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Chapter Text

As far as perfection was concerned, Agatha Harkness was perfect—a rising junior at Harrington University who collected achievements like bullets in a chamber: student leader of the young conservative group, head of the honour council, her mother's crowning glory. She was perfect.

But that had never been much of a choice, not with a mother like Senator Evanora Harkness—a woman who could smell doubt on her skin, who exuded demands instead of love. Perfection wasn't a goal; it was an expectation. It was as innate and involuntary as breathing, as automatic as her heart beating. And yet, this very thing—this suffocating, relentless demand—was killing her, slowly and painfully, destroying the very matter she was composed of.

"Fuck!"

She ran, her heels sinking into the grass. From what? She didn't know. Because today—just like yesterday—had been perfect. Agatha Harkness was always fucking perfect.

The abandoned building on campus was the only hiding place she could find, or rather, the first option made available to her after running for thirty minutes in her Hermione Leather Kitten Slingback Pumps. She could smell the musk, the slight scent of sweat and body, which had probably gathered here not too long before her arrival. Maybe the smell of pelting rain or the storm that would brew in just a few minutes, as predicted by the weather forecast. But honestly, any smell was better than her mother's scent—her signature Chanel No. 5.

"I could kill her! Who does she think she is? 'Agatha, your right shoulder is one degree more slanted than the left!' What the fuck does that even mean? I swear to God, I could—"

The words died in her mouth the moment a slender, albeit muscular, figure emerged from the shadows, silhouetted against the dusty, fractured light filtering through the broken windows.

Agatha wasn't much of a coward, but it didn't take a genius to know that if someone—anyone—spawned out of thin air, a musky, abandoned house was not the ideal place for a meet-cute.

"I've got a gun."

The figure stepped forward, revealing a young woman with a half-smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

"No, you don't." She laughed.

Agatha's hand instinctively went to her purse anyway, though they both knew it contained nothing more dangerous than a Mont Blanc pen and her mother's latest passive-aggressive text messages.

"How would you know?" Agatha demanded, proud that her voice didn't waver despite the hammering in her chest.

"Because perfect girls don't carry guns."

The stranger's voice was raspy like she'd been screaming or crying. Or both.

"And you, princess, are nothing if not perfect."

Agatha chuckled, a sound so acrid it surprised even her. She took a hard look at the woman—mid-length brown hair, hazel eyes, or light brown; she couldn't tell. Flawlessly dishevelled. Cigarette smoke adhered to her skin like perfume.

She was a wreck by every standard Agatha knew—standards Evanora set—and yet, she was beautiful. Captivating. In a way that screamed danger. In a way that made Agatha feel unsafe. In a way that made her chest tight. In a way that made her head spin.

In a way that made her forget how to—

"Breathe."

The stranger smiled, gapped teeth, pearly white despite the rasp that spoke of years of nicotine and ash.

"Just breathe. I'm not gonna hurt you. I'm here to practice."

"Practice what?" She asked, a bit too eager. 

"Shouldn't you be like scared?" 

Stranger had a point. Agatha should be running. She should be calling campus security. She should be doing anything but standing here, heart racing, watching this stranger's lips curl into another devilish smile, but she didn't because, as demented as she felt, she felt safe. 

"If you're gonna kill me, making a run for it in these shoes honestly doesn't seem worth it, so I might as well stay put and enjoy the ride. Now I ask again, what are you practising?" 

"Guitar. This place has great acoustics." She laughed, pulling out a worn Gibson, its surface marred with stickers, scratches, and general use. 

"I'm Rio, by the way..." 

"Rio." Agatha echoed, tasting the name on her tongue. "I'm—"

"Agatha Harkness. Everyone knows who you are." 

Rio's fingers ghosted over the guitar strings, producing a whisper of sound. "The golden girl of Harrington." 

There was a beat of silence before Rio started playing, her digits plucking and probing at strings, not seeming all that interested in Agatha's rebuttal. There was nothing new to what Agatha would say, faux indignation laced with a bit of pride. It would all sound the same at the end of the day. So she played, and Agatha listened. 

"Did you write that?" 

Rio's fingers froze, the music cutting off abruptly as a rough, incredulous laugh burst from her as she stared at the politician's daughter through a curtain of brown hair. 

"No. The Doors. 'People Are Strange.'"

Agatha opened her mouth to speak, to lie, to pretend she knew the band from 1965, but thunderstruck and as if on cue, Rio resumed, again uninterested in the potential answer, plucking absentmindedly as the wind drummed a chaotic beat. 

"I assume your parents never played you any good music growing up?" the guitarist rasped, fingers dancing over the strings with a precision so effortless, so raw, that Agatha couldn't fathom it belonged to a mere human.

"I mean, if you count Mozart and Bach as 'good music,'" Agatha groaned. "Mother says rock music is for degenerates and lost souls."

"Well then," Rio's smile turned wicked as she patted the space next to her on what appeared to be an old couch, "you're in luck. Because I happen to be both a degenerate and a lost soul."

Agatha knew she should leave. The rational part of her brain—the part that sounded suspiciously like Evanora—was screaming at her to turn around and walk away, to put this no longer nameless stranger behind her and move on. But her feet had other ideas. Before she knew it, she was sitting next to Rio, close enough to smell the mint gum, barely masking the cigarette smoke on her breath.

"People are strange," Rio began singing softly, her fingers finding the chords again, "when you're a stranger. Faces look ugly when you're alone..."

Her voice was like honey poured over gravel—rough and sweet all at once. Agatha found herself mesmerized by the way the Latina's fingers danced across the fretboard, the way her eyes closed when she hit specific notes and the slight smile that played at the corners of her mouth.

"Women seem wicked when you're unwanted. Streets are uneven when you're down..."

Agatha laughed—wicked, they called her. God, was she wicked to the men Evanora paraded before her, too sharp, too unyielding. Too critical, her mother would chide, too impossible to please. But it wasn't wickedness. It was something else—something she could never say aloud.

"When you're strange, faces come out of the rain. When you're strange, no one remembers your name..."

"That's... oddly beautiful," Agatha whispered when Rio finished. "Depressing, but beautiful."

Rio chuckled, the sound echoing in the empty building. "Most beautiful things are a little depressing, princess. That's what makes them real." She studied Agatha for a moment, head tilted. "Like you, running from whatever's chasing you in those ridiculous shoes."

Agatha flinched. "I'm not running from anything."

"Sure you're not." Rio started picking out another melody, something slower and more melancholic. 

"I'm not," she insisted, but her voice wavered. The rain was falling harder now, drumming against the building's metal roof. "I just needed some air."

Rio's fingers stilled on the strings. "Air. Right." 

Something shifted in Agatha's expression, her features hardening like cooling glass. Who was this stranger to sit there, playing her little songs and acting like she could see right through years of carefully constructed walls? Like she knew anything about running, about perfection, about what it meant to be a Harkness?

"Don't do that," Agatha said, her voice sharp enough to cut through the guitar's lingering echoes. She stood up, smoothing her skirt with practised precision.

Rio's fingers, once again, stilled on the strings. "Do what, princess?"

"That. Acting like you know me. Like you understand anything about my life because you've read some newsletter or heard some campus gossip." The words came out clipped, precise, each one a defensive strike.

