Disclaimer: I own nothing.

AN: This ff was writing for the Bridgerton Gardens' Six Month Anniversary Exchange Extravaganza. Here we go for the second OS!

Beta love to the great p0linl0vePA & HannahPelham for her helpful input, alpha love to Cinnamonbun24 & Coeurs_de_Coeurs for cheering me on.💜

The quote is by Lawrence Block. Some trigger warnings in this specific ff are Mentioned Canonical Character Death, Terminal Illness, Divorce, Fertility Issues, Grief/Mourning, Francesca/John and endgame Francesca/Michael.

See you tomorrow, and as usual, happy reading!❤️

so much love hidden beneath this skin

"Serendipity. Look for something, find something else, and realize that what you've found is more suited to your needs than what you thought you were looking for."

~for JGoose13,

I am sorry about the heartache, but I did have fun writing them,

even if Michael was waaay too chatty 💜

She dropped the tabloid sheets on the bed with a groan.

"Honestly!"

Michael smiled at her antics. "Are you that surprised?"

"Why can't they ever leave good enough alone?"

He had a few answers to that, but she didn't seem ready to listen to him in anyway; that she was a talented, pretty, popular figure who had made millions dream, cry and laugh with her. That any news of her seclusive-self made newspapers sell quite nicely, and that nearly all her fans and even those who hadn't already fallent love with her, supported her during this tough time.

Of course, it would be easier if they left her the hell alone, but be it the well-meaning audience, or the not-so-well-meaning one ― both of them thought that hovering over Francesca was helpful. That she needed their existence, that it somehow helped.

Spoiler alert: it didn't.

Especially for a woman like her, who valued her privacy and solitude.

Michael bit back a derisive snort. If he had been surprised, when Francesca had reached out, three months ago, it didn't last long. Michael should have known that Francesca deemed herself as part of the family, despite the divorce. Too bad everyone else thought her business was also their business. Especially since she was being quite gracious about it all ― the divorce, his uncle's passing, everything. Both the fans and the females in his family gushed over her, how precious she was, how stupid John had been for asking for a divorce ― even if Michael was pretty sure it had been Francesca's decision.

Michael didn't even remember, wasn't sure he had ever known ― except that he had been given with the messenger task.

He remembered the first time, how sweet she had been, explaining that she couldn't, she wouldn't leave with herself, if she didn't reach out to help them. To help John. And helped she had. Despite the busy planning, the shootings, the controversies.

She really was an angel. Albeit, a furious one right now.

"They never get it right!" She finished her rant, her raised fist to the sky.

He served some tea, a smirk tugging the corner of his mouth. "And yet you follow that other gossiper?" He arched a brow at her invasive stare. "What? Isn't it ironic?"

"I don't expect you to understand," she said with an airy gesture as she sat down, removing her back shades. From anyone else, it would have seemed oh so vain, but with her sweet smile, that tiny sparkle in her eyes? It was just mocking enough to be a genuine joke.

"I really don't," Michael admitted with a short laugh. He was watching her, again. He didn't seem to be able to help himself, he always ended up watching her. But who wouldn't? Not only was she truly beautiful, she was also so graceful that every of her movements waved through air like it was part of it.

Francesca swallowed with eagerness her sip, before saying daintily, "She gets it right." A small smile crossed her features. "And you know women, we do like to be talked about."

They both shared a snort at that. If Michael knew something, it was definitely women; he may not know about them, understand them, but he loved them all the same – the giddy ones, the smart ones, the nice ones. He just loved Francesca the best, but better not to dwell on that.

"Thanks for meeting with me today, Michael," she finally said as she put down her cup. "I really appreciate it."

He nodded slowly. Back to business, it seemed. He couldn't fault her, she was busy – and taking some very consequential time from her schedule to meet with him. He wasn't even sure she had seen her family yet.

She dabbed at her lips, looking preoccupied. "I would have come in person, if I could but we fly early tomorrow, and well…"

"You are certainly not held to any accountably."

