron at the center of the ceiling were the only things they could see. Then, the band began to play. The drummers came in first. The beats were hard, precise, and spaced out enough to drive the crowd's anticipation through the roof. Once the bright brass joined in, the entire arena was on their feet, swaying like the waves on the Isle of Harris.  

Michaela stood up too, and it wasn’t just because she couldn’t see, but because the buzzing in the air was simply too infectious to ignore. 

The announcer came over the loudspeakers, voice blaring, “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN . . . PLEASE GIVE IT UP FOR THE MICHIGAN WOLVERINES . . .”

Michaela drew her attention towards the spotlit tunnel, clapping her hands together like an elated toddler. The air escaped from her lungs the second she saw Francesca in uniform. She wore a white jersey with the number 3 over her chest, matching white shorts, and had her reddish-brown hair pulled back into a low ponytail that enhanced her prominent cheek bones and gentle eyes. 

Her claps slowed and the roof of her mouth turned to sandpaper as she gawked over Francesca's flexing deltoids, biceps, and triceps. There wasn’t a single crevice of her mind that didn’t wonder what it felt like to be held in arms like those.

To be touched. 

Stop it.

Aside from being the second tallest woman on the team, the lack of a smile made her rather easy to spot. While Michigan stood in the spotlight, waving to the crowd with the same love, Francesca didn’t play into any of it. Michaela smiled harder, lightly laughing to herself as she watched Francesca stand on the edge of the spotlight with her hands tied patiently behind her back. She laughed harder when Francesca found a basketball rack the moment the lights cut back on and snapped into her warm up shots like a model train car set onto its track.

She didn’t miss a single one either.

“Wow,” Sasha said almost starstruck, “She’s sort of scary in person,” 

 Francesca’s demeanor read as though she hadn't had a single thought outside of ball and hoop. 

 “She can a bit intense but she’s a sweetheart.”

“Sweet?” Sasha glanced back onto the court, “You sure about that?”

“Aye, Achully!”

“Micky’s right. Fran really is—as my mom would say—sweet as pie. She just doesn't like to draw attention to herself, ” John leaned forward, looking past Michaela to speak to Sasha, “When it comes to basketball, it's like a switch she can’t turn off . . . she kinda has this identity complex because of her brothers and sisters— ” 

Michaela struck John’s arm with the back of her hand so roughly, the hot dog would’ve gone flying had he not held a tight grip. 

“Shut yer geggy!” Michaela shouted, “How're ye tellin’ ‘er business?”

“I’m not!”

“Yer’ are!”

Sasha could only laugh as Michaela and John continued to fight over the matter for the next five minutes. Thankfully, she also understood the misfortunes of not being an only child. By the time the argument blew over, the lights had cut off  again. 

“LADIES AND GENTLEMAN, IT’S TIME TO INTRODUCE THE STARTING FIVE FROM THE UNIVERSITY OF TEXAS!”

The entire stadium booed after each name was called. At first, Michaela thought it to be sort of cruel. Between schoolwork, the amount of people watching, and everything Sasha said about sweet eights, final seventeens, and whatever else, she could only imagine the pressure both teams were under. 

She remembered she’d likely be doing the exact same thing had this been a football match back home. 

The band started up again, only this time, the brass came in first. A solo player, with lungs Michaela imagined were actually made of steel, blew into her horn fiercely. The rest of the band followed her, striking the crowd with its thunderous tune. One by one the girls were called. Each sprinted onto the court, crouching as they high-fived their teammates and did personalized handshakes with the sole teammate on the end. 

The smile on Michaela’s face grew wider and wider as it neared Francesca’s turn. 

Her ivory, stone cold face was blown up on the jumbo-tron yet, Michaela looked at nothing but the real thing. From where they sat, she could only see her backside and still, she thought Francesca to be the most marvelous thing she’d ever laid eyes on. 

“AND LAST BUT NOT LEAST . . . ALL THE WAY FROM LONDON. . . THE WOLVERINE’S STARTING FORWARD . . . FRANCESCAAAAAAAA BRIDGERTONNNNNN!”

Michaela stuck two fingers into her mouth and blew out a whistle that impressed those around her. Her heart pounded against her ribcage as Francesca rose from the bench and gave out stiff high-fives as she went down the tunnel of teammates.

Her handshake was simple: front, back, fist-bump, jog-off. She took her place on the court the next second and waited for the referees to start the game. 

Slowly, the world around Michaela started to slip away. In her mind, there was no one else in the arena.

Only Francesca. 

Who untucked her jersey just to retuck it, then did the same to her shoelaces. 

Michaela could hardly control the silly sounds that slipped from her lips whenever she observed Francesca’s compulsively meticulous habits. She had John to thank for bringing such a woman into her life. After all, he'd been the one to push her to apply to UMichigan’s Writing Program and offered her a place to stay once she was accepted.

At first, Michaela found John’s attachment to an athlete to be strange. Her brother was the most uncoordinated man in the world. Then, once she met Francesca, she found that it was she whose personality and hobbies were “misaligned”. 

Michaela hadn’t anticipated falling for someone like Francesca. Certainly not after their rocky start. There were many ways in which they were different, but after agreeing to prioritize their first common interest—John—they let down their walls. 

And found a lot more common ground than anticipated. 

The referee walked towards the center court with the basketball tucked between their arm and hip. The tallest women from both teams stood at the center on opposite sides, preparing to jump for the very first possession of the game. 

At least, that's how Sasha explained it.

She rocked back and forth as she readied herself for tip off. While the other referees prepared their whistles, one pointed to Francesca’s chest. There was a silver necklace hung around her neck. A birthday gift from Michaela—one she'd seemed to only ever take off when showering.

She tucked the initial pendant into her jersey seamlessly, but something lingered on her face. An expression Michaela could not read. She watched Francesca toy with the chain around her neck, blinking almost absentmindedly as her gaze slipped away from the court and into the area where they were sitting. 

Heat spread across her face the second they locked eyes. The tips of her ears burned as the faintest of smiles spread across Francesca’s rosy lips. Michaela brought her hand no higher than the height of her shoulder and waved.

Bashfully.

Michaela knew better than to take the lack of a wave back personally. Francesca was in the zone and she didn’t want to be the one to take her out of it. 

But, she didn’t know what to think when Francesca’s gaze lingered anyway. 

She was too busy analyzing the party in her free seats to notice the referees and players gearing up to start the game.

John, Michaela, and  . . . a girl she’d never seen before. 

Her features fell as if they suddenly weighed too much to bear. Francesca’s entire body moved like a motion-sensored camera, rotating towards them slowly. Her eyes widened, her cheeks became flushed, and her lips slightly parted in a sort of horror.

Michaela tilted her head, staring back with tight brows. She had no idea what had struck Francesca’s mind, but it was clear something had—and whatever it was, hit hard enough for her to completely miss the whistle. 

The ball went up, her teammate tipped it in her direction, and by the time she snapped back into it, the ball had already struck her in the face. 

“Ooooooh,” a guy behind them hissed, “That had to hurt,”

Shit. 

Francesca Bridgerton scored her first basket at the age of three and from that day forward, she couldn’t seem to stop. People who watched only saw basketball as a sport and those who played mainly saw it as competition, but Francesca saw it as something closer to a science. 

She’d always understood the angle and force behind a good pass, the arc and precision behind a clean shot, and the path of a ball the moment it leaves a player’s hand. While others reacted to the game as it unfolded, Francesca calculated how to make the most of the next four or five possessions.

Position, timing, momentum—she saw it all like data on the spreadsheet.

But it was not only the logic of basketball that she loved. The sport also gave her comprehension through a lane of her own. A space to simply be. Although the sport was played in loud, crowded environments—much like her own home—she learned to truly love the art of the sport during her time at the parks. If the weather permitted, she’d listen to classical music and shoot around all by herself for hours. Her mother would complain about her returning after dark, stinking of sweat and the outdoors, but for a time, basketball felt like the only language she knew how to speak correctly. 

Sprinting made her lungs feel boundless, rebounding made her legs feel weightless, and nothing riled her more than the feeling of blocking a shot. She loved the jitters that shot through her body as she watched her opponent gather the momentum she’d absorb with her firm, rejecting hand. 

What started with a rubber ball and a hand-me-down basketball hoop, naturally developed into hauling the family to AAU Tournaments every other weekend, and finally, brought her to this very moment. 

The final score was 88-72, with Michigan securing their spot in the Final Four by almost twenty points. After begrudgingly committing to three post-game interviews, Francesca rejoined her team while they rode their euphoric high all the way to the locker room. She bobbed and weaved through the cluster of dancing teammates, unwilling to celebrate in the same manner. Her idea of a celebration involved a long hot shower, a cup of tea, and a good night’s rest—not a bouncing circle where everyone screamed over one another. 

Francesca had grown used to sticking out like a sore thumb. One of the hardest parts about playing basketball had often been befriending those she shared the court with. In London, she could never seem to say the right thing to receive invitations to gatherings held outside of practice and games. Michigan hadn’t been much different and the cultural difference sometimes served as an extra barrier, but her teammates were kind.

One or two would invite her to do things like eat at the dining hall together or study at the campus library.

Like Brooke, whom she appreciated far more than words would ever allow her to admit. 

Francesca and Brooke both joined the team as freshmen in 2022 and in the four years they spent together, they grew close—close enough for them to share an off-campus flat and close enough for her to notice when something was off.

She appeared at Francesca’s side for a few seconds. She wore a dazzling smile, enhancing the bronze glow of her sweaty cheeks, and wrapped her tattooed arm around Francesca’s waist.

“Bridgerton!” 

Francesca still hadn’t cracked a single smile. 

“Why so serious?" Brooke quoted teasingly, “We won!”

“I know,” Francesca replied. She rolled her shoulders back, struggling to find the lightness that usually resided in her tone, “I am happy,”

Brooke studied her expression, narrowing her big brown eyes slightly, “You sure don’t look it.”

Francesca was unsure of how to respond. It wasn’t exactly a question and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t get her face to look how others thought it should. Francesca was ecstatic about the win. She and her teammates had put in the work every day for the last several months—she could only imagine what Brooke would have to say about the way she looked if they hadn’t come out on top. 

But, there was someone sitting next to Michaela. 

A girl she’d never seen before. 

Francesca hastened her pace, ensuring that she entered the bright blue locker room before the rest. She rushed past her own locker and sat down in the back with her elbows in her knees, her hands folded together, and her head hung low between her shoulders. 

The rest of the team followed shortly after, then, Coach Delfico. Her purple heels clicked against the vinyl floor and the locker room bowed down to the sound. She positioned herself in front of the scribbled-over whiteboard, set her clipboard down, and pushed the white, square-framed glasses that hung onto the tip of her pointy nose upwards. 

“Ladies . . . I just want everyone to know that we won’t ever return to this moment again. We only had this one time, to be with this group, in this competition . . . and you played your little asses off tonight!”

Most of the team had never actually sat down and those who did were quickly back on their feet. Some pounded their fists into the lockers, some spun their towels in circles in the air, and others jumped on top of the bench to do a celebratory dance known as ‘The Griddy’.