"I'm not—"

"You are." Agatha trekked back, her heel clicking against the floor with finality.

"You sit here in your little hideaway, playing your stupid songs, thinking you can read everyone who walks in. Well, guess what? You can't read me. You don't know the first thing about me or what I'm running from—if I'm running at all."

The rain hammered harder against the metal roof, but Agatha barely heard it over the rush of blood in her ears. She'd let herself get too comfortable, too vulnerable. Let this stranger, with her knowing smile and raspy voice, get too close to things better left in darkness.

"For your information," she continued, her voice rising slightly to match the storm, "I don't need your amateur psychology or profound musical insights. I don't need to be figured out or saved, or whatever it is you think you're doing."

Rio watched her with those unnervingly steady eyes, still holding her guitar like a shield. She didn't speak, didn't try to defend herself, which somehow made it worse.

"Enjoy your acoustics," Agatha huffed, turning on her heel. "And next time, try not to psychoanalyze every stranger who happens to stumble into your practice space."

"Roger that, Princess."

She walked out into the rain, her steps quick and measured, not running this time but retreating with all the dignity her mother had drilled into her bones. The storm soaked through her blazer, but she didn't care. Better the rain than staying there another minute, letting some stranger who played old rock songs pretend she could see past Agatha's carefully maintained facade.

Behind her, no music followed. No footsteps, no calls to wait or come back. Just the rain, the thunder, and the sound of her own heels striking wet pavement carrying her back to the world she knew how to navigate, back to being perfect, back to being exactly who everyone expected her to be. Perfect.

Chapter Text

Rio Vidal had never considered herself a creature of habit, but lately, she'd developed one: watching Agatha Harkness take the long way to the political science building.

It had started as a coincidence—just something she noticed in passing. The golden girl of Harrington, cutting across the south lawn instead of taking the direct path through the art building. Three times this week alone—not that Rio was counting.

The detour served its purpose, Rio supposed, steering Agatha away from Morrison Hall and toward Blackwell Science Center, where Dr. Eleanor Wright, her advisor, kept her office. At no point did Rio consider that this was Agatha's way of avoiding her. After all, she was too busy noticing other things—like the girl who seemed to exist in Agatha's orbit.

Madison Carter. Treasurer of the Young Conservatives. Agatha's self-appointed shadow.

Rio didn't know why the ginger trailed after Agatha like a lost puppy, but there was something almost desperate about it. As if she thought proximity alone could grant her a sliver of Agatha's perfection.

"What a weirdo," Rio muttered, taking a long drag from her cigarette as she watched them. At no point had she noticed she was staring intensely in the pouring rain, looking like a drowned rat with a cigarette. But Alice Wu-Gulliver, her bandmate and occasional voice of reason, did.

"You know, stalking is generally frowned upon in polite society," she laughed, plucking the cigarette from Rio's lips, taking a drag before crushing it under her boot. "Your taste in cigs fucking sucks, dude."

"If you bought your own, you wouldn't have this problem," Rio shot back, running a hand through her rain-soaked hair. "And for your information, I'm not stalking. I was waiting for your ass to get here because we have a fucking paper due, and I, unlike you, need to pass this class to keep my scholarship."

"Why didn't you wait inside like a normal person?" Alice gestured at the sky. "You know where it's dry?"

Rio's eyes followed Agatha's retreating figure, watching as Madison attempted to shield her from the rain with an umbrella. The gesture seemed performative, like everything else about Madison Carter.

"Because you can't smoke in academic buildings," the guitarist retorted, finally tearing her gaze away from Agatha's disappearing form.

"Just because you manage to puff your Starburst on a stick in the library without getting caught doesn't mean we all have your stealth skills."

Alice snorted, pulling out one of her fruit-scented vapes. "You mean my charm. The librarians love me."

"The librarians tolerate you because they're underpaid college students who'd rather scroll through TikTok than police your nicotine addiction," Rio rasped, finally stepping under the overhang. She wrung out her jacket, watching the water pool at her feet. "And before you start with your psychoanalysis, I wasn't watching her. I was thinking."

"About her," Alice supplied, a knowing smirk playing at her lips. "About the princess who stumbled into your super-secret practice space last week. The one you won't shut up about."

"I mentioned her once."

"Three times, actually. Once when you told me about your encounter, once when you saw her at the campus coffee shop and spent ten minutes describing how she takes her coffee—"

"Black with two sugars," Rio hummed, immediately regretting it.

"—and now." Alice's grin broadened. "For someone with a 147 IQ, you're being remarkably dense about this."

"You're reaching, Gulliver. Just because I notice things doesn't mean they mean anything. I notice lots of things—like how Professor Martinez always wears mismatched socks on exam days or how the janitor in Building C hums Beethoven's Fifth while mopping."

"Those things don't make you blush," the drummer pointed out, taking another hit from her vape. The sweet scent of artificial raspberry cut through the petrichor. "And they definitely don't make you stand in the rain like some brooding Victorian hero."

"I do not brood," she insisted, pushing off from the wall. "Look, we have a paper due at midnight. Lilia clearly isn't gonna pull her weight, so unless you want to explain to Professor Martinez why our analysis of Beethoven's influence on modern composition is incomplete, we should get to work."

Rio started walking toward the library, Alice trailing behind with an insufferable smile. They passed Blackwell Science Center, where Rio knew Agatha would be emerging in precisely forty-seven minutes—not that she'd memorized her schedule or anything.

"You know what your problem is?" Alice said, falling into step beside her.

"I have a feeling you're about to tell me."

"Your problem is that you're too smart for your own good. You've got this whole beautiful mind thing going on, noticing patterns, remembering details, but when it comes to your own feelings—"

"I don't have feelings," she interrupted, pushing through the library's heavy doors. "I have a 4.0 GPA, a full-ride I can't afford to lose, and a paper to write about how Beethoven's Fifth Symphony influenced everything from The Beatles to Metallica."

"And a crush on Agatha Harkness," Alice added, earning her a sharp elbow to the ribs.

"Keep your voice down," she hissed, though the library was nearly empty. "The last thing I need is for someone to overhear you spinning fairy tales about me and the senator's daughter."

"Fairy tales?" Alice raised an eyebrow as they claimed their usual table in the back corner. "You mean like the one where the mysterious musician meets the perfect princess in an abandoned building during a storm?"

Rio pulled out her laptop with more force than necessary. "That's not—it wasn't like that."

"No?" Alice leaned back in her chair, blowing a perfect smoke ring toward the ceiling. "Then what was it like?"

Rio's fingers hovered over her keyboard, remembering the way Agatha had looked that day—perfectly imperfect, rain-soaked and angry, her walls cracking just enough to let something real shine through. But that moment was gone, sealed away behind whatever masks Agatha wore to please her mother, her peers, the fucking world.

"It was nothing," Rio said finally, opening her document. "It was fucking nothing. Now open up the Google doc, and let's work."

Alice opened her mouth to argue, but the sharp click of heels against marble silenced her. Rio's head snapped up instinctively, her body tensing as Agatha Harkness strode past their table, Madison Carter still hovering at her elbow like an anxious hummingbird.

"Your schedule's off," Alice whispered, earning another jab to the ribs.

