Chapter Text
The group was sitting on the conversation floor of the library. Eloise sprawled in her chair and complained for the fifth time in three minutes that she still had no idea where they would live next fall. In front of her, her younger sister sat much more properly, one leg crossed over the other. Francesca was completing her Excel tab to sort out the apartments they had already visited—their prices, sizes, sun exposure, and so on. John, dutifully sitting next to his new girlfriend, tried his best to contain Francesca's anxiety while occasionally agreeing with Eloise's complaints.
While being exactly one year apart, the Bridgerton sisters were both going to start their second year of college in two months. Eloise had decided to take a gap year after high school—much to Violet's concern—to volunteer around the world and learn about feminism in different cultures. This experience gave her the opportunity to start university at the same time as her little sister, Francesca.
While Eloise majored in Gender Studies, Francesca majored in Music Studies. Both ended up sharing a dorm during their first year, which worked perfectly. The pair had shared a room for most of their childhood, and where Eloise was sometimes too loud for Francesca, she made it up by going out regularly, leaving Francesca with her much-needed alone time.
At the end of freshman year, both agreed to keep living together and find an apartment before the start of their second year. Problem was, finding a decent apartment was a much harder task than anticipated. So here they were, a month later, still in the unknown about where they would live next year.
"I might have an idea for you." John cut through the defeating silence that had settled. Francesca had been dating him for about a month. They worked well, though there wasn't much to say about their relationship. He was a political science major and both of them were not party people, hence they didn't run in the same circles. However, on the day of her end-of-year recital—meant as a way to collect money for the Music faculty—he attended and had asked her at the end of her solo if she was single and interested in going on a date with him. The request was accompanied by a very pertinent observation about her interpretation of Bach, so Francesca decided to give him a chance. They hadn't let go of each other since. Or more like they had kept each other company.
"Please, John, I would give you my firstborn if you come up with a good solution," Eloise answered.
"Nice try, but you've told me at least four times that you would never want children. Anyway, back to my point. Francesca, have I mentioned my cousin Michaela?"
"Briefly." John had talked about his cousin whom he grew up with a couple of times. Of course Francesca remembered—she always put effort into remembering what John told her.
"Well, she's one year above us and she was on exchange for six months in Spain. She came back a little over a month ago and she told me she's looking for an apartment with her friend Elizabeth. I think they want to save money just like you both. I know it's not what you guys had in mind, but think about it! You'll probably pay less in rent, you'll have the guarantee that your roommates aren't weird people—I know them both and I can vouch for them. Plus I would get my two favorite people living together." John argued with fervor, an occurrence rare enough to note.
Eloise rolled her eyes at how sappy he looked. "That's not a bad idea actually. I've always wondered what it's like rooming with strangers. Not that I didn't like sharing my dorm with you, my tiny sweet baby sister."
"One, I'm taller than you. Two, don't call me that ever again or I'll tell Mom who broke her favorite vase Hyacinth had made for Mother's Day." She doesn't have time for these games. They needed an apartment.
"Traitor! You wouldn't!" Eloise screamed. Thank God the library was nearly empty—She wouldn't have survived her sister's antics if it was full.
"Don't try me," Francesca replied. "Text me her number, John. I want to talk logistics before we agree to anything." He was grinning now. Francesca felt good knowing she'd done something nice for him.
She texted Michaela the same afternoon. They exchanged messages about their criteria for apartments, roommates, and rent. She was pleasantly surprised to learn that their expectations were quite similar. Michaela told her that Elizabeth agreed with the idea, and soon they started sending flat ads back and forth. A week later, they settled on an apartment on the second floor, twenty minutes away from campus, that had the perfect layout for the four of them. They decided to ask for a visit immediately.
That's how Francesca found herself on a Saturday morning at 9:01 AM, standing with John and Eloise in front of what might be her future flat. The only thing more intense than her anxiety was the fact that her two future roommates were late—albeit by only a minute, but late nonetheless. Francesca was fidgeting with her nails when she heard two feminine voices getting out of the lift behind her.
Francesca smelled her before she saw her—a rich, woody-vanilla aroma—that instantly brought her back to almost a year ago.