Apparently, the dance went viral on social media after someone recorded a high school football player doing it. Francesca didn’t know anything about it prior to coming to Michigan. She didn’t have social media before meeting Brooke and she’d only learned all that information about it after the team begged her to do it in a video they’d upload to TikTok. 

Although they never did actually get her to do the dance, their ridiculously expressed joy when she stood in the center of the circle clapping while they danced around her hadn’t failed to bring a genuine smile to her face. 

Francesca wanted to get up and celebrate, and perhaps she could—if she could just get the picture of Michaela with another girl out of her head. 

“Texas havin’ the number one seed ain’t mean squat to us, you know why?” Coach Delfico said, her words oozing with enthusiasm. 

Francesca closed her eyes and cupped her hands over her ears. She tuned out any noise the moment she stepped on the court, but the sound seemed to carry on for miles in the locker room. Her sensitive brain felt as if it were being rattled in her cranium. It didn't help that Coach Delfico was a rowdy woman from the State of Tennessee either. On top of having to deal with an increase in volume whenever emotions ran high, she also had to ignore her constant profanity and use of improper sentences.

I’ve never seen Michaela or John with that girl before.

Not once. 

“Cause you girls know how to hustle, how to drive the damn ball, how to defend and finish—And that’s why we’re facing South Carolina in the Final Four next week!”

Her teammates erupted into another loud roar. Once Coach Delfico finished, the locker room's volume remained at an all time high. At first, they were making their own music. Ashley clapped her hands, Brooke stomped her feet, and Aisha started rapping on top of it all. 

Though she was always impressed with their ability to make music on the fly, the pace was too fickle for Francesca’s taste. She thought, perhaps, if their claps went through a compressor, then she would like it. 

And maybe if it wasn’t so loud. 

Then, Te’Yala, better known as Yala, returned to the locker room with a giant speaker on her shoulder. Francesca shot out of her seat not a second later, pushing towards her locker to grab everything she needed for her shower before they could even get the speaker connected to a phone.

The sound of 808’s and hi-hats pulsed against her backside. She’d almost made it without interruption, but Coach Delfico caught her by the arm just as she passed her office door. 

“Francesca, I wanna talk to ya for a second,” Coach Delfico said. 

She stepped in front of Francesca and squared her shoulders firmly. 

“You had a fire about you tonight," her tone was firm yet intimate, “Ride that sucker all the way to the championships, alright?”

Francesca pressed her lips together and nodded in agreement. She didn’t take compliments very well and the higher she climbed in competition, the more she received them.

“Rest up, Bridgerton,” Coach Delfico said, pushed her forward, “See you at practice tomorrow morning,”

Francesca stripped bare the moment she entered the showers. She entered the very last stall and turned the knob all the way to the left. While the steam washed over her tired limbs, she took the time to reflect on her performance. A task she did after every home game no matter the outcome. 

Overall, she secured every rebound she went up for, dished out passes that resulted in more points for the team, and drained 15 out of 17 field goal attempts. 

22 points, 9 rebounds, 6 blocks, 3 assists, and 1 steal. 

If not for the two missed shots and singular foul, she would’ve thought her performance tonight to be damn near perfect. 

—That and getting hit in the face with the ball during tip off. 

Francesca could not wipe that stain off her skin no matter how hard she scrubbed. 

By the time she finished, returning to her locker to get dressed, the locker room had emptied. Her teammates never stayed long after home games. Someone was always throwing a party and they all just had to be there. 

Win or lose. 

Francesca hadn’t attended a single one and she hadn't planned on doing so anytime in the nearby future. She hated parties. They were too loud, too rambunctious, and far too much like the world she was constantly trying to escape. She slipped into her warm up sweats, flipped on the matching blue jumper, and slung her duffel bag over her shoulder. 

Just as she reached the large double-door, her name echoed off the walls. 

It’d been Brooke. 

Again.

Francesca ventured back into the locker room, finding her roommate at the bathroom sinks.  She could never understand how Brooke managed to move so fast. Even after two years of living together. One minute she was still in a sweaty uniform, micro-braids tucked into a bun, and the next she was ready to take the night by storm with a full face of makeup and a set of curls. She had her pelvis pressed against the porcelain and her forehead only inches from the mirror while applying gloss over her dark, full lips. 

“What’s wrong?” Brooke asked, not looking away from her own reflection, “The game's over and you’ve still got your game face on,”

Francesca couldn’t get a single thought in her mind to settle long enough for a timely response. 

“Michaela didn't show?”

Francesca never had what some would call a crush before. Her family experienced love far deeper than anyone she’d known and yet, such feelings ceased to exist for herself. Eventually, she started to think all their talk about butterflies and hot flashes was pure rubbish. 

Then, she met Michaela and could hardly speak her own name.

At first, she couldn’t understand why Michaela’s presence left her so flustered, nor how thrilling such dysregulation could be. Luckily, Brooke was there to help her make sense of it all. She’d been the one to observe them in their flat for months, stating that it wasn’t difficult to put two and two together once they started doing things like ‘Puzzle-Mondays’ and ‘Film Fridays’ without John. 

“I’m sorry, maybe you can invite her to the next one,” Brooke offered apologetically, “I'll even pay for the ticket,”

Francesca wished she could be as confident in her ability to advance the relationship as Brooke was. She’d been in a sour mood the morning after the almost-kiss. The first woman she’d ever  liked had actually tried to kiss her—then, she suddenly became ‘ill’ and left. 

It was all so terribly confusing. 

Brooke left one too many dishes in the sink the night before and was unfortunately left to deal with Francesca’s wrath. Once things settled, Francesca was forced to explain the reason behind her sudden explosion. Brooke remained hopeful and encouraged her to invite Michaela to the game so she could make her feelings clear. 

Though, she was a bit frustrated when she found out Francesca had literally sent Michaela the tickets without saying anything else. 

As if that alone would make things clear. 

“Maybe she got busy—isn’t she like one of twelve students in that writing program?”

“She’s one of six,” Francesca corrected, her tone suggesting a subtle fondness over the fact, “And she was there. I saw her,”

Brooke scoffed, throwing her hands up in pure confusion. After checking the time, she swept her makeup off the counter with her forearm in a hurry, catching most of it in her golden glittery make-up bag. The rest of the makeup clattered against the ground like rain drops. She was efficient in retrieving them, but Francesca couldn't help but think there had to be a more effective way of doing things.

One of the lipsticks she tucked away hadn't even had the cap on. 

“Francesca,” she exclaimed, “That’s good news!”

She blinked at Francesca’s expression as it still had yet to reflect that. 

“Okay . . .” she trailed off, “That’s bad because . . .”

Brooke rushed to gather the rest of her things, pushing their conversation out of the locker room and into the long vacant hallway full of plaques and trophies earned by Michigan's greatest. For a while, they walked together in a silence she would usually be grateful for, but her anxious thoughts only grew worse the more she fought to handle it alone. 

“She brought a girl with her,” she confessed quietly. 

Brooke's steps sputtered, causing her to fall a few paces behind Francesca.

“Oh,”

Precisely. 

Francesca’s step drew wider. The grip on the straps of her duffel bag tightened as she raced towards her car. She could tell Brooke was gearing up for a long-winded pep talk. The girl was never quiet for this long. But, Francesca did not want to hear it. 

She couldn’t. 

She started to reach for her headphones, but a gaggle of laughter echoing from the other end of the hallway caught her attention first. One stood above the rest, one with a high pitch and a familiar cackle-like cadence. In every ‘hic’ of the giggle, the anxiety building in her chest seemed to dissipate. 

She and Brooke peered around the corner so they could observe the source of the sound. John was leaning into the glass nearby, nose buried in his phone, while Michaela engaged in conversation with the same girl from earlier. 

The girl was taller than Michaela, but she was nowhere near as tall as Francesca was. From the looks of it, she had the unknown girl beat by at least eight inches. Although she didn’t quite understand why, the thought warmed her insides and tugged at the corner of her lips.

Nevertheless, the girl had Michaela smiling from ear to ear, laughing in a way she’d only ever known John, herself, or her friends from Scotland to curate. 

“You didn’t say the girl was black and fine,” Brooke whispered, clearly ogling the girl. 

Francesca pulled them back around the corner so they wouldn't be seen or heard. 

“Why does that matter?” she asked, practically choking over the words. 

“Her being fine as hell?”

“No,” Fran remarked, “Her race,”

“Well, I wouldn’t exactly describe you as white chocolate if you know what I mean,” Brooke said, eyeing Fran from head to toe. 

Francesca did not know what she meant. Not at all. Judging by the devious smile that came after, Francesca figured it was some sort of a joke.

And she was not in a joking sort of mood. 

“I mean, has Michaela ever dated a white girl before?”

Francesca shrugged. She hadn’t thought to ask a question like that. She just assumed—well, she didn’t exactly picture anything when Michaela mentioned her ex’s. Her only thought was that she was glad Michaela was no longer seeing these people. 

Let alone touching them, or kissing them, or—

 “Are you saying she left because I’m white?” Francesca whispered, panic fluctuating her tone, “Is that what the problem is?”

Brooke’s grin only widened, “Well, for many reasons—” 

“No more jokes!” Francesca interrupted, “Be serious for once in your life!”

Her social cues may have been a tad bit off, but she absolutely understood where that was heading.

“No. She didn’t leave because you’re white,” Brooke shook her head, rolling her eyes as if the thought were so incredulous. 

If it were so incredulous—

“Why did you point it out then?!”

“That was a joke, Francesca,”

“Well,” Francesca huffed, turning up her nose, “I do not like your jokes very much,”

“Alright. I’m sorry,” Brooke apologized, grabbing Francesca by the shoulders, giving her a gentle shake,, “Just . . . calm down. You’re making me anxious now,”

Francesca bit down on her lip and clenched her thumbs into her fists. 

Great, another factor to stress over.

“She likes you, Francesca,” Brooke huffed, “She tried to kiss you for christ’s sake!”

“Then she ran away,”

“And then she came to your game,” Brooke argued.

Francesca’s expression hadn’t softened in the slightest. 

“Look, just be direct. You, of all people, should have no problem with that,” Brooke reminded her, “Just . . . go out there, pull her aside, and ask her on a date—and do it before someone else gets the chance,”

Heat coursed throughout her entire body. She looked at her reflection in the glass of the trophy case nearby, rolled her shoulders back and stretched out her neck. It was like she was back out on the court again—like she was up against another solid power forward for another board she was determined to grab.

She forced herself forward, approaching the group a bit faster than either she or Brooke had anticipated. 

“Look who it is!” John exclaimed. 

Francesca met John at the end of the hall. He showered her with compliments while embracing her in a hug a bit too firmly. She nodded him off bashfully, patted his back twice, then turned towards Michaela. 

Her body reacted, stomach tight, heart racing. Her gaze had locked onto Michaela and it refused to let go. The sight of her exquisite figure, the way her legs popped in such a short, yellow skirt, did things to Francesca. 

Unprecedented things. 

