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Tongue between Michaela’s legs, that was Francesca’s favourite activity. Second was when she had her fingers buried deep inside Michaela, their bodies drawn tight with pleasure, moans melting into a single chorus of ecstasy. Sometimes, drowning in the sensation of Michaela, Francesca started to think that she might just die from it. Like the sheer force of her desire, the heady, intoxicating thrill of getting to touch, to taste, could stop her heart.
Tonight, they’d started in the living room.
Michaela nibbling on Francesca’s neck until Francesca finally turned off the TV and stopped pretending that Michaela’s touch wasn’t exactly what she’d come over for. She’d kissed Michaela long and slow, sucking on her tongue until they were both panting, lips wet and swollen. Michaela had made her way onto Francesca’s lap, grinding, pressing Francesca’s hand to her breasts as she traced the edge of Francesca's ear with her tongue, whispering filth until Francesca's blush was as bright as Michaela's hot pink throw pillows. Francesca had stood up then, dizzy, heart racing; laughing at Michaela’s surprised gasp when she lifted her and walked them swiftly to the bedroom.
There, Francesca had held Michaela up against the wall and tugged her leggings down, using her knuckles to tease her over her silky underwear until Michaela was squirming, begging. Only then had Francesca fucked her, quick and deep and messy, until Michaela’s arousal was dripping down her wrist, her gasps warm in Francesca’s ear. After, Michaela dropped to her knees and lifted the hem of Francesca’s dress, used her teeth to pull down the thin lace panties Francesca had worn specifically for this reason. The sight of her—shiny lips and wide eyes—had Francesca throbbing, so wet she could feel it, sticky between her legs. Michaela had run her hands down Francesca’s thighs, soft, then leaned in and sucked Francesca’s clit until Francesca was shuddering mess of moans, slick smeared wet all over Michaela’s face.
That was four rounds ago.
Now, Francesca had Michaela pinned on her stomach, hands gripping her hips as she fucked her from behind with a strap on, the vibrating bulb tucked inside the harness buzzing against Francesca’s clit. The relentless sensation made Francesca’s hips stutter as she gave Michaela, rough, deep strokes, the slap of skin wet, rhythmic, punctuated by Michaela’s strangled sighs.
“Right-oh—right there.” Michaela’s voice was high and wrecked. “Fran, fuck-you’re perfect, oh fuck—"
The praise went straight to Francesca’s cunt, making her shudder as she quickened her strokes, fucking into Michaela harder, a rush of wetness spreading on her thighs as the vibration humming against her clit intensified with every thrust. Francesca tightened her hold on Michaela’s hips with one hand and delivered swift slaps to the swell of her ass with another. Michaela moaned until her voice went hoarse, raw, Francesca’s breath coming out ragged as her nails dug into smooth skin. Leaning in to press her chest to Michaela’s back, she sank her teeth into her shoulder, desire making her feel dazed.
“Again,” Francesca demanded shakily, blinking hard to keep sweat out of her eyes. “Michaela. Say it again.”
Michaela arched beneath her, body tense, whimpering. “It’s—it’s so good, Francesca,” she rasped, pushing back against her. “Like-oh-like you were made for me.” Her words melted into a choked grunt as Francesca’s hand slid around to pinch her nipple, twisting just enough to make her jerk.
Made for me.
Francesca’s rhythm faltered for just a second, Michaela’s words punching through her from head to heart, hot and dizzying. She groaned, biting down hard on Michaela’s shoulder, wanting to lay claim beyond the bruises she’d left, blooming on her hips.
Francesca pulled out almost entirely, the strap gleaming with Michaela’s wetness. Watching Michaela's hips sway, eager for it, the lips of her labia swollen and sticky around against the tip of the strap, Francesca swallowed hard and exhaled slow, lust struck and trying to control it. A mostly wasted effort as her hips jerked on their own accord, pushing the strap deep into Michaela and making them both cry out.
“Oh god,” Michaela whimpered, body trembling as she turned to gaze at Francesca over her shoulder, tears caught in her eyelashes, her eyes wide. Her lips were swollen, kiss bitten. “Harder, Francesca. I need it.”
Francesca had meant to hold out until Michaela was even more of a drenched mess, but her own desire was a feral thing, her thighs trembling as she rocked against the harness, the vibrations making her vision blur at the edges. She pulled out then pushed back in again, slow, bottoming out with a grunt. Michaela cried out, her fingers clawing at the sheets as the bed shook, Francesca fucking her with deep, even strokes. The echoes of their skin melted with the muffled buzz of the vibrator, driving Francesca closer to the edge with every thrust. She felt like she could feel Michaela tightening around the strap, couldn't look away from the arch of her back. Michaela was close and Francesca lowered a hand to Michaela’s clit, thumb pressing just shy of too much, the way she knew Michaela loved.
“More,” Michaela gasped, arching beneath Francesca with a choked-off sob. “I’m-oh Fran—”
Francesca didn’t let up, fucking her through it, her own climax coiling tight in her gut as Michaela clenched around the strap, hips jerking erratically. The vibrations ratcheted up another notch and Francesca gasped, her forehead dropping between Michaela’s shoulder blades as pleasure shot through her.
