Chapter Text
Francesca never much cared for other people.
Sure, she loved her family. But she didn’t necessarily need to know what they had to say. She’d love nothing more for all eight of them to sit and eat an entire meal in silence. And beyond her family — no, she did not like other people very much at all.
Growing up, she never made any friends. At first, it was seen as a social failing on her part. Then, once she grew to excel at the piano, her mother stopped monitoring her social life, content for her to focus all her extracurricular attention on the instrument.
And focus she did. When Francesca was at the piano, the rest of the world ceased to exist. It was truly just her, the keys, and the music they produced. She would become so absorbed in the piano as she played that she often did not notice when people entered or exited the room.
So it ended up being important to Francesca that she make a living off playing the piano. Because otherwise, she might have to talk to people.
And she was good at the piano. Great, even.
She ended up landing a job as the pianist for a swanky Italian restaurant in Kensington while she was still in secondary school. And then she just . . . never left.
She liked her job. The tips were handsome. She was paid enough to afford a flat of her own. So, much to her mother’s dismay, she skipped out on university.
She had worked at Donatello’s, the restaurant, for six years now, and she had never once noticed a customer. Just as it had always been, it was her, her piano, and the music she played.
That is, until she walked in.
She started coming every Saturday night. Right at 7:00PM sharp. Always sat at the two-seated table right by her piano. Always ordered a glass of white wine and a chopped salad. Always wore heels, always styled her braids tied back, always did her makeup sharp and color coordinated with her outfit. The only thing that changed about her from week to week were her clothes. First a red dress, then a black one, then a white blouse, then back to the red dress, then to a blue one.
Francesca noticed her from the very first time. She was seated across from another woman, spending the whole night leaned forward on one elbow, talking animatedly, listening intently. Francesca found herself wondering desperately what it was she was saying the whole night.
She had an undeniable charisma about her. A light, a glow, an energy. She drew in all objects around her into her orbit. Francesca was hopeless to resist her gravity.
Francesca usually played piano covers of romantic pop ballads on Saturday nights, at her manager’s request. It drove her crazy (she was a purist, sue her), but he let her play whatever she wanted on nights when it was slow, so she could only complain so much.
But with this woman there, seated right in front of her, Francesca was suddenly more than happy to play songs the general public would recognize. Because nothing was quite like the high she felt when the woman’s ears perked up in recognition, when she turned to the person across the table and Francesca could read her lips say the name of the song she was playing. The woman liked Beyonce, she noticed, and Whitney Houston. When Francesca played “I Have Nothing,” the woman stopped speaking altogether, pausing the conversation entirely just to hear her play.
That was the curious thing about the restaurant industry. Once the woman left that night, Francesca was left with a sense of mourning. She would never see her again. Customers came and went, there one moment and gone forever the next. It was the nature of the job. She had only that singular, two-hour affair, where for the first time in her life, an audience member mattered more than her piano.
She spent the next week using her free time to learn more Whitney Houston songs. More and more and more until suddenly she found herself playing a melancholic version of “I Want to Dance with Somebody” with tears streaming down her cheeks.
That finally snapped her out of it. Because really, what the hell was she getting so worked up over?
Well, snapped her out of it, until the next Saturday. She was back. Same time, same table. Only — was she with someone different this time? Francesca could not be sure, she hadn’t been paying close attention (read: any attention) to the person across the table from the woman.
She played Whitney songs for 20 minutes straight until her manager came over to tell her to knock it off.
The third Saturday, Francesca finally realized that the woman was, in fact, bringing someone different each time. She watched closer, watched how they interacted, and she realized — oh. This was a date. The woman was on a date. Had she been the other two times? Almost certainly.
Oh, Francesca was quite stupid.
Of course she was on a date. They probably all were dates. No, obviously, yes, they were all dates.
So wait. She had gone out on three different dates in as many weeks? And she brought them all to the same restaurant?
Wasn’t that . . . odd?
The fourth Saturday, another brand new date, and Francesca found herself growing irritated. Who did this woman think she was? Did people really go out on this many dates? With this many different people?
Were they all first dates? Did she just see them once and then stop? Or was she continuously dating all these women simultaneously? Who even had the time for all that?
The fifth Saturday was the same, another woman Francesca did not recognize.
