Archive of Our Own ^beta

Michaela was practicing lines for her next audition when her phone buzzed with a text from her longtime manager and friend. 

Colin: Good News! You got the lead in the new romance movie! Bad News! Production changed the script so you have to play the piano. Check your email to see the new script. 

She quickly scanned through the script on her phone before returning back to her text thread with Colin, and quickly hit the call button. 

She heard Colin pick up on the first ring and before he was even able to get a word out, she immediately pounced on him. “Col, what the fuck. They changed the entire script and didn’t tell anyone auditioning that they had to play the fucking piano?” 

“Hi Mich, I’m doing fine thank you for asking. Penelope and Elliot are fine as well, I know you’ve missed them on your last visit here for dinner,” he said on the line. 

She let out a sigh before continuing on, “I’m sorry, let me try that again. Hi Colin! How are you today?”

Colin laughed softly on the other end, the sound familiar enough to take a little of the edge off her panic. “There she is. Apology accepted.”

“Don’t dodge,” Michaela said, flopping onto her couch and rubbing her temple. “I don’t play the piano. I pose next to pianos. I dramatically close the lid for emphasis Sometimes, I even lay on top of the piano for a magazine cover. That’s the extent of my skill set.”

“I know, I know,” he said. “But listen, this isn’t a concert pianist role. It’s intimate and character-driven. You need to look convincing enough that they aren’t going to hire a finger double for you, not tour with the fucking Philharmonic.” 

“That’s rich coming from you, Col,” she shot back. “Might I remind you about the ballerina movie. I could not move for the week after I wrapped, you jackass.” 

Colin hummed thoughtfully. “God don’t remind me. We do not need a repeat of that, which is why I’ve already solved the problem before it turns into a bigger one.” 

Michaela narrowed her eyes at the phone. “What the fuck does that mean. Every time you save that, my life gets extremely more complicated.” 

“Or significantly better,” he countered. “I think what I’m about to say is going to fall in the latter category.” 

“Off with it then, Col,” she urged him to share his grand plan. “As soon as this call is over, I’m scheduling an emergency appointment with my therapist. God, the things I do for a fucking job.” 

Colin chuckled, completely unfazed. “You’re dramatic. That’s why they pay you the big bucks.”

“Colin.”

“Okay, okay,” he relented. “I’m getting there. I want you to take piano lessons.”

There it was. Michaela closed her eyes and let her head thunk lightly against the back of the couch. “Absolutely not.”

“Michaela.”

“I don’t do lessons,” she said. “Lessons imply failure. Lessons imply a woman double my age telling me my wrists are tense.”

“First of all, rude,” Colin said. “Second, she’s not double your age.”

She froze. “She?”

“Yes, she,” he said, far too pleased with himself. “My sister. Francesca.”

Michaela opened her eyes. “Wait, you have another sister besides Eloise.” 

“Four to be exact,” he stated matter-of-factly. “All us Bridgerton siblings took beginner lessons when we were younger but she took them like a moth to a flame.” 

Michaela pushed herself upright on the couch. “You’re telling me this now? We’ve known each other for almost a decade.”

Colin shrugged audibly through the phone. “It’s never come up. She’s also just returned from the Scottish Highlands, something about finding solace in the land. I don’t know she says it helps her to be one with the music. Frannie come and goes as she pleases. She loves us all to death, but she desperately needs her time away from us.”

Michaela blinked once. “You just casually slipped Scottish Highlands into that like it’s a fucking run to Tesco’s.” 

Colin laughed. “I’m serious. She does that. Disappears. Reappears. Very on brand for her. Ever since she was a child.” 

“Correct.”

“And now she’s back in London.”

“Also correct.” 

Michaela dragged a hand through her hair. “Why do I feel like this is about to be the best worst scenario you’ve ever presented to me?” 

Colin laughed, low and unapologetic. “Because you have excellent instincts.”

“Fantastic,” Michaela muttered. “I always wanted my professional survival to hinge on someone who communicates exclusively through metaphor and seasonal depression.”

“That’s unfair. You can’t judge my sister if you’ve never fucking met her,” he said. “Sometimes she communicates through silence.”

Michaela snorted. “Even better.”

“She’s brilliant, Mich,” Colin went on, more serious now. “And she’s… different. She hears things other people don’t. Patterns. Emotion. She’ll teach you how to feel the music, not just fake it for the camera.”

Michaela swallowed. That hit a little too close to home. “I already fake feelings for a living.”

“I know,” he said gently. “That’s why this might actually be good for you.”

She rolled onto her side, staring at the far wall. “You’re enjoying this.”

“A little,” Colin admitted. “But I also wouldn’t suggest the idea of it if I didn’t think you would be up for it. More so her than you, to be honest.”

There was a pause. “Is she scary?” Michaela asked.

He considered it. “She’s quiet. Observant. She will absolutely clock your bullshit in under five minutes.”

Michaela groaned. “Jesus.”

“But,” he added, “she’s kind. In her own way. And she doesn’t coddle.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

“You don’t like being coddled.”

Michaela huffed a laugh. “I like thinking I don’t. Big difference.”

Colin smiled into the phone. “I’ll send you her address. I told her to expect you at ten in the morning. Bring your patience, God knows you’re gonna fucking need it. Also, don’t dress up for her, she might just be my sister, but she’s a regular person.”

“Noted. Casual humility chic.”

“She’ll appreciate that.”

Another beat of silence stretched between them.

“If this goes horribly wrong,” Michaela said, “I’m blaming you forever.”

“If it goes right,” Colin replied, “you’ll thank me later.”

Michaela stared up at the ceiling, nerves buzzing under her skin. “I hate that you’re probably right.”

“You always do.”

The call ended. Michaela stared at her phone, then dropped it onto the couch.

“This better be fucking worth it,” she said, already knowing it probably would be.

She stayed there a moment longer, sprawled out and staring at the ceiling as if it might offer guidance. It didn’t. Her apartment was too quiet; no lines to rehearse, no assistant hovering, no sense of control. Just the weight of tomorrow pressing in.

With a sigh, she sat up and grabbed her tablet, pulling up the revised script. The piano scenes glared back at her, deceptively gentle in description.

She plays softly. The room listens.

Michaela scoffed. “Rude.”

She scrolled, skimming dialogue she knew she could nail, then stopping again at the musical notation embedded in the margins. Black dots on white lines. A foreign language. One she was apparently expected to speak convincingly in under two months.

She locked the screen and stood, pacing toward the kitchen. Tea felt like surrender. Wine felt premature. She settled for water, leaning against the counter and rubbing her thumb along the edge of the glass.

“Okay,” she said under her breath. “You’ve learned accents in three weeks. You’ve cried on cue with twelve people watching. You can learn to not completely embarrass yourself because of a fucking piano.”

Her phone buzzed once on the counter.

Colin: Address sent. Don’t be late.

She snorted. “Threatening already.”

The next morning, London was gray in that particular way that felt personal. Michaela stepped out of the car and adjusted her coat, eyeing the narrow street Colin had sent her to. West End, a district known for it’s attempts at being quiet, self-possessed, and faintly judgemental at times. The building in front of her was all brick and tall windows, the kind of place that looked like it had opinions. 

She checked the address again. Right place.

“Showtime,” she muttered, then pushed open the door.

Inside, the air was warm and smelled faintly of old wood and something herbal. Her footsteps echoed softly as she followed the sound of a piano: slow, deliberate notes drifting down from somewhere above. Not a warm-up. Not scales. Something thoughtful. Controlled.

Michaela paused at the bottom of the stairs, suddenly very aware of her own breathing.

Okay, she told herself. It is just a person. A very talented, probably terrifying person, who is related to your manager. 

The music stopped and then a moment later, a voice called out from above. Calm, clear, and intrigued at the same time. 

“You must be Michaela. You’re right on time.” 

Michaela lifted her chin, squared her shoulders, and headed up the stairs. 

She reached the top of the stairs and nearly collided with silence. 

The studio was larger than she expected. High ceilings, tall windows veiled in thin curtains that let in the gray London light without apology. An upright piano sat slightly off-center, its wood worn smooth by years of use. No clutter. No posters. No glamour shots taped to the walls. Just music, stacked neatly, and a metronome resting like a quiet threat.

And beside the piano stood Francesca. 

She was turned half-away flipping through a stack of sheet music with an unhurried precision. Her dark hair was pulled back low, sleeves rolled just enough to suggest practicality over presentation. She looked calm, a direct opposite to the nerves Michaela felt inside. 

“Michaela,” Francesca said again, this time turning fully to face her.

Her gaze was steady—curious, but not impressed. Not dismissive either. Just observant, like she was already filing Michaela into categories she hadn’t agreed to yet.

“Hi,” Michaela said, forcing a smile. “I assume you’re Francesca. Colin speaks very… vividly and highly about you.”

Francesca’s mouth twitched. “He does that a lot, I hope all good news.” She then gestured towards the piano bench. “You can put your bag there. We will start shortly.”

We will start shortly. Not nice to meet you. Not how was the trip. Michaela blinked, then complied, setting her bag down and shrugging out of her coat.