Francesca’s eyes lingered as they climbed, drawn to the sepia warmth of her face before settling on her full, naturally shaded lips Her own mouth tingled at the thought of the almost-kiss. Despite never actually getting a taste, a shadow of chocolate flavored chapstick burst over her palete anyway. 

Francesca's arms went stiff at her sides. 

Do I still hug her?

Do I let her hug me?

Do we no longer hug until we talk—

“Fran,” Michaela smiled and opened her arms.

Francesca stepped into them almost immediately. She felt Michaela’s full breasts press into her sternum and instantly forgot how to breathe.

“Hi,” Francesca muttered, keeping her voice small enough for only Michaela to hear. 

“Ye’re really good, Frannie!” Michaela exclaimed, smiling from ear to ear. 

Her voice was loud enough for the whole hallway to hear, but Francesca did not cringe.

She grinned harder. 

“That was pure class performance!” Michaela continued,“I mean . .. Ye’re deid brilliant out there. . . like fan-fuckin’-tastic!”

Michaela’s Scottish accent only grew thicker when she was excited. Francesca couldn’t get enough of the way words sounded when it came from her mouth. It was like a breath of fresh air. 

A reminder that she was alive and so strongly affected by something as simple as a dialect. 

“You really were amazing!” an American voice sounded next.

One too feminine to belong to John. 

Finally, Francesca found the girl from earlier. The burgundy dyed tips of her afro framed her decent bone structure rather nicely and she didn’t present as either masculine or feminine, but rather a calm and collected in-between. 

“Oh Fran, I made a new frend,” Michaela said, placing a hand on Sasha’s shoulder. 

Francesca’s nostrils flared harder than usual. 

“Her name’s Sasha. She’s into the ‘ole basketball thing,”

Sasha.

“Nice to meet you,” Sasha said, stepping forward with her hand extended politely, “And good game,”

Francesca’s gaze fell down to the girl's hand, then climbed back up to her face. 

A new friend.

“I was literally telling Michaela and John that my mom loves college basketball.” Sasha continued, then almost to herself, she added, “She won’t believe me when I tell her I met you . . . Would it be okay if we took a picture together ?”

Francesca Bridgerton didn’t do pictures, not unless the person asking was under the age of fifteen. Besides, she certainly wouldn’t be taking a picture with Michaela’s. . . friend. 

“No,” Francesca answered simply.

A stifled chuckle sounded from over her shoulder. She’d completely forgotten Brooke was still there, standing behind her with her feet glued to the floor as she just had to witness the scene unfold.

“Oh,” Sasha muttered, pulling her hand away, “Okay then . .. my bad,”

Michaela shot her a look that chipped away at her heart. It sort of reminded her of being scolded by her mother. Though it rarely ever happened. She thought of how Violet Bridgerton would be appalled by her actions and in a way, she’d surprised herself too. 

But she wasn’t going to shake that girl's hand. She refused. And for perhaps the first time in her life, she didn’t wonder whether it was the right or wrong thing to do. 

Brooke walked backwards towards the exit, her dimples twitching as she tried not to look too amused. 

“Well, Bridgerton, I’ll see you at home then?” Brooke chimed in, “Unless  . . . you’d like to invite these wonderful ladies—and John—-to come and party with the rest of the team?”

Francesca rolled her eyes at the mere suggestion.

“No,” 

“Say yes!” 

Dammit. 

“C’mon Frannie. You know I love parties!” Michaela echoed.

“Great, I’ll text Fran the address,”

Brooke smiled and waved at the group, then, when no one was looking, she wiggled her brows at Francesca before disappearing into the night. The warm rush she felt in Michaela’s presence was quickly replaced by the heavy weight of irritation.

“Michaela, I don’t want to go”

I want to figure things out.

“Please, Frannie?” Michaela pleaded.  

She took Francesca’s hand into both of hers, pouting hard enough to make her forget everything she'd planned to say. 

 “A wee party won’t hurt. Plus, you were amazing out there, you deserve to be celebrated properly!”

Every fiber of her being screamed, “No!”, and still—

“Fine,” she sighed, caving quicker than a decaying house, “You have two hours. I’m leaving after that,”

“Ye’re the best, Frannie,”

Francesca knew she wasn’t going to enjoy herself—not at one of her teammate’s parties and certainly not with Sasha tagging along. But what choice did she truly have in the matter? So much could happen in her absence. 

What if Sasha made a move?

What if she tried to kiss Michaela?

Or worse, what if she succeeded?

None of the above would do. 

And, so Francesca Bridgerton would drive them to the party.

Regrettably.

Michaela Stirling was having the time of her life. Or at least, she was trying to. She’d seen plenty of American shows before and was somewhat wary of their university parties. The music was different, there were all these different themes and dress codes, and not to mention, Michigan was a competitive swing state. 

Nothin’ like a party with Republicans, aye?

Thankfully, the party would not be held in a frat house overcrowded with conservative white men, but at a home owned by one of Francesca’s teammates’ family. 

A very large home on a lake nearly two hours from campus. 

The drive over was horrible. Francesca had barely spared her a glance and whenever she did try and make conversation, she hardly received more than one or two words at a time. Michaela was left to pass time in conversation with Sasha and John, which, for whatever reason, only seemed to worsen Francesca’s mood. 

It was worse than she thought

The truth was written all over Francesca’s face:

There was no going back to normal. 

So, she distracted herself with music—

—and alcohol. 

The party took place in the backyard and the world beyond had turned darker than ink. Michaela had been dancing on the dock of Lake Huron for the last hour, skin illuminated by the warm lights wrapped around the dock's fencing. 

Although Sasha had been the one to keep her company, every minor thought inevitably led her back to Francesca. 

To the almost-kiss. 

It didn’t help that Francesca sat with John in a space so clearly visible. The bar sat about fifty feet back from the dock, but distance didn’t matter; every time Michaela looked over, Francesca was already watching her, and the lump in her throat grew bigger.

The song changed to something a bit more sensual, and the small group on the dock packed in tighter. She faced Sasha and tossed her arms over her shoulders as she moved her body to the music. Neither knew the song, but it didn’t matter because the tequila loved the beat. 

A breeze brushed over the lake, bringing chills over their clammy skin. Michaela tilted her head back in response, revelling in the breeze and in the marvelous taste on her tongue: the purity of the freshwater lake and the poison of the Jose Cuervo. 

Sasha shouted over the music, “You look like you’re having fun!”

“Ah am!” Michaela nodded, still moving, "You?”

“100%,” Sasha agreed.

Then, her attention drifted elsewhere. 

Again. 

Michaela couldn’t help but grow curious after noticing something, or someone, had Sasha blushing. For the last ten minutes, she would watch her dance partner’s gaze trail off, then dart to the ground with a smile that practically showed all of her teeth. 

“What? What do you keep looking at?” Michaela inquired giddily. 

She started to turn around and see for herself, but Sasha grabbed her by the shoulder and pulled her back.

“Don’t look now!” Sasha started, “But that girl—the one who invited us out—she’s been checking for me,” 

When Sasha finally gave her the ‘ok’ to look, she found Brooke sitting around the firepit where the grass ended and the concrete patio began. She held her phone in her left hand and a red solo cup in her right, completely unaware that they’d been watching. 

“That’s Brooke,” Michaela offered.

“Is she a friend of yours?”

“Not really. She’s Frannie’s flatmate,” Michaela nodded, “A complete lesbo, too”

Sasha smirked, “Good to know,”

Michaela spent the next few songs watching Sasha eye-fuck Brooke from across the yard. A small fire slowly rose inside of her own body next. Without even meaning to, she looked across the yard, eyes passing right over Brooke and onto Francesca. The world around her—the music, the breeze, the dancing partygoers—they all slowed. Francesca had been staring almost shamelessly from the bar now, eyes dark, jaw clenched, grip tight around the drink Michaela had yet to see her drink. 

There was something almost primal about the way she looked, like she was both furious and starving at the same time.

Michaela’s breathing fell short, chest rising and falling faster in response. For a moment, she let go of her mind restraints, letting herself imagine what it’d be like to sit on Francesca’s lap, to toy with the hairs on the back of her neck, to have Francesca treat her thighs the way she did the cup. 

Roughly. 

Michaela shook the thoughts from her mind the second she felt the jolt shoot straight through her pussy. A wave of guilt crashed over her next. The almost-kiss had completely dysregulated Francesca and here she was, playing out scenarios in which such frustration could be taken out on her. 

“You alright?” Sasha said, voice cutting through her spiralling thoughts. 

“Yeah. . . I just—I need to sit down for a second,” 

Michaela rushed to the end of the dock with Sasha following close behind. Together, they sat with their arms and legs poking out of the fencing, limbs dangling over the water. She drew in deep, steadying breaths, using the scenic view to help bring comfort. The moon hung over the silhouette of the forest, reflecting over the water like an oil painting. 

Sasha had been too busy scrolling through TikTok to notice, but Michaela's eyes had started to water. The view reminded her of home, only, instead of miles of vibrant green highlands, it was miles of clear, freshwater. 

“You know,” Sasha said, locking her phone with her right thumb, “You’re like the funnest person I’ve met in Michigan so far,”  

Michaela wiped her eyes and smiled. Although it was small, she even laughed. Something she desperately needed at this very moment. 

“So far?” Michaela joked, “It don't get eny better than a Scot, mate,”

The moment hung in the air without a sound. The crickets chirped, the leaves rustled in the breeze, but neither made so much as a peep for a while. 

Then, Sasha began again. 

“Seriously, though, thanks for inviting me out today. Michigan has been . . . tough,”

“Tell me about it,” Michaela agreed.

Sasha sank into her body as she sighed heavily, “I miss the chopped cheeses from the corner store on Jamaica Ave,” 

 “Amess the dayes where I could just stop and treat me-self to a smokey supper from the chippie on the docks,”

Sasha faced her, blinking dumbfoundedly.  

“Treat yourself to a what from where?” she chuckled.

“I canny be tha’ hard to understan’!” Michaela laughed, rolling her eyes. She enunciated her next words, “A smokey supper from the chippie,”

“What the hell is that?”

“Like smoked sausage and stuff—from a fish and chips shop?” Michaela explained curiously, “You eat sausages here! I knoew tha’ much!”

Sasha could hardly contain her laughter. Each breath she drew in between the giggles sounded more like gasps for air.

“Yeah, but we don’t call it a smokie . . . its—it’s just barbecue,”

“Just like it’s crisps not chips?” Michaela argued wittingly. 

“Crisps?”

“For fucksake, ya know, a bag of potato crisps,”

“I don’t know if I’m just drunk but . . . I legit have no idea what you’re talking about right now,”

Michaela threw her hands into the air and dramatically accepted defeat. The two went back and forth listing all the things they missed about home for a while. Sasha missed the city's walkability the most. She would pass restaurants, cafes, grocery stores, arcades, and karaoke lounges all on her walk to work in Lower Manhattan. If they wanted to do anything outside of Ann Arbor, they had to drive or take the bus. 

For Michaela, it was the community.

There wasn’t a single person in town who didn’t know all of her business. She hated it growing up, but now, surrounded by strangers, she craved the sowans Miss Suzanne would bring over whenever her mother worked late into the night. 