Her jaw opened with stunned indignation.

"He's my husband!"

A terse silence fell upon them at her use of the present tense. It wasn't the first time she had said similar words, but she had never been so blunt. Looking crestfallen, Francesca's blue eyes stared down, avoiding his dark gaze.

"He was your husband," finally agreed Michael. "As I'm really not one to settle down, I can't say I understand."

The small joke eased the tension, as Michael was nothing if not devoted to his bachelor ways.

Giving him a grateful glance, she pushed the package she had fished from her bag towards him. "It has worked miracles in Japan, apparently."

"I hope it helps him."

Because nothing else seemed to, the doctors were not optimistic and neither was Michael. Still, Francesca drowned them in every last remedy she could find anywhere she found herself to shot. Her desperation was horrendous, yet her will was astounding.

"Thank you, Michael."

He merely shrugged. "I live here, it's no big deal to meet you when you drop by for a whirlwind visit."

As if she was running away, running from home. Running just as he had done so, on the eve of her honeymoon.

"I assure you, it's the latest rage. Everyone speaks about the divine, savoury little cakes and pastries this bakery offers. The owner, who apparently created all the original receipts, was offered a position in France. In Paree."

Francesca's amused look turned impish. "I didn't know you had such a sweet tooth."

A small laugh in his throat, Michael smiled back at her. "It's actually your sister who gave me the address, said I would not regret it."

That got her attention. "Which sister? Surely not Hyacinth!" It would make sense for Eloise to promote her best friend ― Francesca had no trouble believing that. Except that Eloise was not living anywhere close to London anymore.

To everyone's surprise, after being an activist for the better part of her youth, Eloise had decided that it didn't suit her anymore, that this wasn't the life she wanted for herself. She was adamant about a change of air, and had strolled across the country to meet her online pen pal, a single father of two who studied and worked with plants. And she had settled.

Eloise, who couldn't stand still for more than an hour, had never seemed so content, almost too tamed. Francesca had first been waiting for the other shoe to drop and for Eloise to run back screaming. But truth be told, her sister was genuinely happy, to their mother's everlasting joy. And since marriage had been mentioned, Violet Bridgerton had fled to her daughter's aid ― or nightmare, judging by Eloise's random texts as she had to choose, or rather agree, on specific colours for napkins.

Yet all that didn't explain what Hyacinth was up to. Francesca was not naive enough to think that left with no supervision except Anthony and Kate, her younger sister wouldn't be up to some mischief.

And speaking of the devil, they were spotted by Hyacinth right as they stepped over the threshold.

"Oh Michael… And Francesca," her voice dropped, a contrite look passing over her features. It had been so quick, it may have fooled Michael, but definitely not Francesca. She frowned at her sister, who was lounging at a table next to the cashier, a young man vaguely familiar seated in front of her.

"Hello Hyacinth. And…" Wasn't this boy Gregory's age ― was he one of his friends or one of her sister's friends?

"Gareth," he supplied with a nonchalant voice. He was looking at Michael, addressing him up and down, which seemed to offend Hyacinth who kept shooting annoyed looks at Penelope, smiling softly from behind her counter.

Pretending to bend so that she could kiss her sister, Francesca whispered. "What are you both doing here? And apparently waiting for Michael?"

A cunning smile spread on Hyacinth's mouth as she weighted options. "I'm playing matchmaker, sister. Do you want me to make you a match? You're oldest, after all, I could catch you a catch."

Across from them, Gareth suddenly coughed, obviously to cover his guffaws.

Francesca darted a stern glance on them. "I'll find a match of my own."

Amused by what he could only supposed were perfectly normal sisterly antics, Michael turned to Penelope's smiling figure from across the counter. "Hey there Pen! What yummy thing can you recommend today?"

"Wait," bolted Hyacinth, her phone in her hand. "I want to help advise you today!"

Sitting down, Francesca removed her hat, her long hair cascading down her back. The boy gave her a humorous look. "Are you going to grill me?"

