Messier 27

A Fancy-Ass Restaurant, Somewhere With Dim Lighting and Pricey Silverware

Gianna Rosalita DeLuca's got a death grip on her steak knife, carving through a hunk of t-bone like it's her last meal. The woman eats like she had to fight off six older brothers at the dinner table, like someone's going to snatch the plate out from under her if she takes too long. It's all muscle memory at this point.

Bridgette Elise Jakubowicz, Ph.D. (Astrophysics and Mathematics), across from her, is all poise and precision. She's pecking at her Caesar salad, nudging croutons with her fork like she's running a goddamn experiment on them.

"You know," Bridgette says, casual as anything, "Caesar salad isn't just Italian. It's kind of Mexican, too."

Gianna pauses, chewing. She flicks a glance up at Bridgette, then does a quick scan of the room--shoulders shifting, checking for some unseen threat. Like she expects a wolf to come sprinting across the restaurant and yank her plate away.

Bridgette watches her do it, completely baffled. Does she think someone's coming for the steak?

"Yeah?" Gianna finally responds, the word half-muffled around a bite.

Bridgette sighs, swirling a piece of romaine through the dressing before explaining. "It was invented in Tijuana, by an Italian guy. Caesar Cardini. Ran out of ingredients on the Fourth of July rush, threw together what he had, and voilà--history."

Gianna considers this, nodding slowly like she's filing it away in some mysterious brain compartment labeled 'Useless Shit Bridgette Says.' She swallows, sets her knife down with a clank, and finally locks eyes with Bridgette properly.

"So what you're telling me," she says, voice low and mock-serious, "is that I'm eatin' good old-fashioned American beef, and you're over there pickin' at the world's bougiest border dispute?"

Bridgette stares at her, fork hovering mid-air.

God, she's in love with this absolute idiot.

"Yes," she mutters, stabbing at her salad.

Gianna grins--big and messy, pink lips slick with steak juice.

"Good. Just checkin'."

Gianna waits, gives it a few beats. No one lunges for her steak mid-conversation. No hyenas appeared to contest her kill. The coast is clear.

She relaxes, just a little--shoulders easing down, knife still in hand but no longer wielded like a weapon.

She picks up her Black Cherry Wishniak, takes a slow sip, rolling the flavor over her tongue before asking, "Whatcha got this weekend, Doc?"

Bridgette sets her fork down, crossing one elegant ankle over the other beneath the table. This, she thinks, is the moment. She straightens, pushing a strand of light brown hair behind her ear before delivering her answer with the kind of composed enthusiasm only an astrophysicist could muster.

"I've got a lecture downtown. Hoping to fascinate some city kids with active galactic nuclei and compact binaries."

She says it smooth, like she thinks this might impress Gianna. Like maybe she's expecting her to blink in awe, to lean in, captivated, asking her to explain more about black holes and the violent chaos of the universe.

Instead--

Gianna tilts her head, gives her an obvious once-over before she grins, lazy and sharp.

"You got pretty hands, Doc."

Bridgette freezes.

She has spent years in academia. Years sharpening her mind, refining her rhetoric, navigating complex theories with razor precision. None of that prepared her for Gianna fucking DeLuca.

"That's--" She stops, visibly recalculating. "That's not related to what I just said."

"Nah," Gianna agrees, taking another sip of Wishniak, tongue flicking out to catch a stray drop. "Just somethin' I noticed."

Bridgette exhales, long and slow, pressing her lips together.

Gianna is impossible.

And God, she's in love with her.

The drive back is smooth, the city lights washing over them in flickering streaks of yellow and red. Gianna's full, satisfied, one hand lazily resting on her stomach as she watches the skyline blur past. Bridgette, ever the controlled driver, maneuvers them through the streets with the same careful precision she applies to everything--except, perhaps, her taste in women.

Bridgette's place is a fucking marvel.

Gianna steps inside and, like always, it hits her--that sharp contrast between who she is and where she is. The floors? Marble. The fixtures? All that no-touch, wave-your-hand-like-a-goddamn-Jedi shit. There's a rainfall shower in the bathroom, like she's about to step into a high-end spa instead of some overpriced row home in South Philly.

She whistles low, running a calloused hand over a sleek countertop, feeling deliciously out of place. How the fuck did I end up here? she wonders, and how do I keep ending up here?

From the bathroom, Bridgette's voice carries, smooth and a little too knowing.

"You wanna get a shower?"

Gianna grins, dragging a hand through her hair, considering the offer like there's a chance in hell she'll say no.

She leans against the doorway, arms crossed, watching Bridgette move--already pulling her earrings off, slipping off that sleek blazer like she's peeling away civilization itself.

Gianna's never really stopped looking at Bridgette.

Even when they're in a room full of people, even when the world is moving too fast, even when she's supposed to be focused on something else--her eyes always find their way back to the Doc.

But this?

This is different.

Now, Bridgette stands by the sink, completely bare, the overhead light casting shadows along the smooth planes of her body.