It was a Friday and Francesca had waited for Eloise to leave their dorm so she could quickly get ready. For once in her life, Francesca wanted to feel normal, and it was certainly not Eloise's comments about "who are you and what did you do to her sister" or "am I dreaming or is that Francesca Bridgerton coming to a party" that would help her feel any normal. She wanted to try and give a shot to the college life. She was a freshman—she had to go to a party at least once. So that's what she did. She picked a dress—a simple black slip dress that hit mid-thigh—and headed to a frat party she had heard about in class.
Now, standing in a room full of strangers drunk and sweating, Francesca kind of regretted not going out with Eloise. She didn't regret it enough to leave, though. Instead of socializing, she stayed near a wall and started with her first drink of the night. She tried to stop herself from making a face to hide that not only was it her first drink of the night, but also her first drink ever. Maybe starting with straight vodka wasn't a good idea.
She told herself people her age were drinking, so why wouldn't she? She told myself it was just liquid courage to socialize. Francesca ended up mixing alcohols together because she didn't know any better. She completely forgot that she still hadn't had dinner because she naively thought a party would offer more food than a few candies. Barely forty minutes later, she had downed five drinks because having a plastic cup in hand was the only way she found to occupy the anxious thoughts running in her mind.
Everything felt hot around her. Her palms were damp and she felt the ground swaying lightly under my feet. Her thoughts started to slow and were replaced by a weird, almost overwhelming, fuzzy warmth.
Except it really was hot in here. The living room was packed and she needed space and probably cold water on her face, so she went upstairs in a quest to find a free bathroom. Upstairs, she thought someone was calling my name. Turning around and walking backward, Francesca realized it was probably my drunken mind playing games. She started to turn around when she collided with someone. Francesca turned completely, except no one was there.
"Hey, careful where you're going love." A suave voice interrupted her thoughts.
Francesca looked down and froze. In front of her stood the most devastating girl she had ever seen. She was small—that was the first thing she noticed—with dark hair that fell in captivating waves past her shoulders. Her skin was dark, catching perfectly the dim light of the corridor. She wore a deep red dress that clung to her curves in a way that looked painted on. It was a spectacle in itself.. Her eyes were shining and playful, framed by thick lashes. There was something magnetic about her, something that made it impossible to look away.
Her woody-vanilla scent wrapped around Francesca like a spell.
The girl was still standing in front of her, a visible smirk on her angelic face, probably waiting for her to speak.
"Oh my God, yes! I am so sorry. Truly, I was not watching where I was going at all. Are you alright?" Francesca was relieved to hear that despite the alcohol buzzing in her body, she still managed to form a complete sentence. She did not want to look like a fool in front of such a gorgeous woman.
"I am much better now, thank you." The girl added a wink, as if she wasn't devastating enough on her own. Not that she noticed—it was just there, her beauty. Francesca simply couldn't help but notice it. "I would've remembered if I'd ever seen you around before. What's your name love?"
"I—um—well... Fran—Francesca. Francesca is my name." If her cheeks weren't already pink with the alcohol, they definitely would have been by now.
"What a lovely name. Francesca." She drew out each syllable like she was tasting it.
It sounds even better on your tongue. Francesca hadn't meant to think that.
"Where were you going, Francesca?" The girl continued.
"Um, cold water, my face, hot." It was the best thing she could manage.
"Hot? Yeah, definitely." The woman raised her eyebrow and Francesca couldn't help but notice the teasing glint in her eyes. "Come on, love, let's find you a bathroom."
She took Francesca by the hand and led her down the hallway. Francesca heart was hammering so hard she was sure the girl could feel her pulse through her palm.
The girl looked back at her over her shoulder with a devilish smile. "You're not much of a party girl, are you?"
"Is it that obvious?" Francesca managed, my voice coming out smaller than intended.
"Mm, a little." She squeezed her hand. "But don't worry about that, no one has to be."
Her voice was sensual—it drove her crazy. If it drives me crazy, what did it do to boys then?
They tried two more doors before finding an unlocked bathroom. It was small, but it was blessedly empty and quieter than the hallway. Michaela pulled her inside and closed the door behind her.
"There," she said, leaning against the door. "Better?"
Francesca turned on the cold water and splashed some on her face, grateful for something to do with her hands. When she looked up, the girl was watching her in the mirror, her eyes dark and slightly unfocused in that way that meant she'd had more than a few drinks herself.