Another bit of silence passed, only this time, it was broken by Michaela. 

“Don’t become a stranger after tonight,” Michaela whispered as if it were more of a quiet demand than a request, “I've noticed that about you Americans. You could talk everyday for an entire week with someone, the moment it no longer serves them, it’s like ya’ never existed,”

She paused.

“Home’s not like that,” Michaela exhaled, eyes combing the sky, “I miss it.”

Sasha didn’t reply immediately. Instead of brushing it off or taking offense, she adjusted herself to where she faced Michaela head on.

“You’re right. People can really suck sometimes,” Sasha replied sympathetically, “But you don’t gotta worry about that. I'm dragging you to New York City the first chance I get!”

Michaela’s lips spread across her face. She buried her face in her lap, desperate to hide exactly how good the sentiment made her feel. 

Although she would never admit it aloud, the past eight months were the loneliest of her life. There wasn’t a day that went by where she didn't dream of life in Scotland with her friends: Stewie, Graham, and Nandi. Together, they would do spontaneous things like hike the Kirkennan Estate, get drunk in the woods, or hunt for abandoned castles.

John and Francesca had been her rock—there was no doubt in her mind about it—but on the days where their persistence on idleness didn’t agree with her restlessness, she longed to be back home with her friends. 

“Has Francesca ever been to the city?” Sasha suddenly asked.

“Yeah. Once. She hated it,” Michaela chuckled, trailing off, “How do you ask?”

“I assumed you’d want her to come,” she shrugged.

Michaela found Francesca through the darkness yet again. Thankfully, she’d been too caught up in a conversation with John to continue staring. 

“Yeah,” Michaela said quietly, “Maybe,”

Sasha sent her a sidelong glance, full of discernment, and shifted against the wood again. 

“Alright,” She huffed, “I know we don’t really know each other but, can I ask you something?”

Michaela blinked. 

“Go ahead,”

“You said something about her being hard to read but, I saw how she looked at you and I know you see it too,” Sasha explained, “So, what's the problem—the real problem?”

Michaela scoffed, “There’s no problem,”, shaking her head.

“Liar,” she argued.

“Am not!”

“You are! I’m sorry but . . . it’s obvious you’re hiding something,”

Michaela did not wish to discuss this—especially not at a party. 

And yet . . .

She glanced down at her fingers and toyed with the black and gold ring she, John, and their father all wore. After tracing the ‘S’ with her pinky in a long bit of silence she finally decided maybe it was time she confided in someone.

“John’s my brother and Francesca is his best friend,” Michaela started. Her tone grew quieter, leaving her next words completely unguarded, “I have a habit of screwin’ things up and . . . I don’t want to add them to that list,”

Michaela wanted to laugh at herself. Sometimes she felt like some of the most beautiful emotions came from her chaos and yet, she could see nothing beautiful in loving Francesca. 

Nothing beautiful at all. 

Despite the encroaching chill outside, she felt like she’d been under a burning hot spotlight—and she wanted out. She rose to her feet without giving anything she’d said another thought and extended a hand toward Sasha. 

“Now, let's keep dancin’” Michaela offered, forcing her smile wider, “All this talk is making me tired,”

While Michaela and Sasha returned to the circle, Francesca continued to babysit the drink she “ordered” at the bar out of raw instinct. Watching Michaela talk and dance with that girl made her face burn a thousand degrees hotter. She’d barely been listening to John’s decentralized wastewater treatment idea and Francesca Bridgerton absolutely loved anything pertaining to environmental sustainability.

But she couldn't keep her mind, and eyes, from wandering onto Michaela. Not her barbie-doll side-profile, not her voluminous blowout, and not her gyrating hips—certainly not when they were so close to Sasha’s thigh. 

Another breeze suddenly blew over the lake. It tossed Michaela’s flowy skirt around tauntingly, bringing Francesca to finally take a drink.

Only, she’d finished the warm fluid in one go and nearly cracked the bartop in half when she slammed it back onto the table. 

John bolted upright, eyes wide and hands raised ever-so slightly

“You good?” he asked. 

“Peachy,” she answered almost immediately. 

Francesca locked eyes with the bartender and ordered another drink. She could hardly look at him without laughing. It was obvious he was just another university student—one who’d drank so much before the game that he misspelled ‘Michigan’ when he wrote the blue letters over his yellow chest. 

Regardless, she took the drink and tucked three dollar bills into the coffee mug labeled ‘tip jar’.

“I—” John hesitated, gaze shifting between Francesca and the drink, “Did something happen at the game?”

Yeah . . . Michaela brought a girl. 

“No,” she lied. 

“You can tell me,” he added, “Was it someone from Texas?”

“No,”

“You sure?” he continued, “Was it one of the referees? Did they say something stupid?” 

John was more than aware of the troublesome moments in her childhood centering the sport. She’d been bullied by some of her teammates in secondary school. It began right around the time she’d received her ASD and OCD diagnoses. The other girls would do petty things to make her feel more isolated than she already did. Sometimes it was poking fun at the way she tucked her thumb between her fingers and other times, they were calling plays in code to purposefully confuse her. 

After about a week of enduring, she returned home from practice and burst into tears in the middle of the living room. All five of her older siblings showed up to practice the next day and the girls never bothered Francesca Bridgerton again.

Thanks to Anthony, Benedict, and Eloise, she eventually learned to stand up for herself.

But John had naturally taken on the role of  big brother while Francesca was in America—despite her persistence on not needing it anymore. 

“No,” she sighed again. “I told you already, basketball’s been fine,”

“So why do you keep . . .” John sighed, trailing off as he noticed Francesca’s gaze drifting for what felt like the seventeenth time.  

Francesca liked to look past people when they spoke. Sometimes, it was easier to process what was being said rather than focusing on decoding their facial expressions. But John knew the difference. Francesca wasn't listening at all. She’d been staring into the distance, transfixed by something on the dock and this time, he followed it. 

At first, he saw nothing beyond the cluster of partygoers. 

Then, after many seconds of watching, the crowd parted and he found his sister dancing,

Oh. 

John faced Francesca again and settled into a quiet understanding. In truth, he’d suspected they’d taken a liking towards each other a while back. Although they might not have known it, he had an inkling something would bloom when he introduced them. 

Neither would speak about it openly and so, John continued to keep quiet. 

Francesca did not try to fill the quiet that fell between them either. Instead, she clenched her eyes shut and finished her second drink. She hadn’t bothered to ask what was in the cup. Not this one or the last. She figured, whatever it was would not serve her intelligence anyway. The only alcohol she’d tried before tonight was a Cobra and she was certain she was not drinking an English beer. 

Francesca hated beer. 

John did not ask about her mood again. He found, the more one did, the further she’d push them away. For a while, he held his tongue and watched the bartender mix strawberry flavored Cutwater Spirits with pineapple juice and serve them to Francesca. Just before the third, he finally spoke up, suggesting that she pace herself.

But Francesca would not hear it, stating that the drinks were “too fruity” for her to get drunk.

Rookie mistake. 

By the time the liquor filled her bladder, Francesca could hardly stand without swaying or tripping over her own feet. She refused to let John help. He simply ground his teeth together and watched as she fumbled with the sliding door on her way inside. By the time she plopped back into the bar stool sloppily, the bartender vanished and so did the cans of Cutwaters. 

Someone . . . aka John . . .  had given him a $100 bill to serve drinks elsewhere.

“Maybe you should drink some water,” John suggested. 

He stood up on the foot rest of the stool, searching for the nearest cooler, while Francesca turned attention back to the dock. She rested her cheek against the heel of her palm and watched as Michaela seemingly never grew tired of dancing. 

I should go and dance with her.

Francesca’s arms and legs nearly sprung her forward. Though her inhibitions had dropped, it hadn't sunk low enough to get her to embarrass herself. Francesca Bridgerton was not a dancer. She absolutely adored the right kind of music, but her moves resembled that of a toddler from The Sims more than anything that could possibly be considered flattering. 

For a moment, she imagined her life was a movie. All she needed to do was storm over there and take Michaela by the waist. The rest would fall in line so perfectly. 

But, her life was nothing like a movie. 

“Have you ever noticed how gorgeous Michaela looks when she's having fun?” Francesca wondered freely. She hadn’t even been looking at John when she asked the question. The alcohol made it completely and utterly impossible for her to look anywhere else. 

“Um . . .” John chuckled, “No. She’s my sister,” 

“She is. She is your sister,” Francesca stated matter-of-factly, “And she's bloody beautiful.”

“Thanks, I guess,”

“She’s like . . . like a . . .”

Francesca quickly closed her mouth as the rest of the sentence vanished from her mind. She had no idea what was saying. Poetic speech was not her forte, yet, she’d felt the urge to try.

John could only laugh as he followed her glossy gaze back to the dock. Michaela looked as if she’d been drinking a bit too. She wasn’t as sloppy as Francesca, but she likely over-indulged all the same. Her hands were on her hips, her tongue was stuck out of her mouth, and her head was turned so she could see her—

John looked away, eyes burning from witnessing his sister twerking. 

“And her ass is so—”

“Please!” John interrupted, “Don’t finish that sentence,”

“I like her, John. I like her a lot.” Francesca whined,  “I cannot even hear my own thoughts whenever she is around and I don't even care . . . all I want . .  is her,”

A gasp sounded from her lips the moment her confession ran dry. She covered her mouth, wishing the act would retract everything she’d said.

But, it was too late.

A hiccup was the only sound lingering between them for a while, then she spoke again. 

“Do–does that bother you?”

John sank into the back of the barstool and smiled to where his bushy mustache covered his top lip. 

“Of course not,” he said earnestly, “You’re my best friend.”

“But, she’s your sister,”

“So are you in a way,”

Francesca’s heart sank at the sentiment and in a good way. 

Then, a beat passed. 

She frowned, “That would mean—” 

“I realized how that sounded after I said it.” John blurted out awkwardly. 

Another beat passed, then they burst into a fit of laughter that lasted so long Francesca’s esophagus swelled. 

“I only mean to say that . . . If I wanted anyone for my sister, I’d be you, Fran,” John said, laughter still lingering in his voice. 

He shifted in his seat, leaning forward to ask, “Talk to me. What’s going through your head right now?”

“I don’t know what I’m doing!” she exclaimed, “I. . . I'd like to date her but I have no clue how to go about it. I’ve never had so many thoughts, so many—feelings,”

John nodded as Francesca spoke like an auctioneer. 

“Brooke is certain I can do this and I’m certain I can’t!” she huffed before finally adding, “And, I’m quite positive she tried to kiss me Monday evening,”

John’s phone lit up in his pocket, but he’d been too shocked to pay it any mind. 

“She what?” he exclaimed. 

“We were working on a puzzle. We reached for the same piece and our hands touched and when I looked at her . . . she leaned in, ” Fran said, recounting the story in steps. 

“Fran, that’s . . . that’s great!”

Francesca shook her head, “Cheeseburger jumped on top of the dining room table and it startled me so, I pulled away.”

Cheeseburger was Brooke’s cat. 

A pesky little thing. 

