Event Horizon

Now.

They barely make it to the sidewalk before Gianna presses Bridgette up against the nearest streetlight, a half-laughing, half-breathless mess of hands and heat. The rideshare pulls away a little too fast, the driver definitely needing a minute to compose himself.

Bridgette tilts her head back against the cold metal, eyes dark and knowing behind the smudge of Gianna's lipstick. Deep blue, full of stars--that's how Gianna always thinks of them, but right now? Right now, they're focused entirely on her.

"Could've waited till we got inside," Bridgette murmurs, but there's no actual reprimand in it--just amusement, just that slight, satisfied smirk that means she knew this was coming.

"Could've," Gianna agrees, lips dragging down the line of Bridgette's throat, hands already teasing at the edge of her coat, letting fingers slip beneath to the warmth of skin. "Didn't want to."

Bridgette makes a sound, something small and pleased, and when she lifts her leg just slightly, letting Gianna press between her thighs, it's over.

"Upstairs," Bridgette says, voice threaded with something sharper now, fingers curling into Gianna's belt loops like a command. "Now."

Gianna grins against her jaw. "Bossy."

Bridgette lifts a brow. "Who do you think I married?"

And fuck, that shouldn't be hot, but it is, and now Gianna really can't wait till they're upstairs.

Earlier

Gianna leans back in her chair, nursing the last of her drink, letting the rim of the glass linger against her lips as she watches Bridgette work.

Not in the calculation-heavy, problem-solving, solving-the-universe sense--though, yeah, that too--but in the way she owns a conversation without even trying.

It's a funny thing, watching a woman who can plot the gravitational dance of entire star systems command a table full of people who probably had that exact same talent but still fell into orbit around her.

"Close binaries," Bridgette is saying, hand gesturing smoothly, like she's plucking the very stars out of the sky, arranging them on the table for inspection. "You see it in spectroscopic shifts, mostly--Doppler effects giving us those characteristic red-blue wobbles."

Gianna watches the woman across from her nod along, eager, leaning in like she's getting personal access to some scientific revelation when really? Bridgette's just a little drunk, a little warm, letting the natural flow of her brilliance spill out like it's nothing.

God, she's hot when she does that.

Not that Gianna's really listening. She doesn't need to. She's seen Bridgette like this before, held the weight of that same intensity in an entirely different setting--pressed against her, breathing against her skin, explaining something entirely different in the dark.

She licks her lips, shifts in her seat.

"Computer modeling lets us simulate the entire system," Bridgette continues, eyes sparking, voice smooth but just a touch looser than usual. She's definitely tipsy. Gianna can see it in the way her fingers trace patterns on the tabletop, the way she bites her lip mid-thought, the way she keeps glancing at Gianna, like she knows exactly where this night is going to end.

Gianna smirks, lazily draping an arm over the back of her chair, catching Bridgette's gaze and lifting a brow.

"Multiple bodies, moving in tandem?" she murmurs, just loud enough for Bridgette to hear. "Hot."

Bridgette barely misses a beat. Barely. But Gianna catches the slight catch in her breath, the briefest flicker of something darker, deeper, behind her eyes.

Gianna spots her first. College-aged, blonde, make up perfect for night and this lighting. She's just now figured it out.

Gianna barely looks away from the girl, watching the way she fidgets with the stem of her glass, the way her eyes dart around the room like she's searching for permission, reassurance, a lifeline.

Bridgette follows Gianna's gaze and hums, taking a slow sip of her drink. Yeah. She sees it, too.

"She's cute," Bridgette says, not unkindly.

"She's panicking," Gianna corrects, tilting her head slightly, watching the way the girl's hand clenches in her lap, the way she keeps checking her reflection in the bar mirror like she's trying to confirm something about herself that still doesn't quite feel real.

Then, just as Gianna predicted, the girl exhales a sharp breath, as if the weight of the thought is hitting her all at once, and mutters, "Oh my God, I like girls."

Gianna smirks, turning back to Bridgette, mimicking the words in a stage whisper. "Oh shit, I like girls."