Rio watched as Agatha claimed a table across the room, perfectly positioned beneath the towering gothic windows. Rain streaked down the glass in restless rivulets, distorting the grey sky beyond. The afternoon light softened the sharp angles of Agatha's face. It wasn't perfect, but still, Rio's fingers itched for her guitar—there was a melody in the way Agatha existed, something quiet and unresolved, something in A minor.

"Earth to Vidal, " Alice waved her hand in front of Rio's face. "The paper? Beethoven? Your scholarship?"

"Right," she muttered, forcing her attention back to her laptop. But her traitorous brain kept catching snippets of conversation from across the room.

"Your mother's fundraiser?" Madison's voice carried, tinged with that particular brand of sardonic humour she reserved for Evanora Harkness's political machinations. "Let me guess—another evening of pretending you're desperately interested in Trevor Walsh's thoughts on fiscal policy?"

"I'm aware of what my mother expects." Agatha's reply was clipped, precise. Different from the raw anger Rio had witnessed in the abandoned building. This was controlled, calculated—a perfect response from a perfect girl.

"Oh please," Madison's voice dropped to a stage whisper, but Rio's cursed perfect pitch caught every word. "We both know you'd rather debate healthcare reform with my goldfish. At least he has original opinions."

There was a pause, then softer, gentler: "You don't have to go, you know. We could crash at my place, order Thai food, mock terrible reality shows..."

Rio's fingers stilled on her keyboard. Trevor Walsh. Star quarterback. Political legacy. The kind of guy Senator Harkness would approve of.

"Interesting," Alice mused, not even pretending to work on their paper anymore. "Your left eye twitches when you're jealous."

"I'm not—" Rio started but stopped when she caught Agatha's gaze across the room. For a moment, just a moment, something flickered behind those perfect walls.

Then Madison shifted, breaking their line of sight, and the moment shattered.

Fucking Madison.

"Well," Alice said, closing her laptop with a decisive click. "This has been fascinating, but I need a coffee. Coming?"

Rio shook her head, already knowing she wouldn't get any work done. Not with Agatha so close.

"I'll stay. Try to salvage this paper."

"Sure you will, Rio." Alice patted her shoulder as she stood. "Sure you will.

Chapter Text

Her first fundraiser—she was four. Evanora had stuffed her into a stiff white dress with a Peter Pan collar and Mary Janes that pinched her toes. The patent leather shoes squeaked against the marble floors as she tried to disappear behind the potted ferns. But her mother found her, of course. Evanora always found her.

Since then, there had been at least fourteen more functions. Agatha's wardrobe had evolved—sleek gowns instead of frilly dresses, stilettos instead of pinching flats—but the expectations remained unchanged. Smile. Charm. Do Mother Dearest proud.

Tonight was no different. She endured countless hours of being paraded like a trophy, Evanora's trophy, feeling men caress the small of her back while complimenting the "woman" she'd become, feeling their breaths on her ear as Evanora politely pretended not to notice their roving hands, their lingering stares. After all, these were donors. Powerful men with deep pockets and deeper connections.

"Agatha, you know Trevor Walsh? He studies Law at Blackwood University."

The introduction was as organic as the conversation that sprung between them. Trevor was precisely what one would envision from a star quarterback—broad shoulders stretching his tailored suit, a jawline that could cut glass, and a smile that promised board rooms and country club memberships.

What Evanora didn't know—couldn't know—was that Agatha found this man as interesting as the potted ferns she used to hide behind. And at least they gave her some refuge.

The boy was bright and educated, and his lexicon was impressive, but he was a male version of her mother, despot, insolent, and reeked of entitlement and axe.

"You know, Agatha, you and I would make a compelling couple. Even Mommy says so."

The brunette nearly choked on her champagne. A grown man—six-foot-four of pure American quarterback—had just said "mommy" unironically? She had to be dreaming. This was what her mother thought she deserved? A mommy's boy with a superiority complex?

"I'm sure she did. Mrs. Walsh has always—" The response died in her throat as a familiar figure appeared in her peripheral vision, weaving through the crowd with a tray of champagne flutes. Rio. Her white button-down was crisp, and her dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail that somehow made her look more dangerous, not less. She moved with the same fluid grace she used when playing guitar, but now it was weaponized into professional invisibility.

"—been quite vocal about her hopes for our families' alliance," Trevor continued, oblivious to Agatha's distraction. He placed his hand on her lower back, the touch proprietary in a way that made her skin crawl. "Mommy thinks we could be the next power couple of—"

"Champagne?" Rio's voice cut through Trevor's monologue like a knife through butter, low, smooth, and entirely too knowing. She held the tray at the perfect angle, a model of servile efficiency, but her eyes—when they met Agatha's—sparkled with barely contained amusement.

"Actually, she'll have sparkling water," Trevor answered for her, his hand tightening possessively on her waist. "Agatha knows better than to drink at these functions. Don't you, darling?"

The younger Harkness yelped, stepping smoothly out of Trevor's painful grasp. Years of etiquette training allowed her to make the movement appear natural, graceful even.

"Actually," she said, voice honey-sweet but eyes hard as diamonds, "I think I'll have the champagne."

She plucked a flute from Rio's tray, her fingers brushing against the other woman's ever so slightly.

"And Trevor, darling, you might want to ease up on that grip. Bruises are hard to explain to the press, don't you think?"

Trevor's face flushed an ugly red, but before he could respond, Evanora materialized beside them like a perfectly coiffed spectre.

"Is everything alright here?" Her mother's voice was pleasant, but Agatha recognized its warning. Not for Trevor—never for the men who made her daughter uncomfortable—but for Agatha herself.

Don't make a scene. Don't embarrass me. Don't ruin this.

"Everything's perfect, Mrs. Harkness," Rio interjected smoothly, "I was just about to suggest that perhaps Mr. Walsh might enjoy our selection of single malt scotch. The Macallan 18 is particularly excellent tonight."

Trevor's attention shifted immediately, his fragile male ego soothed by the prospect of expensive liquor.

"Lead the way," he commanded, already forgetting about Agatha in favour of displaying his purportedly refined palate.

"Agatha, a word?" Her mother's voice carried that particular blend of silk and steel that Agatha had learned to dread. But, before following her to whatever private corner would host tonight's lecture, Agatha caught Rio's eye one last time. The server's lips quirked into that dangerous half-smile as she mouthed silently: "Watch this."

The woman bit back a chuckle as she watched Rio lead Trevor to the bar.

With practised efficiency, Rio prepared his drink—but not before discretely adding her own unique "garnish" to his scotch when he was too busy mansplaining the proper way to appreciate single malt.

The way she did it was almost artistic—a quick, graceful movement that looked like nothing more than a professional bartender's flourish. Only Agatha, watching with newfound gratitude, caught the flash of fulfilment in her eyes as Trevor accepted the drink with his usual condescending nod.

"The key to truly appreciating a Macallan," the quarterback was announcing to anyone within earshot, "is to let it breathe for exactly forty-five seconds before—"

"Agatha." Her mother's voice snapped her attention back. "The garden. Now."

As she followed her mother through the French doors, Agatha heard Trevor take his first sip. The subsequent splutter and cough were barely audible over the string quartet, but it made her smile nonetheless. She'd have to remember to leave Rio an extra generous tip—assuming she survived whatever lecture Evanora had in store.