“Before we start,” Michaela said, carefully casual, “I feel it is important to tell you that I have no idea what I’m fucking doing. I wish I could tell you that I took lessons as a child, but unfortunately my parents took me to an acting class before a music class and I guess it stuck. I am here purely for the spirit of professional desperation.” 

Francesca listened without interrupting, her expression unchanged, eyes steady on Michaela’s face as if she were weighing not the words themselves but the space between them. When Michaela finished, she nodded only once, as though something clicked neatly into place. 

“That’s fine,” Francesca said. “I wasn’t expecting you to. Although Colin and I might be siblings, we never had a perfect relationship. I knew he was asking for something important when he called me earlier this week.” 

Michaela laughed a quick, relieved sound. “Oh, so you think I’m important.” 

Francesca’s gaze flicked to her then, sharp but not unkind. “I think,” she said carefully, “that the work is important.”

Michaela grinned. “I’ll take it.”

Francesca closed the folder of sheet music and set it neatly on top of the piano. “Colin doesn’t call unless he’s worried. And he doesn’t worry unless he believes someone can rise to the occasion.”

That wiped the grin from Michaela’s face—just a little. “He didn’t tell me that part.”

“He wouldn’t,” Francesca said. “He lets people panic first.”

Michaela huffed. “Sounds about right coming from that jackass.”

Francesca gestured toward the bench again. “Sit. Properly this time.”

Michaela obeyed, adjusting herself as she sat on the bench, feet planted more firmly on the floor. She waited, hands hovering.

“Good,” Francesca said, circling her slowly like she was studying a sculpture. “You’re used to entering a room and controlling it because of your acting background, which is natural. At the piano, you don’t control. You collaborate. There is a harmony that needs to be created.”

“With the instrument,” Michaela said.

“And with yourself,” Francesca added.

She stopped in front of Michaela and held up her hands. “May I?”

Michaela nodded, not trusting her voice. 

Francesca gently adjusted her wrists, lowering them just a fraction. “You carry tension here. If you keep it, the music will sound like it’s apologizing.”

Michaela raised an eyebrow. “That feels personal.”

“It usually is,” Francesca replied calmly.

She moved back to the keys and played a single chord—soft, resonant, lingering just long enough to fill the room. The sound made Michaela’s chest tighten unexpectedly.

“This is what you’re aiming for,” Francesca said. “Not perfection. Presence.”

Michaela swallowed. “And you think I can learn that?”

Francesca met her eyes, steady and assured. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

“You do realize that I have to start filming in six weeks,” Michaela told her. “I have no idea the timeline of the shoot, but I have to be on set in six weeks time.” 

“Six weeks is a lot of time,” Francesca spoke. “I’ve made children obtain scholarships in less time than that.” 

Michaela blinked. “Children are terrifyingly resilient. I drink coffee for emotional support.”

Francesca’s lips curved—just barely. “Then we’ll work around the goddamn coffee.”

She turned back to the piano, lifting the fallboard and revealing the keys fully, like a quiet unveiling. “Six weeks is enough time to make you convincing. Not virtuosic. Convincing is harder in some ways.”

“Because the camera sees everything,” Michaela said.

“Because you feel everything,” Francesca corrected. “The camera simply records your honesty.”

Michaela shifted on the bench. “You’re very calm about this.”

“I plan,” Francesca said. “And I don’t waste time.” She glanced at the clock on the wall. “Which is why we’re starting now.”

Francesca sat beside her again, close enough that Michaela could feel the warmth of her arm without it being intrusive. She placed one finger on middle C.

“This,” she said, pressing the key gently, “is where you begin. Every time. No matter how complicated the music becomes.”

The note rang out—clear, simple.

Michaela stared at the key as if it had personally challenged her. “I’ve seen this one before. It’s very… central.”

Francesca huffed softly. “Good. You’re observant.”

She nudged Michaela’s hand forward. “Your turn.”

Michaela hesitated, then pressed the key. The sound was slightly uneven, but unmistakably real.

She exhaled. “Okay. That wasn’t terrible.”

“It wasn’t,” Francesca agreed. “And you didn’t flinch.”

Michaela smiled, small but genuine. “Low bar, but I’ll take the win.”

Francesca nodded once. “You should. We’ll build from here—posture today, familiarity tomorrow, muscle memory by week three.”

Michaela glanced at her. “You’ve really thought this through.”

“Yes,” Francesca said simply. “When Colin calls, I listen.”

That did something unexpected to Michaela’s chest.

She looked back down at the keys, fingers resting more comfortably now. “Alright,” she said. “Teach me.”

Francesca’s smile this time was unmistakable as she got the sheet music to the song Michaela had to play during the movie set up.

A few days later, Michaela decided she officially hated the fucking metronome.

It sat on top of the piano like a smug little dictator, clicking steadily while she tried—tried—to keep her fingers and brain aligned. She heard the ticking in her apartment, when she was outside, and while she was asleep.

“Again,” Francesca said calmly.

Michaela let out a breath and started the passage over. It was simple on paper, a simple scale of the middle C chord. Embarrassingly so. And yet her hands kept betraying her, rushing ahead as if speed alone could make it convincing.

“Stop,” Francesca said.

Michaela’s fingers froze mid-key. “Was that a gentle stop or a you’re doing it wrong stop?”

Francesca didn’t answer right away. She stepped closer instead, leaning just enough to look directly at Michaela’s hands. “You’re rushing because you’re anticipating the mistake.”

“I—what? A mistake?”

“You’re playing the future,” Francesca continued, unbothered. “Not the note you’re on.”

Michaela frowned. “That feels… targeted.”

“It should,” Francesca said. “You do it when you act too.”

Michaela opened her mouth to defend herself when—

The door opened.

“Wow,” Colin’s voice cut in brightly. “This is either going incredibly well or I’m about to lose a sister.”

Michaela groaned and dropped her hands into her lap. “You are early.”

“I was nearby,” he said, already halfway into the room, eyes darting between them. “And curious. I wanted to see how my dear friend and little sister were getting along.”

Francesca straightened, stepping back just a fraction—so small Michaela barely registered it until she felt the absence of warmth beside her.

“Colin,” Francesca said evenly. “You’re interrupting.”

“I can tell,” he replied cheerfully. “The tension alone between you two could tune the piano.”

Michaela shot him a look. “You don’t get to fucking comment. You unleashed this.”

“I provided a goddamn solution,” he corrected, then glanced at the sheet music. “Oh. You’re already past middle C. Impressive.”

Michaela blinked. “That’s… not impressive.”

“It is for her,” Francesca said automatically.

The words landed before she could soften them. There was a brief, strange silence.

Colin’s eyebrows shot up.

“Oh,” he said lightly. “That’s how it is.”

Francesca’s jaw tightened. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” Colin asked innocently. “Observe?”

Michaela looked between them. “Why do I feel like I’ve walked into a sibling language I was not given subtitles for?”

Colin waved her off. “Ignore me. Please continue. I want to see.”

“No,” Francesca said flatly.

“No?” Michaela echoed.

Francesca met her eyes. “Not while he’s here.”

Something about the way she said it—firm, protective—made Michaela’s chest do a small, traitorous flip.

Colin, unfortunately, noticed everything.

“I’ll go,” he said slowly, backing toward the door. “But just so you know—”

“Colin Bridgerton,” Francesca warned. “I will get our mother involved and she will not be happy when I threaten to go radio silent again.” 

“Alright, I’ll stop,” he said while grinning. “It’s just, she’s not who you’d usually go for.” 

“What?” Michaela and Francesca said in perfect, horrified unison.

Colin laughed and slipped out before either of them could recover, the door clicking shut behind him.

Silence rushed in to replace him.

Michaela let out a shaky breath. “He’s insufferable.”

“Yes,” Francesca blurted out quickly. Too quickly. “He always has been. Colin’s been too observant for his own good. Which is humorous considering he couldn’t see Penelope throwing herself at him when we were kids.” 

They stood there, neither of them moving back to their previous positions. Michaela was acutely aware of the space that was now between them, and of how close Francesca had been all of thirty seconds ago. 

“I’m sorry,” Michaela murmured quietly. “If his stupid comment made things weird.” 

“It didn’t,” Francesca replied. Then, after a beat, “It shouldn’t have.”

Michaela searched her face. “Shouldn’t have?”

Francesca looked away first. “Let’s continue.”

She returned to the other side of the piano, reclaiming distance like it was discipline. Michaela placed her hands back on the keys, suddenly hyperaware of everything—the press of her fingers, the sound of her breathing, the fact that Francesca was watching her again.

“From the top,” Francesca said.

Michaela nodded and began to play.

The notes were no better than before. If anything, they were worse. Both uneven and uncertain. But Francesca didn’t stop her this time. 

When Michaela finished, she let her hands fall. “That was… bad.”

Francesca didn’t disagree. Instead, she said quietly, “You weren’t rushing.”

Michaela looked up.

“You stayed,” Francesca continued. “You listened.”

Their eyes met—held.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Francesca cleared her throat and stepped back again. “We’ll stop here for today.”

Michaela stood, heart doing something inconvenient. “Okay.”