The bathroom is warm, humid, the steam from the shower already curling around the edges of the mirror, blurring the world outside this room.

But Bridgette?

Bridgette sees everything.

She watches as Gianna reaches behind her back, fingers working at the clasp of her bra, a motion so practiced, so effortless, it barely registers--until it slides down her arms and falls away.

And then?

Then Gianna is standing there, half-naked, bare from the waist up, all golden skin and tight muscle and the kind of body that wasn't sculpted in a gym, but earned through sheer, reckless existence.

Bridgette's breath catches, sticks, lingers somewhere between her ribs.

She doesn't mean to stare.

But fuck--

Gianna's breasts are full, high, flushed from the heat, nipples already tight from the air. Her collarbones are etched in shadow, the slope of her shoulders powerful, capable, built for bracing, for taking, for holding someone in place.

Bridgette lets her eyes drift lower--tracing the hard lines of her stomach, the faint scars on her ribs, the slight indent of muscle leading down, down--

She swallows.

Her hands twitch, aching to touch, to map this body with fingers and tongue, to learn every contour, every dip and rise, like it's a puzzle only she is meant to solve.

Gianna shifts, watching her, a half-smirk tugging at her lips.

Gianna, still half-dressed, pauses.

Her mouth goes dry.

Her eyes start at Bridgette's shoulders, sharp but elegant, dipping into delicate collarbones that roll gently into her chest.

Small breasts, perfect fucking shape, tipped with dusky nipples already tightening slightly in the cool air.

Gianna's fingers twitch. She wants to touch, cup, drag her thumbs over them, feel how soft she knows they'll be against her palms.

But she doesn't--not yet.

Her gaze keeps traveling, lower, slower, tracing the subtle muscle lines of Bridgette's toned stomach.

Not abs in the way Gianna's used to--not cut, not sculpted--but tight, defined, the kind of strength that comes from endurance, from distance running, from a body that was made to go the long haul.

She follows the curve of her waist, soft but firm, into the slope of her hips.

Bridgette isn't built like the women Gianna used to dream about. No exaggerated curves, no full hips or thick thighs--she's lean, honed, efficient.

But fuck--

There's something devastating about it. About the long lines of her legs, the careful power in them, the way her calves flex just slightly as she shifts her weight.

Gianna sucks in a slow breath, heat curling in her gut as her eyes finally wander back up.

Holding the door open, Bridgette's watching her.

Of course she is.

"Are you gonna stare all night," Bridgette murmurs, voice warm, teasing, knowing, "or are you gonna get in?"

Gianna grins, slow, hungry.

"Doc," she says, stepping forward, letting her hands find that runner's waist, that smooth, tight stomach, those small, perfect fucking tits. "I think I need another minute."

The water cascades down in warm, steady streams, the sound a soft roar around them. Gianna tilts her head back, letting it drench her hair, running slick over her shoulders, her arms, down the curve of her stomach. She exhales slow, feeling the heat seep into her muscles, washing away the evening, the city, the steak grease still clinging to her skin.

Bridgette steps in after her, elegant, methodical, closing the glass door behind her. She watches Gianna through the steam, eyes tracing over her like she's studying an equation that refuses to balance.

Her hands move first. A slick slide over Gianna's shoulders, fingertips pressing into muscle, testing tension, finding release.

Gianna hums, leaning into the touch, letting Bridgette steer her, turn her, until her bare back meets cold marble.

She sucks in a breath at the contrast--heat from the water, chill from the stone, the warmth of Bridgette pressing in against her.

Bridgette's hands are on her waist, fingertips pressing just enough to claim but not enough to hold her still.

Then she dips lower.

Her mouth finds Gianna's throat first, then her collarbone, then the soft swell of a breast.

And then?

Then she's mad for her.

Bridgette sucks at her tits, mouth hot, tongue insistent, slicking over the sensitive peaks before she bites down just enough to make Gianna groan. Her hands are everywhere, sliding over wet skin, exploring like it's the first time, like she's learning a new shape of the universe.

Gianna gasps, shifts, fingers threading into Bridgette's dripping hair, pulling her in, urging her closer, deeper, rougher.

A thigh slots between hers. A slick, teasing press.

And then--

Fingers, slipping lower.

"Doc--" Gianna breathes, almost warning, almost desperate.

Bridgette doesn't answer with words.

She answers with her hands.

The universe is Gianna--her soft, wet heat, the curve of her body against the marble, the way she arches when Bridgette's fingers slip lower, deeper, seeking the secrets of creation itself.

The rainfall shower pounds down, rivulets streaming between them, over them, slicking their skin. Every touch, every slide, every press of mouth to flesh feels like discovery. Like the moment a telescope first locks onto something vast and unknowable.

Bridgette traces constellations with her tongue--one nipple, then the other, down Gianna's ribs, over the faint lines of old scars, mapping the terrain of her body like a cosmic cartographer.

Gianna's breath stutters, her hands gripping slick shoulders, fingers pressing into muscle and bone, grounding herself even as she threatens to break apart.