"You didn't tell me your name," Francesca said, reaching for a towel.
"Didn't I?" The girl came to stand right behind her, close enough that Francesca could feel the heat of her body. "Guess I got distracted."
There is a glint in her eye except Francesca does not know what to make of it. It seems like she knows nothing at this moment except the thunderous beat of in her ribcage.
Francesca was straight. She knew she was straight. This was simply a very beautiful girl—objectively—and the alcohol was making everything feel significant and warm, more than it was. That was all.
But then why did every place the girl's gaze touched feel like it was burning?
The girl reached past her to turn off the tap, her arm brushing against Francesca's. The touch sent electricity through her. The girl tilted her head, studying her with an intensity that made Francesca's stomach flip. "You know what I think?"
"What?" The word came out breathier than Francesca intended. Francesca turned around and her gaze immediately went to lips that were so plump she could barely look anywhere else. She told herself she was trying to guess what lipstick brand the other girl was wearing. Francesca knew little to nothing about lipstick brands.
"I think—" The girl stepped closer, eliminating what little space remained between them. Her hand came up to tuck a strand of hair behind Francesca's ear, fingers lingering. "I think you've been staring at my mouth for like, the past two minutes. Which is—I mean, I'm not complaining, but it's very distracting."
Francesca realized with horror that she was. Had been. Still was.
"I—I don't—" Her voice came out unconvincing. "I'm not—"
"Not what?" The girl's thumb traced along Francesca's jaw. Her movements were confident. "Let me guess you're not into this? Because, Francesca, your face is doing a really bad job of selling that."
She was right. Francesca was leaning into her touch, her hands had somehow found their way to the girl's hips, and she was looking at her mouth like she was starving. Starving for what she didn't really know yet.
"It's just—" Francesca tried to think through the fog in her brain. "It's just the alcohol. And you're very—you're objectively—"
"Objectively?" The girl laughed, and the sound was sounding like music to her ears. "God, you're adorable. Do you always talk like that?" Her breath ghosted across Francesca's lips.
"I'm straight," Francesca whispered, but it sounded tentative at best.
"Okay." The girl's smile turned wicked. "So was I once. But if you want we can get out of here and—" She swayed slightly, caught herself with a hand on Francesca's shoulder.
It was just admiration, she told herself desperately. Just the alcohol lowering her inhibitions. Just the novelty of someone looking at her like she was desirable. She wanted to know if those lips would feel warm against hers. It was her only thought. It consumed her entire being. Francesca was simply curious to know whether she tasted as sweet as her breath smelled, that was it.
Francesca grabs the girl's hips again for better support and goes for it.
For a moment, she seems surprised—her body goes still. Francesca worries she misread the situation. She is about to stop when the woman makes a small sound in the back of her throat and kiss her back, and everything else fades away. Her lips were soft and sure, moving against Francesca's with a confidence she'd never experienced. She tasted like tequila and candies, and when her tongue traced the seam of Francesca's lips, Francesca opened for her without thinking. The kiss deepened, turning hungry. The girl's hand tightened in her Francesca's hair and Francesca gasped against her mouth.
The girl walked her backward until Francesca's hips hit the sink. Her other hand found Francesca's waist, then slid lower to grip her hip, pulling her flush against her. Francesca could feel every curve of her body pressed against her own and it was intoxicating, better than any alcohol tonight. It was consuming. Her hands moved of their own accord, sliding up the girl's back, careful not to mess her curls and pulling her closer even though there was no space left between them.
The girl's lips left hers to trail down her jaw, her neck. When she found the sensitive spot below Francesca's ear, Francesca made a sound she'd never made before—desperate and needy. The girl smiled against her skin.
"Shit Francesca," the girl breathed against her neck, and her voice was rougher now. "You're—fuck—"
Her thigh pressed between Francesca's legs and Francesca rolled her hips against her without meaning to, chasing the friction. The movement sent sparks of pleasure through her and she did it again, harder this time. The girl groaned and captured Francesca's mouth again, her kiss almost bruising.
This wasn't Francesca. She didn't do this. She was careful, controlled, restrained. But right now, with the girl's hands on her body and her thigh between her legs and her tongue in her mouth, she couldn't think at all.