"Do I have to?"

He shook his head, watching Hyacinth's bouncy head taking a picture of an appetizing pastry. "You don't. I only have eyes for her. Not that she knows."

Her heart softened at his genuine voice ― she remembered young love. She had met, fallen in love, and married John pretty young. And she lost him pretty young, too. She sighed at the depressing thought. "Aren't you Gregory's friend?"

"Classmate," came the clipped answer. "We were in the same racing team."

She followed his eyes to see him glare at Hyacinth as she took yet another picture, with Michael this time. How odd. But the bakery was empty save for them, no one would think anything about a teenage girl being overfriendly with two adults.

"Does he know?"

This time, his brows raised ludicrously high. "Of course not. He would not let me anywhere near her if he did."

"Maybe that's precisely why he lets you," said Francesca jauntily.

"I really don't think so, only the sisters got the artistic vibe in your family…"

Francesca laughed at his jab, clearly entertained. "You're a fun one, I hope you two handle whatever it is you're up to."

He nodded dispassionately, both of them resuming watching Penelope laughing at Hyacinth and Michael's jokes. Francesca suddenly wondered how close they were, given how friendly they all appeared to be.

She had remained close to Michael, even after John's death. They didn't meet so often anymore, they didn't need to, now that it wasn't a matter of life or death, still their friendship has blossomed in a way she hadn't expected with her late husband's cousin. The little texts and the cute pics they sent back and forth were providing a nice companionship after a long hardworking day, yet Francesca had never wondered about his actual life, his actual friends, his possible love interests…

A strange awareness arose in her. Michael didn't do relationships, was never one for more than one-night-stands… But people changed. Life goals changed. She was the perfect poster child to that. Was this what had happened while she was busy shooting around the world? Had she been missed out, stuck in limbo while everyone else's life was still moving?

"He's a fine man, I wouldn't think any less of you if you were dating, you know. That is, if my opinion was of any importance. And it really isn't."

Francesca's clouded look turned to the younger boy yet again. "What's your name again?"

"St. Clair. Gareth St. Clair."

"Anne Danbury's son?" Gosh, that explained why the boy was so familiar, his manners were strangely close to hers.

His mother had been a rising star before her marriage. She had unfortunately decided shortly after it to take a hiatus ― to work on her unhappy marriage had speculated the tabloids, but to be with her sons, she had always said, to spend a few years away from the public before going back on stage. She had died in a terrible accident when they were small.

The boy nodded tersely. No wonder he was not impressed by her. Nor her beauty. His mom had been her childhood icon, one of the many that had influenced her own path. How her story had given her solace on rainy, gloomy days, when it must have been cause for great sorrow. Oh, the irony. The cruel irony gutted her like a sharp pain.

She ought to say something. Acknowledge seeing his mother on stage as a young impressive girl, back when her dad was still alive and had liked to take them all to see shows for Christmas. Or maybe she would be intruding and shouldn't say anything.

"I―"

And still Michael was talking with Penelope, possibly even flirting.

When did that happen?

Her starting to care?

Her eyes grew teary. She had to leave.

"You didn't know," came the astute answer.

Cornflower met sparkling blue, a sorry smile on his lips, as they shared a moment of understanding. All that Francesca had to give up because of her career ― or rather, the career that was all she could have instead of the life she had actually wanted, even craved?

How could such a young boy read her so easily? Was she such an open book? Were her expressions so easily followed because of all were part of the public domain?

When had she stop living her life and kept pretending as one role blurred into another?

"I'll cover for you", he offered, as he saw her emotions playing on her face.

With a grateful nod, she grabbed her headwear, fled out. There were around two hundred flights from London to Paris, and even a train. She could find something, anything. And even be in Italy by the next morning.

It was surprising how quickly one could pack they bags when they needed to.

Michael was surprised every time Francesca left in a daze. But as he rushed down the street after her, he wasn't even sure why, he knew this specific time was different.