But then, while she was playing some Ed Sheeran song, the woman looked up at her. And, since Francesca was obviously staring at her, their eyes met.
Look away! her brain screamed at her. But she couldn’t. She was locked in.
It took her date reaching over to touch her arm for the woman to finally look away.
Francesca tried very hard to ignore that entire moment. (She thought about it nonstop for the next week).
The sixth Saturday, another new date. Ridiculous. Francesca thought about playing “You’re So Vain,” but knew her manager would chew her alive for that choice. She tried out some Celine Dion instead. The woman seemed unimpressed.
Francesca was in a sour mood the rest of the week.
The seventh Saturday, the woman must have done something to offend her date, because she left before the check arrived.
Francesca tried very hard not to smile. (She wished she could have gone over and talked to the woman, now that she was alone).
The woman did not leave right away, though. She ordered another drink and sat back, taking slow sips and . . . watching Francesca play.
Francesca was already mid-song. She was playing one of her normal rotations — Olivia Dean’s “Dive.” She tried desperately to keep her fingers steady on the keys as she met the woman’s gaze.
It was intoxicating. It was overwhelming. It was like the woman did not even need to blink. Her eyes were heavy and suffocating. Francesca needed — something. She just had no idea what.
As soon as the song came to an end, Francesca fled.
She could take her four, 10-minute breaks at her own discretion. She chose now for one. She fled to the back of the house, somehow out of breath and dizzy. She snuck into the walk-in fridge and tried to focus on breathing in and out. She stayed for as long as she could tolerate the cold before heading to the bathroom to run her fingers under hot water. She needed to warm them back up so that she’d be able to play.
When she got back to her piano, the woman was gone.
The eighth Saturday, Francesca had been thinking long and hard about how to handle this situation. Because she was beginning to suspect that she was just a tad in over her head with this woman. Because why was she beginning to impede Francesca’s ability to do her job?
She decided she would take one of her breaks around 8:00PM. That would be right in the middle of the woman’s date. She would use that time to screw her head back on straight, after it inevitably became undone by the woman’s presence.
So at 8:00PM, she got up and went to the back room for her break. She ate a protein bar and sipped some water and pretended not to think about what the woman and her date were talking about.
At 8:10PM she walked out of the back room and began to walk down the hallway that led to the dining room. The same hallway that housed the guest restrooms. The same hallway that the woman was now standing in, ostensibly waiting to use one of the restrooms.
Francesca stopped in her tracks. Which, of course, made the woman look up at her.
A slow, treacherous smile began to spread across her face.
Francesca’s heart sunk to her stomach.
“Nice playing,” the woman said, nodding her head back towards the dining room.
As if they knew each other. Because they did, didn’t they? Because the woman kept bringing her revolving door of dates right in front of her, week after week, making eye contact with her, listening to her play all the while wooing someone else.
“I’m surprised you noticed me,” Francesca sniffed, feeling offended suddenly.
The grin did not drop from the woman’s face. She tilted her head to the side, assessing Francesca. “What do you mean?” she asked.
“I thought you’d be saving all your energy to make sure you don’t say the wrong girl’s name,” Francesca said, her brain not believing the words that just escaped from her lips.
OK, so, 10 minutes was not enough time for her to screw her head back on straight.
The woman’s jaw dropped open. “Excuse me?”
No turning back now. “You know, since you’re always here with a different girl each time,” she explained awkwardly.
“No, I understood your point,” the woman laughed. Huh? “I’m just a bit disappointed,” she continued lightly.
“Why?” Francesca’s forehead wrinkled.
“I’m disappointed the hot piano player thinks she’s above casual dating,” she shrugged nonchalantly, pretending to check her nails. “I don’t know, could’ve been fun.”
Francesca's breath caught in her throat. “What could’ve been fun?” She was rapidly losing the plot. Or maybe she never had it?
“Me and you. We could’ve been fun,” the woman sighed dramatically. “We’ll never know, now.”
Francesca slowly processed her words. Was she — flirting? Or — ?
What was wrong with her? She was here on a date with someone else!
Francesca could not hold back her scoff. “You think I’d want to be one of your girls?”
She had the gall to look at her with pity. “I know you do. Baby, you’re drooling as we speak.”