She was straight. She had to be straight. This was just—what was this again? Her hips were moving in a rhythm now, grinding against the girl's thigh, and the girl was encouraging it with her hands on Francesca's hips, guiding her.
The girl's hand slid under Francesca's dress, fingers tracing the edge of her underwear. "Is this—"
But Francesca whimpered, and the sound should have embarrassed her but she was beyond embarrassment, beyond thought. The girl kissed her again, swallowing her moans as Francesca moved against her. Her fingers pressed harder against Francesca through the thin fabric of her underwear.
A sharp knock on the door shattered the moment.
"Hurry up in there!" a male voice shouted.
They froze. The girl's hand was still under Francesca's dress and their lips were still inches apart. For a long moment, they just stared at each other, both breathing hard.
Reality crashed back in waves. What was she doing? What had she done? She was straight. She had to be straight. This was just the alcohol, just a moment of confusion, just—
The girl opened her mouth to say something, her eyes suddenly uncertain in a way they hadn't been before, but Francesca was already pulling away.
"I have to go," Francesca said, her voice shaking. She couldn't look at her. Couldn't process what had just happened. "I'm sorry, I—I have to go."
She pushed past her and fled, leaving her standing alone in the bathroom.
"Francesca?"
John's voice pulled her back to the present. Francesca was standing in front of the apartment building, her heart racing, that woody-vanilla scent still in her nose. Slowly, she turned around.
The girl from last year stood in front of her. Next to her was a slightly older dark-skinned girl who must be Elizabeth. But she couldn't focus on anything except her.
Francesca's stomach dropped. Michaela's expression shifted into something polite and friendly, and she extended her hand toward Eloise first.
"You must be the famous Bridgerton sisters. I'm Michaela Stirling, and I assure you, everything John has told you about me is false. The truth is far worse." Her smile was disarming, playful. Elizabeth laughed beside her.
Eloise shook her hand enthusiastically. "Oh, I like you already. I'm Eloise, and this is my sister Francesca."
Michaela turned to her, and Francesca forced herself to meet those dark eyes. For a fraction of a second, something flickered there. Then it was gone, smoothed over by a polite smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. She doesn't remember, Francesca told herself, even as doubt twisted in her chest. Of course she doesn't. She was drunk. Francesca was probably just another girl to her. It probably meant nothing. Not that she cared. It was a one time experimentation.
"Lovely to meet you," Francesca managed, extending her hand. Michaela took it, and the touch sent electricity up her arm. This time, Michaela held on deliberately, her thumb brushing across Francesca's knuckles before letting go.
"Likewise," Michaela said softly, and there was something in her voice that made Francesca's breath catch. Then Michaela turned away, as if nothing had happened, leaving Francesca standing there, uncertain whether she'd imagined the whole thing.
John clapped his hands together. "Great! Should we head in? The landlord said the apartment's unlocked."
As they entered the apartment, Francesca found herself acutely aware of Michaela walking ahead of her. The fall of her dark hair down her back. The curve of her—
Stop it, Francesca told herself firmly. She was being ridiculous. So Michaela was attractive. Objectively attractive. That didn't mean anything. Lots of people were attractive.
Still she couldn't stop her eyes from tracking every movement.
The apartment was quite bright, with large windows that let in afternoon sun. Four bedroom doors flanked the main space—two on the left, two on the right.
"So," Michaela said, gesturing around the space. "Sisters on one side, us on the other?"
"Perfect," Eloise agreed immediately.
Francesca said nothing, silently agreeing. Michaela had moved to examine the window, and the sunlight caught in her hair, and Francesca was staring again. She forced herself to look away, to focus on the apartment itself. It was nice. Affordable. Close to campus. All the boxes checked. The fact that Michaela would be sleeping less than ten meters away from her was irrelevant.
"Should we check out the bathroom?" Elizabeth suggested. "That's usually the dealbreaker."
The five of them crowded into the hallway. The bathroom was small but clean, with enough counter space for the four of them. Francesca stepped further inside. Michaela stepped in behind her, and suddenly there wasn't enough air. She was close enough that Francesca could feel the warmth of her body, could smell that devastating scent except it was stronger now. It made her head spin. Made her remember things she'd tried very hard to forget.