He didn't know why, he just knew he had to catch her – everything in him screamed for him to do so. That she would not come back if he didn't. Thank goodness he knew where her hotel was, because damn, that woman could run. And there, he had been listening to Hyacinth telling them some jokes about Gregory's past races.

Michael finally arrived at the hotel's lobby, out of breath, just as she got into the lift.

"Francesca!"

Her startled blue eyes met his, her tongue darting out to lick at her lips.

"I―"

He pushed his way into the elevator, bending over to catch his breath.

"Why did you leave? Like this?"

His question was interrupted by the huge gulps of air he kept inhaling, but it didn't matter. She knew what he was asking.

Her face that could hold no emotion secret was so scared, appalled even that he moved closer, as close as he dared. He wanted to touch her, hold her, tell her that all would be okay. Which was strange considering he had often thought about touching her, but not for comforting. Although he knew there was no going back from there. So he never did. And she didn't either. How strange that they could maintain a friendship without ever touching each other, how many years had passed since that first time she had asked him if she could help, in any way. If he could find out if her help would be appreciated or frowned on. If John would let her help, despite their recent divorce.

He had wanted to tell her then, right away, that no one would ever want her out if his life, that surely losing her is what had killed John, more than illness, more than grief ― because it would certainly kill him.

"Michael," she finally whispered. Their eyes met, hers falling briefly to his lips, making him blink a few times.

What was… Surely, she hadn't…

"I should leave before it's too late."

She looked everywhere but at him, crushing herself against the further wall.

It dawned on Michael that Francesca had finally guessed his secret. His tightly kept secret. The one he had thought to take to the grave.

"I'm sorry," he started, guilt consuming him with a vengeance. God, how had she put it together? It didn't make sense, he had been talking to another woman when Francesca…

Her gaze settled on his face before avoiding his again. But not before it settled for the briefest of time on his mouth again.

…had run off. Oh. Oh.

He tried to step back. He really did. But as his nose brushed against hers, Michael could tell he had utterly failed.

Francesca's breath fawned over his throat, she was smaller than him, not so little that he towered over her, but just so that he could rest his chin conveniently on the top of her head, and be agreeably cosy. Which was definitely not usual for Michael. His usual kind of women were definitely smaller, different from her.

He sighed. "Francesca…" His eyes closed as he tried to hold on to all this will power.

"Yes?" Her soft voice was merely a whisper, that he felt more than he heard.

"You will have to step back. And get out the lift." Michael had no idea where he found the strength to utter these words. He hoped he didn't regret them to his everlasting day.

Yet once again, he hadn't expected Francesca's reply.

"And what if I don't want to? If I very much plan to stick to my position and make the most of it?"

"Francesca, you don't know what you're saying."

Her furious voice washed over him. "Don't even try to overbear, manage, or dictate me. I know what I'm doing!"

"Do you?"

She bit her lip, pondered her answer before answering. "Maybe not. But I know what I want." She put his hands on his chest. "And I want you."

"It doesn't― We can't. We…"

Her finger danced on his shirt, her voice never faltering. "If you're not otherwise engaged, you seem amendable enough to the idea."

"Francesca," he managed to get out, unsure if he should hold her closer or push her away.

"Yes Michael?" Her blue eyes looked innocent enough but he could tell she was not going to let go easily. And he wasn't sure he could either.

"It would work out, you know. Between us, I mean. The only question is if you wish for children? Because well, that's one thing I can't give."

His head was spinning. How did that specific conversation happen? "What?" His bewildered look made her sigh, stepping back. "Why are you asking?"

Francesca shrugged, she actually shrugged, as if it was no big deal. "I don't wish to assume."

"Is that why you divorced?" And was it why she had not remarried yet? Michael could understand her grief and her need to get better. But as far as he could tell, Francesca didn't even date, as if the whole point of being in a relationship was lost on her.

Because she expected to be left when her partner decided to have kids. How couldn't she see that any man who was ready to forsake her for hypothetical children was not worth it?