Bridgette gives her a look.

"Don't be mean," she chides, nudging Gianna's knee under the table. "You had that moment, too."

"No, I didn't."

Bridgette sighs, exasperated. "You are not some kind of cosmic anomaly, Gianna."

"Sure I am," Gianna says, grinning as she lazily twirls the ice in her glass. "I came pre-installed with Sapphic tendencies. No updates required."

Bridgette rolls her eyes, but there's fondness there, buried under the academic's eternal need for precision.

"You never had even a second of doubt?"

"Nope." Gianna pops the p and leans in, voice dropping just for Bridgette. "You ever have a moment of realization about liking oxygen?"

Bridgette levels her with a look, lips quirking. "That's not how it works."

"Worked for me."

Bridgette shakes her head, but Gianna catches the way she fights back a smile, the way her gaze lingers just a little too long.

At the bar, the blonde finally steadies herself, exhales, and straightens her shoulders--bracing herself to do something about the fact that she now knows.

Gianna watches, eyes glinting with amusement, then lifts her drink.

"Welcome to the club, sweetheart."

Gianna watches as the blonde hesitates--just for a second, just long enough for doubt to flicker across her face--before she takes the redhead's hand. There's something electric in the way her fingers close around it, something fragile but determined.

The redhead doesn't pull, doesn't rush her, just smiles, patient and sure, letting the blonde choose to follow. And when she does--when she slides off the barstool and lets herself be led toward the dance floor--Gianna exhales, tilting her head as she watches.

"That's so sweet."

Bridgette side-eyes her. "You were making fun of her thirty seconds ago."

"Yeah, but now she's having a moment." Gianna leans back in her chair, gaze flicking between the two of them weaving through the crowd. "It's cute. She's gonna remember this forever."

Bridgette hums, watching the way the blonde's shoulders stiffen, then slowly relax as the redhead murmurs something to her, something that makes her laugh, something that lets her breathe.

Gianna nudges Bridgette's knee under the table, eyes warm with mischief. "Was it like that for you?"

Bridgette huffs a laugh, shaking her head. "No. I was an idiot."

"Obviously." Gianna grins. "But was there a redhead involved?"

Bridgette lifts her drink to hide her smirk. "No comment."

Bridgette swirls the last of her drink, watching the ice melt down to nothing before she speaks.

"Her name was Erin," she says, voice lighter than her usual lecture tone, like she's telling Gianna something she hasn't dusted off in a while.

Gianna's brows lift, interest piqued. "Oh?"

Bridgette exhales a small laugh, shaking her head like she can't believe she's about to say this out loud. "We were in the same astronomy cohort. We'd stay late in the observatory, running calculations, mapping out light curves, debating theories no one else in our year cared about." A pause, then, almost sheepish, "I thought I just really liked her mind."

Gianna grins, fully settled in now, her chin propped in her hand. "Go on."

Bridgette tilts her glass toward the dance floor, where the blonde and the redhead are moving in tandem now, slow, careful, and new.

"It was like that," she admits, watching them. "I don't think she knew she was guiding me anywhere, but... she was. Little things. Brushing my hand when she passed a telescope lens, leaning in too close to show me a calculation." She sighs, amused. "God, I was stupid. I thought I was just nervous because she was smart. Like, intimidatingly smart. But then she kissed me one night, right there in the observatory, and--"

Bridgette stops, lips pressing together like she's suddenly aware of herself, of the weight of old memories.

Gianna doesn't let her off the hook.

"And?"

Bridgette glances at her, smirks. "And then I realized I didn't just admire her work ethic."

Gianna grins. "There it is."

"Shut up." Bridgette nudges her under the table.

"No, it's cute." Gianna leans in, voice teasing. "Did you ever tell her?"

Bridgette considers that, tipping her head. "Not in words."

Gianna whistles, low and knowing. "Ohhh. You showed your work."

Bridgette just smirks and takes a slow sip of her drink.

Gianna deepens her voice into a gruff, grumbling deadpan, throwing in a vague Midwestern accent for effect.