This is just because she smells nice, Francesca told herself desperately. People can smell nice. It doesn't mean anything. She probably just uses the same perfume she did back then. It's not—it doesn't—
"The water pressure seems good," Michaela said, reaching past her to turn on the tap. Her arm brushed against Francesca's, and Francesca had to suppress a shiver.
She doesn't remember. She doesn't know. This is all in your head.
"Yeah," Francesca managed. "It's fine."
Michaela's lips curved into a small smile, and for just a moment, Francesca could have sworn there was something knowing in her expression. But then it was gone, and Michaela was stepping back out into the hallway.
They went back in the living room. Eloise was already sold, chattering excitedly about how they could arrange the furniture. Elizabeth was nodding along, making suggestions. John looked pleased with himself for solving their housing crisis.
And Michaela—Michaela was watching Francesca with an expression she couldn't quite read.
"So?" John asked. "What do we think? Should we take it?"
"Yes," Eloise said immediately.
"Absolutely," Elizabeth agreed.
"I'm in," Michaela said, still looking at Francesca.
Everyone turned to her. Francesca knew she should say no. Should make up some excuse that would get her out of living in close quarters with Michaela Stirling for an entire year. But the apartment was perfect. The rent was affordable. And she was being insane. Michaela didn't even remember her. And she was straight.
"Yes. Let's take it."
John grinned and pulled out his phone. "I'll call the landlord right now."
This was going to be fine. Completely fine. Nothing had to be complicated.
The move-in happened on a Saturday in late August. By Sunday evening, most of Francesca's things were unpacked, her clothes hung in the closet, her sheet music organized alphabetically in the small desk by the window.
She sat on her bed now, staring at the wall she shared with the living room. Beyond that wall, on the other side of the living room, was Michaela's bedroom door. Francesca pressed her palms against her thighs, trying to steady her breathing. People had roommates all the time. It didn't matter that one of those roommates was someone she'd kissed a year ago when she was drunk and confused and—
No. She hadn't been confused. She'd been drunk. Not the same.
She was straight. She had a boyfriend. What happened at that party was just alcohol and admiration for someone confident. It didn't mean anything.
Francesca stood abruptly. She needed to do something. Anything. She grabbed her phone and texted John.
come over? I could use the company.
His response came almost immediately. Be there in 20.
Good. John would help. John was safe, exactly what she needed right now.
He arrived with takeout and kissed her cheek, setting the food on the desk in her room, and looked around with approval. Francesca hated bringing food into her room, but she made an exception today to avoid crossing path with Michaela in the common area.
"You've already made it feel like home," he said. "Very organized."
"Thanks." Francesca sat on the edge of her bed while John settled into her desk chair. "How was your day?"
"Good. Finished that reading for Political Theory." He opened the takeout containers. "How's the apartment? Getting along with Michaela and Elizabeth?"
"Fine. They're nice." The words came out too quickly. "I mean, we haven't really spent much time together yet. Everyone's still settling in."
John handed her a container of pad thai. "I told you Michaela was great."
Francesca focused on her food. "How was Spain for her? You said she was on exchange?"
"Yeah, she loved it. Learned Spanish, traveled all over. She's always been like that—adventurous, spontaneous. Total opposite of me." He laughed. "We balance each other out. She pushes me to take risks, I keep her grounded."
"That's nice," Francesca said, though she wasn't really listening. "Francesca?"
She blinked. "Sorry, what?"
"I asked if you wanted to watch something. You seem distracted."
"No, I'm fine. Just tired from moving." She forced a smile. "What did you want to watch?"
They ended up with some documentary John had been meaning to see, his laptop balanced between them on the bed. This was nice. Comfortable. John was good company—thoughtful, intelligent, easy to be around.
"I should probably go," John said as the documentary ended, closing his laptop. "Let you get some rest. Big week ahead."
"You don't have to—"
"No, it's fine. You need sleep." He kissed her forehead. It felt affectionate but passionless. "Text me tomorrow?"
"Of course." After he left, Francesca sat in the silence of her room and tried to figure out why she felt relieved instead of disappointed.
She ventured into the kitchen around nine, hoping everyone would be in their rooms. No such luck. Michaela was there, leaning against the counter with a mug of tea, scrolling through her phone.
