Chapter Text
Present.
Francesca Bridgerton was perfect.
Well, she had one flaw. A very small flaw. And having only one flaw — that was pretty good, as far as flaws go.
But otherwise, she was perfect.
Francesca was a piano prodigy from age four. Francesca finished secondary school top of her class. Francesca graduated university with honors and a semester early, to boot. She now toured the world as a pianist and had achieved considerable success.
It was important for Francesca to be perfect. Because her family was perfect.
The Bridgertons were the definition of high society. Their family had held a viscount title for centuries. Her father, Edmund, had served as prime minister when Francesca was very young, until his untimely and tragic death. Her brother Anthony had followed in his footsteps, currently serving as an MP. They were close, personal friends of the Queen.
The rest of her family were all perfect in their own ways too. They pursued the arts, they pursued business, they got married, they had children. They all checked box after box.
That’s what they were meant to do. As Bridgertons, it was their duty to do right and avoid wrong. Because if they did something wrong, boy was the world waiting to catch them in their slip-up. A child of a high-profile family, a spoiled brat making a mistake? Yes, everyone would want a piece of that story.
Their actions did not just reflect on themselves. They reflected on Anthony and his political career. They reflected on Edmund’s legacy. They reflected on the Bridgerton name.
So once Francesca hit a plateau in advancing in her career, she felt the weight of her family bearing down upon her. It was urging her to move on to the next requirement, to check the next box that all Bridgertons must check. Marriage.
Francesca had avoided it as long as she could. It made for painful conversations with her mother, who brought it up every time they spoke, but she just — hadn't been ready. She still wasn't, if she were being honest with herself. But her life was not going to wait for her. And being perfect did not come without its costs.
So when she heard from Anthony that her boyfriend John had approached him to ask for her hand in marriage, she felt at peace with her fate.
John Stirling, the closest friend she had ever had. They met in college and had been dating for two years. John was like her — sharp, reserved, cautious, keen on silence. And John’s family was like hers too. He suffered the same expectations of perfect that she did.
Despite his young age, he was quickly becoming a well-respected political analyst. He had his eyes on an MP seat, too, and at this rate, he’d get there soon.
John and Francesca had fallen together one year after graduation, at a time when Francesca had felt lost at sea, unsure with how to proceed in her pursuit of perfection. John had offered her a life boat, her one source of stability in that chaotic time. She leaned on him, and he let her.
It was an easy answer. When he took her out to a quiet dinner and slowly slide the ring box across the table, a “yes” fell from her lips without second thought.
Which brought her to the joyful world of wedding planning. She imagined the process was only exponentially worsened by the fact that this was not just any wedding, but a wedding between two well-to-do families.
She was only just getting started, but already she was cripplingly overwhelmed. She had to pick a dress, date, venue, linens, flowers, menu, cake, cocktails, music. And the guest list. And she was probably forgetting 50 other things she would soon have the pleasure of discovering.
She went first with the big things — venue and dress. She and John (and their mothers) had begun touring different churches and reception venues around London. Francesca just felt, deep to her core, that she did not care about where she got married.
It ended up being their mothers heatedly debating the merits of each option while Francesca and John nodded their heads at the appropriate times.
Her dress shopping, however, she would have to be more actively involved in. That she unfortunately could not pass off to someone else.
A day where she was forced to try on scratchy dress after scratchy dress, her mother and sisters oohing and ahhing over each one, touching her, pulling at her. She could cry just thinking about it.
As with all her siblings, the dress shopping was a mandatory event of the wedding planning. One filled with champagne as the women of the family gathered at the bridal shop to help the soon-to-be bride select her wedding dress. Francesca could not have gotten out of it. And trust that she tried.
So she did what she could to minimize the misery. She arrived an hour before the rest of her family were set to come so that she could get a head start whittling down the options before she had to contend with a crowd.
The bridal shop accommodated her well enough. They brought her five radically different styles to start. She tried on each one, more than once requiring one of the stylist’s help getting in and out of them.