She gathered her things, hesitating at the door. “Fran?”

Francesca looked up.

“Thank you,” Michaela said. “For not giving up on me.”

Francesca’s expression softened—just enough. “I haven’t. You’ve only been doing this for a week. Rome wasn’t built in a day.”

Michaela left before either of them could say something they couldn’t take back.

Francesca stood alone in the studio for a long moment after the door closed, staring at the piano.

And wondering when, exactly, the work had started to feel so dangerous.

The next time Michaela saw Francesca, she was late.

Not disastrously late—no frantic calls, no apologies breathless with guilt—but late enough that the studio was already alive when she arrived. The door was open, music spilling into the stairwell, low and deliberate. Not an exercise. Not a lesson.

Francesca was playing.

Michaela stopped on the landing, hand still on the banister. She hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but the sound held her there—measured, restrained, threaded with something aching beneath the surface. It wasn’t showy. It wasn’t loud. It felt… private.

She waited until the final note faded before stepping fully into the room.

“Sorry,” Michaela said softly. “Traffic.”

Francesca didn’t turn around right away. “It’s fine,” she said, closing the fallboard gently. “You’re only five minutes late.”

Michaela blinked. “You clock that?”

“I clock everything,” Francesca replied, finally facing her.

She looked different today. Not dramatically—still practical, still composed—but there was a looseness to her hair, a softness around the eyes that hadn’t been there before. Or maybe Michaela was just noticing now.

Michaela set her bag down. “Were you warming up?”

“No,” Francesca said. “Thinking.”

Michaela smiled. “Dangerous pastime.”

A pause. Not awkward. Not easy either.

Francesca gestured to the bench. “Sit.”

Michaela did, muscle memory already kicking in. That alone startled her.

“Good,” Francesca murmured, noticing. “You’re learning.”

Michaela glanced sideways at her. “Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I’m not,” Francesca said. “I just… didn’t expect you to.”

That shouldn’t have stung. It did, just a little. “Ouch.”

Francesca exhaled. “That came out wrong.”

Michaela raised an eyebrow. “You want to try again?”

Francesca considered her, then nodded. “I didn’t expect you to stay.”

Something warm unfurled in Michaela’s chest. “I’m very stubborn.”

“Yes,” Francesca agreed. “Colin mentioned that.”

“Colin mentions everything.”

Francesca’s lips curved faintly. “Unfortunately.”

She reached out, adjusting Michaela’s wrist—barely a touch, brief but intentional. Michaela went still, pulse ticking loud in her ears.

“You’re holding tension here again,” Francesca said quietly.

“Maybe I’m nervous,” Michaela replied, voice lighter than she felt.

“About the piano?”

Michaela met her eyes. “About you.”

The admission hung between them, fragile and honest.

Francesca didn’t pull away—but she didn’t move closer either. Her hand lingered a beat too long before retreating.

“Play,” she said, voice steadier than her eyes.

Michaela turned back to the keys, heart racing, and began. The notes were hesitant, but present—no rushing, no pretending.

When she finished, the silence felt different now. Charged.

“That was better,” Francesca said.

“Because I was thinking less?”

“Because you were listening,” Francesca replied. “To yourself.”

Michaela smiled, small and sincere. “You do that to people.”

Francesca looked at her then—really looked at her. “I try not to.”

Another pause. This one heavier.

A knock sounded at the door.

They both startled.

Colin’s voice followed, cheerful as ever. “Before either of you murder me, I brought pastries.”

Michaela laughed, the tension cracking just enough to breathe again. “You have impeccable timing.”

Francesca shook her head, but there was affection there now. “Come in, Colin.”

As he entered, his eyes flicked between them—quick, assessing—and his smile turned knowing.

“Oh,” he said softly. “I missed something, didn’t I?”

Michaela and Francesca spoke at the same time.

“No.”

Colin’s grin widened as he the pastry box down on the small table by the window like a peace offering. “I come bearing carbs and plausible deniability.”

Michaela eyed the box. “You bribed your way back in.”

“I earned my way back in,” he corrected. “I was banished like a king’s jester to a dungeon last time.”

Francesca crossed her arms. “You were disruptive.”

“And yet,” he said, opening the box, “you invited me inside. Growth.”

Michaela leaned over the bench to peek. “Is that almond?”

“For you,” Colin said. “I pay attention.”

“That’s unsettling,” she replied, but she took one anyway.

Francesca hesitated, then reached for a plain croissant. Their fingers brushed—brief, accidental, electric. Francesca pulled back first, expression unreadable. Michaela pretended very hard to be interested in powdered sugar.

Colin watched all of it, far too pleased.

“So,” he said lightly, “how’s it going? Be honest. Think you’ll be ready in five weeks?”

Michaela swallowed a bite. “Define honest.”

“Don’t perform,” Francesca said quietly.

Michaela glanced at her, then back to Colin. “It’s… harder than I thought. But I’m getting there.”

“That’s true,” Francesca added. “She’s listening now.”

Colin blinked. “That’s high praise.”

“It is,” Francesca agreed.

Michaela felt heat creep up her neck. “You two talk about me like I’m not here.”

“You are,” Francesca said. “Which is why we’re careful.”

That look again. Steady. Intent.

Colin cleared his throat. “Okay, great. Love the progress. Love the… vibes.” He gestured vaguely between them. “I’m going to sit over here and not exist. Like in Harry Potter.”

“Please do,” Francesca said, “before I try and kill you like Voldemort.” 

He plopped into a chair by the window, immediately pulling out his phone. “Ignoring you aggressively. By the way, Pen says hi and that you should come to dinner soon Fran.”

“Tell her I’ll text her later to work out a date,” Francesca said as she turned back to Michaela. “Let’s work.”

Michaela nodded, setting the pastry aside and placing her hands on the keys. This time, she didn’t wait to be told how to sit. She adjusted herself, grounded her feet.

Francesca noticed. Her gaze softened.

“From the top,” she said.

Michaela began to play. The notes were still imperfect, but they breathed. She didn’t rush. She didn’t flinch.

Halfway through, she felt Francesca step closer—felt it before she saw it. A presence at her shoulder. Francesca leaned in, voice low.

“Stay there,” she murmured. “Yes. Like that.”

Michaela’s heart stuttered. She kept playing.

Francesca’s hand hovered near her wrist—not touching, not quite—but guiding all the same. Michaela’s focus narrowed to sound and proximity and the quiet intensity in Francesca’s voice.

When the last note faded, the room held its breath.

“That,” Francesca said softly, “was honest.”

Michaela let out a shaky laugh. “I think that might be the nicest thing anyone’s said to me this week.”

Colin, from the corner, blurted out, “I’m offended on behalf of everyone else.”

Neither of them looked at him.

Francesca stepped back, composure snapping neatly back into place. “We’ll stop there.”

“So soon?” Michaela asked, disappointed despite herself.

“Yes,” Francesca said. “Before we push too far.”

Michaela searched her face. “Too far how?”

Francesca met her gaze. For a moment, the calm cracked—just enough.

“In ways that make the work harder,” she said.

Colin looked up sharply. “I absolutely heard that.”

Francesca shot him a look. “You were supposed to be ignoring us.”

“I tried,” he said. “I failed. Like Michaela with rhythm.”

“What the fuck Col,” Michaela protested. 

“But improving,” Colin added. “Noticeably.”

Francesca gathered the sheet music, creating distance with efficiency. “We’re done for today.”

Michaela left, heart pounding a little too fast for a piano lesson.

Colin waited until the door closed.

Then he turned to his sister, smiling slowly. “You’re in trouble.”

Francesca didn’t look at him. “So is she.”

And somehow, that didn’t sound like a warning at all.

The following lesson felt different before Michaela even sat down.

There were no pastries. No third presence to dilute the air. Just the studio, quiet and sunlit in the late afternoon, dust motes drifting lazily near the windows. Francesca was already there, standing by the piano with her back to the door, sleeves rolled, hair loose today in a way that felt… intentional.

She didn’t turn immediately when Michaela entered.

“You’re early,” Francesca said.

Michaela paused. “I didn’t want to be late again.”

That earned her a glance—quick, assessing, unreadable. “Good.”

Michaela set her bag down, movements softer now, like she was trying not to disturb something fragile. “You were playing earlier?”

“Yes.”

“You always do that before I get here?”

“Not always,” Francesca said. Then, after a beat, “Lately, I have been though.”

Something warm curled low in Michaela’s stomach. She resisted the urge to comment on it.

They moved through the beginning of the lesson with practiced ease. Posture. Breathing. Simple progressions Michaela could now play without looking at her hands every second. Francesca corrected her less with words and more with proximity—standing close, angling her body just enough that Michaela could feel the guidance without touch.

It was… intimate. Quietly so.

“Again,” Francesca said, low.

Michaela played. Missed one note. Winced.

“Don’t apologize,” Francesca said immediately.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You did,” Francesca replied. “With your shoulders.”

Michaela laughed under her breath and tried again.

This time, when she finished, Francesca didn’t step away.

Instead, she rested one hand lightly on the edge of the piano, close to Michaela’s knee but not touching.