"I know what you're going to say, Mother."

"Do you?" Evanora's voice was arctic. "Do you really think you can predict what I'm about to say after that little display?"

"Actually, I can. You think I should be kinder to Trevor, that I should let him bruise me because it's good for the family name to have people like him and his family around, right? But I guess you haven't heard the gossip. Mr. Walsh is close to filing bankruptcy."

The words hung in the air between them, and Evanora's perfectly composed face flickered—just for a moment—before smoothing back into its usual mask of governance. But that moment was enough. Agatha saw it, and more importantly, she saw the calculation behind her mother's eyes, the rapid recalibration of plans and alliances.

"And where," her mother asked carefully, "did you hear this particular piece of information?"

Agatha smiled, sweet as antifreeze. "Mother, you taught me well. I listen. I think you should know that Mr. Walsh owes the Cardwells over eighty grand, which he still has not been able to pay. Also, you are intelligent. Don't you find it odd that Lorelai Walsh, who called me a sneak last year, suddenly loves me and wants me to be with her son?"

For a moment, just a moment, something like pride flickered across Evanora's face.

"You are dismissed, Agatha. Do not embarrass me any further tonight."

"Roger that, Sargent." Agatha smiled, watching as her mother's shoulders tensed at the willful informality.

"God, she's unbearable."

Agatha turned left of the rose bush she was standing by, satisfaction curling in her chest like smoke, only to find Rio materializing beside her, Marlboro already between her fingers.

"Before you say anything, we should probably move. This is a no-staff zone."

"Kay," Rio rasped, falling into step beside Agatha as they moved toward the less manicured section of the garden, "By the way, I promise I'm not stalking you; I just happen to work part-time at the catering company your mother hired from," Rio finished, leading them deeper into the shadows of the overgrown hedges. "This isn't exactly how I planned to see you again."

"You planned to see me again?" Agatha asked, one eyebrow raised as she watched Rio light her cigarette.

"Well, you did storm out of my practice space rather dramatically. Left me with quite an impression and lots of questions." Rio's lips curled into that dangerous half-smile again. "Though I'm happy to see that you're considerably less shouty tonight."

"I wasn't shouty," Agatha countered, taking a long, deep breath, the night air cool against her skin. "I was... expressing myself firmly."

"Is that what the rich kids are calling that these days?" Rio took a drag, the ember glowing brightly in the darkness.

"Speaking of expressing yourself firmly, is that asswipe always so rough with you?"

Agatha's smile faltered as she reached for the cig, her fingers grazing Rio's.

"Trevor? He's... harmless. Just another entitled boy who never learned the word 'no.'"

"Harmless people don't leave bruises," Rio said quietly, watching as Agatha took a lengthy puff. "And entitled boys who never learned 'no' are exactly the ones you need to watch out for."

"Speaking from experience?" she asked, deflecting. She handed the cigarette back, careful not to let their fingers touch this time.

"Let's just say I've worked enough of these events to recognize the type. Rich boy with a law degree and daddy's connections thinks the world owes him everything, including whatever—or whoever—he wants. It's annoyingly common in environments like these."

Agatha sighed, running her fingers along the cool stone of the garden wall. "You know what's funny? I've been to fourteen of these functions—no, fifteen counting tonight. And every single time, there's been a Trevor. Different names, different faces, but always the same entitled attitude, the same wandering hands, the same..." She trailed off, watching the smoke dissipate into the night air.

"The same what?" Rio asked, though her tone suggested she already knew the answer.

"The same assumption that because their families have money because our mothers play bridge together or sit on the same charity boards, they somehow have a claim on me. As if I'm just another asset to be acquired, like their summer homes in the Hamptons or their collector cars."

"Honestly, I don't know how you do it," Rio soughed, her voice softening. "All these people treating you like some prize pony at an auction. It must be exhausting."

"You get used to it," Agatha shrugged, "honestly, you have to because if not, you become a target. I learned that by seeing the rise and fall of so many people. The way they would get ostracized for stuff like disability or sexual orientation, or being too outspoken about the wrong things. My mother would invite these families to events just to watch them crash and burn. As a kid, I thought it was normal," Agatha groaned, her voice distant as if lost in memory.

"I used to sit at the top of the stairs and listen to my mother on the phone, coordinating these social executions... 'Did you hear about the Whitman girl?' she'd say. 'Such a shame about her... condition. Perhaps we should invite them to the garden party. Show everyone we're... supportive.'"

"Supportive like sharks are supportive of bleeding fish?"

"Exactly like that." Agatha turned to face Rio, moonlight catching the angles of her face.

"The Whitman girl had anxiety attacks. Started taking medication for it. Someone—probably one of my mother's friends—spread rumours that she was unstable, dangerous even. Within six months, the Whitmans moved to Connecticut. Last I heard, they don't attend parties anymore."

"Jesus," Rio muttered, pulling out another Marlboro but not lighting it, just rolling it between her fingers. "And your mother... she orchestrates this stuff?"

"She prefers to think of it as 'maintaining social order,'" Agatha's voice took on a precise, clipped tone that was clearly an imitation of her mother. "Everything in its proper place. Everyone knowing their role." She paused, watching Rio's hands work with the unlit cigarette.

"You smoke a lot."

"Says the girl stealing half my cigs," Rio countered, but there was no bite in her words. She finally lit the cig, the flame from her lighter briefly illuminating the shadows under her eyes.

"It's an occupational hazard. You try serving champagne to trust fund babies all night without needing a smoke break."

"I wasn't judging," she said softly. "Just observing. Like how you always roll the cig three times between your fingers before lighting it. Or how you hold the lighter with your left hand even though you're right-handed."

Rio paused mid-motion, the cigarette halfway to her lips. "You're... unusually observant."

"Another occupational hazard," Agatha mimicked Rio's earlier tone. "When you grow up in this world, you learn to notice everything. This actually leads me to ask how you knew Trevor would like Macallan 18?"

Rio's smile turned sharp in the moonlight. "Easy. Guys like Trevor are predictable. They want whatever makes them feel important and sophisticated. Macallan 18 is expensive enough to be impressive but common enough that they've heard of it. Plus," she added, taking another drag, "I saw him earlier trying to lecture Mrs. Truman about wine vintages. He clearly likes showing off his supposed expertise."

"He's insufferable. I'm glad I won't have to see much of him."

Rio's eyebrow arched at Agatha's words. "Won't have to? Did something happen to dear Trevor that I should know about?"

"Let's just say that after tonight's little scotch incident, combined with the rumours about his family's financial troubles, his social capital has dropped considerably." Agatha's lips curved into a smile that would have made Evanora proud if not for its target. "Mother's already recalculating her alliances. By tomorrow morning, the Walshes will be about as welcome at these functions as a tax auditor."

"Damn," Rio whistled low, impressed. "You're kind of terrifying, you know that?"

"I learned from the best." Agatha's smile faded slightly. "Or the worst, depending on how you look at it."

Rio glanced at her watch. "I should get back before someone notices I'm missing. Your mother has eyes everywhere, and I actually need this job."

"Right," Agatha said, suddenly remembering where they were. The bubble of their private conversation burst, reality seeping back in like cold water. "Can't have the help fraternizing with the guests. Mother would have a conniption."