“Come on,” Francesca gritted out, hips stuttering. “I know you need it Michaela, take it—”
“God, fuck!” Michaela’s climax hit, her back bowing as she came with a broken cry, fingers twisting in the sheets. Francesca followed her over the edge a second later, her vision whiting out as she chased the last of the pulsating pleasure through the aftershocks.
For a moment, all she could hear was their harsh breathing, the creak of the bed as they sagged against each other, sweat-slick and spent. Michaela had gone limp and hazy underneath her and Francesca was half gone herself, running her hand soothingly over Michaela’s back. They stayed like that until Francesca’s heartbeat was no longer thundering in her ears. Pulling out, she could feel Michaela shiver, lifting her hips to help Francesca slip the strap out. She unbuckled it quickly, tossing it carelessly over the bed where it landed with a wet sound against the floor. They both burst into hysterical laughter, the intimate kind that came from being fucked stupid.
Francesca plopped herself back beside Michaela, her chest heaving. Michaela turned to face her, dark eyes glinting as she caught Francesca’s gaze. The air smelled like sex and sweat, was thick with it. They needed to open a window next time, Francesca thought, letting her head loll to the side to watch Michaela’s face; her eyelids fluttering, lips parted, dark curls sticking to her damp forehead. Beautiful. Even now, fucked out and sweaty.
Michaela leaned in to kiss her, pulling back far too quickly and laughing when Francesca chased the taste of her lips.
“Were you trying to kill me just now?” Michaela asked, low, voice still rough from her earlier efforts. She reached out, fingers trailing over Francesca’s ribs, sticky with sweat. “Because I think I would’ve let you. You're like a secret sex goddess. Better, actually.”
Michaela was laughing, obviously joking, but Francesca swallowed hard. Her fingers stilled on Michaela's waist, her pulse hammering in her throat. She wished she could say it—just tell me what you want from me, in chronological order—but the words would not come.
She caught Michaela’s hand instead, lacing their fingers together. “I know you hate repeat performances. I'm just trying to keep you coming back,” Francesca tried to joke back, ignoring the way the truth of the statement made her heart ache.
Michaela snorted, shifting closer so she could kiss Francesca again, deeper this time.
Francesca immediately opened her mouth for Michaela’s tongue, her uncertainty fading as she wondered if it was too soon for another round. She was so weak. The easiest lesbian in the world, probably.
Francesca had never had sex like this; her body so in tune with another woman’s that sometimes she’d go to text Michaela to come over, only to open her messages and find Michaela had already done so. Long, explicit texts detailing what she wanted Francesca to do to her and in a hurry. When they'd first began, it sent her off kilter, the way Michaela was genuinely up for anything, always eager, always wanting. At first, Francesca wasn’t sure she was serious. Thought maybe it was some kind of test. She caught on quickly after their second date, when they’d met for drinks and ended up coming back to her flat for two hours of marathon sex.
That was when Francesca realized that the sexual moderation she’d always prided herself on was actually just repression. Latent internalized homophobia that she hadn’t even realized she was harboring that made her think she had no right to be too blunt about her desires. That changed with Michaela. She liked giving it to Francesca and what's more, liked it when Francesca gave it to her, with her mouth or tongue or strap; from behind, on the couch or even in the shower. That morning had mostly been them trying to find traction whilst trying not to slip, but it was still a good time.
In the six months since she and Michaela met, they’d fucked in more positions and places than Francesca ever had in her entire 27 years of living. And she loved it. Wanted more. And more, and more of it. Something serious and exclusive. But every time she tried to ask for it, she faltered.
Now, Francesca still couldn’t speak. Didn’t trust herself to. So she let her body say it. Rolled Michaela over and straddled her, her hands cradling Michaela’s face as she kissed her, messy and desperate. Michaela’s moan vibrated against her lips, her fingers tangling in Francesca’s hair, tugging just enough to make her gasp.
“More already?” Michaela breathed, a laugh in her voice, already spreading her legs to accommodate Francesca.
She dug her fingers into Francesca’s side as Fran settled her hips between her thighs, folding herself nearly in half to properly position herself, their damp skin sliding together. Francesca gasped sharply at the first press of Michaela’s cunt against hers, swollen and slick, and for a second, she just stayed there, pressed close, their breath mingling. Just skin, heat and the way Michaela arched beneath her with a whine. Francesca finally moved, rolled her hips in a steady rhythm and moaned into Michaela's mouth at the feel of Michaela’s clit rubbing against hers.
"Francesca," Michaela hissed, breaking the kiss to nip at her jaw, her hips lifting to meet her thrusts.
Francesca sighed at the way Michaela gasped her name—like she was something sacred, hers—and pressed their foreheads together, her hips moving slower now, deeper, savouring the way Michaela’s gasped with every roll. She wanted to memorize the feel of her, the slick heat of her cunt, the way her thighs trembled when Francesca moved her hips, slow.
She shivered when Michaela’s fingers tightened in her hair, pulling her into yet another kiss, this one filthy and wet, all teeth and tongue. Francesca groaned into it, her hands sliding down to grip Michaela’s waist, holding her close as she swivelled her hips faster, the friction sending sparks up her spine. She could feel Michaela’s pulse hammering beneath her fingertips, wild.