Francesca’s hand shot up to feel at her mouth, embarrassed. God, was she really? How could she help it? The woman was wearing a short, tight yellow dress that hugged her curves in all the right places —
Wait. Francesca was not drooling. Obviously. Why would she be?!
“I —” she started, but was cut off by the restroom door opening and someone exiting it. The woman pushed past her and went in without another word, leaving Francesca alone, standing there like an idiot.
Angry, frustrated, irritated, embarrassed — everything, Francesca stomped back to her piano. This is why she did not like people!
The ninth Saturday, she tried her plan again. Take her break at 8:00PM and use it to recoup from the woman’s spell.
It was a fool’s errand. An entire week away from the woman hadn’t been enough to get Francesca to stop thinking about her, to act normal about her. Once she saw her again, there was nothing a 10-minute break could do to keep her from losing her mind.
Because it was worse now. Because the woman had vaguely, sort of, kind of, flirted with her? Maybe? And Francesca really, really, liked hated that.
And even worse, when she came back from her 10-minute break, walking down the hallway, she found the woman waiting outside of the restroom. Again.
Francesca tried to just keep walking, but her gait slowed as she approached. The woman had already set her eyes on her, watching her get closer.
When she was a few feet away, the woman spoke up. “What do you think of my date tonight? She’s pretty hot, huh?”
Francesca gaped at her. Oh, this woman was playing a game that Francesca was wholly unequipped to compete in.
She just stormed down the rest of the hall and back to her piano.
The tenth Saturday, Francesca was somehow still surprised when she came back from her 10-minute break to find the woman once again waiting outside of the guest restrooms in the hallway.
“Do you ever play anything besides Whitney Houston?” the woman asked.
Francesca resisted the urge to ask what the woman would like her to play instead.
“Do you ever eat anything besides the chopped salad?” she shot back.
The woman’s eyes widened. “Oh my god,” she laughed. “You stalker!”
Francesca stomped off at that. She was just observant, thank you very much.
The eleventh Saturday, Francesca finally understood what would be waiting for her when she returned to work after her break.
Indeed, the woman was standing in the hallway outside of the guest restrooms. Francesca would bet money that they weren’t even occupied.
No, the woman was not waiting for the restroom. She was waiting for Francesca.
Not that Francesca cared. Obviously.
She once again slowed as she approached the woman in the hallway.
“Do you like my new dress?” the woman asked, nearly batting her eyelids up at Francesca.
Francesca took it in the sight of her. Tonight she wore a long, tan, sleeveless dress that she paired with open-toed heels. She looked divine.
Francesca did not trust herself to speak. She merely hummed in response and rushed off again.
The twelfth Sunday, Francesca spent her entire break resisting cardiac arrest. What was the woman going to say to her this time?
She walked into the hallway with her chin high. She was an adult. She could do this.
The woman looked up at her with a smile. “Is the tiramisu good?” she asked without preamble. “I think my date wants to order dessert tonight.”
Francesca blinked. “You never get dessert,” she said unthinkingly.
The woman smiled immediately like the cat who caught the canary. Oh. Francesca had overplayed her hand. Again. Fuck!
“Stalker strikes again . . .” the woman said, raising her eyebrows.
Francesca resisted the urge to scream as she felt her cheeks flame. “I’m not — you just — ugh!”
She wanted to stomp off. She should stomp off. Because what the hell was even happening right now?
“It’s so embarrassing,” the woman drawled. “You know everything about me, don’t you?” she teased.
Francesca worked her jaw. “I don’t know your name,” she pointed out.
“Michaela. Michaela Stirling.” Oh. She wasn’t expecting to receive it. But god, did she need it. Michaela.
“I’m Francesca,” she said in return.
“Oh, I know,” Michaela laughed.
The thirteenth Saturday, she did not expect it. Did not expect it at all. But 7:00PM came, and Michaela was no where to be found.
Really, she should have expected it. Why would Michaela want to come back to the restaurant with the creepy stalker pianist?
It stung all the same. It lacerated her chest, because somehow, Francesca had managed to get her hopes up. Over what, she wasn’t even sure. But she knew this feeling enough to name it as such. And fuck, did it hurt this time. It hurt really bad. As quickly as Michaela had come, she had disappeared once more.