"'The help,'" Rio repeated, her voice arid. "Is that what I am?"

"You know that's not what I meant," Agatha said quickly. "I just—"

"Relax, Princess. I'm messing with you." Rio straightened her uniform, smoothing out invisible wrinkles. "Will I see you around campus, or are you going to keep taking the long way to avoid Morrison Hall?"

Agatha froze, "you noticed that?"

"I notice everything too, Princess." Rio's voice was soft but carried an edge of something—hurt, maybe, or challenge.

"Like how you started taking that ridiculous detour the day after our little encounter... but don't worry, I know I'm simply too cool and way too hot to handle..."

Agatha felt the heat rise to her cheeks, grateful for the darkness that hid her ruddiness. "Don't flatter yourself, Vidal. I like the scenic route... plus I'm straight."

Rio couldn't help the laugh that escaped her throat, gravelly and understanding.

"Sure, Princess. Whatever helps you sleep at night." She took one last draw of her cigarette before crushing it under her heel. "And I'm just a humble server who happens to play guitar in abandoned buildings."

The sarcasm in Rio's voice made Agatha's spine stiffen. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing at all." Rio's smile was infuriating in its certainty. "Nothing at all. Goodbye princess, see you around."

Chapter Text

[Message Sent] Pick up your fucking phone, Agatha!

[Message Received] Madison, I told you. I'm busy.

[Message Sent] You've been "busy" for three days

[Message Received] Some of us have responsibilities beyond drunk texting our exes at 2 AM

[Message Sent] That was ONE TIME TWO YEARS AGO!

[Message Received] Four times, actually. I kept receipts.

Madison Carter had known Agatha since their first day of kindergarten when little Harkness—chestnut hair braided to perfection—marched up to her and declared that her finger-painting technique was "suboptimal," courtesy of Senator Harkness's rigorous vocabulary lessons. Sixteen years later, Madison had an advanced degree in Harkness-ology. That degree had taught her every tell, every defence mechanism—everything that made Agatha, Agatha. And right now, all of Madison's finely tuned warning systems were blaring.

Something was off. Had been since that fundraiser three nights ago.

Madison rounded the corner of Morrison Hall, too focused on her phone to notice the figure, tall and lanky and all too familiar, emerging from the shadows until—

"Shit!"

The collision sent papers spiralling into the wind like confetti, black and white posters dancing in the autumn breeze. Madison caught herself before falling, only to find herself face-to-face with Rio Vidal, whose countenance could have frozen hell over.

"Watch where you're going, Carter!"

The guitarist dropped to her knees, scrambling to gather her papers before they could escape entirely. Madison, despite her better judgment, knelt to help.

"Sorry, I was—" She stopped, catching sight of one of the flyers. "Wait, you're playing at Voltage Room?"

Rio snatched the paper from her hands. "Why don't you fuck off."

"Actually," Madison straightened, holding another cluster of posters just out of Rio's reach, "I'm glad we ran into each other; my best friend has been acting weird ever since your little run-in at the fundraiser."

Rio's jaw tightened. "I was working. We barely spoke."

"Bullshit." The ginger barked, her tone merciless. "I know about the garden. The cigarettes. The way you looked at her...She tells me everything."

"The way I—" Rio chuckled, dripping acid. "You're starting to sound obsessed, ya know. What's wrong, Madison? Afraid someone might steal your spotlight in Agatha's life?"

"Rio, you've got it all wrong."

"Do I?" She challenged, rising to her full height. "Because from where I'm standing, you look like a jealous bitch following her around campus, desperate for attention."

Madison laughed—actually laughed—which only served to aggravate Rio further.

"You know what fuck you. I don't give a shit anyway. Just give me my fucking posters."

The ginger held the posters just out of reach, studying Rio, observing as her cheeks flushed, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. It wasn't just anger colouring her features—it was something barer, more helpless, something like fear.

"Give me the fucking posters, dude," she growled, but her voice cracked slightly on the last word.

"You really care about her, don't you?" Madison's tone softened, genuine curiosity replacing her earlier antagonism.

"I don't—" Rio started, then stopped, running a frustrated hand through her hair. "This isn't any of your business."

"See, that's where you're wrong." Madison lowered the poster but didn't hand it over. "Agatha is my best friend. Has been since we were four-ish. And right now, she's spiralling."

"Because of me?" Rio gibed, but there was a touch of concern in her gaze. "We barely know each other."

"Sometimes that's all it takes." Madison sighed, "Look, I know what you're thinking. That I'm some possessive friend trying to keep Agatha in this perfect little box away from people. But you couldn't be more wrong."

"Really?" Rio's voice dripped with scepticism. "Because from where I'm standing—"

"I'm dating Alice."

Rio stumbled back, her mouth opening and closing without sound.

"Huh?"

"Six months now," Madison continued, watching realisation dawn on Rio's face. "And before you ask—yes, that Alice. Your Alice. Your drummer. Your supposed voice of reason."

"But... you're..." Rio gestured vaguely at Madison's preppy outfit, her perfectly coordinated accessories.

"A walking stereotype of conservative values?" Madison completed. "Not really... I have two moms and have been openly gay since high school; why do you think I joined the Young Conservatives group? C'mon, miss 147 IQ."

"To keep an eye on Agatha."  

It was then, between Morrison Hall and Parker Auditorium, that the realisation that she'd completely misread everything—Madison's hovering, her protectiveness, her constant presence in Agatha's life—hit her with the force of a freight train.

"What the fuck."

"I'm her only friend," Madison sighed, her voice gentler now. "I'm the only person who's seen her cry; who knows what it's like to grow up suffocating under expectations you never asked for. I watched my mom do it for years! Now, she is making seven figures and living her best gay life with my stepmom, Carol. So don't worry; I'm not trying to steal your girl... I'm just looking out for a friend."

"I'm not—" Rio started, then stopped, her usual sharp retorts failing her. "It's not like that... I don't like her like that..."

"No?" Madison raised an eyebrow, reaching down to gather the remaining flyers. "Then why are you shaking?"

Rio looked down at her hands, betrayed by their slight tremor. She shoved them into her pockets, but the damage was done. Madison had seen too much—just like she always did, apparently.

"Look, even if I did... Agatha thinks I'm annoying... or pretentious, or I don't know what, but she doesn't like me."

"You know, Agatha used to think I was annoying too."

"That's cause you are," Rio muttered, but there was less bite now. Her shoulders had loosened slightly, though her hands remained stuffed in her pockets.

Madison rolled her eyes, ignoring the comments altogether.

"My point is that although I say we've been friends for sixteen years, in actuality, we became best friends in seventh grade when I found her making herself throw up."

Rio felt the air leave her lungs. The casual way Madison had dropped that information made it worse somehow, stripped it of any cushioning that might have softened the impact.

"Fuck," she whispered, her back hitting the brick wall of Morrison Hall. "Is she—"

"Better now? Yes. Most days." Madison's voice was measured, careful. "My point is that when I found eleven-year-old Agatha in the upstairs bathroom, fingers down her throat, mascara everywhere, and she told me to fuck off." A ghost of a smile crossed Madison's face. "I didn't."