John’s phone lit up again. 

“Then, she left,”

John frowned. 

“Did you ask her why?”

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

He glanced down at the glowing screen in his pocket. 

“She was in such a hurry, I could hardly get the words out. I was meant to ask to try and get some clarity tonight,” she huffed, then gestured toward the dock, “Then, that happened,”

John glanced back at the dock one more time and finally spotted the full picture; 

Francesca Bridgerton was jealous.

“Sasha?” John frowned, “Oh no, Fran. You’ve got it all wrong. She’s jus—”

John’s phone began to ring. He ripped it out of his pocket, rolling his eyes as he declined the call. The moment he went to put it away, the screen lit up again. 

“Ugh, I’m sorry Fran,” he said, attention now glued to the phone, “It’s Felipe, he can’t get the program to run and we have to present tomorrow,”

“It’s fine,” Francesca nodded, “Go ahead”

He frowned harder, glancing between her and the phone once more.

“We will finish this conversation as soon as I get back,” he smiled reassuringly, “But, I say you go over there right now and be honest.. You should have no trouble with that . . . it’s who you are, so just be you.”

Francesca grinned despite the advice settling awkwardly.

How could I be direct in such a puzzling process as courtship?

“And what’s that saying?” John questioned himself, “ You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take, right?”

Francesca hated infamous quotes—let alone ones coined by men. But, Wayne Gretzky, as much as she hated to say it, was one thousand percent right in this sense. Francesca practically told herself that everyday when she was learning to shoot off the dribble. It was easy to drain a shot she’d been lined up for, but in the moments where gameplay outran logic, she had to learn to take the shot anyway.

To give things a try without attempting to optimize the outcome. 

In many ways, the saying was likely what got her a spot on the D1 roster and so, she hoped it could get her through this as well. 

She rolled her shoulders back, took a deep breath in, and prepared to take Michaela by storm. 

Just like they did in the movies. 

—Right after she went inside to pee again.

Time moved faster than most of the partygoers had noticed. Michaela decided to cut herself off after she tossed her empty cup into someone else's purse instead of the bin. Though, in her defense, the purse did look a lot like a rubbish bin. 

She hadn’t been aware of much outside of her own presence, the pulsing music, and the chilly incessant wind for some time. Most of the party had been moved inside and the cold tended to kill the buzz.

Michaela didn’t seem to mind it though. 

Sasha remained nearby, swaying side to side to the, also lost in the hazy RnB music. Michaela had been spinning in circles, giggling as the lights on the dock blurred into shiny streaks. For a moment, she imagined she was back on the roundabout at Brodie Castle, then she saw her. 

Francesca.

She was coming over. 

Michaela’s feet settled over the wooden slabs slowly. The world behind her continued to spin, but Francesca herself was cutting through it. Her strides were long, her pace was brisk, and her size twelve tennis shoes pounded into the concrete. 

Uh-oh.

Francesca’s jaw was set tighter than before and her eyes were locked ahead with a focus sharp enough to sober her up both women. She’d been less than ten feet from the dock when Michaela realized her determination wasn’t directed toward herself, but toward Sasha. 

Francesca didn’t stop until she towered over Sasha and herself like the Ness Point Lighthouse did its shoreline. She stood close as their arms rubbed together. The warmth of the long-sleeve brushed over Michaela’s cool skin, making her heart thump so loudly she was sure the entire party could hear it.

The alcohol had almost completely rewired her brain. 

The guilt she felt in causing such dysregulation had been replaced with a newfound awareness of Francesca.

One she found to be sexually damning.

The three women passed awkward glances, each wondering who would address the—whatever was happening—first. Michaela had come so close to filling the silence. Then, Francesca finally spoke. 

“You have been dancing with Michaela all night.” 

“Umm  . . .” Sasha murmured. Her glossy brown eyes slid sideways, brows pinching together as if she wasn’t entirely sure what she was reacting to. 

Michaela had been too stunned to speak.

“Do you plan on stopping anytime soon?” Francesca continued, tone growing more curt by the second.

Sasha shot Michaela another glance. 

This one was a “Help me,” kind-of look.

“Francesca,” Michaela called gently, “Is everything okay?”

“Yes,” she replied quickly. 

Too quickly. 

“Did you need something from me?”

“Yes—I mean, no. I—” Francesca sputtered, “I would like an answer to my question. That is all,”

“Fran?”

“Yes,”

She glanced between them again, wondering how to go about it the right way. The last thing she wanted was for Francesca to feel embarrassed and so, she rose to the balls of her feet, and lowered her voice.

“I don’t think ye’re aware of this, but you’re being sort of rude,” 

Francesca’s mouth creaked out before she even knew what to say. She hadn’t intended to be rude at all. She was simply being direct. Just like John and Brooke had told her to be.  

Just when she began to revert back inside of her anxious mind, Sasha broke the tension.

“Maybe I should. . . I’ll just—I’ll go,” 

Francesca sighed, shoulders dropping in relief, “Good,”

“Francesca!” Michaela shrilled again. She turned to Sasha, back hunched in embarrassment, “I’m so sorry. I don’t kno—,”

“It’s fine, Michaela,” Sasha raised her hand passively, “I’ll . . .”

She analyzed the back of the house, eyes widening the moment her escape plan revealed itself. 

“I’ll catch up with John and Brooke,”

Michaela watched Sasha scurry off like an ant caught in the shadow of a boot. A boot named Francesca Bridgerton. A sense of unease bubbled in her stomach. She didn’t know what that was, but she knew her new friend didn’t deserve to be on the receiving end of it.

Michaela looked up at Francesca, completely unaware of how the tightness in her face had already started to soften. “What was that?” she huffed. 

Francesca frowned, “I—well, I cannot dance with you while she’s around, can I?” 

The word ‘she’ was so sharp it left an irony tasting gash on her tongue. Michaela seized up, brows lifting to her hairline, eyes narrowing curiously. She tilted her head, unable to fight the twitch at the corner of her mouth. 

“Francesca,” she paused, “Ye’ don’t even like to dance,”

“No, I don’t,” Francesca replied, “But, I don’t want you to dance with Sasha anymore,”

The twitch ceased and her face went completely still.

She was dead serious. 

“Francesca, I—”

“Could we just—” Francesca cut in bravely, “Can we please . . . just . . . dance?”

Francesca leaned in close enough to conjoin the heat that pooled between them. Flames spread across Michaela’s chest like a Californian wildfire. She didn’t understand why Francesca had been so persistent, nor did she want to entertain the idea. 

But the cells in her body had already agreed. 

Her fingers laced into Francesca’s like one of their puzzles. She squeezed almost experimentally—as if she were testing how much weight the moment could hold. Then, like a siren’s song, she beckoned Francesca into her orbit with five simple words. 

“Give me your other hand,”

The music softened into the floorboards. Whatever was playing was far slower, far smoother. Something suited for bodies that knew what they were doing. 

Though she had absolutely no clue, Francesca obeyed. She stood with her hands in Michaela’s for far too many beats. Her posture was straight and her shoulders were set like she was preparing for a free throw rather than a dance. 

Michaela stopped swaying almost immediately. 

“Ye’ve gotta—”she started, grinning in spite of the tightness in her chest, “Just . . . relax, yeah?”

Francesca blinked, then nodded. 

“Right,”

But she did not relax. 

Michaela huffed out a quietly infatuated laugh and stepped closer instead. The space between them grew so small, she had a perfect view of whenever Francesca’s tongue slid across her bottom lip.

“Can I ask how you don’t want me to dance with Sasha?” Michaela suddenly asked. 

Francesca blinked again. 

“I already told you,” Francesca said as if it were truly that simple.

“It wasn’t a very good answer, ya know?” 

“It was a perfectly acceptable one,” Francesca insisted, “I wanted my turn,”

Francesca’s tone had been filled with a rasp filtered by the alcohol. The sound and possessive phrasing caused convulsions in the bottom of Michaela’s stomach. Her pelvic floor line contracted. She swallowed hard, the sweat in her jugular notch glistening in the moonlight. 

“Your turn?” Michaela repeated,“Well, that’s a bit unfair,”

“What is?”

“You asked to come to your game only to give me the cold shoulder the entire ride here . . .” Michaela spoke softly,  “Now, you’re bothered because I spent my night dancing with someone who’d speak to me.”

Francesca had barely been moving, yet her body stilled. It took her all of five seconds to decide she felt no frustration with Michaela’s perspective of the night. In a sense, she supposed, Michaela had a valid point. She had not meant to give Michaela the cold anything, she simply could not find a way to speak with Sasha’s presence being so  . . . aggravating. 

"I'm sorry. I did not mean to make you feel like you had to avoid me,” Francesca explained, “That’s the last thing I’d ever want,”

Michaela inhaled sharply. 

Hadn’t that been exactly what she wanted?

“Though, you brought a stranger, begged me to come to this party, then spent the night grinding against her in front of me,” 

The air around them grew thinner. It must have. Otherwise, Michaela would not feel so lightheaded. She couldn’t argue with Francesca. Nor did she want to. She had confused her just as much as she’d confused herself—if not, a wee bit more. 

Yet, somehow, Francesca’s words were lodged in her throat. Fran had always been so particular with her words. It tickled Michaela’s brain in all the right ways. And the ones she chose tonight—and continued to choose in this very moment—delighted areas far beyond her brain.

Was Fran . . . jealous?

Suddenly, Michaela was recalling the way Francesca stomped across the yard, the way she pushed Sasha out of her line of sight with her long, looming presence.

It was the most assertive she’d seen Francesca. 

Off-court, that is. 

Every moment of the day replayed in her mind. From tip off to now. Naturally, she’d taken responsibility for Francesca's dysregulation, yet now, she found she was still responsible, in more ways than one, just not nearly how she’d thought. 

Her lips parted as she finally drew the conclusion. 

Francesca Bridgerton was, in fact, jealous.

“Maybe—” she gulped, “Maybe, we've both been unfair,”

“Perhaps we have.” Francesca agreed. 

They continued to sway as the song ended and the next ensued—if it could even be considered that. Michaela shifted her body left, then right, leading the dance as Francesca arrived at every beat a half-second too late. 

“I don’t think I’m doing this right.” 

Her movements were still stiff, maybe even more so. She’d been mapping the pattern rather than feeling out any sort of rhythm. 

“It’s true. Ye’re a terrible dancer, Frannie,” Michaela chuckled.  

“I know, I—,” Francesca started, then stopped after stepping on Michaela's foot.

They stepped apart, freezing in the silence that followed after. 

“I’m sorry.” Francesca blurted out, “I’m–this is—I’m very uncomfortable, right now,”

“It’s okay,” Michaela said, voice slightly raising in pitch, “Do you want to go back inside?”

Michaela pivoted back towards the house before she’d even gotten a response. She tried to pull them forward but was jerked backward instead. 

Francesca was as solid as a rock.

“No,”

The air filled with enough charge to raise the hairs on the back of her neck. 

“I want to keep going,” Francesca declared, “I want to dance with you like you did with Sasha,”

The song drifted into the night. 

All of Michaela’s muscles locked at once.