"Uh, yeah, so I was cleaning the telescope tonight, and, uh..." She squints, furrowing her brow like she's peering into an imaginary problem. "What are these strange, yet compellingly sexy, smudges on the primary mirror?"

Bridgette loses it.

She laughs so hard she nearly chokes on her drink, setting it down with a clatter as she presses a hand to her face, shoulders shaking. "Oh my god, shut up!"

Gianna's grinning now, leaning in. "I mean, they're oddly ass-shaped, Tom. Right in the middle of the lens. Someone call NASA, I think we got a rogue lipstick nebula situation here--"

Bridgette swats at her, still laughing, half-collapsed against Gianna's shoulder as she tries to breathe.

"You're the worst," she gasps, wiping under her eyes, smudging her already-smudged lipstick further.

"And yet, here we are." Gianna smirks, pressing a smug little kiss to Bridgette's temple. "Married to the woman responsible for defiling precious university equipment with hussy smudges."

Bridgette groans, shaking her head. "If I had known this was what I was signing up for--"

"You'd have signed up faster," Gianna interrupts smoothly.

Bridgette rolls her eyes, but she doesn't disagree. Instead, she exhales, a soft, lingering smile still playing on her lips as she watches the blonde and the redhead on the dance floor, spinning together in quiet discovery.

"I hope she gets her moment," she says, voice softer now, thoughtful.

Gianna follows her gaze, watching the way the blonde closes her eyes, allowing herself to be led, surrendering to the inevitability of it all.

"She will," Gianna murmurs. "Just like you did."

Bridgette glances at her, smirks. "And you didn't need one at all?"

Gianna just grins, smug and certain. "Nope."

Bridgette stills, fingers pausing on the stem of her glass. Her expression doesn't change much--she's good at that, keeping things measured--but Gianna can see the flicker in her eyes, the way she processes it in real-time.

For once, Gianna is the one who looks away first.

"I remembered you, you know," she says, quieter now, like she's confessing something she's carried too long. She swallows, the words thick in her throat. "On the porch. With Carrie."

Bridgette breathes in, slow and steady.

Gianna lets out a small, humorless laugh, shaking her head at herself. "I don't think you ever noticed me. I was just--hanging around. But I saw you."

Bridgette finally speaks, voice unreadable. "You never said anything."

"What was I supposed to say?" Gianna huffs, half-smiling like it's ridiculous to even think about. "'Hey, I think I might have a crush on my older half-sister's superhot girlfriend, but I don't know why yet'?"

Bridgette lets out a soft, breathy laugh, barely there, but it still makes Gianna's stomach clench.

"I didn't even remember you," Bridgette admits, eyes searching hers now, careful. "Not until later."

"I know." Gianna finally looks back at her, and god, it feels like she's admitting a crime, like she's laying something raw and irreversible between them.

"But I remembered you."

Bridgette doesn't speak right away. The bar hums around them, but for a moment, it's just the two of them, caught in something old and unspoken.

Then, Bridgette exhales, something shifting in her expression--understanding, maybe. Something deeper.

She reaches across the table, fingers brushing Gianna's wrist, grounding her.

"You got me anyway."

Gianna swallows, throat tight, and grips her hand like she's afraid to let go.

Bridgette smirks, slow and knowing. Her fingers tighten just slightly around Gianna's wrist, like she enjoys the weight of the confession, the sheer inevitability of it.

"Oh, does she?"

Gianna exhales, a sharp little laugh, shaking her head. "Yeah." She leans in, voice dropping into something smug, something sweetly vicious. "Best part is... Carrie knows what she's missing."

Bridgette raises a brow, and Gianna can see the amusement flickering in her eyes, the satisfaction curling at the edge of her lips.

"That so?"

"Mmhmm." Gianna swirls the last of her drink, watching the ice spin. "She had you first. And I know she's thought about it."

Bridgette leans in just slightly, conspiratorial, her smirk turning razor-sharp. "Thought about what?"

Gianna tilts her head, bites her bottom lip just a little. "About how I got to marry you, and she didn't."