“There,” Michaela gasped, bucking beneath her, her head tipping back against the pillows. “Fuck, fuck—right there—”
Francesca complied immediately, angling her hips just so, grinding harder against Michaela’s until her thighs shook, both of them soaked with their combined slickness. She could feel Michaela’s nails digging into her shoulders, the sting sharp and sweet, making her move faster, rougher, chasing the way Michaela’s breath came in choppy grunts.
Francesca’s clit throbbed with every slick slide of skin against skin. She wanted to taste the wetness between them, suck it off the trimmed hair covering Michaela's cunt until her lips were glistening with it and the thought alone nearly pushed her over the edge.
“Look at you,” she rasped, voice frayed, fingers tightening on Michaela’s waist as she pressed harder, deeper. “Desperate for it. For me.”
“Always,” Michaela groaned, her hips jerking against Francesca’s.
She cupped Michaela’s breasts, thumbs rolling over her nipples before pinching them, whimpering when Michaela also reached for her breasts, rubbing her palm over her nipples, electric, and making Francesca lose rhythm, slowing her thrusts.
Michaela’s other hand gripped Francesca’s wrist, pressing her hands deeper into her flesh, nails biting crescent moons into brown skin as Francesca pinched her nipples harder.
“Fuckfuckfuuck!" Drool smeared across Michaela’s chin, her lips parted around ragged breaths, her dark eyes glassy with lust. Michaela grunted, her hips bucking upward in short, desperate jerks.
Together, they were wild and writhing. A beatific point of pure pleasure. Drunk on lust and gone past words and mental coherency, the only sound in the room was their sharp sighs: guttural, primal, loud, each chasing their need as bliss spiked through them.
Without breaking eye contact, Francesca traced a line down Michaela’s chest and between her legs, dipping two fingers into the slick heat between Michaela’s thighs, her breath catching at the sodden softness that greeted her. How Michaela’s cunt clenched against her fingers like she needed them inside her to function. Francesca pushed in slow, relishing in the feeling of Michaela.
Whose back bowed high off the mattress, her free hand scrabbling at the sheets, thighs clamping around Francesca’s waist like a vise. Francesca pulled back just enough to change her angle, giving it to her slower. Leaning down, she sucked one of Michaela’s nipples into her mouth, biting and licking until Michaela was crying out her name.
Michaela's eyes were screwed shut, her body arching off the bed as Francesca's fingers worked inside of her. Francesca could feel Michaela unraveling beneath her, the way her thighs tensed, how she was panting loud and hard. She was about to come and Francesca wanted to come with her. Needed to feel her cunt pulse against hers, to have her thighs painted with the wet proof of Michaela’s arousal.
Francesca shifted, quickening the grind of her hips. She felt raw and overheated, leaning up so she could kiss Michaela deep, licking into Michaela’s mouth as she curled her fingers just so. Michaela came, hard, her back bucking off the bed, her mouth falling open in a soundless scream before the noise finally tore loose, high and guttural. Francesca fucked her through it, her fingers relentless as Michaela clenched around her, her thighs shaking violently as she gritted out Francesca's name.
The sound unraveled her and Francesca’s own orgasm struck hard, a bolt of ecstasy that had her shaking, faint, her vision going dark out as she buried her teeth in Michaela’s neck, breaking skin. The metallic tang of blood bloomed on her tongue, mingling with the salt of sweat, and Michaela shrieked, her body bowing violently beneath her.
For a heartbeat, Francesca couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Pleasure crackled through her like something alive, her muscles locked, cunt throbbing with each pulse of her climax. She stayed there, panting against Michaela, her fingers still buried deep, both of them trembling through the aftershocks. Michaela’s hands were fists in her hair, holding her close, her breath coming in fast, wet gasps against Francesca’s temple.
Slowly, Francesca pulled back, her lips slick with saliva and the faintest smear of blood. Michaela’s neck bore the mark and Francesca traced it with her thumb, her heartbeat thundering in her ears. Kissed it, a soft press of her lips that made Michaela sigh, before forcing her fingers to uncurl, sliding free from Michaela’s body.
“God,” Michaela panted, sounding awed. Her fingers loosened in Francesca’s hair to stroke lazily down her back. Francesca made a soft noise of satisfaction and Michaela grinned, leaning in and taking Francesca’s bottom lip between her teeth, biting lightly before releasing her.
It took every sane urge in Francesca’s body not to immediately suck her lip into her mouth. Instead, Francesca pulled Michaela back and kissed her softly—getting the taste of her from the source, no additives—her lips lingering against Michaela’s swollen mouth as they both caught their breath. She shifted to lay beside Michaela, their skin still damp with sweat from their exertions, still pressed together, her fingers tracing idle patterns over Michaela’s ribs. She sighed happily when Michaela nuzzled her nose into the crook of her neck. Mine, she thought, with a primal ferocity that made her wince. Too much. All she wanted. Francesca squeezed her eyes shut, pressing closer, as if she could fuse them together.