She still ended up taking her break at 8:00PM again, having grown used to the routine. She spent the whole break trying to hype herself up to make the walk back down the hallway, knowing Michaela wouldn’t be there. After Francesca had spent all week fantasizing about what their next interaction would look like.
And then Francesca started walking down the hall towards her piano, and then —
And then —
Michaela was there?
She was in the same spot she always was. Rooted outside the door to the guest restrooms, waiting (or pretending to wait) for them to be unoccupied.
Francesca suddenly wanted to run away. Because she had just spent all shift talking herself out of caring about Michaela, and she now found herself completely unprepared to pretend like she could in anyway be normal about whatever interaction was about to happen.
Francesca approached her all the same and stopped right in front of her.
Michaela looked up at her from beneath her eyelids. “How’s this shade of lipstick look on me?” she asked.
Francesca’s hands flexed at her sides. Her eyes narrowed in on Michaela’s lips, and immediately she wished they hadn’t. Her heart began to race. She felt vaguely ill.
“Good,” she managed to say, tacking on a nod for good measure.
Michaela hummed. “You’re not wearing any lipstick,” she pointed out.
Francesca rubbed her lips together. No, she had just put on some chapstick before work. “No . . . um — no,” she said cautiously.
What game was Michaela playing this time? She had a spark in her eye that Francesca could not name, but she knew her gut that it meant nothing good.
And now she had made the mistake of looking at Michaela’s lips. Her full, gorgeous lips. She needed to bite one. Expeditiously.
Wait, what? Stop!
Michaela took a step back towards the wall of the hallway. Francesca, like a moth to flame, followed her, one step, and then another, until Michaela’s back was pressed against the wall and Francesca was only a few inches away from her.
She had never been this close to Michaela before. So close she could smell her. Vanilla and sea salt and lust. Her head slanted down towards Michaela’s automatically, her nose seeking out her scent.
Michaela reached out and hooked a finger around one of Francesca’s belt loops.
“Do you want to be?” Michaela asked, her voice somehow still as clear as a bell.
“What?” Francesca asked, already forgetting what they had been talking about.
“Do you want to be wearing lipstick?” Michaela asked, and yanked Francesca closer until her breasts were grazing Michaela’s chest and their breaths began to mingle.
Michaela tilted her head up, parting her lips. “Because I can make that happen,” she whispered. Francesca could feel the words on her own lips.
Francesca, frankly, did not know what the fuck Michaela was talking about.
She closed the distance between them and captured Michaela’s lips in a kiss. Michaela tugged her even closer, finger still hooked around her belt loop, while her free hand reached up to tangle into Francesca’s hair.
Francesca’s baser instincts took over completely. She licked across Michaela’s lips, sliding her tongue in between to stroke against Michaela’s, moaning into her mouth, pressing impossibly closer.
She felt drunk. She had never been drunk before. She felt insane. She felt like she was on Mars and there was no oxygen or gravity and she was soon to die and float off into the endless abyss of space for the rest of eternity.
Her hands cupped Michaela’s cheeks and she slanted her head to perfect the angle of her kiss. She felt a rumble in her chest and realized belatedly that she had been moaning. Loudly. Continuously.
At work. In public. Kissing a customer at work for anyone to see?
Wait, what was happening?
Francesca tore herself off Michaela. What the fuck had she just done? Mauled a patron, someone she barely knew?
As quickly as the confusion and panic crossed her mind, it dissipated again at the sight of Michaela staring up at her, lips swollen, eyes blown open.
Yeah, she wanted her. And by wanted her, she meant she needed her.
Francesca turned around and eyed the one of the restrooms. It was a single restroom with a lock on the door.
She looked back at Michaela and opened her mouth to speak, but Michaela beat her to it.
“C’mon,” Michaela said, grabbing her hand and pulling her towards the restroom.
She dragged Francesca inside and locked the door behind them.
Francesca’s brain shut back off. She grabbed Michaela by the hips and maneuvered her over to the sink counter. She lifted her up until Michaela was sat on the counter. Michaela spread her thighs immediately and Francesca unthinkingly moved between them.
Her body wanted what her mind could not comprehend. So her mind just let her body take what it wanted.
She angled her head back down and placed a searing kiss on Michaela’s lips. This time, she could her herself moan into Michaela’s mouth.