“You’re thinking less,” Francesca said. “That’s good.”

“I’m trying to stop performing,” Michaela said. “You kind of ruined that for me.”

Francesca tilted her head, a light smirk playing on her lips. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It’s unsettling,” Michaela admitted. “You see too much.”

Francesca’s gaze flicked to her face. Held. “So do you.”

The words landed between them, soft and charged.

Michaela swallowed. “That’s different. It’s my job.”

“And this,” Francesca said quietly, “isn’t?”

Michaela looked down at the keys, fingers still resting there. “It feels different.”

“Yes,” Francesca agreed. “It does.”

The silence stretched—not awkward, but heavy with things neither of them were ready to name.

Francesca finally stepped back, breaking the spell. “We should take a break.”

Michaela nodded, grateful and disappointed all at once. She stood, rolling her shoulders. “You’re very good at knowing when to stop.”

Francesca met her eyes. “I’ve had practice.”

“With students?”

“With myself.”

That made Michaela still.

Francesca turned away first, pouring tea at the small side table. “Sit,” she said. “You’ll cramp if you don’t.”

Michaela sat, watching her move—controlled, graceful, careful. “You never talk about yourself.”

Francesca handed her a cup. Their fingers brushed again, this time lingering a half-second too long.

“There isn’t much to say,” Francesca replied.

“I don’t believe that,” Michaela said softly.

Francesca didn’t answer. She just watched Michaela over the rim of her own cup, something unguarded flickering behind her calm.

She stood by the window instead, tea untouched in her hands, watching the street below like it might offer answers. Michaela noticed—how her shoulders stayed rigid even at rest, how stillness for her looked more like discipline than ease.

“You don’t like breaks,” Michaela said gently.

Francesca glanced back. “I don’t like losing momentum.”

“That sounds exhausting.”

“It can be,” Francesca admitted. The word seemed to surprise her. She exhaled and finally leaned against the windowsill. “Music has rules. When I’m playing, everything behaves. People rarely do.”

Michaela smiled softly. “You should meet my castmates.”

Francesca huffed—a real one this time. “Colin already warned me.”

“He’s been talking about me a lot to you, hasn’t he?” Michaela asked, tone light but curious.

Francesca hesitated just long enough to be telling. “He always mentions the people he’s managed,” she said. “Usually in passing. Strengths. Weaknesses. What they need to be protected from.” She glanced back at Michaela. “You came up more than most.”

Michaela blinked. “That feels… invasive.”

“It’s affectionate,” Francesca replied. “In his way.”

She looked back out the window, fingers tightening briefly around her teacup. “He said you work too hard to make things look effortless. That you forget you’re allowed to be bad at something.”

There was a pause. Michaela took a sip of tea, then said, “The Highlands. Was that really about being one with the land?”

Francesca’s gaze sharpened—not defensive, but alert. “Did he tell you that?”

“He did,” Michaela said. “It sounded… curated.”

Francesca considered her for a long moment, then nodded once. “It was easier than telling the truth.”

Michaela didn’t push. She just waited.

“I left because London held too much,” Francesca said quietly. “Too many rooms that remembered me. Too many expectations that assumed I was the same person I’d been before.” She flexed her fingers unconsciously. “In the Highlands, nothing knew me. Nothing asked.”

That landed, heavy and incomplete.

“So you ran,” Michaela said, not unkindly.

“I paused,” Francesca corrected. “There’s a difference.”

Michaela nodded. “I call it hiding sometimes. Makes it feel more honest.”

Francesca looked at her then—really looked. “Does it help?”

“Sometimes,” Michaela said. “Sometimes it just postpones the reckoning.”

A beat.

“That was my fear,” Francesca said. “That if I stayed—if I kept playing the way everyone expected—I wouldn’t survive the remembering.”

Michaela stood slowly, drawn toward her without quite meaning to be. She stopped a careful distance away.

“You’re not fragile,” Michaela said. “You’re just… deliberate.”

Francesca’s mouth curved, sad and fond all at once. “People don’t usually see that distinction.”

“I do,” Michaela said. Then, softer, “Because I fake effortlessness for a living. And you actually practice it.”

Something in Francesca’s composure shifted—not gone, just loosened. “You’re very perceptive for someone who claims desperation.”

Michaela smiled. “I undersell myself.”

Francesca laughed quietly, then shook her head as if grounding herself. “This is why I have to be careful with you.”

Michaela’s heart stuttered. “Because I’m bad at piano?”

“No,” Francesca said, meeting her eyes. “Because you listen.”

The words hung there—honest, dangerous.

Francesca stepped back first, reclaiming space with practiced ease. “We should finish the lesson.”

Michaela nodded, pulse loud in her ears. “Yeah. Okay.”

They returned to the piano, and something fundamental had shifted. Francesca played differently now—less guarded. Michaela, listening, realized she wasn’t just learning how to play a role.

The rest of the week passed in rehearsals. Michaela was proud of the progress she was making toward the film shoot. Francesca was impressed too, though she would never say it aloud. Instead, she moved Michaela’s wrist, noting tension even when there wasn’t any—small, exacting corrections.

Then, halfway through rehearsing lines at home one evening, Michaela’s phone buzzed.

Colin: Fran needs to cancel lessons this week. Family matter.

Michaela stared at the screen longer than she meant to. No explanation. No reschedule date. Just the absence of something that had unexpectedly become an anchor.

She typed Is she okay? — deleted it.

Typed Tell her no rush — deleted that too.

She finally sent: 

Michaela: Understood. Tell her I hope she’s alright.

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Then:

Colin: I will. Thank you for being kind about it. It means more to her than you know.

That, more than anything, made her chest ache.

The studio stayed dark all week. Michaela passed it twice—once by accident on the way to a café for an interview, once on purpose. Windows shuttered, the piano unseen. She told herself it was restlessness, nothing to do with Francesca’s quiet voice correcting her posture, or the way silence now felt heavier.

She practiced anyway. Badly. Earnestly. Alone.

Four days later, Francesca called.

Michaela answered immediately and winced at herself. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Francesca said. Her voice sounded calm, controlled—but thinner somehow, like it had traveled a long way. “I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner.”

“That’s okay,” Michaela said quickly. “Colin told me. You don’t owe me—”

“I wanted to,” Francesca interrupted gently. “I just… needed a few days where no one expected anything of me.”

Michaela softened. “I get that.”

A pause stretched between them. Careful, weighted.

“This week is the anniversary of my husband’s death,” Francesca said.

The words landed without ceremony. No buildup. No cushioning.

Michaela closed her eyes. “Fran.”

“John,” Francesca continued, as if saying his name anchored her. “It’s been a few years now. Long enough that people assume I’m fine. Short enough that the week still… knows me.”

Something in Michaela’s chest tightened. “I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you,” Francesca said quietly. “We were very private. I don’t talk about him much anymore.”

Michaela swallowed. “Do you want to?”

Another pause. Longer this time.

“Yes,” Francesca said. “Just not yet.”

“Okay,” Michaela replied. “Then we don’t.”

A soft exhale sounded on the other end—relief, unmistakable.

“I won’t be teaching this week,” Francesca said. “Possibly next. I’ll let you know.”

“Take all the time you need,” Michaela said. “The piano will wait. I promise.”

“That’s very generous of you,” Francesca said softly.

“It’s honest.”

That earned a small, fragile laugh. “Of course it is.”

Before hanging up, Francesca added, “You don’t have to stop practicing.”

Michaela smiled, sad and fond all at once. “I wasn’t planning to.”

The call ended, leaving Michaela alone, the quiet pressing in again—but differently now.

Francesca hadn’t stepped away because she was overwhelmed. She had stepped back because grief doesn’t vanish—it just learns when to return.

Later that night, Michaela sat at the keyboard and played the simplest progression she knew. No acting. No pretending. Just sound, steady and present, filling the space where words couldn’t reach.

Somewhere across the city, she hoped Francesca could feel it—not as a lesson, not as an obligation.

Just as someone listening.

The studio smelled faintly of polished wood and old paper when Michaela arrived. Sunlight filtered through the tall windows, dust motes floating lazily. Francesca was already there, seated at the piano, sleeves rolled, hair tied back the way it always was—controlled, deliberate, untouchable.

She looked up and gave Michaela the slightest nod. “You came.”

“Of course,” Michaela said, setting her bag down. She hesitated for a fraction of a second too long, caught herself, and moved closer to the piano bench. “I practiced. Some. Definitely not enough to play like you.”

Francesca’s gaze lingered on her hand as she adjusted the music sheets. “Some is better than none.” Her voice was neutral, but there was a softness underneath, an acknowledgment Michaela felt like a secret gift.

Michaela sat. She could feel the space between them—comfortable yet taut. It made her pulse quicken.

Francesca lifted her hands over the keys. “We’ll start slowly today. I don’t want to overwhelm you after a week off.”

“I can handle it,” Michaela said, but her fingers itched nervously on her knees.

Francesca played a few notes, and Michaela realized she was holding her breath. Not because the notes were difficult—they weren’t—but because listening to Francesca play felt like eavesdropping on something private, something sacred.