Bridgette hums, running a thoughtful finger around the rim of her glass. "Well, she did introduce us."

"Tragic mistake." Gianna grins, wicked. "For her."

Bridgette just chuckles, shaking her head. "You are such an asshole."

"And yet, you married me."

Bridgette lifts her drink in a quiet toast. "Worst decision of my life."

Gianna clinks her glass against Bridgette's, smirking. "Best one of mine."

Now, again.

Gianna's got one hand shoved deep in the pocket of her coat, trying to fish out the keys, while the other is very much occupied--palming Bridgette's hip, slipping up under her coat, fingers teasing at warm skin.

"Gianna--" Bridgette starts, but it's barely a protest. More like an observation.

"What?" Gianna breathes against her neck, completely uninterested in actually unlocking the door.

Bridgette huffs, tilting her head just slightly, just enough to let Gianna keep going even as she tries to remain the responsible one. "You're supposed to be getting the keys, not feeling me up in the hallway."

"Multitasking." Gianna nips at her jaw, grinning against her skin.

Bridgette exhales, sharp and amused, before reaching into Gianna's pocket herself, fingers brushing against metal and--oh. Oh.

Her brows lift.

"Are you seriously turned on right now?"

Gianna smirks against her throat. "What, you aren't?"

Bridgette finds the key, pulls it out, and immediately drops it when Gianna presses just right against her, lips hot at the hinge of her jaw.

"Fuck."

Gianna laughs, so pleased with herself. "Look who's fumbling now."

Bridgette glares at her--tries to glare at her--but she's already reaching for the key again, already gripping Gianna's collar and pulling her in as she shoves the door open, dragging her inside like they've got unfinished business.

Because they do.

Bridgette barely has time to shut the door before Gianna leans back against it, pressing her spine into the wood like she needs something solid to brace against. Her smirk is lazy, knowing, and deeply self-satisfied.

Without a word, she hooks her fingers under the hem of her skirt and lifts.

Tiny. Black. Lacey. Wet.

Bridgette exhales, sharp and quiet, the sound landing somewhere between Jesus fucking Christ and I should've expected this. Her gaze flickers, just for a second, from Gianna's face to the sheer, soaked fabric and back up again.

Gianna grins, teeth catching her bottom lip. "Told you I was multitasking."

Bridgette's fingers twitch, like she's debating whether to keep up the pretense of patience or just go for it.

Gianna tilts her head, eyes glinting in the dim light of the entryway. "What's wrong, Mrs. Jakubowicz? You look a little distracted."

Bridgette's response is slow, deliberate--she steps forward, one hand bracing the door next to Gianna's head, the other slipping beneath the lifted fabric, fingers pressing.

Gianna's breath hitches, her hips shifting automatically, inviting, needing.

Bridgette smirks. "Not at all."

Bridgette doesn't bother unbuttoning her coat. Doesn't bother kicking off her shoes. Just drops. Smooth. Effortless. Like there's nothing else in the world she should be doing but kneeling here, between Gianna's legs, her hands already sliding up the back of Gianna's thighs, steadying, pulling.

Gianna sucks in a sharp breath, fingers tangling in Bridgette's hair, holding her there, pressing her deeper into the space between her thighs. She feels the heat of Bridgette's breath against her through the lace, the maddening tease of it, and fuck, she could lose her mind right here against the damn door.

"Still think I'm an asshole?" she manages, but her voice wavers, breathy, unsteady.

Bridgette chuckles against her, the vibration making Gianna's knees go weak.

"Absolutely."

Then Bridgette hooks her fingers into the lace and pulls.

Gianna's head thuds back against the door, lips parting on a sharp inhale as Bridgette's mouth actually makes contact. There's nothing tentative about it--no teasing, no drawn-out patience. Bridgette works in clean calculations, direct action, and this? This is her applying pressure exactly where it needs to be.