“Will you show me how?”

This was all wrong. 

Francesca was not meant to ask such a daring question. She was far too brilliant, too perfectly logical, too wonderfully non-performative for what could come after touching in such a way, and yet . . . Michaela couldn’t stop herself. 

The next song faded in, starting with keys arranged in a dreamy melody that poured over their skin like silk. Michaela pulled Francesca closer by the forearms, gripping her by the elbow, making it so her hands would rest on her waist. Her hands fell to Francesca’s shoulders next. She wanted to curse herself for not wearing heels, only then could she wrap her arms around Francesca’s like she truly wanted to 

♪Got me where I never be,♪

♪Way you kiss my lips and leave a legacy,♪

♪Oh, to live without you ,what a tragedy♪

♪I can’t get enough♪

♪All up in my conscience, I don’t want another touch without you there♪

♪If I’m being honest, I’m falling in love . . . ♪

Francesca watched every minor movement on the brink of an all out malfunction. She held her breath in every body roll Michaela performed against her front. Her heartbeat made itself known, pounding like it wanted to break out of her chest. 

Then, a leg parted her thighs, sending shock waves straight to her core.

She was suffocating.  

“Ye’ve got to breathe, Frannie,” Michaela murmured, the tease now gone from her voice. 

“I am breathing,” she replied, exhaling harshly, each word strained. 

Michaela's lips curved into a smile. Not quite believing her, she slowed her hips, easing the roll into something far easier to handle. 

“Just follow me,” she whispered. 

And Francesca did—or at least, she tried her best to.

♪Don’t hold back, No one,♪

♪Do me like that, I’m gone♪

♪Real, real bad feelin’every emotion♪

♪Big noise, back to back♪

♪It’s too good, I’m too attached  . . . One bite of you, the things that I could do♪

“I’m gonna turn around now, okay?” Michaela whispered.

Want and confidence took full control. She cupped the back of Francesca’s neck and pulled her ear down to her lips. 

“You’ll have to bend your knees for me,” she flirted. 

♪(With a taste) A taste gets me in places♪

Francesca didn’t take her hands off Michaela's waist as she spun around slowly. Her fingers glazed over her back, sides, and stomach. Each section was a sneak peek into heaven. 

♪(With a taste) I’m chasin’, I can’t erase it♪

She did as she was told and sank down to where Michaela’s back lined up with her chest. 

♪(With a taste) Taste me, boy and I’ll taste you,”♪

Her eyes closed the moment she felt Michaela’s full, round, arse pressed against her sex. 

♪That’s the way I feel, when I’m slippin’ under . . . .♪

The lyrics seeped into Michaela's blood far faster than any of the drinks she’d had. Somehow, every word managed to encapsulate exactly how she felt about this very moment. She stayed close when she wanted to. Much like other things in her life, she did not chase after the music, she let it guide her instead.

“What are you thinking?” Michaela whispered almost daringly. 

Francesca’s grip pulsed, “How did you know I was thinking?”

“I can hear you hrmm-ing in my ear,” she grinned . 

Francesca hadn’t even realized she was making thinking sounds. Her grip on Michaela’s waist tightened this time around as she whispered back. 

“I’m thinking . . . I don’t want you to do this with her ever again,”

♪You got me drippin’ down my lips♪

♪I’m trynna roll my little hips on you♪

♪I’m feiginin’ for your kiss♪

♪Thirsty for a sip ♪

Michaela tugged on Francesca’s shirt, pulling her into the crevice of her neck, hips hitting every beat sharply. The feeling of Francesca behind her—-of her long, tapered fingers digging into her waist—was far too overwhelming to control her tongue.

“All this talk about Sasha, if I didn't know any better I would think you were jealous,”

Her hips were a dinghy, each motion rocked, landing neatly on the beat without effort—and Francesca was the vast, rocky sea.

♪Drippin’ down my lips♪

♪I’m trynna roll my little hips on you♪

“I am jealous,” Francesca voiced bravely, “What now?”

She could hardly keep her hands in one place. 

Dancing had never felt so good. 

♪I’m all over the place . . . ♪

“You don’t have to be,” Michaela admitted, closing her eyes for the next part, “You’re all I think about.”

Francesca had been wrong. Her life had become a movie and this was her cue. She thumbed Michaela’s chin, tilting her head backward, tracing the marvelous indent of Michaela’s  philtrum. 

♪From just a little  . . . Taste ♪

Then, she grabbed Michaela's jaw hard and crashed into her lips like she was breaking through a barrier. The air filled with Michaela . Only her. Of chocolate chapstick and tequila and books and powdery floral perfume. Her lips tasted better than Flake’s candy bars. The sound of them—parting, puckering, pressing—was better than Rachmaninov's Piano Concerto No.2. 

All at once, Francesca felt every emotion possible . . . and she hadn’t crumbled. 

Her eyes shut on their own and her hands spun Michaela around with conviction. 

The moment was like deja vu, only far, far better. 

Their lips collided, came apart, then collided again. Shamelessly, Francesca moaned into the kiss—at the sensation of Michaela’s breasts returning to her sternum. 

A wetness bloomed between her thighs. 

Desire, yearning, and alcohol had mixed into a wicked concoction. 

Michaela’s hands slid between their bodies, resting against Francesca’s shoulders as she’d been bracing to pull away. 

Things were going too far. 

Still, she kissed harder. Her lips swelled. Her gloss smeared across her cheek. 

Michaela had kissed plenty of women before. Some were friends, some were flings, and two were full-on girlfriends. But no one had ever kissed her like Francesca had—like all the water in the world would dry up tomorrow and her mouth was the very last drink Francesca would ever have.

We have to stop. 

Her teeth graze against Francesca's bottom lip.

Then, they sank in. 

I have to stop.

—I don’t want to stop.

Francesca kissed her until they collided into the railing with a harsh thud. Anyone who remained on the dock quickly took that as a sign to find somewhere else to linger. Michaela hissed at the shiver shooting down her spine. Her bare thighs pressed into the cold steel framing. Her back arched against the top rail, hands clasped to Francesca’s cheek, hair freely suspended over the sparkling lake.  

Hands slid downward, settling over wide hips. Francesca tugged harder, hoping to somehow bring Michaela inside of her skin. The tips of her fingers tread close to her ass. The mere thought of her hands roaming that far made Francesca gush in her knickers. Parts she didn’t even know existed and gardens she’d never thought to water went into full bloom. 

She gripped the back of Michaela’s thighs, tugging there too. Her body moved faster than her mind. Though she wasn’t exactly sure of what it wanted, she was certain the word “more” was in there somewhere. 

The kiss lasted until they ran out of breath. 

Francesca pulled away, huffing frustratedly, eyes scanning the environment for half a second. 

Everyone had gone inside.

“Up,” Francesca commanded breathlessly. 

Michaela glanced between the railing and the woman pressing into her shamelessly. She dug her finger into Francesca's long sleeve, body aching. 

“I don’t wanna fall,” Michaela voiced, eyes darting back to the lake again.

“I wouldn’t let that happen.”

Her core throbbed with want. With Francesca’s steadying hands at her back and hips, she hopped onto the railing. Disaster loomed over her backside, destruction waited ahead, and Michaela decided to charge forward. 

She cupped Francesca’s face like she was the rarest jewel in the world. She leaned in, letting Francesca meet her halfway for a kiss far different than before. This one was slower, more patient, even, as if they had nothing but time to appreciate one another. 

Her legs came apart and Francesca filled the gap perfectly. Her hips sputtered forward. Her core bumped against Francesca’s stomach. The mixture of cotton and heat brewing from her own sex brewed strong. The hands gripping her thighs were just too good to resist.

“Higher,” she exhausted, “Slide your hand up higher,”

Francesca followed Michaela’s instructions almost studiously, eyes wide and eager for the next step. 

“Higher,”

Her hands slid higher. 

“More,”

Her finger tips burned in the face of such heat.

“Please, Frannie. . . All the way,”

Francesca’s fingers throbbed into her thighs but they didn’t venture any further. She wanted them to—desperately—and they would. As soon as she asked the question plaguing her mind, thus, ruining this perfectly good kiss. 

A small, moist pop sounded as she pulled their lips apart. 

“Michaela,” Francesca hummed, “Why did you leave after you—after we—-nearly kissed on Monday?”

Records scratched inside of Michaela’s head. She froze, meeting Francesca’s eyes, finding a quiet mixture of resolve and restraint. A pang of contrition sat stubbornly in her ribs—a reminder of all the lines she’d already crossed. 

And the one she was crossing right now.

A rueful giggle from Michaela. Half of it was aimed at herself and the other, at the absurdity of the situation. Francesca wasn’t going to make this easy. With their faces still inches apart and hands tangled in each other, she asked for truth—for a level of vulnerability Michaela didn’t want to give.

She’d never felt more exposed until now. 

Literally.

But . . . perhaps that was a good thing.  

“Because, I shouldn't have done it,” she confessed quietly. 

Michaela’s gaze fell to the small gap between their bodies. 

“I canny trust that I won’t ruin this—that I won’t ruin things between the three of us,”

Francesca hrmm’d until no end. A pulsing rhythm ensued from behind the walls of the house. The following screams suggested the party may have been kicking into second gear but Michaela hadn’t given it a single thought. 

Right now, she could only hear Francesca and the gentle lapping of the lake beneath their feet.

“How could you possibly ruin us?” Francesca asked, voice soft and sweet. 

She exhaled, chuckling beneath it, “You’d be surprised. I've made some bad choices. . . some I ran from,” 

It was true. Though she hadn't meant to, Michaela left at least two broken hearted women behind in Scotland. Her father left behind a lot more—in three different continents. Not one of his many ex-wives could stand to be around him. She imagined her own mother hated him the most seeing as she was the first stop on the Robert Stirling Train of Destruction. When the relationship became too rocky, he would split, exchanging one world for another as if they were horseracing tickets instead of families.

Michaela was not perfect, not by far, and after dumping girl number two, she promised herself she would be more careful. With other’s hearts and her own. 

The breakups had hurt her too. In no way was she ever cold-hearted. In fact, there was at least two years between both women. 

If anything, she was simply . . .  paranoid. 

Michaela Stirling’s true fear was ending up like her father. The first break up was so bad that John missed his freshman year midterm exam just to fly to Scotland and remind her that she and the situation held no resemblance to the stain of Robert. 

And Michaela knew that.

She was far too intelligent to not see the differences. 

—But the fear petrified her all the same. 

“That is . . .” Francesca trailed off, “The only way you can ruin anything is by not letting John and I decide for ourselves,”

The words settled over Michaela like a chill. Every choice she’d made from Monday evening to now slowly dawned on her. Each one was starting to feel more and more like a mistake. She’d built an entire fortress around her emotions out of that very instinct. 

Not letting them decide. 

The truth didn’t settle easily.

Truthfully, it didn't settle at all, but sat awkwardly between her ribs and lungs. 