They stayed like that for a while, Michaela indulging Francesca as she cuddled her close, pressed kisses to her cheeks, her nose. Bit playfully at the skin of her jaw.
Michaela’s fingers carded through Francesca’s hair, gentle now, her thumb brushing over Fran’s temple. “You’re quiet,” she murmured.
Francesca didn’t trust herself to speak, not when Michaela was holding her like this, all soft and sweet and like she wanted Francesca back. She pressed another kiss to Michaela’s collarbone, her lips lingering a beat too long, her fingers tightening imperceptibly on Michaela’s waist.
There was a beat of silence, then Michaela’s hand stilled in her hair. “Fran.” Her voice was firmer now, probing.
Francesca could feel her noticing and she flushed, unable to decide whether to shy away or preen under the attention.
She forced herself to pull back just enough to meet Michaela’s gaze, her smile tight. Michaela’s dark eyes were searching, too perceptive. Francesca opened her mouth—to deflect, to joke, something—but the words tangled in her throat. Again. She knew what she wanted to say but every other time had tried had ended in chickening out (her) or deflection (Michaela). Francesca just wanted to live in this one, perfect moment and not ruin things like she so often did, with her rigid awkwardness and need to categorize everything. So she kissed Michaela again, hard, pouring everything she couldn’t say into the press of her lips.
Michaela kissed her back, easy and unhurried, her fingers still tangled in Francesca’s hair. But when Fran tried to deepen it—tried to lose herself in the heat of it again—Michaela pulled back just enough to press their foreheads together.
"Hey," she murmured, thumb brushing Fran’s cheekbone. "Talk to me."
Francesca looked away. The words echoed in her head:
I think I’m falling in love with you, in a big, stupid scary, love story way. And I want to stay over tonight but also maybe forever, but she bit them back.
"Just thinking," she murmured, forcing a smile she didn’t feel. "About how I easily I wore you out.”
“Mhm," Michaela hummed, pressing a kiss to Fran’s shoulder. "And you’re so good at it.” Her tone was light, teasing, but she was studying Francesca, and those pretty eyes were too sharp, too knowing. But she said nothing else, only kept staring like she was trying to will Francesca into telling her the truth.
Francesca closed her eyes, pretending not to notice as she let herself sink into the warmth of Michaela’s body, the steady rhythm of her heart. The silence stretched. Comfortable, if a bit terse.
“Okay, really.” Michaela brushed her lips against Francesca’s collarbone. "What's wrong? You’re doing the frowny thing and I’m starting to get worried."
"Nothing's wrong," Francesca lied, running a shaky hand down Michaela’s back in what she wished was a more soothing manner. “Really. I guess I’m just. Feeling a sort of suspense about when you’re going to kick me out, is all."
Michaela rolled her eyes, shoving Francesca’s shoulder lightly. "Don’t be ridiculous. You know you can stay." She hesitated, then added, soft, "I like it when you stay."
Francesca’s heart leapt. An acknowledgment of emotional connection, she almost couldn't believe it. Wondered if, since this was apparently a day of miracles, she would see pigs hovering in the sky, if she looked outside.
This was the third time Michaela had admitted it, in their six months of hook ups-turned-exclusive sex-turned actual friendship. Francesca collected these fleeting moments greedily, stored them in her head and whipped them out on nights she wanted to torture herself just a little bit, going over the inflections of Michaela’s voice; how affected she’d sounded; if she’d looked Francesca in the eye; how long and how direct. It was quite silly, she knew this. Had spoken about it to Eloise who’d suggested Francesca either confess or move on. That going over everything interaction like a treasure map that would lead to the prize of Michaela’s affections was only going to drive her mad. Francesca agreed, in her more clear headed moments (when Michaela wasn't in sight). But it was hard to stop, when Michaela so hardly acknowledged that this—whatever this was—wasn't just sex. Francesca didn’t know what to do with it. She wanted to press, to ask what are we doing and do you feel the sparks too or am i just slowly going insane, but getting an answer she didn't want terrified her.
So she bit her tongue. "Yeah," she said quietly. "Me too."
Michaela stretched lazily, her toes brushing Francesca’s calf under the rumpled sheets. The dim glow of streetlights filtered through the half-drawn curtains, painting stripes of gold across Michaela’s smooth, umber skin as she reached for the glass of water on the nightstand, the way her throat worked as she swallowed. There was something so wonderfully intimate about it, the quiet, unguarded moments after sex, when Michaela was less careful about maintaining the distance, less concerned about putting on a performance of cool and collected. Francesca loved it when Michaela let down her guard.
Watching Michaela set the glass down, her other hand pulling off her hair band and letting her curls loose, Francesca’s heart did something very silly. Tender. She knew, then, that there was no way she could let another night go by without admitting her feelings. Not again. Not when the simple action of a swallow of water made her feel like this. Impossibly fond and soft. She took a deep breath, and caught Michaela's eye. Michaela had that open look on her face she usually only got when she looked at Francesca; tender, private, honeyed and beautiful.
Francesca took it as a sign.
"Michaela, I think…” Her pulse roared in her ears, voice wavering. “I think I'm falling for you." The words tumbled free like stones dislodged from a cliff’s edge, sudden and irreversible.