She had on now the fifth style. A simple column dress, no frills or flare. Exactly to her taste. She slowly ran her hands down her torso, looking at herself in the mirror.
She blinked at the sight. Even in the dress closest to her style, she still could not recognize the woman looking back at her. What the hell was she doing?
Panic began to rise in her throat.
She reached back for the zipper, desperate suddenly to get out of the dress. But she could barely reach it.
Just as she was about to call out for help, she heard the dressing room door open and close behind her. Thank god.
“I was just about to ask for help,” Francesca sighed. “I need help getting out.”
Then she felt hands come up to her hips. Familiar hands.
Francesca watched in the mirror as her face came into view. She was standing behind her, flexing her hands, feeling the fabric stretched across Francesca’s skin.
“What are you doing here?” Francesca asked, breathless.
“The wedding party was invited to the bridal gown fitting,” Michaela said, like it was obvious. She wrapped her arms then the rest of the way around Francesca, pressing flush against her back. She rested her lips against Francesca’s tricep, just barely touching her skin.
“The bride’s side was,” Francesca clarified. “You’re on the groom’s side.”
“Mm,” Michaela hummed. Francesca could feel her smile against her. “I like to think of myself on both sides.”
Francesca bit her lip. Fuck.
She should step out of Michaela’s grasp. She should tell her to get out of the dressing room. She should tell her to go home.
Instead, she brought her hands up to rest on top of Michaela’s.
“You look so good in white,” Michaela murmured. Francesca melted back into her at her words.
“We aren't supposed to be doing this anymore,” Francesca reminded her quietly.
Michaela bit her shoulder. Lightly, then harder. She moved Francesca’s hair to the side and began to trail kisses across her back.
“I’m with John now,” she continued to protest.
“You’ve been with me a lot longer,” Michaela said into her skin.
“That isn’t how that works,” Francesca sputtered with an incredulous laugh. She really shouldn’t be surprised at her audacity anymore.
“OK, then you like me a lot more,” Michaela tried instead.
Francesca sighed. “Michaela.”
But Michaela only squeezed her tighter and kissed the back of her neck harder.
Because she knew Francesca would snap. She always did.
Francesca turned in her arms and pushed Michaela until her back met the wall of the dressing room. She brought a hand up and clasped it around Michaela’s neck, pinning her to the wall.
Michaela looked up at her, that smug, smug smile on her face, the one she donned every time Francesca inevitably caved.
Francesca hated that smile. She kissed it right off of her.
She kissed her desperately, needy, pouring her anxiety and stress into it for Michaela to take. And Michaela took it all, running her fingers through Francesca’s hair, pushing up against her to get impossibly closer.
She kissed her fiancé’s cousin in her dressing room while shopping for her wedding gown.
Because, yes. Francesca Bridgerton did have one flaw.
She never could quite figure out how to resist Michaela Stirling.
Past (six years earlier).
Michaela Stirling was very much enjoying her second year of university. None of the nerves and unknowns of first year. All of the perks of reckless fun.
Which brought her to a house party on a Thursday night. Because Friday classes didn’t really count, right?
She squeezed through the swarm of bodies, making her way to the kitchen to get a drink. She had come alone, which was rare but hardly posed a problem. Michaela had friends wherever she went.
When she got to the kitchen, she encountered a surprise. A pleasant surprise. A very pleasant surprise.
Francesca Bridgerton. Her cousin John’s best friend.
She had seen Francesca around the past year, studying with John, walking with John, eating at the dining hall with John. She could not believe John was just casually friends with a literal goddess. Easily the hottest girl on campus.
She had vowed to herself that she would, one day, shoot her shot. Because life was short and college was shorter. And Francesca was just too gorgeous for Michaela to let her slip by.
But Michaela was patient and she was calculated. She knew from John that he had found his kindred spirit in Francesca. Another quiet soul who preferred scheduled bedtimes and carefully plotted plans.
Francesca had to be approached properly. The timing had to be just right.
And dare Michaela say, that a house party on a Thursday night was the right time indeed.