“If I am to be given a choice in the matter—and I absolutely should be—then, I would still like to choose you,”

Francesca spoke without a single tremor in her voice. Not an ounce of plea was present in her tone. Only certainty. Michaela was the one—the one she wanted to learn from, to take leaps for, to try new things with, to touch and be touched without restraint, and to fall even deeper in love with. Francesca could not say whether that meant they’d end up together forever, but she could admit to wanting to take it as far as life would permit. 

And she hoped that would be enough. 

“And if I run?” Michaela asked, meeting her eyes again. 

 “I don't know if you can,” Francesca answered bluntly, “You tried today and look where you wound up,”

Michaela glanced down at the hand glued to her thigh, then dropped her burning face into the slope of Francesca’s shoulder. She hadn’t quite thought about it that way. Francesca was right. She may have hated it, but it was like every road she took somehow led her here. 

“Ya know, ye’re pretty cheeky when you're drunk,” she remarked through giggles. 

“I am barely drunk anymore, Michaela,” Francesca asserted. 

The small smile on her face faded.

“Don’t brush off what I’m saying . . . You may try to, but I think you will stay, because that's what I've seen you do—at least for me and John.”

“You stay just . . . in your own unique way,”

Michaela stilled as something deep inside cracked open. There was no fight against Francesca’s logic. She didn’t try to claim oversight or exaggeration. She simply sat with it. 

She surrendered to it. 

The leaving. 

The avoiding

The circling

And inevitably, the ridiculous need to breathe the same air as Francesca. 

“And that doesn't scare you?”

“I do things my own way,” Francesca shrugged, “Does that scare you?”

Maybe she didn’t just run. 

Maybe she kept coming back. 

“No,” 

“Alright then,”

A beat passed. One that couldn't exactly be described as empty because . . . how could any moment possibly feel that way with Francesca in it? Michaela stayed where she was, listening to Francesca recount her perspective of the day with her cheek pressed into the fabric over her shoulder. Fingers twitched against her own thigh, still claiming space she’d eagerly made. 

We should probably move. 

But they did not.

Not for a while. 

She popped her head up, grinning, when Francesca said something she hadn't expected to hear.

“Did you truly believe I wouldn’t like you just cause you’re white?” Michaela pried. 

“If I can be honest, I have been contemplating the possibility since Brooke put the idea in my head,”

“Ah, this was Brooke’s doing,” she continued, “That makes a lot of sense actually,” 

“She made a comment about Sasha and it made me think . . .  maybe you didn’t—I don’t know—think I was attractive because I wasn’t black? “ Francesca huffed, “Then, she asked if you’d dated anyone white before and when I couldn’t answer that—”

“Francesca,” Michaela cut in gently, “I like you. I like everything about you . . . I think it’s all very, very . . .”

Michaela trailed off, slipping her hands beneath Francesca’s shirt. She grabbed her by the waist with four fingers at her back and her thumbs pressed into an incredibly defined v-line. She hummed again, eyes darkening as the surprise sent another shock through her core.

“ . . . very . . . sexy,” Michaela finished. 

 But, Francesca hadn’t paid it any mind.

“How did you come to meet this girl anyway?” she asked, frowning, deep in thought.

Michaela snorted with laughter, the sound echoing into the trees surrounding the lake house for miles. 

Of course, Francesca still couldn’t let it go. 

Once she was finished explaining the full story, she couldn’t help but feel a little foolish. She should have known. In the end, Michaela was simply being . . . Michaela.  Besides, maybe her meeting someone more of her own exploratory caliber was a good thing. 

“You still could have introduced her to me in another way,” Francesca grumbled.

“Ye’re right,” Michaela said, pressing a chaste kiss into her cheek “It was an innocent mistake.”

“I owe her an apology,” Francesca said reflectively.

“You do . . . but later.”

“Why not now?”

“Because, ye’re busy right now,”

Michaela glanced down at the hand that still hadn't moved one last time. A wicked expression followed. One that suggested she was determined to get it to. She grabbed the collar of Francesca’s shirt and pulled her into a less than chaste kiss. 

“Oh.” Francesca moaned into the kiss. 

Then, Michaela’s hand found hers, gripping it, moving it inches from her warmth.

Oh.

“I want you to keep kissing me,” Michaela whispered, “Exactly like you did before,” 

Francesca melted into her mouth as if she were ice cream on a very warm summer day. She caressed Michaela through her damp underwear with the back of her nimble fingers. A faint shiver settled down both of their spines. 

Then, Francesca boldly cupped her pussy with a full palm. 

Michaela’s eyes shot open. The act punched right through her chest, pulling her mouth open despite the loss for words. Her core pulsed again. She wanted to hook her thumbs into her own knickers and yank them off, to feel Francesca with no barrier, but she remained as patient as physically possible. 

“Fran,” she inhaled sharply. 

Michaela lifted off the railing and rolled her hips into the heel of her palm slowly. She bit back moans as her clit would bury beneath the pressure, then spring out from beneath it. Over and over, she rocked until the hazy clouds in her mind parted. 

Francesca’s hand hadn’t moved. 

“Frannie?” Michaela called softly, “Are you okay?”

She pulled back when Francesca didn’t answer.

“We don’t have to do this tonight if you’re—”

“No!” Francesca exclaimed, “I want this—I do, but . . .  I have no idea what I’m doing,”

Michaela had figured as much. She meant no offense, but it was obvious. Nothing about Francesca suggested experience with relationships and certainly not with casual ones. 

Which only left one option:

Virgin. 

“Have you never—watched anything or . . . touched—”

“I have,” Francesca cut in abruptly. 

Even in the darkness, Michaela could see the bright red burn of her cheeks. 

“I have seen . . . videos,” Francesca voiced stiffly, “I did not like them very much,”

“Fair enough,” Michaela nodded.

Francesca let out a long steadying exhale, “I have also  . . . touched myself. But—”

Though she didn’t actually need Francesca to finish that sentence, she waited patiently.

“It never worked,” she confessed, as if it were a great sin, “I have never . . .”

“That’s okay . . . I can help with that,”

Francesca noticed the cheeky grin, ignoring it purposefully, “Out here?” she whispered, inspecting their surroundings again. 

No one. 

“Would you rather take me inside?” Michaela asked, leaning into the double meaning. 

Francesca quickly calculated the time it would take to get inside, then the far slimmer odds of finding a space that wasn’t already occupied . . . or thoroughly used already. 

“Here is fine,” she nodded affirmatively. 

“Good because I want you,”

They collided again, as if a fiery gravitational pull existed between them. 

“I want you,” Michaela whispered, “So much.”

She kissed her again.

“I need you,”

And again. 

“Now,” 

And again. 

Michaela kissed her like she was famished, like nothing in the world could satisfy  her needs but Francesca. She sucked her bottom lip into her mouth and sank her pearly whites into the swollen flesh. Francesca’s throaty thrum was intoxicating, and with her entire hand digging into her pussy, Michaela only arched more. 

“Move your hand up and down,” Michaela begged.

Francesca followed the instruction to a T. The pressure had already been so good. When the fast pace followed, she’d earned a warm, guttural moan into her right eardrum. It rattled against her brain, then sank past her heart and into her core.

Already, she missed the infectious sound. She wanted to hear it again. She wanted to make Michaela produce it until her ears and mind were content. 

If that were even possible. 

Francesca squeezed her eyes tighter, hooked her chin into the crook of Michaela’s neck and went faster. Harder. The movements were sloppy and every so often, she’d stumble over the absurd pace she set for herself and had to regroup. But the sounds coming from Michaela’s mouth were too delicious to feel embarrassed. She wished to drink them, to consume them until there was absolutely nothing left. 

“Is this good?” 

She moaned out instantly, “Fuck yes,” 

Michaela peppered kisses onto the most sensitive part of her neck. She sucked on the area next, gently using her teeth. The longer she went at it, the further the fuzzy tingles spread across Francesca’s body. She stared up at the sky, gulping, hand still moving beneath Michaela’s pleated skirt. Her core began to throb with a want that she could not ignore. 

The suction of Michaela’s mouth popped as she decided she’d done enough. There were at least three clusters of dark bruises painted across her pale neck when she pulled back and admired her own work. 

Francesca was seeing stars. 

She’d been filled with so much want she felt like she was going to combust. She wanted Michaela to slip her fingers into her mouth. She wanted Michaela to make her suck on them. She wanted Michaela to pull her knickers aside and let her in all the way.

Then, she wanted to taste her fingers after she was through. 

Francesca Bridgerton had never been so imaginative before in her life. 

Yet, now, her mind only thought in lewd and lustful painting of her and Michaela.

Indecently.

“I want more,” Francesca huffed, staring at the thick thighs that pooled together on top of the railing. 

Between the darkness and the sheer amount of thigh, Francesca couldn’t see the thin strap of Michaela’s knickers. She’d intended to remove them entirely, but the sight of such thick thighs distracted her. Now, she was imagining her head between them, crushed beneath the weight of them closing around her cheek bones while she ate away at Michaela’s pussy furiously. 

The images would not stop. 

She could no longer breathe.

“You are paralyzing,” Francesca confessed stiffly, “I cannot decide what I want to do . . . I’d like everything—all of it—right now, Michaela,”

Michaela’s response was more of a strangled noise than actual words. She couldn’t take it anymore. She needed everything Francesca was willing to give, and even then, she was certain it wouldn’t be enough.

“Just . . . pull my knickers aside,” Michaela huffed into her right ear again, “I want you inside of me,”

Francesca’s huffed out a glorified laugh. She hadn't realized she didn’t need to remove them to access Michaela.Her hands dipped beneath the skirt, finding the damp fabric once again. She latched on with all four fingers and tugged so hard a small tear split across the fabric. 

She broke away from the kiss, eyes wide. 

“Shit,” Francesca swore, “I’m sorry.” 

Michaela hissed. She grabbed her face, huffing, “It’s fine,”

Then, she crashed their lips together again. 

Francesca’s fingers trace the outline of her inner labia. The flesh was so soft, so wet, and so warm that her pulse tripled. The grip around her neck tightened as her fingers slipped and slid through the slit. She earned a moan every time she rubbed over Michaela’s enlarged clit, treating the act as some kind of game with a very pleasing reward. 

“Finger me. Now, please.” she begged.  

Francesca’s fingers bravely ventured towards her entrance. She rubbed her finger over the tiny opening, then she dipped the tip of her finger inside almost curiously. She tapped her index as if she were pressing into the keys of a piano, thrusting in and out, completely transfixed by the way Michaela’s body naturally tried to suck her in deeper. 

“Marvelous.” she thought. 

“Ahh!” Michaela gasped sharply. 

She was in no mood for teasing. Right now, Michaela needed two fingers so desperately that she contemplated pushing Fran’s hands aside so she could do it herself. 

“Fran . . . Will you—ye’re torturing me,” she moaned. 

“What am I doing wrong?” Francesca wondered

“Nothing!” Michaela squeaked, panting, “For fucksake, would you just—push it all the way in?!”

Francesca pushed her index finger all the way in almost immediately. She felt Michaela’s body jolt against her. A brief gasp played in her heart, then nothing. No movement. No moans. Francesca stilled anxiously, then, Michaela’s mouth latched onto her neck. 

“Mmmm,” she whimpered, “Frannie . . . push in and out of me.”