Silence.
Michaela's hands stiffened on the duvet, where she’d been playing with the edge. Her eyes had gone wide, expression stunned.
Francesca couldn't stop now.
"I can’t—” Francesca closed her eyes. If she wanted to get this out, she needed to not be looking at Michaela. “I can’t keep pretending this is just sex for me.” The words hung between them and Francesca barreled on before she could lose her nerve. “I think about you all the time, not just like this. I think about waking up next to you. I think about taking you to dinner. I think about meeting your cousin properly, not just sneaking in and out of your flat like we’re doing something wrong—” She broke off, her throat tight. “I want more. And I think you do too.”
The silence that followed was thick, suffocating. Francesca stared at the wall, her nails digging into her palms. She couldn’t bring herself to look at Michaela—couldn’t bear to see pity or worse, amusement, in her expression. Francesca was not going to cry. She wasn’t.
The silence seemed like it was going to stretch until it swallowed them whole. Then the mattress shifted and Michaela’s warm fingers curled around Francesca’s wrist, tugging gently until Francesca turned to face her.
Michaela’s expression was unreadable. “You’re serious?” she said finally, voice strained.
Francesca nodded, her heart ricocheting in her chest. Michaela’s fingers were still wrapped around her wrist, but they’d gone slack, her grip loosening as if she were already pulling away.
"I thought we were just having fun. I didn’t realize you..." She squinted at Francesca like she didn’t quite recognize her. "I’m sorry. I really am. But Francesca, I don't feel the same way."
The words landed like an atom bomb. Francesca could feel her bottom lip trembling and threatened herself mentally, biting the inside of her cheeks-do not cry you idiot do not do not do not. She could feel the blood draining from her face, her fingers tightening reflexively around the edge of the mattress. Michaela’s expression was painfully apologetic, but firm, like a doctor delivering a terminal diagnosis.
“You don’t-” Her voice cracked. She cleared it, tried again. "You don’t feel anything? Really?"
Michaela sighed. "That’s not what I said." She reached out, then seemed to think better of it and aborted the movement, her hand hovering awkwardly above Francesca’s shoulder before dropping back to her lap. "Fran, of course I feel things. You’re fucking incredible. But,” She exhaled shakily, fidgeting with her fingers like she did when she was nervous. "I'm leaving London in a few months. We’ve talked about it. Temporary is what we agreed to."
Francesca grabbed Michaela's wrist again, holding on tight.
"You don't have to leave," she said; she hated how desperate she sounded but not enough to stop. "I mean. I know traveling is your job, but even if you go, we could figure something out. Long distance, visits, anything." The words tumbled out faster than she could think. "I'm not telling you what to feel. But I can't be the only one that…." She swallowed hard. "It’s just hard to believe there’s nothing there when I’ve seen the way you look at me when you think I'm distracted. How you smile. You care. Why else would you come over at 2 AM to take care of me when I had stomach flu last month? We weren't even supposed to see each other that week."
Michaela’s lips parted—Francesca could see the denial forming, the practiced deflection—but she pushed forward before she could speak, fingers tightening around Michaela’s wrist.
"I know you feel it," she insisted, wishing she didn’t sound so insanely deranged. But she couldn’t help herself. She just needed Michaela to admit it. To tell her she wasn’t in this alone. "That night after the orchestra gala when I was exhausted and you ran me a bath without asking? You poured in that ridiculously expensive bath oil you’d been saving, even though it’s your favourite and they stopped making it. And then you got in with me. Don’t you remember? We talked about everything, that night. And it was..." Her voice had gone strained and she could feel tears burning.
"I remember," Michaela said, flat. Her face was blank and she’d folded her arms, pulled her wrist out from Francesca grasp. "Being friendly."
"Michaela," Francesca huffed, getting annoyed now. Why wouldn't she just be honest about this? "You know me. And you like knowing me. Why else do you text me good luck before a performance, even when we haven’t seen each other in days? You know my schedule better than my own family does!"
The room was too quiet. Francesca could hear the rain sliding down the windowpanes, the distant hum of the refrigerator kicking on. Michaela’s pulse jumped under her fingertips, rapid as a hummingbird’s wings.
Michaela shook her head “Right. But Francesca, that doesn’t mean—“
"I think about you constantly,” Francesca interrupted, needing to get it all out before things totally unraveled. “The way you bite your lip when you're thinking. How you smell. How you've been everywhere and know everything and are still so curious about the world. I sit in my room and think about how to make you laugh because your laugh is the most ridiculously cute thing I've ever heard in my life. And I know it’s stupid and embarrassing but I don’t care. I want to wake up next to you and feed you and just, just have you." Her voice went quiet at that last part, faltering. She felt far too exposed, foolish. Closed her eyes.
Francesca could hear Michaela sigh, though she didn’t say anything. But she didn’t move away, either
Francesca ducked to catch her gaze again, feeling a spark of hope when Michaela’s face softened. She stared down, slowly found her arm again and brushed her thumb across the skin of Michaela’s inner wrist. "You see me, Michaela. In ways no one else ever has. And I see you too. Always. That is not just friendship."