Rio slid down the wall until she sat on the concrete, the forgotten posters scattered around. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because you need to understand what you're walking into." Madison sat beside her, close enough to talk quietly but far enough to give Rio space. "Agatha isn't just some poor little rich girl rebelling against mommy. She's... she's like a Fabergé egg. Beautiful, valuable, and incredibly fragile, but also containing something even more precious inside."

"That's all nice and poetic, but do you think I have a chance? Me? A scholarship kid? A girl with two part-time jobs serving champagne and coffee... of course I don't."

Madison let out a long breath; she didn't know she'd been holding.

"You really don't get it, do you? Agatha doesn't care about your scholarship or your job!"

"She will eventually! What happens when her mother finds out? You have two moms. She has a senator mother who thinks Don't Say Gay should be re-implemented! You and Alice work because Alice is wealthy; her mother is Lorna Wu, for fucks sake. My mom works cleaning schools, and my dad was never in the picture. I work two jobs! Two fucking jobs, and I have a full ride. So, let's say I managed to land a date. Where do I take her? Some cheap Puerto Rican spot because that's all I can afford?"

Madison watched as Rio's carefully constructed walls crumbled, years of insecurity and class consciousness pouring out like water from a broken dam.

"Look, Madison, I really appreciate you trying to help, but this isn't some rom-com where love conquers all." Rio's voice fractured, her usual rasp roughened by emotion. "I've seen how these stories end in real life. My tía Elena fell for a rich white guy in college. Want to know how that ended? With her heart broken and the dude married to some investment banker's daughter."

Madison stayed quiet, letting Rio's words hang in the air. The guitarist pulled out a cigarette with trembling fingers but couldn't quite manage to light it.

"Here," Madison offered, producing a lighter from her Hermès bag. The incongruity of the moment—Madison Carter, treasurer of Young Conservatives, helping light a cigarette for Rio Vidal—might have been funny if it weren't so charged with tension.

"You know what the worst part is?" Rio took a shaky drag. "I actually like her. Not just cause she's beautiful or cause she's Senator Harkness's daughter. I like how she notices everything—like how she knew I was actually left-handed... even though I use my right hand mostly because I was forced to in school," Rio finished, taking another drag. "She noticed that. No one notices that kind of thing about me. But it doesn't matter. Because I'm just some poor Puerto Rican girl who can barely afford textbooks, I can't give her the life she deserves. Hell, I can't even afford to take her somewhere nice."

Madison watched the smoke curl from Rio's cigarette, her expression thoughtful. "You know what Agatha's favourite restaurant is?"

Rio shrugged, staring at the ground.

"This tiny Ecuadorian spot south of campus."

Rio's head snapped up, her cigarette forgotten between her fingers. "What?"

"El Rinconcito," Madison continued, a small smile playing on her lips. "It's this hole-in-the-wall place run by this sweet elderly couple. The kind of place where the menu's handwritten and the plates don't match. Agatha discovered it during finals week last year when she was hiding from her mother's impromptu campus visit."

"You're lying," Rio said, but there was a hint of hope in her voice.

"The owner, Señora Rosa, taught her how to properly eat empanadas without burning her tongue. Now Agatha goes there at least once a week," Madison continued, eyeing Rio's expressions. "So if you ever decide to take her out, maybe start there. Though I have to warn you—Señora Rosa will definitely try to feed you until you burst."

Rio's cigarette had burned down to the filter, forgotten. "I still don't understand why you're helping me. Even if what you're saying about Alice is true—"

"Oh my god," Madison groused, pulling out her phone. She quickly pulled up a photo and thrust it at Rio. "Here. This is from last month. Alice and me at my family's lake house. Notice how we're kissing? Like, full-on making out? Because we're dating. Have been for six months. Keep up."

Rio stared at the photo, her world tilting slightly on its axis. There was Alice, her supposed voice of reason, wrapped around Madison Carter like they'd been doing it for months. Which, apparently, they had.

"Why didn't she tell me?"

"I asked her not to," Madison admitted, tucking her phone away. "Your jealousy was so obvious; I've been using it as a way to prove to Agatha that you're genuinely interested in her. The way you glare at me when I'm around her, how you tense up when I touch her arm... it's been like my own personal litmus test."

Rio snorted, letting her head fall back against the wall. "You're saying you've been deliberately provoking me?"

"Yep," Madison popped the 'p' with a smirk. "And you made it so easy. Every time I'd hover around Agatha or, touch her shoulder or whisper in her ear, you'd look like you were about to spontaneously combust. It was actually kind of adorable."

"I hate you," Rio muttered.

"No, you don't. You just thought you did because you thought I was competition." Madison's voice softened. "But I'm not. I'm actually trying to help you both figure this out. Because watching you two dance around each other is getting painful."

"She's straight," Rio declared weakly, clinging to her last defence.

Madison actually snorted. "Yeah, and I'm the Queen of England. Rio, honey, Agatha's about as straight as a Slinky. And you know that! And I know you know that because you teased her about it... she told me herself."

"Okay, fine... I may have teased her about it at the fundraiser," Rio admitted, rolling another cigarette between her fingers without lighting it. "But what would we even talk about? I mean, look at us! She's the leader of the Young Conservatives club, for fucks sake, while I read Queer theory and Marxist theory and its implementations in the Black Panther party... I legit play psychedelic and indie rock! She probably likes Ronald Reagan."

"Oh my god, you really don't know her at all, do you? Agatha hates Reagan. She has a whole PowerPoint presentation about how Reaganomics destroyed the middle class. And don't even get her started on the War on Drugs."

Rio blinked, the unlit cigarette falling from her fingers. "What?"

"The Young Conservatives thing? It's all for show. Her mother's expectations. You should see her personal library—Bell Hooks, Angela Davis, Audre Lorde. She has to hide them behind her 'approved' books but trust me, your Marxist theory discussions would probably make her day."

"But she—at the meetings—"

"Have you ever actually listened to what she says at those meetings?" Madison raised an eyebrow. "The way she subtly pushes back against the more extreme viewpoints? How she always manages to steer conversations toward harm reduction and social responsibility?"

Rio thought back to the few times she'd passed by the Young Conservatives' meetings, how she'd deliberately avoided paying attention because she couldn't bear to hear Agatha spouting right-wing talking points. Had she missed something?

"Last month," Madison continued, "she gave a whole presentation on 'fiscal responsibility' that was basically a stealth argument for universal healthcare. Half the room didn't even realise what she'd done. The other half agree with her but also have Evanora Harkness-shaped shadows looming over their trust funds," Madison finished, drinking Rio's stunned expression with barely concealed amusement.

"So you're telling me..." Rio picked up her fallen cigarette, twirling it between her fingers like a nervous conductor's baton, "that Agatha Harkness, golden girl of Harrington, secretly reads radical theory and smuggles progressive politics into Young Conservative meetings?"

"While maintaining a perfect GPA and attending every soul-crushing fundraiser, her mother throws? Yes." Madison's smile turned softer, almost proud. "She's kind of brilliant at it, actually. You should see her work a room—dropping these little ideological breadcrumbs, making people question their assumptions without ever realising she's the one planting the seeds of doubt."

Rio let her head fall back against the brick wall anew, closing her eyes as her world recalibrated for the second time in twenty minutes. "Fuck."