Michaela did not seem to mind. She hooked her ankles around the back of Francesca’s thighs and drew her even closer. Francesca’s hand went to rest on her thighs automatically, and she was taken aback when she realized she was touching bare skin.
Francesca tore her lips from Michaela’s and looked down. Michaela’s dress was bunched up against her hips, her thighs exposed and her panties peaking through. Francesca’s hands gripped Michaela’s thighs tightly as she took in the sight.
Oh fuck. What was happening?
Whatever it was, she wanted it. She knew she wanted it. She didn’t know much, but she could identify that she had a yearning desire to tear Michaela apart and eat her whole.
Michaela grabbed Francesca’s face to bring her lips back in for another kiss. Francesca opened up to her, their teeth clanking in her eagerness, her hands rubbing up and down along Michaela’s thighs.
When her lungs burned for air, Francesca dragged her lips across Michaela’s cheek and to her ear. God, her smell was even more potent there. Francesca nuzzled her nose behind the back of Michaela’s ear, taking her in. Michaela’s head leaned towards her as she let out a sigh.
How was it that Michaela was soft all over? Every part of her was more intoxicating than the last. Was she a witch?
Francesca grazed her teeth down the column of Michaela’s throat before finding purchase in the crook of her neck. She sucked a kiss into her skin until Michaela moaned, her fingers finding their way back into Francesca’s hair, rapidly loosening her ponytail.
If Francesca thought Michaela’s skin smelled good and felt good, it tasted even better. She couldn’t help but lather her shoulder in open-mouthed kisses, wishing her damn dress was off, wishing they were horizontal, wishing they could —
Michaela eventually pulled back and lowered her hands to rest over Francesca’s.
“You can touch me, if you want to,” Michaela offered breathlessly.
Francesca’s hands seized at the words. She, logically, knew that she didn’t know how to touch another woman. But that did not matter at all in the face of her sheer, unadulterated, raw desire for Michaela. She was not going to let something as trivial as inexperience prevent her from feeling her.
She choked on her own breath as she scrambled to respond. “I want to,” she said, and even though she was determined, she still managed to sound so nervous. Don’t blow this!
Michaela laughed softly but didn’t pull away. No, instead she loosely held on to Francesca’s right hand and dragged it up her thigh, up, up, up until Francesca’s fingers were grazing the fabric of her panties.
Francesca moaned involuntarily at the sensation. God, she was so pathetic.
Michaela pulled both her hands back and used them to guide Francesca’s face back in for another kiss. “Touch me,” she whispered against Francesca’s lips.
She didn’t need to be told again. Francesca kissed her again as she slid her fingers over to brush along her panties. Francesca moaned into Michaela’s mouth once again when her fingertips felt how damp the fabric was right over her center.
She moved under the fabric then and let two fingers rest gently over her center. She was warm and wet and Francesca thought she might pass out.
She pulled her lips away from Michaela’s and all but slammed her forehead against Michaela’s shoulder, entirely overwhelmed by the sensation.
“Fuck,” she muttered as she took in the sight of her own arm between Michaela’s thighs, her fingers hidden by the bottom of her bunched-up dress.
“How do I feel?” Michaela asked, her voice hitching.
“Wet,” Francesca whispered, irreverent.
Michaela bucked her hips up once. “Aren’t you gonna feel some more?”
“Yes,” Francesca said, nearly hyperventilating as she moved her fingers just barely up and down her slit.
She continued like that, exploring, for who knows how long. Her forehead still pressed against Michaela’s shoulder, watching her forearm flex as her fingertips grazed up and down, just barely touching her skin, just feeling her wetness, her heat. The feeling alone had left her more turned on than she had ever been in her whole life. She could live in this moment forever.
Michaela had completely undone Francesca’s hair by now, and cradled the back of her head in one hand. “I can’t tell,” Michaela began, her breathing noticeably affected, “If you’re too nervous to do more, or just a tease.”
Francesca pressed forward with her middle finger where she thought Michaela’s clit was. She found the bundle of nerves with ease, putting pressure on it, while Michaela’s knees squeezed her hips tighter.
“Oh,” Michaela sighed.
“Like that?” Francesca asked, surprised at the baritone of her own voice.