“You listen well,” Francesca said quietly, almost to herself, as if noticing Michaela’s attention. Her dark eyes flicked up, and their gazes met. Michaela felt a sudden warmth, electric and brief, that she wasn’t expecting. She smiled, unsure if it was noticed.

“Better than I expect,” Michaela admitted. Her words came out softer than she intended.

Francesca’s lips twitched—a hint of a smile that vanished almost immediately. “You don’t get many chances to surprise me.”

Michaela’s heart did a little flip. Not because of the piano, she realized.

They moved through scales and simple pieces, the music both a shield and a bridge. Francesca corrected her wrist position, her fingers brushing Michaela’s more than necessary—or perhaps intentionally. Michaela felt the contact linger, her pulse humming in response.

After a long pause in the middle of a piece, Francesca lowered her hands and looked at Michaela. “Why do you want this so badly?”

Michaela tilted her head, unsure if she meant the piano or something else entirely. “Because I want to do it right,” she said finally. “And… because I don’t want to feel like I missed the chance to really learn from someone who knows.”

Francesca’s gaze softened, something unspoken flickering in her expression. “That’s very honest of you.”

“I try,” Michaela said, letting a small smile slip.

A moment of quiet passed, filled only by the faint hum of the city outside. Then Francesca spoke, her voice low, careful, and almost intimate: “Don’t let the lesson be all you take from this room.”

Michaela’s eyebrows rose slightly. “What else is there to take?”

Francesca’s eyes met hers steadily, and for a second, the professional barrier wavered. “I don’t know yet. But I suspect you’ll figure it out.”

Michaela felt her chest tighten in a way the piano alone hadn’t caused. The space between them seemed smaller, charged. She tried to focus on the keys, on the music, but part of her mind kept drifting to Francesca—the way she held herself, the quiet authority in her voice, the way she looked at her like she was the only person in the room who mattered.

Francesca tapped the first note of the next exercise, and Michaela’s fingers followed instinctively. The lesson had resumed, but something subtle had shifted. Something delicate had begun.

The studio was quiet except for the faint scratching of sheet music and the soft tick of a wall clock. Francesca slid the music sheets across the piano toward Michaela.

“This is it,” Francesca said. “The piece you’ll perform in the film. I chose a simplified arrangement for now—it focuses on the phrasing more than speed. We’ll build the technical details after you’re comfortable with the melody.”

“No more scales?” Michaela asked. 

Francesca shook her head, “No more.” 

Michaela picked up the top sheet, her fingers brushing the paper. “It looks… beautiful,” she said softly. “And fucking terrifying.”

Francesca’s lips twitched in the smallest smile. “Terrifying is optional. Beauty is not.”

She gestured for Michaela to sit. Michaela obeyed, feeling the familiar pull of nervous anticipation. Francesca positioned herself slightly behind and to the side, watching her posture, her wrist alignment, the angle of her shoulders.

“Relax your wrist here,” Francesca instructed, placing her hand lightly over Michaela’s. Michaela flinched just slightly, but the contact wasn’t harsh—Francesca’s touch was deliberate, grounding.

“Better,” Francesca murmured, letting her hand linger a fraction longer than necessary. Michaela felt a flush rise in her chest, and a quick glance up met Francesca’s steady gaze. There was an intensity there, measured and calm, but the air between them seemed to hum.

Michaela cleared her throat and started the first few bars. Her fingers stumbled over the keys at first, uneven, hesitant. Francesca’s hand hovered near hers, correcting, adjusting, guiding—not forcing, just steering.

“Good,” Francesca said after a few repetitions. “You’re listening now, not just reacting.”

Michaela’s chest swelled with pride. “It feels like the music is asking me something.”

“Exactly,” Francesca said softly, leaning just slightly closer to hear the phrasing. “You don’t play it for anyone else. You play it for the music.”

Her breath brushed Michaela’s hair. Michaela felt her pulse jump, hands stiffening on the keys. She wanted to say something, anything, but Francesca’s voice pulled her back to the piece.

They worked through the first section in silence, save for the notes of the piano. Michaela felt Francesca’s presence beside her as a constant, warm weight. Occasionally, their hands brushed when Francesca corrected a finger position, and Michaela’s stomach tightened. She was aware of every inch of proximity, every subtle movement.

“Stop,” Francesca said suddenly. Michaela froze, hands hovering over the keys.

“I want you to feel the measure here,” Francesca explained, placing her hand over Michaela’s—not correcting, just guiding the pulse of the rhythm. Michaela swallowed, noticing how close Francesca’s hand was, the warmth, the deliberate steadiness.

Their eyes met for a heartbeat, and the quiet was electric. Michaela wanted to say something—maybe everything—but instead she let the music speak, her fingers following Francesca’s subtle lead.

“Better,” Francesca whispered, her eyes darkening slightly as she withdrew her hand, but the memory of the touch lingered. “Now play it from the top. Slowly. And don’t think about me.”

Michaela exhaled, fingers finding the keys again, but her awareness of Francesca didn’t vanish. The music swelled around them, intimate and unspoken, and for the first time, Michaela realized that some lessons weren’t just about notes—they were about listening, feeling, and letting someone else in.

By the end of the hour, Michaela had learned the melody with surprising fluidity. But it wasn’t the music she remembered on the walk home—it was Francesca’s hand, her breath near her cheek, and the quiet, deliberate weight of being noticed.

Michaela stepped out of the studio, the city’s noise washing over her. She should have felt relieved that the lesson was over and progress was made, by her chest was tight, pulse humming from something far less tangible than the music. 

She walked slowly, retracing the route to her apartment, but she couldn’t stop replaying Francesca’s hand guiding hers, the way her voice had softened just fer her, the weight of being seen without words. 

Halfway down the block, she stopped outside a small café, the smell of coffee drifting out the door. She considered going in – somewhere to linger and untangle her thoughts – but instead leaned against the window and watched the street. People passed, unaware of the internal turmoil going on in her mind. 

She traced the line of Francesca’s profile in her mind, remembered the careful way she’d reclaimed space after guiding her fingers, remembered the quiet approval that had lingered in the air. 

Her phone buzzed. She thought it might be Colin with a last minute schedule change or to just be checking in with the shoot starting in three weeks. Ultimately, it was just a reminder she had set for herself: Practice Tonight 

Michaela smiled faintly. Not the lesson or the music but because of the way Francesca made her feel seen. 

Two weeks had passed since Francesca returned. Michaela had practiced every day – sometimes meticulously, sometimes poorly, but always with Francesca in her mind, guiding her from afar. Now, back in the studio, it was ad if nothing had changed between them, except everything had. 

Francesca was already at the piano when Michaela arrived, upright and calm, hands resting lightly on the keys. “You’re early,” she said, not as a reprimand, but almost as a statement of fact.

“I’ve been practicing,” Michaela admitted, setting her bag down and uncoiling her scard. “A lot.”

Francesca’s gaze softened in a way that made Michaela’s chest tighten. “Good,” she said. “Because today we’re moving into playing the full piece. The one for the film. I know we’ve been practicing it in parts but that does you no good when the climax of the film has you playing it straight through.” 

“Wait, you read the script,” Michaela asked, eyebrow raised. 

Francesca just smirked before continuing on, “How else was I supposed to know what level of piano proficiency the director was looking for. I wasn’t going to make you practice for a day and then throw you to the fucking wolves.” 

“How thoughtful of you, Fran,” Michaela said warmly. “Thank you, truly. For making sure I don’t make a right tit of myself.” 

“It’s the least I can do,” Francesca told her. “Now let’s see if all your practice has paid off.” 

Michaela swallowed, nerves prickling, but the tension was different this time. Less fear, more anticipation. She slid onto the bench besides Francesca, who adjusted her posture, a small almost brush of her fingers against Michaela’s wrist as she showed her staring hand positions. Michaela didn’t flinch. She was ready or at least, as ready she could be. 

“Start slow,” Francesca instructed. “Feel the phrasing. Don’t rush the notes. Let them breathe.” 

Michaela began. Her fingers stumbled at first, as always but Francesca’s presence beside her was steady, grounding. She corrected a finger, here, nudged a wrist there, as if every small touch was a tether. 

“You’re better than last week,” Francesca said quietly, leaning slightly closer to observe the subtle movements of her hands. Michaela felt it – the nearness, the heat of her body just besides her – but she didn’t pull away. She wanted to notice it. 

“Progress,” Michaela said, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Thanks to guidance.” 

Francesca’s lips twitched in a half-smile, her eyes darkening just enough to make Michaela’s pulse stutter. “I noticed you’ve been practicing more than you admit,” she murmured. “And I’ve been noticing how you listen now. Really listen. Not just to the music.” 

Michaela’s fingers froze mid-note, and she realized she had been holding in her breath. “I try,” she whispered, not trying to break the bubble that they were in. 

Francesca’s hand brushed Michaela’s again – this time more deliberately, over the back of her fingers as she adjusted a position. Michaela felt a jolt, a warm shock that had nothing to do with the piano. Francesca caught her eyes and held them for a long moment, silent, letting the space between them hum. 

“Good,” Francesca said finally, withdrawing her hand but the energy still lingered. “Now, again. From the top.” 