Francesca stopped dead in her steps.
Michaela was wearing the red dress. The same one from that night. The short, devastating dress that put her body on display, the fabric catching the overhead light, clinging to every curve exactly the way Francesca remembered. The dress that had driven Francesca absolutely insane a year ago. Francesca's entire body went rigid. She couldn't do anything but stare at that dress and remember the way it had felt under her palms. The way Francesca had pulled her closer, desperate and wanting.
The freeze lasted only seconds, but it was enough. Michaela's expression shifted. She set down her mug slowly, her eyes never leaving Francesca's.
"So you do remember. Love." Michaela said quietly.
Francesca's heart hammered against her ribs. She tried to speak, to deny it, to say something that would make this go away, but her voice wouldn't work.
Michaela pushed off the counter, taking a step closer. Not quite invading Francesca's space, but closing the distance enough that Francesca could smell that woody-vanilla scent again. "I wasn't sure. At the viewing, I thought maybe—but you looked at me like you didn't know me at all. So I thought maybe I was wrong. Maybe you really had forgotten."
"I—" Francesca finally found her voice, though it came out shaky. "I don't know what you're—"
"Don't. Don't do that. Not now. You just froze the second you saw me in this." She gestured to the dress. "Your face gave you away."
Francesca felt heat flood her cheeks. She wanted to run, to flee back to her room like she'd fled that bathroom a year ago, but her feet wouldn't move. "Why are you wearing that?" The question came out before she could stop it.
Michaela's lips curved into something that was almost a smile. "I wasn't planning to. I was going to change after I got home from dinner, but then I thought—I needed to know. If you remembered. Your reaction answered my question."
"It was a year ago. We were drunk. It doesn't—" Francesca said desperately.
"Doesn't what?" Michaela took another step closer, and Francesca's back hit the doorframe. "Doesn't matter? Because I think it does, Francesca. Otherwise you wouldn't have spent the past week avoiding looking at me."
"I have a boyfriend," Francesca said, and it sounded hollow even to her own ears. "Your cousin. I'm with John."
Something painful flashed across Michaela's face. "I know. Believe me, I know. That's the only reason I didn't say anything at the apartment viewing." She adjusted the bottom of her dress, and Francesca tracked the movement helplessly. "But we're living together now. We're going to see each other every day."
Francesca's breath caught. "Michaela—"
"I'm not asking you to do anything," Michaela said quickly. "I'm not—God, John is my cousin. I grew up with him. I would never—" She stopped, seeming to struggle with her words. "I respect him too much to cross that line. But I also can't live here and act like I don't see the way you look at me when you think I'm not paying attention."
"I don't—" But the protest died on Francesca's lips because it was a lie, and they both knew it.
Michaela's eyes darkened, and for a moment, Francesca thought she might close the distance between them. But she didn't. She stayed exactly where she was, her hands clenched at her sides like she was physically restraining herself.
"This can't happen, I love John" Francesca said firmly. She tried to ignore the fact that she had never said it directly to him despite the fact that they had been dating for months.
"Right. John." Michaela's jaw tightened, and something shifted in her expression. "You know what's funny? That day at your recital. The day you two met. He told me all about it. Well I was supposed to be there."
Francesca's breath caught once more.
"I had just gotten back from Spain. I was so excited to go—I love music, I always have. But then a friend called with an emergency and I had to help her. So I gave my ticket to John. Told him he should go, that it would be good for him to get out of his apartment for once." She laughed, but it was bitter. "Of course I didn't know it would be you playing on that stage. I didn't know that while I was dealing with someone else's crisis, John was watching you."
Francesca felt like the floor had dropped out from under her. "Michaela—"
"It should have been me that day," Michaela said, and her voice cracked slightly. "It should have been me in that audience. It should have been me asking you out. But it wasn't. And now here we are." She took a shaky breath. "But since you're straight anyway, it doesn't matter. Right?" The words were bitter. Michaela chuckled—a humorless sound—turning away, heading for the door.r
Francesca stood frozen, her heart hammering so hard she thought it might break through her ribs. She wanted to call out, to say something, anything, but she couldn't. She could only watch as Michaela disappeared down the hallway, leaving her alone in the kitchen.
The silence that followed was deafening.