"I―" she closed her eyes for a brief second. "We didn't. Not because of that exactly. But I couldn't live with myself knowing I had deprived John of the family he had always hoped for."

Lead settled in his stomach. "What does it mean exactly?"

"That it's really me, the problem." Her voice was hoarse as she leaned on the wall. "It was all me."

She drew her hands to her face, pressing the heels of her palms to her teary eyes. "I may never have kids, Michael."

He sucked in a breath. Not because he wanted kids, not because he had just realised all he ever wanted from life was to give everything this woman ever asked of him. Not because of these reasons. But because of the deathly note in her voice, the dejection, the resignation he could hear in it. The fact that Francesca ― the beautiful, lovely actress who offered hope to a stupid audience who didn't know any better than to chase her around ― had none left for herself.

"I may never be a," her voice faltered and she breathed in quickly before finishing. "I may never be a mother."

She hugged herself tightly, as if that was the only way for her to hold all the tiny bits of herself together. As if she would lose it otherwise.

"And it's so fucking ironic that John became so sick just after our divorce. If he hadn't been waiting for me, for my body to tell us how soundly it would betray us, he would have already been a father."

"Not for long," muttered Michael.

"We don't know about that. My miscarriages, the divorce and its media coverage, his father's death ― it all took a toll on him, quite frankly."

She had a point. John's last months had been a horrendous ordeal. It was the only thing that had made Michael come back from his hidden place. Still, what could he tell his cousin's widow?

But Francesca wasn't finished yet. "Do you really think John would want me with anyone else?"

The question left him speechless. He could recall his cousin's plea to keep an eye on his former wife, his last words about how he trusted no one more than Michael… If he had known how Michael had failed him.

He had never thought of Francesca as anyone more than… Well, that wasn't true.

The first time he had seen her, Michael had thought her an angel, so beautiful and lovely that she couldn't possibly be human.

What a lucky fellow his cousin John was.

And Michael had run away half across the world. He didn't feel he would be able to bear being near his cousin's wife. To control his impulses to stare at her and stay close to her. Not when she was such a known actress, with her picture at the corner of every street.

No, really, the only solution for him had been to scurry half across the world. To escape the irrestible pull, to bury himself in work; to meet other persons, different women, and try to fall in love.

He could have succeeded, eventually. Maybe. Probably. Not.

All these years had never brought him any real peace. Oh, he managed to forget about her pretty face, but Francesca's name only had to be mentioned for it all to come rushing back. He never had seemed able to do anything about, except kept the love hidden under his skin, in his very bones.

Until their unexpected friendship, a few months before John had died, when he had actually come to know her, value her. And fallen even more hopelessly in love with her.

"You're my best friend, Michael. I don't think I am wrong when I say that you chasing me down and your state means that you may also have feelings for me."

No. Michael didn't believe so. She was quite spot-on.

"Are you going to kiss me, now?"

Yes, yes, he was going to do just that.

"Only if you don't plan to escape to another country anytime soon," he murmured as he cradled her face in his palm.

"Well, I won't," she said. "But we may need to stop withholding the lift at some point…"

He barked a laugh. "Then I guess we're very lucky that you happen to have a room in this hotel."

"Getting ahead of yourself, Mr Stirling? Why, I'll have you know that I didn't invite you in yet."

"Not yet," he smirked. "But you will. Once I kiss you."

She rolled her eyes. "Honestly, you're being a prick Michael."

"And you're being far too chatty." He dipped his head, held his mouth inches away from hers. "I must not be doing it right if you're still not swooning." He had longed for that kiss, and he intended to do it right. But he also had never expected them to be in this situation, had never expected them to be able to find solace and such easy happiness together.

Francesca laughed, her eyes sparkling with mirth, and maybe even love, or so he hoped.

"Kiss me, then." She leaned forward, and he met her half way. And he kissed her, with all he had, all he was. With the promise of all he would ever be. He kissed this unexpected woman he had never thought he would be allowed a chance with. That he hadn't been looking for. That he had fallen for, serendipitous.