Michaela laughed softly, a little breathless, and began again, each note more confident that the last, more alive. Francesca’s presence was a quiet insistence besides her – not just as a teacher but as someone who had begun to occupy her attention in ways that the music alone could not explain. 

By the end of the lesson, Michaela could play through the entire piece with a semblance of fluency. Her fingers ached, but her chest felt full. Francesca stepped back, hands clasped behind her back, eyes scanning Michaela with that same careful, deliberate attention that made her feel seen like no one else had.

“You’ve earned this,” Francesca said softly, almost reverently. “Not just the piece but more importantly, how you play it.” 

Michaela’s lips parted, unsure what to say. The air between them had shifted again – less tension, more weight and possibility. She realized that part of what she had been learning wasn’t just the music and part of what Francesca was giving her wasn’t just instruction. 

It was permission to feel.

And Michaela had a sudden, starling clarity: in two weeks, when the cameras rolled, the music would only be part of her performance. The rest – the presence, emotion and the careful attention – would carry her through. All thanks to Francesca. 

Francesca glanced at her again, expression unreadable but soft. Michaela’s fingers itched to reach out, to touch, to bridge the space between them– but she stayed on the bench, letting the lesson linger beyond the notes. 

The studio was quiet except for the gentle hum of the heater and the soft clatter of Michaela’s fingers on the keys. She had played through the full piece twice, then again slowly, and now Francesca was watching her with the same calm intensity, her dark eyes tracking every subtle movement. 

“Relax your wrist here,” Francesca instructed, reaching over to adjust Michaela’s hand. Their fingers brushed, deliberately light, but the contact lingered longer than necessary. Michaela’s pulse surged; her breath caught. 

“Good,” Francesca said softly, but there was something in her voice – a note she couldn’t place – that made Michaela stop mid-bar. 

She straightened, turned fully towards Francesca, and the air between them felt suddenly, charged, taut, and alive. 

“I can’t… I can’t just–” Michaela started, hands trembling slightly. 

Francesca’s expression softened but she didn’t look away. “What is it?”

Michaela took a deep breath. She had rehearsed the this piano piece hundreds of times, felt every note, every phrase, every pause – but she had never practiced this. Never imagined this, and yet, the pull was undeniable. 

“Fuck it,” she said, almost to herself. Then louder, more certain, “I’m not thinking anymore.” 

Before Francesca could respond, Michaela leaned forward and pressed her lips to hers. 

The studio seemed to vanish. The faint smell of coffee from the small table, the polished wood of the piano, the papers scattered around – all disappeared into the press of Francesca’s body, the soft gasp that met hers. 

Francesca froze for a heartbeat, just long enough to make Michaela’s heart hammer in her chest. The she responded – careful, deliberate, letting the kiss deepen, her hands brushing Michaela’s arms in that slow, grounding way that had always unsettled her and thrilled her all at once. 

When they finally parted, faces inches apart, Michaela’s cheeks burned, but she couldn’t stop smiling. 

“You didn’t warn me you were going to do that,” Francesca murmured, breathless, voice low and steady. 

“No one warned me either,” Michaela said, a laugh breaking through the tension. “But I couldn’t stop myself.” 

Francesca moved back slightly, enough to let the piano between them regain its place, but the space was no longer empty. The lesson would continue, but something fundamental had changed. 

Michaela sat down at the bench, still flushed, and pressed her fingers to the keys. The notes flowed, richer now, every phrase imbued with the weight of what had just passed. Francesca leaned close, guiding her as before, but now their proximity held a new, unspoken promise. 

She walked home in a daze, the city lights blurring into streaks of gold and white. The cool night air brushed against her cheeks, but it barely registered. Her mind replayed the kiss – the feel of Francesca’s lips, the weight of her hands, the deliberate, careful way she had responded. 

Michaela unlocked her apartment and stepped inside, shutting the door behind her, but the world felt suspended, like nothing else had existed beyond the memory. 

Her bag hit the floor with a soft thump. Her coat followed, and then she was at her keyboard. Compelled, driven not to practice perfection, not to prepare for the shoot, but to release the tension coiled inside her. 

She pressed her fingers to the keys, lightly at first, then letting the music swell, each note carrying a little of what she hadn’t been able to say. Her heart still hammered from the kiss, but with the sound under her fingertips, it was no longer just hers – it became something shared, something tangible. 

She lauded mid-phrase and closed her eyes, imagining Francesca beside her. The memory wasn’t just to touch – it was the way she had listened to let Michaela fully exist in that moment.

Michaela exhaled slowly, letting herself smile, the corners of her lips twitching. Her chest ached with something that was part longing, part excitement, part something entirely new that she didn’t have words for yet. 

She finished playing her own runthrough in her apartment but her fingers lingered on the keys. As if just touching them, she could keep a tether to Francesca alive. She didn’t want to break it, didn’t want to let it fade into something unremarkable by the morning. 

Finally, she pulled her hands away and leaned back, head resting against the piano’s edge. She whispered to herself, softly, almost as a confession: “What the hell am I going to do when I see her tomorrow?” 

Michaela arrived at the studio earlier than usual. Her pulse thrummed with something she refused to name, but it wasn’t nerves – at least not the ones she felt when Colin told her about his sister. These were anticipation. 

Francesca was already there, perched at the piano with the same upright calm that Michaela had grown accustomed to over the course of their four weeks of lessons together. 

“Good morning,” Francesca said, her voice soft, steady, but threaded with something unspoken. 

“Morning,” Michaela replied, smiling despite herself. “Ready to torture me with the full piece again?” 

Francesca’s lips quirked into a small smile. “You mean guide you until you play perfectly?” 

“Same fucking thing,” Michaela said, sliding onto the bench beside her. 

They began. Michaela played the first few bars, careful, precise. Francesca’s hand hovered just above hers, adjusting a wrist here, a finger there. Each brush of skin sent a pulse through Michaela, warm and insistent. She forced herself to focus on the music, letting the notes anchor her.

“You’re listening differently now,” Francesca murmured, not stepping back this time. “Not just to the music, but to me.” 

Michaela swallowed, heart hammering. “I can’t help it.” 

Francesca’s gaze softened, but there was a sharp edge of something she wasn’t revealing. Michaela could feel it– the deliberate restraint, and the careful control that was needed, but also the invitation she acquired without words. 

In that moment, Michaela’s chest flooded with something fierce and dropped her hands from the keys. She leaned in and kissed Francesca once again. 

Francesca didn’t move away. Not at first. She elt the kiss deepen slowly, carefully, but then her hands found Michaela’s shoulders, grounding them both in the rhythm of the moment. There was nothing but the press of lips, the quiet warmth, the unsaid words vibrating between them. 

When they finally pulled back, faces inches apart, Francesca’s dark eyes were unreadable – but soft, and more intense than ever. 

“You’re reckless aren’t you,” she said quietly. 

“Maybe,” Michaela whispered, breathless. “Or maybe I just finally stopped pretending that I could wait.” 

A small smiled flickered across Francesca’s lips. “This is going to make lessons complicated.” 

Michaela laughed softly, leaning back, letting their foreheads touch from a brief, fragile second. “Complicated isn’t so bad,” she said. “Not when it feels like this.” 

Francesca exhaled, letting the words linger. She pulled Michaela back in for another chaste kiss before she pulled her hands back into her lap, urging her to continue on with the practice, reminding her that they only had close to two weeks before she had to film. 

Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, dust dancing lazily in the warm glow. Michaela and Francesca were at the piano, going over the full piece one last time before filming began the next morning. 

Michaela’s fingers moved with a confidence that hadn’t existed two weeks ago. 

“You’re ready,” Francesca said quietly, watching her play the final arpeggio with precision and fluidity. 

“I feel ready,” Michaela replied, breathless, eyes still on the keys. She glanced up at Francesca, a small, mischievous smirk tugging at her lips. “Ready to not have you correcting me for a week.” 

Francesca laughed softly, the sound low and intimate. “Don’t tempt me,” she warned, leaning just slightly closer. 

They played the piece through again, slow, deliberate, letting each note breath. When it was finally over, Michaela leaned back, hands still hovering above the keys. “I think I can do it tomorrow.” 

Francesca studied her for a long moment, expression unreadable but softening. “You will. Not just because you’ve practiced. Because you listen. And because you’ve let yourself feel it– everything that’s in the music and everything else.” 

Michaela smiled, heart still racing. “Thank you,” she said sincerely. 

A knock at the door interrupted the moment. Both women froze slightly, and then Colin stepped inside, bright and brisk as ever. 

“Morning, ladies,” he said, cheerful but observant, eyes flicking between them as if noting something that hadn’t been there before. “Ready for the big day?”

Michaela gave him a mock salute. “As ready as I’ll ever be.” 

Colin’s gaze lingered on Francesca. There was a weight there, a question unspoken. “And you, Fran, holding up?”

Francesca’s composure returned instantly, shoulders straightening, hands clasped in front of her. “Yes. All fine,” she said, voice steady. But Colin’s eyes softened– he knew enough to see through the polish. 