Michaela went to get herself a drink, playing it cool, while watching Francesca out of the corner of her eye. Francesca clung to the wall, watching the room cautiously with a cup in her hand.
Michaela wondered what she was doing here to begin with. Was John here too? No, why would John be at a party? Maybe one of her hundreds of siblings had dragged her out?
Michaela could feel the discomfort radiating off Francesca in waves. Well, perhaps Michaela could change that. She was nothing if not optimistic.
She walked towards her slowly, like a hunter trying not to spook their prey.
Francesca’s eyes locked onto her as she grew closer. You got this, Michaela told herself.
“Hey,” she said, once she approached her.
“Hi,” Francesca said back, suspiciously.
“You’re John’s friend, right?” Michaela asked as nonchalantly as possible.
Francesca narrowed her eyes at Michaela. “How do you know that?”
“I’m his cousin,” Michaela explained.
Francesca shook her head. “That didn’t answer my question.”
Alright then…
“I’ve seen you around,” Michaela tried instead.
Francesca blinked at her. “What does that mean?”
Michaela couldn’t help but laugh. Who was this girl?
“It means I tend to notice when John brings a gorgeous girl around,” Michaela said, laying it on thick. Might as well!
Francesca furrowed her brows and opened her mouth. “Are you hitting on me?” she asked.
“I’m certainly trying to,” Michaela confirmed.
Francesca sniffed. “Well, it isn’t working.”
“Hm,” Michaela nodded, pretending to think hard. "Any tips on how I can improve?”
And then, the most unsexy thing possible happened to Michaela. Some bumbling idiot bumped into her and spilled his drink down the back of her shirt.
Oh. My. God.
Does this moron know what he just cost her? Her one and only shot with Francesca Bridgerton?
She whipped around to give this buffoon a piece of her mind, but he had disappeared into the crowd immediately.
She licked her lips, trying to temper her anger. She turned back to Francesca to find her looking sympathetically at her. Ugh.
“I’m gonna go clean up,” Michaela said, summoning every last ounce of her patience.
She didn’t wait for Francesca’s response.
She went upstairs to get away from the chaos and easily found an empty bathroom. Once inside, she locked the door and took her shirt off, wiping up the mess with toilet paper and dabbing it with water to prevent a stain.
She did the best she could but eventually gave up. She’d have to just wash it as soon as she got home. She put her shirt back on and opened the door to the bathroom and —
Francesca.
Francesca was leaning against the hallway wall across from the bathroom door. Was she waiting to use the bathroom?
“Oh, hi,” Michaela said, her tone portraying her surprise.
Francesca did not respond. She pushed off the wall and stalked towards Michaela. Michaela moved back as Francesca got closer, until they both were in the bathroom. Francesca turned around and locked the door.
Michaela’s heart rate skyrocketed. What was happening? Surely not —
Francesca’s hands grasped her hips and pushed her against the sink. Michaela’s lips fell apart in a gasp.
“You hitting on me earlier,” Francesca started, her breathing short and sharp. “Does that mean I can kiss you? I mean —” she shook her head. "Do you want to make out?”
“Yes,” Michaela said immediately, tilting her head up.
Francesca brought one hand to cheek to angle her face so that she could slot her lips perfectly against hers. Francesca moaned at the contact. And fuck if that wasn’t so hot that Michaela heard herself moan too.
Francesca was urgent, sliding her other hand up to hold her face with both hands, moving her lips oh so deliciously against Michaela’s.
Michaela needed her closer. Fuck, she did not know how sweet Francesca was going to be. She tasted like cinnamon and cherry soda. She smelled like grass and home. Francesca kissed her like she was running out of time, like any minute someone was going to break down the door and tear them apart, like she needed to savor every second of Michaela that she could.
Michaela’s hands went to the hem of Francesca’s jeans. She yanked her closer, slotting one leg in between Francesca’s and pressing up so that her thigh made contact with her heat.
Francesca’s lips fell off hers in a gasp at the contact.