Michaela looked down, her fingers twitching in Francesca’s grip. For a long moment, she didn’t speak, just stared at their joined hands, her dark lashes casting shadows on her cheeks. When she finally looked up, her expression was raw, unguarded in a way Francesca had never seen before.
“Like I said. Those things were friendly,” Michaela’s voice was tight. She pulled her wrist free, sitting up straighter against the headboard. “Nothing else. I’m just kind to people I sleep with. And… and maybe we blurred the lines. I’m sorry about that. I thought you understood we were causal. Because—” She gestured sharply between them. “There’s nothing here. It was just friendly.”
“Friendly?” Francesca repeated, disbelief adding an edge to her tone. “You kiss me for no reason and hold my hand half in public! We just don't talk about it because god forbid, we ever acknowledge our feelings about each other—”
“Careful,” Michaela cut in coolly, her jaw set. “Don't try and turn this around on me. Yes, maybe I pay attention. But that doesn’t mean I want—” She broke off, pressing her fingers to her temples. “Fuck, Fran, we agreed this was casual.”
“Casual.” Francesca’s nails dug into her palms. “Okay. So you’re telling me I hallucinated the intimacy of these past few weeks? You not correcting that server when she called you my girlfriend? My god Michaela, stop lying to yourself and just admit this means something!”
Michaela recoiled. The silence between them splintered until Michaela let out a sharp, humourless laugh. “Wow. You’re actually….wow. You think just because you’re aching for some grand, sappy romance, I must be too? Guess what? I fuck a lot of women. All of them emotionally competent enough not to fall in love afterwards. Except you. Which is not my problem."
The words landed like a slap. Stung and embarrassed, Francesca’s breath came out short, her face burning. “Go to hell, Michaela,” Francesca hissed, furious now and no longer in danger of letting any tears fall. "You’re such a liar! You know you have feelings for me—you know it—you're just scared and lashing out and fuck."
"Yeah, no I think we're done with that, actually." Michaela's expression hardened, her eyes narrowing. Shoving the sheets aside, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed. “Look. It’s not my fault I’m such a good fuck that you got attached. Then spun some silly fairy-tale in your head.” She rolled her eyes. “I don't feel the same way. Just accept it and grow up!”
Francesca’s vision blurred. The words echoed between them, ugly and final. Michaela sat there, arms crossed over her chest, her brown skin gleaming under the dim lamplight—beautiful even now. And untouchable. Francesca swallowed around the knot in her throat.
“You’re lying,” she whispered. Because apparently she had no self preservation skills whatsoever.
Michaela’s hands trembled—just once, barely noticeable—before she clenched them into fists at her sides. “I’m not,” she said, but her voice wavered.
“Bullshit. You're a coward. All that confidence and charm to hide that deep inside you're still a scared little kid who is so terrified of people leaving her that you won't let anyone in. Won't let anyone love you.” Francesca wanted to scream. Francesca was screaming, she realized. Oh no.
Michaela’s mouth dropped open, her eyes wide, face shadowed with such stunned pain Francesca felt it echo in her own chest. She tried to touch her but Michaela flinched, jerking back so hard she almost fell off the bed.
God. Francesca had shat all over this. Was ruining it before she’d even really started. She took a deep breath, aiming for grounding and landing on hyperventilation instead. That wouldn’t do. She shook her head. Crawled over to Michaela, painfully aware of their mutual nakedness and wondering why she hadn’t just waited until later to do this. Wondered why Michaela always brought out this fevered neediness in her. She called her name, but Michaela wouldn’t turn around. Francesca scooted until she was sat beside her, clutching Michaela’s shoulder in an attempt to make her face her.
When she did, Michaela’s eyes were wet.
Not crying, not yet, but almost. The realization punched through Francesca like a fist to the sternum. Michaela blinked rapidly, her jaw locked tight, her breath coming fast.
Francesca's grip slackened. Michaela never cried; not when she twisted her ankle hiking in Wales, not when she had a row with her favourite cousin, not even when she told Francesca how she and her mum didn't really talk for three years after she first came out. Yet here she was, her lower lashes clumped, wet, her breath shuddering between them. The sight unraveled Francesca completely.
"Oh, Michaela," Francesca whispered, feeling like utter shit. Why hadn't she stopped? Why was she so stubborn? So selfish? “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—“
“Get out.” A tear dropped down Michaela’s cheek but her voice was steady, firm.
"Wait," Francesca’s voice cracked. "Michaela, please. You don’t—"
"Don’t what?" Michaela shrugged out of Francesca’s hold. "Don’t mean it?" She stood. Crossed the room quickly and grabbed her robe. Yanked it on, tied it tight. All the while staring at Francesca with an expression so wounded it made Francesca want to cry, too. "We're done. Whatever you say this is, it stops now. Get out."
Francesca stood then, the dismissal ringing in her ears like a struck bell. Michaela’s jaw was set, eyes dark with something furious and sad. But Francesca couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. She needed to apologize and undo all the hurt she'd caused in an attempt to... to have her feelings validated? Why? She’d been so greedy. So Michaela wanted to keep things causal. So what. A fling was enough (it wasn’t it wasn’t it wasn’t). More than what most people had. But no, Francesca had to go and put her foot in it knowing Michaela didn’t want to address it. Which also wasn’t fair. God, what a mess. And now she’d caused harm even though hurting Michaela was the last thing she’d ever wanted. The room suddenly felt too small, suffocatingly so.