“More,” Michaela encouraged.
Francesca began to rub circles over her clit, and then quickly realized some lubricant would help. She pulled her hand back and lifted her fingers to her mouth, sucking them against her own tongue.
Fuck. She could not hold back the moan that erupted from her chest at Michaela’s taste. Fuck, she needed to go down on this woman.
She returned her slicked fingers to Michaela’s clit and pressed into her, rubbing insistent circles. Michaela sighed these breathy, beautiful sighs as she moved, her hips slowly rocking in tandem with Francesca’s rhythm.
Francesca lifted her head and tried to look at Michaela’s face, but she felt like she was going crosseyed, so entirely overwhelmed by the feeling. She felt like electricity was flowing through her veins.
“Are you getting off on this?” Michaela asked, the hand at the back of Francesca’s head gripping her skull tighter.
“Wha —” Francesca tried to ask but her mouth was slack and useless.
Michaela looked down and Francesca followed her gaze. Francesca could see her arm moving subtly as her fingers swirled, could see Michaela’s hips grinding slowly, could see —
Oh. Unknowingly, Francesca’s own hips had begun to seek out some friction, as she was practically humping the counter.
Before she could think another thought, Michaela pulled her up by the back of her head and hauled her lips back in for another kiss.
“Inside,” Michaela whispered against her lips.
Francesca obeyed immediately. She moved to pull Michaela's panties down, Michaela lifting her hips to help as Francesca slid them off until they hit her ankles. Francesca grabbed them and quickly stuffed them in her pocket. Michaela wrapped her legs back around Francesca's hips and tangled her fingers in her hair again.
Without further preamble, Francesca's two fingers found Michaela’s center. “One to start,” Michaela instructed.
Francesca adjusted immediately and slide one finger slowly in. If she had thought Michaela was wet and warm before, it was nothing compared to the feeling of being inside her.
“Harder,” Michaela said, and followed it up with a moan. That spurred her on unlike anything else.
“Second finger,” Michaela said soon after. Francesca added one more on her next thrust, curling them into her, pulling them back out, before slamming back in and repeating over and over.
“Yes, just like that. Fuck, your fingers are so long,” Michaela gasped.
Francesca felt herself pulse at the praise. She used her hips to push harder into Michaela, the momentum from her hips helping her fingers go deeper, harder inside her.
Michaela threw her head back with a long moan.
Francesca began to feel crazed. She rocked her hips, thrust her fingers, curled them up, over and over until Michaela’s fingers tightened even more in her hair and Francesca could feel her walls spasm around her fingers.
She had just made Michaela come. Oh. What the fuck? But that’s what had happened, wasn’t it?
Michaela sat still, panting, her legs still wrapped around Francesca. Francesca felt her own center throb with need, overcome entirely by what had just happened. She had just made Michaela come on her fingers. In the restroom. At work. While she was on her break. Which she was exceedingly late coming back from, now. And she was still so turned on it fucking hurt.
Michaela slowly unraveled her fingers from Francesca’s hair and dropped her hand down to Francesca’s wrist.
“Pull out, slowly,” she said softly. Oh. Francesca’s fingers were still inside her. She did as she was told, and Michaela winced, still sensitive.
She stepped back and let Michaela dropped down to her feet. She straightened out her dress before turning around and wiping the smeared lipstick from her face.
Francesca realized she should do the same. She washed her hands, redid her ponytail, and wiped her own lips off.
Then it hit her. Michaela was here — for a date. Francesca had just had sex, for the first time, in the restroom at work, with someone who was there for a date with another woman.
What the actual hell was wrong with her?
She looked down and saw her hands were shaking. And now she had to go out there and play piano in front of Michaela while she wined and dined someone else? Her stomach lurched at the thought.
Francesca cleared her throat. “Your date, she might be here,” she managed to say.
Michaela looked at her and — laughed.
Before Francesca’s indignation could flare too high, Michaela spoke. "I don’t have a date tonight.”
Francesca’s brows furrowed. “Then why are you here?”
Michaela walked closer and fixed the collar of her shirt. Then she looked up at her, with a look in her eyes that said Francesca was very, very stupid.
“Oh,” Francesca said.
Michaela smiled up at her and patted her twice on the breastbone.
“So when’s your shift over?”