"Indeed," Madison agreed, checking her phone and quickly typing something. "Look, you're going to invite her to the concert. She'll probably say no at first - that's just her defence mechanism kicking in. But she'll tell me about it later, and I'll work my magic."

Rio's expression darkened. "I don't want to manipulate her."

"It's not manipulation," Madison sighed, pocketing her phone. "It's simple encouragement. Plus, I was already going to support Alice..."

"It's not that simple," Rio protested, but her resolve was already weakening. "Even if everything you're saying is true—"

"Which it is."

"How do I approach her... like I can't just show up where she is... that would be creepy."

"I got that covered. Agatha's going to be in Blackwell Science Center in about twenty minutes. She thinks she's meeting me to study for Professor Martinez's final."

Rio's eyes narrowed. "But you're not going to be there."

"Got a date with my girlfriend," Madison grinned, the words carrying a hint of pride. "Unless, of course, someone else happens to be there. Someone who might need help understanding..." she glanced at her phone, "the influence of Beethoven on modern composition?"

Rio felt her cheeks heat. "That paper was due last week."

"Was it?" Madison's innocence was far too practised to be real. "My mistake. Guess you'll have to find something else to talk about." She started walking away, then turned back. "Oh, and Rio?"

"What?"

"Agatha takes her coffee black with—"

"Two sugars," she finished automatically, then cursed under her breath as Madison's smile turned triumphant.

"You know," Madison called over her shoulder, "for someone who claims not to care, you're terrible at hiding your smile right now."

Rio touched her lips, realising with horror that she was, in fact, smiling.

"I hate you."

"Nope, you thought you did because you assumed I was in love with your crush." Madison's eyebrows waggled suggestively. "But, I have a type. And luckily, a very hot drummer girlfriend who, by the way, thinks you're being ridiculous about this whole situation."

"Alice talks about me?"

"Alice talks about everything. Especially when she's..." Madison paused almost sweetly, "fucking me with her strap."

"Gross, I did not need that mental image."

"Consider it payback for all the pining I've had to witness." Madison rechecked her phone one last time. 

"You have eighteen minutes, Vidal. Don't waste them."

Chapter Text

Rio checked her phone again: seventeen minutes. Just enough time to grab coffee and make it look casual, like she just happened to be passing by. She'd accounted for every variable—the precise number of steps from Morrison Hall to Blackwell (347), the average wait time at The Daily Grind during mid-afternoon lull (3.2 minutes), even the likelihood of running into faculty members who might stop her for small talk (12% chance, based on historical data).

What she hadn't accounted for was the weather.

The first drop hit her nose just as she reached for the coffee shop door. Then another. And another. Within seconds, the lazy afternoon had transformed into a deluge, rain sheeting down from clouds that had materialized seemingly out of nowhere. Students around her scrambled for cover, pulling bags and textbooks over their heads, while others smugly deployed their umbrellas.

Rio had neither. Her umbrella was in someone else's possession, victim to her distraction during last week's visit—when Agatha had walked in wearing that cream-coloured sweater that made her look like she'd stepped out of a Ralph Lauren ad.

"Fuck," she muttered, pushing through the door as lightning crackled overhead. The bell chimed with inappropriate glee, announcing her arrival to the mercifully empty café.

"The usual?" Jake, the barista, asked before she could even reach the counter. His eyebrows rose slightly at her dampened state, but he was too professional—or too tired—to comment.

"No, actually." Rio ran a hand through her hair, droplets scattering across the worn wooden floor.

"I need two. One regular black with two sugars, and..." She trailed off, realizing she was about to order her usual triple shot that would probably make her even more jittery than she already was.

"And?" Jake prompted, Sharpie poised over the second cup.

"Just make it the same," she decided. At least if she was going to make a fool of herself, she'd do it without caffeine-enhanced anxiety.

The barista nodded, but something in his expression made Rio want to crawl under the counter and hide. "Two black coffees with two sugars each. For...?"

"Rio," she said quickly, then added, "Both for Rio."

"Both for Rio. Right."

She checked her phone again as Jake worked the espresso machine. Thirteen minutes. Still, enough time, assuming the rain let up. Although, given her luck today...

"You know," Jake said, carefully fitting lids onto both cups, "we've got some paper bags in the back. Not exactly umbrella-grade protection, but better than nothing."

Rio glanced outside. The rain had somehow intensified, turning the world beyond the windows into an impressionistic blur.

"It's fine; how much do I owe you?"

"Seven fifty," Jake said, but he was already waving away the crumpled ten-dollar bill Rio pulled from her back pocket. "On the house today."

"Jake—"

"Consider it my contribution to whatever's about to happen." He smiled, genuine this time. "You've been coming here for what, two years? Never once ordered for someone else."

Rio felt heat crawl up her neck despite the chill of her rain-soaked clothes. "It's not—"

"Besides," he continued, already turning to wipe down the espresso machine, "you're def going to need that money for dry cleaning that bomber jacket. Leather and rain aren't exactly best friends." He nodded at her oversized brown sweater and leather jacket combo.

She glanced down at herself, really seeing her outfit for the first time since Madison's ambush. The oversized brown sweater under her leather bomber jacket was already showing dark patches where the rain had soaked through. Her wide-leg black trousers, usually giving her that perfect vintage-inspired silhouette, now clung awkwardly to her legs. At least her worn-in Doc Martens could handle the water—they'd survived worse than a bit of rain.

"Fuck it," she sighed, grabbing both cups. "Thanks, Jake."

The bell chimed again as she pushed back into the downpour. The rain immediately assaulted her from all angles, somehow managing to find every gap in her clothing. She cradled the coffee cups against her chest, using her body as a shield, and started running. Ten minutes.

Eight minutes.

Her boots splashed through puddles as she darted between buildings, trying to use the architecture for cover. The coffee cups were still warm against her chest, but she could feel water seeping through her sweater, making the fabric heavy and very cold.

Seven minutes.

A group of students with umbrellas blocked the path ahead. Rio considered her options: wait for them to move (estimated delay: 45 seconds) or cut across the grass (risk factor: slipping and destroying both coffees). She chose the grass.

Six minutes.

Her foot slid in the mud, and she barely caught herself, heart hammering as she stabilized the coffee cups. The rain was relentless now, turning the world into a blur of grey shapes and indistinct voices. She could barely make out Blackwell's imposing silhouette ahead.

Five minutes.

The steps to Blackwell's entrance might as well have been a mountain. Rio took them two at a time, ignoring the way her boots squeaked against the marble. A professor emerged from the double doors, and Rio had to execute an awkward sideways shuffle to avoid collision.

Four minutes.

The warmth of the building hit her like a wall, making her suddenly aware of just how drenched she was. Water dripped from her hair, her clothes, creating a small puddle where she stood.

The coffee cups, at least, had survived mostly unscathed.

Three minutes.

She caught her reflection in a darkened classroom window and almost dropped the coffees again. Her carefully applied eyeliner had smudged, giving her raccoon eyes. Her sweater, usually a warm brown, now looked almost black from where it had been soaked. The leather jacket was definitely going to need professional help.

Two minutes.

Third floor. Rio's boots squeaked with every step, announcing her presence in the eerily quiet hallway. A janitor gave her a disapproving look as she passed, eyeing the trail of water she was leaving behind.