"Fine," Michaela snapped when Francesca didn’t move. “I'll go."
She made for the bedroom door and Francesca’s body moved before her mind caught up, feet shuffling over to Michaela, one hand darting out, fingers closing around Michaela’s wrist. "Wait—"
Michaela wrenched free with a sharp twist. "Don’t touch me.” She said, voice small as she shouldered past Francesca and out the door.
Francesca’s fingers flexed uselessly in the air where Michaela’s wrist had been a second before. She needed to follow her, to explain. To tell Michaela she was sorry and that they could just forget everything.
That was it. She’d just apologize, undo the last few minutes.
Clothes. She needed to get dressed. The tlc: CrazySexyCool album t-shirt she'd claimed on her first stay was hanging on the back of the door like it always was when she slept over, Michaela making sure it was washed and within reach because she knew Francesca found it comfortable. Francesca grabbed it and shrugged it on. The crisp scent of Michaela’s washing powder clung to the fabric. Francesca swallowed a sob, and opened the door.
The living room was dark when she entered, the only light shining from the kitchen. There, Michaela stood at the counter, her back to Francesca, steam curling from the kettle in her hands. She didn’t turn, just poured boiling water into a chipped mug with measured movements, the tea leaves swirling in the current. Francesca recognized the mug. She’d glued back together months ago after Michaela dropped it.
"Michaela," Francesca called quietly, digging her nails in her palm.
Michaela gave no sign that she'd heard, only stirred the tea with a spoon, the clink of metal against ceramic echoing.
“I'm sorry,” Francesca tried. "I shouldn’t have said that. It’s just. You hurt my feelings and I didn’t think.”
"I don't want to do this, Francesca." Michaela sounded far too calm. Detached. Like she was talking about something she didn’t even care about. Like Francesca was something she no longer cared about. That distance stung more than anything.
“I know you don’t. I don't either.” Francesca breathed out slowly, trying to blink away the tears that had stupidly made a reappearance. She sniffled. “But we both said things we didn’t mean and I just want to take it back, okay? We can just go back.”
"Francesca, just leave." Still hollow, still pretending disinterest.
Francesca stared at Michaela's rigid back, the space between them suddenly an uncrossable chasm. The scent of bergamot from the tea filled the kitchen, fragrant and familiar; Michaela always made Earl Grey when she wanted to feel better. Had once said she found the routine calming. The realization twisted in Francesca’s gut. She took a step forward, her bare feet sticking slightly to the cold tile.
“Michaela—”
"Don’t." The word was quiet, but it cut like a blade. Michaela set the spoon down, her fingers trembling just enough for Francesca to notice. "You said what you needed to say. I heard you. Now go."
Francesca didn’t listen. She crossed the room in three quick strides and wrapped her arms around Michaela from behind. For a heartbeat, Michaela stiffened—her hands gripping the edge of the counter like she might shove Francesca away—but then her body sagged, and she was sniffling as she turned in Francesca’s arms.
Michaela’s face was wet with tears when Francesca cupped it, and Francesca wiped them away with her thumbs, her own vision blurring.
"I’m sorry," Francesca whispered, pressing their foreheads together. "I’m so sorry."
"I don’t want to do this," Michaela choked out, her fingers digging into Francesca’s hips like she couldn’t decide whether to push her away or pull her closer. "I don’t want-shit. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean what I said. I’m sorry."
"I know." Francesca kissed her temple, her cheek, then the corner of her mouth. "We can just go back. Forget I said anything." The lie was hard to say, but she’d say it a thousand times if it meant Michaela would stop crying. If she would like her again.
Michaela exhaled shakily, her fingers loosening their death grip on Francesca’s shirt. "Francesca."
Francesca kissed Michaela’s forehead, lingering there a moment longer than necessary, breathing her in. Michaela let her, shoulders tense but unmoving, like she was holding herself together by sheer force of will. Then, abruptly, she pushed out of Francesca’s grasp, her hands pressing flat against Francesca’s chest, just firm enough to put space between them. The warmth of her palms burned through the thin cotton of Francesca’s borrowed shirt.
"You can’t just—" Michaela’s voice was strained. She stepped back, shaking her head like she was trying to dislodge Francesca’s touch, her words. "No. We can’t go back. That’s the point." Her fingers flexed at her sides, restless. "You have… feelings for me, and that means we’re not even close to the same page; pretending otherwise is just… cruel.”
Francesca gaped. “Cruel? You think I’m being cruel?”
Michaela's gaze skittered away from Francesca's. “Yes,” she whispered. “Not to me. To yourself. Because you're asking me to lie to you. To pretend I don't know how you feel so you can keep... this.” She gestured between them, sluggish. “And I won't. Not when I know it'll just hurt you more later.”
Francesca wanted to argue, to shake Michaela until she admitted the truth, but all that came out was a bitter laugh. “Really. So what. This is kindness, then?” Her fingers curled into a fist, her nails biting into her palm. “You’re really going to end this because you're too scared to let me in and let yourself be happy?”