Colin gave her a small nod, then glanced at Michaela, who was busy gathering her sheet music. “Good, I’ll let you two finish up. Just make sure she doesn’t strangle you before you leave.”

Francesca’s mouth twitched in amusement, thought she did not respond.

Colin lingered a moment longer, studying her. “You did good with her, Fran,” he said quietly, almost as if the words were meant to be a comfort, a reassurance for her more than anyone else. 

Francesca’s eyes flicked to him, the faintest crack in her carefully constructed mask. “I hope so,” she murmured. 

Colin gave a small, knowing smile. “She’s going to make you miss this, isn’t she.” 

With that, he left, closing the door softly behind him. The sudden quiet left Francesa standing hear the piano, alone with Michaela. The air felt charged, thick with all the things unsaid. 

Michaela turned, eyes bright, fingers already itching to play again. Francesca inhaled slowly, letting the weight of the morning settle. 

Francesca’s morning began like any other. The kettle hissed, the sunlight spilling across her counter, a stack of sheet music, waiting to be organized for her conservatory performance and her students that needed new pieces. 

She’d long since stopped expecting Michaela to be there; filming had begun, and the city hemmed with its usual rhythms while Michaela lived in another world of cameras, lights, and lines. Francesca sent her a text message when the first official day of filming arrived for her simply stating: 

Francesca: Best of luck with filming. Don’t forget to breathe, I’ll be thinking of you. 

By evening, Colin arrived with Penelope and Elliot in toe – unannounced as he often did. Francesca had been clearing the table of her clutter and getting some tea ready when he leaned casually against the counter. 

“So,” Colin began, brushing dust off his jacket, “how’s our star pupil holding up without me hovering over her?” 

Francesca raised an eyebrow. “She’s filming,” she said evenly, setting down the tea she’d poured. 

Colin chuckled, sliding into the chair opposite her. “I know. I ran into her today on set, she’s different. More alive somehow if that’s even possible. The crew even noticed.” 

Francesca’s fingers tightened briefly around her cup. She didn’t ask how alive, didn’t push for information. Colin’s casual observation landed in her chest like a small weight she hadn’t expecting. 

“Alive,” he repeated, as if testing the word. “It’s the first time I’ve seen her play that piece in full and she’s not just performing it. She looks like you when you play, Fran.” 

Francesca swallowed, keeping her voice neutral. “She’s talented, Col,” she said softly, not trusting her voice to go any louder than a whisper. “You’ve seen first hand the things she’s capable of.” 

Colin grinned knowingly. “Talented, yes. But it’s more than that. She’s paying attention to herself in a way that’s rare. It’s a way that I’ve never seen before, and I’ve known her for almost ten years now. She mentioned you, by the way when I spoke to her.” 

Francesca froze for the briefest moment, then set her cup dow. “Oh?”

Colin’s expression was open, teasing but not cruel. “Yeah. She said you were a little intimidating in the best way. She told me that she’s never had anyone actually hear her before. Made me feel like a third wheel, to be honest.” 

Penelope laughed softly, nudging him as she caught the end of the conversation after putting Elliot down for a nap. “Colin, behave.” 

But Francesca didn’t answer right away. She sat quietly, letting the words settle on her ears. The echo of Michaela’s admiration, the trace of something more than professional respect. 

Finally, she said, almost to herself, “She listens.” 

Colin’s eyes flicked up, curious. “She does, doesn’t she?” 

Francesca nodded, a small, private smile tugging at her lips. She stood, gathering the dishes, but the weight of the comment lingered, threading through her routine like a quiet hum. 

“She has another three weeks of filming and then she’s coming back,” Colin said. 

Francesca paused, drying her hands on the tea towel, the words settling like a quiet pulse in her chest. “I know,” she said softly, as she avoided looking at him. 

Colin leaned back, watching her with that easy knowing expression that only older siblings could manage. “You’re going to be on edge the whole time, aren’t you?” 

Francesca shook her head, but the faintest smile betrayed her. “Not on edge, just aware.” 

“‘Aware’ is a polite word for whatever this is,” Colin said with a chuckle, picking at the rim of his tea cup. “I don’t think she realizes the effect that she’s having on you. Honestly, she probably has no clue.” 

Francesca’s fingers flexed, as if testing them against an invisible piano. “Maybe I don’t either,” she admitted, her voice lower than usual. 

Colin leaned forward slightly, eyes sharp but gentle. “Fran, you’re letting her in. I can see it. Don’t fool yourself by thinking it’s just about the piano or the lessons.” 

Francesca’s lips pressed together, and for a moment, she simply looked at the table, avoiding the weight of his eyes on her. “It’s not about fooling myself. It’s about timing. There’s a rhythm to things. I’ve learned that.” 

Colin raised an eyebrow. “Timing, huh? You make it sound like this is something you can simply fucking schedule.” 

Francesca smiled faintly. “Sometimes, even chaos has a fucking rhythm to it.” 

He studied her for a long moment, then shrugged. “Well, just don’t let her get away before you figure out what that rhythm is. I haven’t seen you like this since before the Highlands.” 

She stiffened slightly at the mention of the Highlands, but she didn’t look away. “That was a long time ago,” she said voice calm, measured. But underneath, the memory tugged at her – both the escape and the loneliness that it had brought. 

Colin leaned back in his chair, letting the silence hang for a beat before he added, “She’s different, Fran, I can tell. Not just the piano. Something about her gets under your skin whether you want it to or not.” 

Francesca’s hands folded in front of her, fingers brushing the edge of the table. “I’m aware,” she said, letting the words float without elaboration. 

Colin gave a low whistle. “Good. Just don’t waste your time pretending it’s all about the music. You’ve got five weeks to figure out if you’re actually going to let her in or you’ll be left listening to echoes until she comes back.” 

Francesca let out a slow breath, the faintest smirk tugging at her lips. “Noted,” she murmured. “And don’t assume that I don’t know how to fucking listen either.” 

Colin chuckled, shaking his head. “Fair enough. Some things don’t wait for rhythm, they hit when you least expect it.” 

Penelope cut in, noticing the dynamic between her husband and her sister-in-law unfold in real time. “For what it’s worth, Frannie, I think you should go for it. Embrace everything life has to offer. I’ve spoken to Michaela more times than Colin has, and before you get offended Colin, it’s because I wasn’t raised with the last name ‘Bridgerton.’ She misses you Frannie, don’t let her slip through the cracks.” 

Francesca’s eyes softened just slightly, a private acknowledgement of both him and what she was feeling. “Then I’ll be ready.” 

Colin watched her for a second longer, then nodded, satisfied for now. Penelope stood, already reaching for her coat, getting ready to retrieve Elliot from his nap.

“Good,” Penelope said lightly. “Because I refuse to watch another slow-burn situation where everyone pretends they’re fine while clearly not being fine.” 

Francesca huffed a quiet laugh. “Duly noted.” 

Once the door closed behind them, and the apartment settled back into stillness, the quiet felt different. Gone was the heaviness, what remained was expectance. Francesca moved on autopilot, rinsing cups, aligning them on the rack with unnecessary precision. When she was done, she stood there, hands braced on the counter, staring at nothing. 

Five weeks. 

She exhaled while reaching for her phone before she could overthink it. 

Francesca: How’s filming today? 

The typing bubble appeared almost instantly, as if the person on the other end of the phone was waiting. 

Michaela: Long. Loud. Very un-piano-like. But I survived my director’s form of torture for today. 

Francesca smiled despite herself. 

Francesca: I never doubted that. 

Michaela: Penelope texted me. Said she had a very interesting afternoon tea with you. I believe she used the term ‘mysterious.’ 

Francesca rolled her eyes, but her fingers hovered before replying. 

Francesca: Fuck Pen for being a journalist at heart. 

Three dots flickered on the screen. Stopped. Then flickered again. 

Michaela: Is it too early in the filming process to say that I miss you?

The words landed cleanly. No theatrics or performance. 

Francesca: Never. Because I miss you too. Come back safe, we’ll talk when you do.

Francesca noticed it first in the quiet– weeks later, when Michaela was back and the waiting was over.

Not the absence of music – she was used to that. Silence had always been her companion. The was the absence of purpose that felt unfamiliar now. No scheduled lessons. No metronome ticking away the minutes and the tempo. No reason to keep her hands folded carefully in her lap. 

Michaela was sprawled out on her sofa, boots kicked off, jacket abandoned over the armrest, scrolling mindlessly on her phone like she hadn’t just finished starring in a film that would be everywhere in a few months. 

“So,” Michaela said, glancing up. “What do people do when they are not preparing for something?”

Francesca blinked. “People?” 

Michaela grinned. “You. Me. Regular civilians.” 

Francesca considered this. “I usually organize my sheet music.” 

“Thrilling,” Michaela said. ‘Be still, my heart.” 

Francesca huffed, hen surprised herself by sitting down besides her instead of correcting her posture or suggesting something productive. Their shoulders brushed. It felt intentional. New. 

“Well,” Francesca said slowly, “you usually rehearse lines.” 

“I’m done with lines,” Michaela said. “For the first time in months.” She turned her head, studying Francesca with that same unnerving attentiveness. “And you’re not telling me what I’m doing wrong.” 