Francesca nodded, tingles returning to her body as Michaela continued to attack her neck. She retracted her fingers and re-inserted them slowly. The soft and wet cavity clamped around her finger tightly. Every few thrusts, she’d have to apply a bit more force just to pull out. 

“Now, curl your fingers when you get all the way inside,” Michaela helped, “Like your calling someone towards you,”

She saw the picture in her mind and replicated the act of beckoning one in with her single finger inside of Michaela. 

“Oooh—fuck!” Michaela hissed, “Yes! Right there!”

The tip of Francesca’s finger hit her g-spot with every curl. Her brows flexed, processing how this spot was far more sponge like then the rest of Michaela. Curious, she slipped a second finger in and prodded at the ceiling. She’d never been so deep before. There was so much she had yet to uncover about a woman's body—about her own—and tonight, she would travel as far as should.

She pushed her index and middle fingers as deep as they would go, curling her fingers into the pliable flesh repeatedly. 

The burn in her own knickers had become almost incessant. She felt the squish of her own wetness each time her thighs pushed together, then pulled apart. Francesca imagined what it’d be like to have Michaela just as deeply inside of herself. She wanted it. She did. Just maybe . . . not out here. 

“Gods, Fran! Ye’re . . . ye’re so deep!” she moaned. 

“Does it feel good that way?” Francesca asked, checking to see if it was a good thing. 

“Fuck yes. Don’t stop. Keep fucking me just like that,” Michaela huffed.

Michaela’s stomach burned so harshly she was certain there’d be a hole in her abdomen by the time she came. Her hips jerked, her blow-out was frizzing up, and her vision was fading to black. Francesca’s pace seemed to quicken with every thrust. Michaela’s legs closed like doors blown by a harsh wind and still, Francesca fucked into her roughly. 

She’d been chasing after the tightness around her fingers. 

“Fran—fuck—I’m gonna . . .” Michaela trailed off. 

Her spine curled inwards to where she slid down from the railing, falling into Francesca’s chest, pushing the fingers inside deeper. They locked eyes. Michaela’s mouth fell open wide. The breath stuck in her lungs and her face tightened tight with pleasure as the rippling orgasm raced through her. She gripped Francesca’s bicep, legs trembling, mind blown by the feeling of being fingered on a public dock. 

“Fuck, Fran,” she panted with her head hung low.

Francesca removed her fingers, now drenched, and brought them to her mouth. Michaela watched as her eyes and mouth closed around them. She imagined how Francesca tongue likely circled them, desperately wishing her clit would get the same exact treatment. 

“Do I taste good, Frannie?” Michaela lulled. 

“Mmmhmm,” she nodded, still sucking. 

Fuck. 

“You want more?” Michaela teased. 

And Francesca nodded again, finally freeing up some space in her mouth.

“Get on your knees,” she commanded.

Michaela pulled her knickers down, kicking them off her ankle the very second Francesca sank down to her knees and stared up at her with glimmering puppy dog eyes. She leaned back against the railing, mind racing as she spread her legs, and gripped her shoulder. 

For a while, Francesca simply stared at her pussy with mouth slightly agape. 

Michaela felt completely exposed.

The vulnerability of the situation was overwhelming. 

She wanted to fucked. Licked. Sucked between those wonderful lips . . .  and she didn’t care who might’ve seen.

Adrenaline shot her arm, pulling Francesca forward, placing her mouth exactly where she needed it. 

“Stick out your tongue,” Michaela explained, “I will do the rest,”

Francesca stuck out her tongue, then nodded, completely unaware of how the act resembled what she was meant to do anyway. 

“Fuck . . .” Michaela hissed, “Or maybe you can do the rest, too,”

“Ye’re so—you said you didn’t kn—know what you were doin’,”

“I don’t,” Francesca replied, words muffled as her tongue hung out her mouth completely. 

“Well, just keep noddin’ . . . just like that . . . oh my god,” Michaela moaned, trembling. 

Francesca kept it up. She licked long and sloppy sweeps of her tongue through her folds and occasionally pushed her tongue into Michaela’s hole, missing the feeling of being buried deep inside. She moaned just as much as Michaela did, if not more, as if the pleasure she gave brought her closer to her own climax. 

The taste of Michaela on her tongue was exquisite, like a glass of Gusbourne. 

“Fran . . . “ Michaela cried out, “Ye’re . . . ye’re mouth feels so fuckin’ good,” 

Her eyes trailed up Michaela’s stomach, landing on her heaving chest. They’d practically been bounding in her face. She wanted to reach up, grab them, massage them in her own grasp— but Michaela beat her to it. 

By the time she blinked, the tight, white, crop-top that covered them had been tossed right alongside her knickers. Michaela gripped both of her bare, brown, breasts with both hands, kneading them in pleasure, pinching the nipples between her fingers shamelessly. 

Francesca suddenly remembered where they were. What they were doing. How everyone was still inside and how easy it’d be for someone to spot them. 

She didn’t care.

Somehow, that only fired her up more. 

She needed this. 

“Now . . . I–I need you to do somethin’ else for me,” Michaeled whimpered.

She nodded again, sending sparks throughout her body. 

“Touch yourself,”

Her tongue slowed as uncertainty glossed over her beautifully lust-filled eyes.

“Do it while you eat me,” she commanded.

Michaela’s hips continued to buck into her mouth, Trust me, baby. You’ll like it,”
Doubt filled Francesca like flood water breaking through a dam. She tried touching herself exactly four times before. Considering her age at the time, she gave herself grace after the first two failed attempts. After the last two, she decided to give up on pleasure entirely. 

It hadn’t worked. 

“It’s okay, Frannie,” Michaela huffed, “Just . . . relax, okay? Think about  . . . think about me when you do it,” 

Francesca hesitated for another few seconds, then dropped her left hand into her dark blue sweatpants. Michaela’s hand found her hair, gripping and pulling enough to drown Francesca. Which only drove her to lick and suck harder. Her breath hitched in her lungs as her fingers traced over her own clit. She was swollen and soaking. Far worse than Michaela first was.

Michaela’s head rolled back. Her hips rocked faster and faster until her stomach began to tighten again. She clenched her eyes shut, clit throbbing in Francesca’s mouth, juices painting her cheek with a sticky, shiny top coat. 

She was so close. 

Then, Francesca started to moan. 

“Fuck . . . does it feel good, Frannie?” Michaela squeaked. 

Francesca nodded again. 

—And Michaela toppled over. 

“Fuuuuuck, I’m comin’ again,” she breathed out. 

Michaela’s pussy clenched and convulsed despite the absence of penetration. Her knees locked, the bones in her legs rattled, and she cried out to the dark, starry sky in pure ecstasy. The orgasm hit like a surge. The waves spiked, then dropped, leaving behind an after-effect of breathlessness. 

Her entire body shuddered in its wake.

She was coming completely undone. 

But, Francesca hadn't stopped. 

She slobbered over Michaela’s now extremely wet cunt, mind short circuiting over how amazing the stimulation to her mouth and pussy felt. The harder Francesca licked the more she built up a friction Michaela couldn’t place. It was starting to hurt . . . andin a good way?Francesca hummed against her pussy. The vibrations shot through her tongue, traipsing into her clit, bringing her toes to a curl in her tennis shoes. 

“Frannie . . . wait—that—”

She could no longer speak. Her spine flexed outward, her body was caving in on itself, and all she could do was grip the railing because Francesca had been too far gone to stop. 

The feeling brewing between her own legs was heaven sent. 

Francesca never experienced such pleasure before. Her clit had never throbbed between her own fingers so fiercely. She didn’t know whether she’d been drawing circles, squares, or slashes against her—what she did know was how fast her orgasm was approaching. 

With her own hand in her pants and her tongue exploring Michaela, her stomach tightened like a compressed coil and pretty soon, she was soon going to release. 

“My . . . god,”  Francesca whined into her pussy.

She gripped Michaela’s ass with her right hand, squeezing the plump cheek as she beckoned her wet heat into her mouth further. 

“Francesca. Gods, Harder.”

Her name in Michaela’s mouth, so feverishly, so ravenous, was enough to bring her right on the edge. She became hyper aware of all the nerves in her body; how her hardened nipples rubbed against her sports bra, how her cheeks rubbed cheeks against Michaela's slick thighs—it all pushed her towards the cliff. 

Then, she toppled over.

As did Michaela . . . again. 

The force of the orgasm hit Francesca so hard she did not make more than a single, high pitched squeak. Her aching pussy practically spasmed in her hand. The convulsions came in tidal waves that crashed against her core for sixty seconds straight. 

Time slowed and her limbs went stiff. 

Her mind was at an all time high, she was floating, scraping the ceiling even, and she did not wish to come down for even a second. 

After a few shaky breaths, she inevitably did. 

She blinked through her post orgasm haze and looked up at Michaela. Her forehead glistened with sweat, her hair was dishevelled slightly, and her breasts matched the rhythm of her breathing. 

Fast and heavy. 

“Are you alright?” Francesca whispered breathlessly.

Michaela’s knees were pressed together and her body shuddered but her grip on the railing had loosened.

“That was . . . God, you make me feel so good,”

Francesca grabbed Michaela’s shirt and knickers from the dock, quickly rising to her feet to return them. The more the high faded, the more she realized how exposed they truly were. 

They needed to get out of here. Now. 

Michaela slipped her head and arms into the shirt, then tucked her torn knickers into Francesca’s pocket. The thought of Michaela walking around with underwear drove her mad. Her heart beat so fiercely her ribs were beginning to ache. 

“I think I’m in love with you,” Francesca confessed, almost hypnotized. 

The irreversible words fell between them. 

Michaela, and the rest of the surrounding forest, went completely still. 

“What?” she breathed. 

Francesca blinked. Then she choked on her own spit. Michaela rubbed her back as she coughed and coughed. The cool night air did nothing for the heat crawling up her throat now. 

“I—I—,” she stated, then stopped, jaw clenching, “I didn’t mean for it to come out like that,”

“But you mean it?”

It was a question. 

And she had to give an answer. 

“Yes,”

The honesty came far easier than anything else that night. 

“Frannie . . you canny . . . say stuff like that,” Michaela whispered, blushing, “Not after . . .,”

“I felt the need to be honest,” she stated. 

Michaela tugged at Francesca’s shirt, unable to stop herself from kissing those lips again. She laughed into Francesca’s mouth. The sound, short and disbelieving. 

“You're unreal, you know that?” she murmured, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. 

Michaela did not try to reach for a joke. Instead, she sat in the tension, mind replaying the words, fingers toying with the hem of Francesca’s shirt. She’d known the truth—for months, the feeling ate away at her inside like a tapeworm—and yet, she let the fear speak. 

Again. 

There hadn’t been many opportunities to confess her feelings like this before. 

Now, she wouldn’t mess it up. 

“I’m pretty sure I love you too, Frannie,” Michaela whispered back. 

Francesca nodded in satisfaction, lacing their fingers together as she walked them back toward the house. 

“Good,” she hummed, “I’m ready to leave, now.”

And Michaela snorted into the night for the last time.