Michaela inhaled sharply, blinking fast and hard like she was trying to top herself from crying before she turned her body all the way around, like she could no longer stand to look at Francesca.
But Francesca couldn’t stop now, the words tumbling out in a desperate rush. "I know you, Michaela. Even if you want to claim I don’t. You don’t throw away things that matter to you. And this—" Her voice broke. "This matters. You just won’t admit it."
Michaela didn’t turn back around. Her back was rigid, her fingers clenched at her sides. "It doesn’t matter what I feel," she said quietly, the words so measured they sounded rehearsed. "What matters is that we want different things. And I won’t string you along when I know I can’t give you what you need."
Francesca took a step forward, her bare feet soundless on the tile. "But you could," she insisted, her voice tight, pleading. "If you’d just—"
"I’ll bring your things over later this week," Michaela interrupted, her tone final.
The words sent Francesca reeling, the hit so precise it took her a full second to register the pain. Michaela’s silhouette in the dim kitchen light was achingly familiar: the slope of her shoulders, the way her hair curled at the nape of her neck where Francesca had kissed her just hours ago. Now, she would never get to do that again.
Francesca felt the tears fall and couldn’t make herself care enough to wipe them away. "Don’t do that."
"I have to."
There was a pause. Long enough for Francesca to think that was it, that she’d been dismissed. Then Michaela turned, finally meeting Francesca’s gaze. Her eyes were red-rimmed but dry, her expression stripped bare.
“I’ll stay here while you get dressed. So I’m not in your way.”
Francesca stood there, eyes wide and wild. Disbelieving. She wanted to reach out and hold Michaela, recite every moment she'd realized she was falling for her that Francesca had catalogued in her mind, until Michaela finally heard her and cracked open and admitted the truth. Instead, she dug her nails into her palms until the sting grounded her.
"Okay," Francesca said, feeling scraped out and empty. She didn't recognize her own voice.
Michaela startled as if Fran had shouted. Her mug shook, tea sloshing dangerously close to the rim. Francesca saw the hesitation flicker across her face, before she nodded stiffly and looked away
Francesca turned toward the bedroom before Michaela could see her hands shaking. Each step felt weighted, her bare feet cool on the floor. The bedroom smelled like them: sweat and perfume. Francesca's with a floral base, Michaela's more spiced. Perfectly complimentary. Or maybe, Francesca had finally gone fully mad. She dressed mechanically: left her underwear in the middle of the floor—Michaela could wash it and send it back, if she really wanted—pulled on her dress hastily and then tugged on the tlc shirt without thinking. She could feel dampness against her shoulder where Michaela's tears had soaked through earlier.
When she emerged from the bedroom, Michaela was exactly where she'd left her. Leaning against the kitchen counter like it was the only thing holding her up, her fingers wrapped too tight around that bloody chipped mug.
Francesca's throat burned.
"Right," Francesca said, fighting not to cry as she hefted her bag onto her shoulder. She needed to leave with at least a little bit of dignity. "I'll just—" She nodded toward the door. Started walking.
“Text me when you get home,” Michaela said softy. The concern in her voice nearly broke Francesca. It was the same tender tone she used when Francesca took late cabs after rehearsals.
Francesca scoffed, her fingers tightening around the strap of her bag. "What?"
Michaela kept her head down, her thumb tracing the chip in the mug's handle. "Just so I know you got back safe," she said, too evenly.
As if this were any other night and she hadn't just flayed Francesca alive then sent her on her merry way.
“No,” Francesca snapped, voice tight. "Don't do me any favours. I’m not your problem, right?”
Michaela's face fell. Then her expression went carefully blank. It was quick and if Francesca hadn't been staring at her she would've missed it.
“Fine,” Michaela snapped.
“Great,” Francesca huffed. Because she was absolutely going to have the last word.
The door clicked shut behind Francesca, then and she didn’t look back even as every muscle in her body screamed to turn around, to wrench it open again and demand Michaela take it all back. She kept her head up and stepped forward, her sandaled feet taking her down the stairs in front of Michaela’s flat.
It had started to rain, thick drops hammering down as Francesca stood frozen on Michaela’s doorstep. The cold was sinking into her bones, rain soaking through her thin dress, her borrowed shirt already clinging damply to her shoulders. She needed to leave. Needed to call a ride, go home, cry into a pint of ice cream and block Michaela on everything. Start the process of forgetting these last few months. The joy of it. But her feet refused to move. The street was empty, no cars, no pedestrians, just slick pavement reflecting the orange glow of streetlights.
She took a breath. Then another. After the fifth one, she felt steady enough to to walk.
She was one house down from Michaela’s place when she felt a hand on her elbow. A scream died in Francesca‘s throat when she whirled around to find Michaela standing there, drenched from the downpour, her curls plastered to her forehead. Her robe was soaked through and clinging to her body, her shoes mismatched like she’d stepped into whatever was closest to the door in her rush to catch up to Francesca.
Oh.
"Wait," Michaela said, breathless, her grip firm. "Just, wait."
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