“Is this OK?” Michaela asked, wanting to be sure but also not wanting to ruin the mood.
“Mhmm,” Francesca confirmed as she dropped her head to the crook of Michaela’s shoulder.
Michaela used the opportunity to push back Francesca’s jacket off her shoulders. She wore a simple black tank top underneath, and Michaela pushed the strap of one side down so she could kiss and nip at her bare shoulder.
Francesca pressed her face harder into Michaela and rutted once against Michaela’s thigh.
Michaela leaned back and brought a hand up to Francesca’s shoulder to push her back just enough so that Michaela could capture her lips in a kiss again.
Francesca responded by biting down on Michaela’s lip, then sliding her tongue inside her mouth. She brought her hands down to the sink to rest on either side of Michaela, giving her leverage to push in even harder against her.
The movement also caused her to brush down against Michaela’s thigh once more.
Francesca whimpered with need into her kiss. Michaela felt dizzy with how quickly things were escalating. She would have never expected that she would be the one who couldn’t keep up with Francesca.
Michaela moved her thigh up again, and Francesca slid her lips across her cheek to her ear. One of her hands latched on to Michaela’s hip to hold her steady as Francesca ground down. Michaela pressed into her again as she did, meeting her.
Francesca’s forehead hit her own. It would have hurt if Michaela weren’t so turned on. Francesca’s breathing sped up, her breaths washing across Michaela’s mouth as their bodies fell into a rhythm — Francesca grinding down against her thigh and Michaela pushing up into her.
Michaela lurched forward to place open-mouth kisses along the top of Francesca’s breasts, palming one of them in her hand over her tank and bra. She could feel her hardened nipple through both layers of material.
Francesca’s hips began to move faster, stuttering. Michaela pressed into her harder, giving Francesca the friction she so desperately needed while biting down onto her breast.
“Ah,” Francesca gasped, her hips stilling, her head hitting Michaela’s shoulder.
Michaela panted into her chest. Oh my god.
“Did you come?” Michaela asked breathlessly, in awe.
“I —” she heard Francesca say before she pushed off Michaela and stared at her with wide, frantic eyes.
Michaela reached out instinctively, opening her mouth to reassure her.
But Francesca was out the door before she could say a word.
Present.
They were interrupted by the arrival of her family.
Francesca pushed back from Michaela and exhaled heavily.
“Can you please just unzip me?” she asked.
Michaela knew better than to mess around any further.
She obeyed and then quickly left Francesca alone in the dressing room.
“Michaela!” she heard Eloise shout. “Oh my god, I’m so glad you are here.”
“We didn’t know you would be joining us,” Sophie piped up.
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Michaela said back, her voice full with an emotion that Francesca refused to identify.
The rest of the dress shopping was even worse than Francesca was anticipating.
Because not only was her family loud and chaotic and, unfortunately, quickly inebriated off champagne, but she had to stomach the whole ordeal with the weight of Michaela’s eyes on her, watching her every move.
The room was crowded, not a seat left empty between the couches and chairs. Her mother, Daphne, Eloise, Hyacinth, Kate, Sophie, Penelope. Her family was so unbearably large. Curse her parents.
And they insisted on talking over each other the whole time. At any given moment, no fewer than three conversations were occurring simultaneously. And Francesca hated the way Michaela looked at her, like she knew Francesca was overstimulated and suffering. Like she knew every thought Francesca ever had, every feeling, every moment of her life. Because she did.
At one point, Francesca retreated to the dressing room and did not come out. She stumbled out of the dress she had on and fell to a heap on the floor in just her slip.
Even after a few minutes, her family did not seem to notice that she was gone.
But Francesca knew she would. And of course, she did.
Francesca heard the door open and close once more.
She felt Michaela slide down to the floor beside her.
Francesca’s stomach turned. “Don’t pity me,” she whispered to Michaela. “I don’t deserve it.”
“Fran —” Michaela whispered back.
“Don’t,” Francesca cut her off. Don’t tell me I don’t have to do this. Don’t ask me not to.
“Alright,” Michaela gave in.