Francesca’s mouth curved. “You’ve earned a break.” 

Michaela tilted her head. “Is that what this is?” 

“A break,” Francesca repeated, but it sounded like a question even to her. 

They sat like that for a moment – too close to be accidental, too far apart to be settled. The city hummed outside the window. A car horn in the distance. Someone laughing on the street below. 

“I don’t know what we’re doing,” Michaela said finally. 

Francesca’s fingers curled slightly against her knee. “Neither do I.” 

“But,” Michaela added, softer now, “I know that I don’t want it to stop.” 

That did it. Francesca turned towards her fully, searching her face like she always did. 

“This,” Francesca said quietly, “is not something I do lightly.” 

Michaela nodded. “I know. I don’t want light.” 

The kiss this time was different. 

No urgency. No reckless edge. Just choice. 

Francesca’s hand came up to Michaela’s jaw, steady and warm, thumb brushing her cheek to confirm she was real. Michaela leaned into it instinctively, like she’d been waiting to do that for weeks. 

When they pulled apart, Michaela laughed under her breath. “Wow,” she said. “So this is what happens when we’re not hiding behind a fucking piano.” 

Francesca flashed a smile that was real and unguarded, her walls finally being lowered. “I think we were always heading there to be honest.” 

Michaela rested her forehead against hers. “Good,” she murmured. “Because I’d like to take you on an actual date. One where you’re not correcting my wrists.” 

Francesca closed her eyes briefly, savoring the normalcy of the thought. “I think I’d like that too.” 

It started small. 

Their first date wasn’t announced as such. Francesca insisted on calling it ‘dinner,’ which Michaela respected only in the loosest sense of the word. They ate at a quiet restaurant Francesca liked because no one recognized Michaela there and the lighting was forgiving. Michaela talked too much. Francesca listened, smiling into her win glass like she was memorizing the sound of her voice. 

Michaela walked her home and didn’t try to come in. Francesca noticed. She liked that. 

The second date involved a museum Francesca had never been to, despite living in the city most of her life. Michaela read placard out loud in fake accents until Francesca laughed in a way that startled them both. The held hands without acknowledging it, fingers laced together like it had always been that way. 

Somewhere along the way, Francesca started staying over. 

Not officially. Not at first. Just late nights that turned into mornings. Toothbrushes appeared. Michaela learned how Francesca took her tea. Francesca learned which nights Michaela needed silence instead of reassurance. 

They didn’t talk about what they were yet, they didn’t need to. 

Six weeks in, Michaela came home buzzing, phone still in hand, cheeks flushed from excitement. 

“I just got a wonderful phone call from your brother,” Michaela said after a quick kiss on the lips. 

Francesca looked at her with an eyebrow raised, “Is Pen pregnant again?” 

“No, I wish,” Michaela said off-handedly. “We’d be great godparents. Think about it, Aunties Frannie and Mich. We’d spoil that child rotten.” 

Francesca lightly smacked her shoulder, “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Mich. Tell me what he said.” 

“He said that the premiere date is set for our piano movie,” Michaela announced, dropping onto the sofa besides Francesca. “Six months from now.” 

Francesca hummed, calm as ever. “What do you mean ‘our’ movie?” 

“Don’t play stupid, Fran,” Michaela quipped out. “This movie is just as much yours as it is mine. I wouldn’t be able to be sitting her today if it wasn’t because you took a chance on me all those months ago.” 

Francesca opened her mouth to argue, then closed it again as if realizing the truth in what Michaela was saying. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was charged. 

“I know,” Michaela said, then hesitated. The grin that followed was more deliberate. “I was wondering if you’d come. With me?” 

Francesca looked up, surprised. “As–?” 

“My guest,” Michaela said immediately. Then, gentler. “And because you’re my girlfriend. If you want to be.” 

The word settled between them, warm, solid, undeniable. 

Francesca didn’t answer right away.

Not because she didn’t know how – but because she knew that certain moments deserved to be handled carefully. 

She set her mug down on the coffee table, turning fully towards Michaela now, studying her face the way she always did when something mattered. Michaela held still under the attention, uncharacteristically quiet, waiting. 

“My girlfriend,” Francesca repeated softly, testing the shape of it in her mouth. Not tentative. Thoughtful. 

Michaela nodded once. “I don’t want to assume. But I also don’t want to pretend that this is something smaller than it is.” 

That did it. 

Francesca smiled and reached out, brushing her thumb along Michaela’s jaw. “I want to be,” she said. “Very much so.” 

Michaela’s breath left her in a rush. “Yeah?”

“Yes,” Francesca said firmly, leaning in until their foreheads touched. “And for the record, we would be exceptional aunties.” 

Michaela laughed, the sound bright and relieved, and kissed her without hesitation. It wasn’t urgent or clumsy, it was surety. Something finally clicking into place. 

When they pulled back, Michaela rester her head on Francesa’s shoulder. “So. Six months.” 

Francesca’s arm slid easily around her. “Plenty of time.” 

“For what?” Michaela asked. 

Francesca smiled into her hair. “For us to be us. Before the world gets any opinions.” 

Michaela hummed, content. “I like that plan.” 

Paparazzi caught Michaela going and coming from Francesca’s studio, then her apartment, then–inevitably–both in the same day. Headlines stayed vague, speculative, full of question marks and carefully blurred photos. Michaela learned to laugh them off as she began to do press. Francesca learned which scarf hid her face best. 

Colin, unhelpfully, started referring to Francesca as we instead of you with explanation, as if it had always been that way. 

Penelope was less subtle. A text appeared on Francesca’s phone one afternoon: 

Penelope: I knew it. Come over we have lots to discuss.

Francesca showed the screen to Michaela, who groaned and dropped her head back against the sofa. “Your sister-in-law is terrifying,” she said. 

Francesca smiled, a little smug. “You’ll survive.” 

They traveled when they could. Quiet weekends away. Shared routines and silences. Francesca opened up to her about her past with John and whisked her away to the Highlands to fully show her how much John meant to her. Michaela learned how to exist in life and in a space where she didn’t have to be constantly performing to an audience. 

The six months passed faster than either of them expected. 

And on the night of the premiere, they walked the carpet side by side, hands brushing but not clasped together. Francesca was perfectly composed for doing it for the first time. Michaela remained radiant and contained. Questions were asked and names were shouted. Michaela smiled and waved and deflected with practiced ease. 

Inside the theater, the lights dimmed, all with a focus on Michaela who was standing in front of the screen. Her heart pounding with certainty. 

“I was asked to say a few words before our premiere tonight,” she began, smiling at the audience. “This film is about love–romantic love yes, but also the quieter kings. The kind that asks you to stay when something is hard. The kind that teaches you patience. Listening.” 

A soft ripple of laughter moved through the crowd. 

“When I signed on for this project a little less than a year ago, I though the piano was just another technical hurdle. I did yell at my manager for that, don’t worry. The piano was something I had to learn well enough to convince you all I knew what I was doing.” She paused, breath steadying. “I was wrong. So completely wrong.” 

Her gaze shifted, just slightly, finding Francesca in the darkened rows. 

“The piano taught me how to slow down. How to be bad at something and to not disappear because of it. The first couple of lessons were rough, and as much as you all could tell me that it couldn’t have been that bad, the video on my phone tells me otherwise. The piano taught me that discipline doesn’t have to mean punishment, and that care can be quiet and exacting and still be generous.” 

“And in learning it,” Michaela continued, voice warm and sure, “I was given the greatest gift of my life.” 

She didn’t rush the moment. Didn’t soften it. Instead of cowering back into the shadows, she held her head high and announced, “Frannie, this is for you.” 

A collective intake of breath fell upon the theater. Then real applause started to swell.

Francesca didn’t shrink under the pressure of Michaela’s speech. She sat tall in the audience, composed as ever. Her eyes remained fixed on Michaela on the front of the room with an expression of being open and unguarded that no one else in that room was meant to see. 

Michaela smiled then, not for the cameras capturing the premiere, not for the fans who were chosen to attend, but for her. 

“Thank you all for being here,” she finished. “I hope you enjoy the film as much as I enjoyed creating it for you.”

As Michaela stepped off the stage, the lights fully dimmed and the screen flickered to life. In the solace of the dark, Francesca reached for her hand at last, fingers threading together with calm certainty. 

Michaela squeezed back and gave her a kiss. 

“Thank you, Frannie,” Michaela whispered. “Thank you for never giving up on me.” 

Francesca turned towards her in the dark, their foreheads brushing, her voice barely a breath. “You never gave up on yourself,” she said. “I just stayed long enough for you to see it too.” 

The opening notes of the score swelled through the theater, familiar now but different. It was no longer a challenge nor a test. Michaela leaned back in her seat with Francesca’s hand warm and steady in hers as she finally let herself watch her performance. 

Onscreen, the piano scene unfolded. Michaela saw the work, the discipline, the hours that once had felt impossible. What she felt instead was gratitude. 

Francesca squeezed her fingers at a moment only the recognized, a small acknowledgement shared in the dark. Michaela smiled, eyes still on the screen.