"Fuck, Doc--"

Bridgette's fingers curl inside her, precise, exploratory, like she's calculating the exact formula for collapse. Like she's solving for infinity, for entropy, for the force that makes the universe hold together.

Gianna isn't holding together.

She's coming apart, writhing against the marble, her body yielding and demanding all at once, her hips rolling to chase the pressure, the friction, the heat.

Bridgette doesn't stop.

She presses deeper, seeking, finding, reveling. A scientist in love with her research. A woman in love with the way Gianna falls apart.

The stars flicker behind Gianna's eyes.

Her nails scrape down Bridgette's back.

She tenses--gasps--shudders--

And then she's gone--pulled into orbit, into singularity, into some raw, cosmic truth she can't name but feels down to her fucking bones.

The universe expands, contracts, explodes.

And Bridgette holds her through the supernova.

The sprint to the bedroom is breathless, messy, perfect.

Wet hair, damp skin, tangled towels half-forgotten in the rush. Gianna's laughing as she tackles Bridgette onto the bed, mouth hungry, eager, insatiable.

She learns fast.

Bridgette gasps, fingers tangling in the dark, unruly waves above her, back arching, thighs spreading as Gianna devours her--tongue and fingers working with an almost terrifying precision, like she's solving for X, like she's tracking celestial bodies and predicting their inevitable collisions.

Bridgette shatters once.

Then again.

The universe contracts, gasping in the aftershocks, body trembling beneath the relentless mouth pulling her apart and putting her back together.

And then--

Albert.

Bridgette grins, chest still rising and falling, as she reaches into the nightstand and pulls him out.

Seven inches of latex and leather, dark and gleaming in the dim bedroom light.

Gianna watches, eyes flashing with every bit of hunger still left in her, chest still heaving, lips slick, chin glistening with the evidence of her dedication.

"You named it?" Gianna breathes, gaze locked on the buckle, the slow way Bridgette fits it around her waist, adjusting the straps.

Bridgette smirks. "Albert Einstein revolutionized physics," she says smoothly, securing the final strap. "This revolutionizes pussy."

Gianna laughs, breathless, but her eyes are fixed on the way Bridgette settles between her thighs.

Then?

Then there's no more laughing.

Bridgette takes her, slow at first, deep, deliberate. Watching. Feeling. Driving into her like she's following some grand equation, adjusting for mass and velocity, perfecting the rhythm.

The bed shakes, headboard knocking once, twice, then continuously as the pace builds--

Bridgette's modest tits bouncing in time to Gianna's far more impressive pair, skin slapping, gasping, moans tangling together in the dark.

The emotion runs hotter, deeper than before.

Gianna's nails dig into Bridgette's back, pulling, demanding, gasping curses between every sharp inhale.

Bridgette grits her teeth, thrusts harder, faster, deeper.

She wants her to feel it. Wants to leave a mark. Wants to ruin her for anyone else.

And then--climax, blinding, staggering, both of them chasing it, hitting it together.

Gianna throws her head back, cries out, thighs trembling, tightening around Bridgette's waist.

Bridgette's own body seizes, tenses, shuddering through a secondhand, perfectly-synced aftershock that nearly knocks the breath out of her.

And then--stillness.

Just the sound of their breathing, of hearts hammering in tandem, sweat cooling, limbs tangled.

And Bridgette feels it. Deep in her chest.

Realization.

The contrast between one moment and the next. Between fucking and something else. Between having fun and falling in love. She realizes just how deep this goes.

And fuck, she's in trouble.

The air still thick with heat, the scent of sweat and sex lingering between them. Sheets twisted. Skin cooling, still tingling. Bridgette's pulse is slowing, but she's still wrecked, still trying to catch up to what just happened--to Gianna, to this, to the way her entire world tilts whenever Gianna touches her.

The projector hums softly, throwing stars, nebulae, galaxies across the ceiling.

A nebula swirls over Gianna's shoulder, shifting as she rolls, propping herself up on one elbow. The light makes her unreal, like something conjured, something divine.

Bridgette inhales, shakily. "Will you--"

Gianna's lips are swollen, her breath still uneven, and she doesn't even let her finish. "Marry you?"

She doesn't mean to interrupt. It just pours out of her, unfiltered, like she was expecting it. Like it was always coming, always going to happen, no matter what. She says it so casually, so completely, that it almost knocks the air out of Bridgette's lungs.

Bridgette blinks, staring up at Messier 27. "Yes?" she says, like she just got hit by a meteor.

Gianna grins, teeth catching the glow of a distant star flickering across her face.

"Then yeah. Duh."

Bridgette should be annoyed that Gianna stole the moment, that she ruined the setup, that she was--as always--just a little too fast, a little too sure. But that's just how it was always going to go.

Bridgette sighs, sinking deeper into the mattress, into her.

"You're impossible." Gianna grins wider, kisses her slow and deep, like she's sealing it in.

"Nah, babe. I'm yours."