Gianna's breath stutters, hands tightening in Bridgette's hair, thighs trembling around her head as she tries to keep herself upright. The coat, the shoes--fuck, why is it hotter that Bridgette hasn't even shed them yet? Like she couldn't wait, like this was too urgent, too necessary to bother with things like getting comfortable.

A strangled sound catches in Gianna's throat, half a moan, half a breathless fuck, and she can hear the way her own voice carries in the quiet, echoing in the dark, mixing with the slick, obscene sounds of Bridgette's efforts.

Bridgette doesn't slow. Doesn't falter. Her grip on Gianna's thighs tightens, pulling her in, holding her still, keeping her here, right where she wants her. The pressure, the heat, the deliberate, methodical rhythm of it--it's too much, too good, and Gianna is spiraling fast.

"Bridgette--" It's barely a warning, more like a plea, more like I can't--

But Bridgette hums in response, pressing deeper, and that's it, that's fucking it, and Gianna's legs shake as she breaks apart, the sound of her release filling the dark apartment, echoing off the walls.

Bridgette doesn't move away. Just lingers, lips and tongue still working her through it, drawing it out, keeping her trembling.

Gianna's fingers finally go slack in Bridgette's hair, chest rising and falling, head spinning. She should say something. Could say something. But all that comes out is a wrecked little laugh, breathless and stunned.

Bridgette, still kneeling, still smug as hell, finally pulls back just enough to look up at her.

"Still think Carrie's jealous?" she murmurs, voice thick with satisfaction.

Gianna, legs barely holding her up, looks down at her, lips curling into something lazy and utterly wrecked.

"I know she is."

The hallway is quiet, save for the scattered evidence of urgency--coats draped carelessly over a chair, shoes kicked off without aim, a trail of discarded clothing leading toward the bathroom like breadcrumbs to something inevitable.

The door is cracked open just enough for steam to creep out, curling against the dim light. And beyond it--water running, the soft, steady rush of it filling the space.

Then--laughter.

It starts as a muffled giggle, barely contained, before spilling into something louder, something completely unguarded.

"You--" Bridgette's voice, cut off by another laugh, water sloshing as movement shifts inside the shower.

"What?" Gianna, the picture of false innocence, but her voice is bright, bubbling over with mischief.

"You pinched me!"

"I nudged you!" Gianna's tone is pure, unrepentant delight. "Scientifically speaking, there's no evidence to support--"

A louder splash. A sharp, surprised yelp from Gianna.

Bridgette's victorious laughter echoes down the hallway.

"Okay, that was uncalled for!"

"You deserved it."

"Oh, so now you're Judge, Jury, and Aquatic Executioner?"

More laughter. More water shifting. More breathless, ridiculous joy.

The hallway remains still, their clothes abandoned, cooling, while steam keeps escaping in thin, curling wisps--evidence of warmth, of hands tangled, of lips meeting under the spray.

The sound of water continues, their voices lost in it, the giggles fading into something softer, something sweeter, something that doesn't need to be heard to be understood.

At that moment...

The faint screech of chalk against slate lingers in the air, equations half-finished, symbols curling into one another, numbers trying to pin down the unchartable. Erin Elizabeth Keegan leans back against them, her fingers brushing over the smudged remains of an old derivation, but her mind isn't on the math.

Not really.

She tilts her head back, staring at the ceiling as if the answers to different questions might be written up there. Her mouth quirks, a wry little smile curling at the edge of memory, at the way time folds when you let yourself slip.

Bridgette.

Fingertips tracing constellations against bare skin.

The sharp gasp of a realization that had nothing to do with physics, nothing to do with light curves or orbital mechanics.

The first time Bridgette had looked at her--not as a colleague, not as a rival mind to spar with--but as something else.

She exhales, slow.

Water running, laughter echoing down a hallway--softer than the usual sound of Bridgette's voice when she argued a theorem, sweeter than when she used to grumble about students misusing Kepler's Laws.

Erin doesn't need to check where Bridgette is now. She already knows. She's happy.

She swipes her palm over an old equation, smudging the chalk, rewriting, recalculating.

Some things, after all, are meant to slip beyond your event horizon.