One minute.

Room 312. Rio could see it at the end of the hall, its door slightly ajar. Light spilt out into the corridor, creating a golden rectangle on the floor. She could hear movement inside—someone shifting in a chair, the soft rustle of pages turning.

Zero minutes.

Rio stood frozen outside the door, coffee cups cooling in her hands, heart thundering in her chest. She was here. On time, technically, but looking like she'd just gone swimming fully clothed. What had seemed like a brilliant plan fifteen minutes ago now felt monumentally stupid.

"You're dripping on the marble."

Rio's heart stopped. She knew that voice—precise, controlled, with just a hint of amusement underneath. Slowly, she turned.

Agatha stood in the doorway, one eyebrow raised as she took in Rio's bedraggled state. Her cream cashmere sweater seemed to glow in the fluorescent lighting, making the guitarist acutely aware of every drop of water sliding down her own neck.

"I brought coffee," Rio managed, holding up the cups like a peace offering. Her voice came out raspier than usual, though whether from nerves or rain, she couldn't tell.

"So I see." Agatha's eyes travelled from the coffee cups to Rio's face, then down to the growing puddle beneath her boots.

"Though I wasn't aware coffee delivery required swimming to the destination."

"The forecast didn't mention a monsoon."

Rio shifted her weight, boots squeaking traitorously against the floor.

"Madison's not coming, is she?" Agatha asked, though she already knew the answer.

"No," Rio admitted, trying to maintain eye contact despite water dripping into her eyes. "She's probably with Alice right now."

"I know she's with Alice, Rio. I'm not stupid." Agatha's voice carried that familiar edge of control, but there was something else there, too – something softer, more uncertain. "The question is, why are you here?"

"Coincidence?"

The woman's laugh echoed in the empty hallway, sharp and crystalline. "Really? A coincidence? That's what you're going with?"

The musician winced. Even soaking wet and shivering, she could recognize a tactical error when she made one.

"Okay, not a coincidence."

"Then what?" Agatha crossed her arms, but Rio noticed she hadn't moved away from the doorway. Hadn't closed the door in her face. Small victories.

"I..." she started, then stopped, suddenly aware of how the coffee cups were trembling in her hands.

"I brought coffee?"

"You mentioned that." Agatha's voice softened almost imperceptibly. "Black with—"

"Two sugars," they said in unison.

Something flickered across the brunette's face – surprise, maybe, or recognition. She uncrossed her arms, one hand reaching out as if to take one of the cups, then stopping halfway.

"You remembered."

"I remember everything about you," Rio said, then immediately wished she could sink through the marble floor. "I mean—not in a creepy way... God, I should just go. This was stupid—"

She turned to leave, but Agatha's hand shot out, catching her wrist. The touch was electric, sending a jolt through Rio's rain-chilled skin.

"Wait." Agatha's voice was barely above a whisper. "You're shivering."

Rio looked down at where Agatha's fingers circled her wrist, pale against her darker skin. Water dripped from her sleeve onto Agatha's perfect manicure.

"I'm fine," she managed through chattering teeth.

"You're not fine. You're soaked and probably catching pneumonia as we speak." Agatha released her wrist and disappeared into the classroom, returning moments later with what appeared to be a cashmere cardigan. "Here."

"I can't—that looks expensive."

"It is." Agatha held the cardigan out anyway.

"But unlike some people, I checked the weather app this morning and brought a spare."

Rio hesitated, still holding the coffee cups like lifelines. "If I drip on it—"

"Then my mother's black card will survive replacing it." Agatha's tone brooked no argument.

"Plus, it's not your fault you fell victim to the freshmen and their underground umbrella trafficking ring."

"The what?"

"You haven't heard?" Agatha's lips curved into that dangerous half-smile Rio was beginning to live for.

"The freshmen have been stealing umbrellas from the lost and found, then reselling them during rainstorms. Five dollars for a basic model, ten for anything designer. They're making a killing."

"That's where my umbrella went?" Rio groaned, remembering the black collapsible she'd left behind last week.

"Probably being resold as we speak."

Agatha set the cardigan on a nearby chair and stepped forward, taking both coffee cups from Rio's trembling hands.

"Though I have to admire their entrepreneurial spirit. It's basically a weather-dependent pyramid scheme."

"You sound almost impressed," Rio said, watching as Agatha set the coffees down on a desk.

"Let's just say I appreciate creative problem-solving." Agatha picked up the cardigan again and held it out. "Now, are you going to keep dripping on the floor, or are you going to let me help you?"

There was something in her tone – a gentleness that Rio had never heard before – that made resistance impossible. With a resigned sigh, she shrugged off her soaked leather jacket, wincing at the way it clung to her sweater.

"That's definitely going to need professional help," Agatha observed, eyeing the water-darkened leather.

"Jake already warned me." Rio attempted to peel off her sweater, but it stuck to her skin, refusing to cooperate. "Fuck."

"Here." the brunette stepped closer – close enough that Rio could smell her perfume, something expensive and subtle that made her head spin. "Let me."

Her fingers found the hem of Rio's sweater, carefully working it free. Rio held her breath as Agatha's knuckles brushed against her stomach, leaving trails of fire against her skin.

"Arms up," Agatha commanded softly.

Rio complied, trying desperately to ignore how intimate this felt – Agatha Harkness helping her out of her wet clothes in an empty classroom, rain drumming against the windows like a makeshift soundtrack.

The sweater finally came free, leaving Rio standing in just her black tank top. She crossed her arms instinctively, suddenly aware of how exposed she was, how exposed she felt.

"You have tattoos," Agatha observed, her eyes tracing the intricate designs that decorated Rio's arms. Her voice carried no judgment, only curiosity.

"Yeah," the musician breathed, resisting the urge to cover them. Small, delicate pieces scattered across her skin like a personal gallery - a flock of birds taking flight across her shoulder blade, simple line drawings and text adorning her arms, each one looking like it had its own story to tell. Some appeared newer than others, patches of black ink mixed with hints of red, creating a chronicle of moments etched into her skin.

"My friend does them. She's apprenticing at—"

"Las flores en el campo," Agatha read, her finger hovering over the script that wound around Rio's left wrist. Her pronunciation was careful, precise. "The flowers in the field?"

Rio's breath caught. "You speak Spanish?"

"Badly," Agatha admitted, still studying the tattoo. "I'm better at French and Mandarin."

"French and Mandarin," Rio echoed, trying to ignore how Agatha's fingers still hovered near her wrist. "Let me guess - your mother's idea?"

"Mother believes in being 'globally competitive,'" the woman replied, her voice taking on that precise, mockingly formal tone she used when quoting Evanora. "Though I suspect it has more to do with impressing diplomats at fundraisers than actual cultural appreciation."

Rio watched as Agatha's eyes continued to trace the lines of her tattoos, lingering on a small musical note behind her ear, barely visible through her wet hair.

"And Spanish?"

"Self-taught," Agatha admitted, finally stepping back and holding out the cardigan. "Mother doesn't approve. Says it's not... sophisticated enough for someone of my position."

"Of course she does," Rio muttered, slipping her arms into the impossibly soft cardigan. It smelled like Agatha - that subtle, expensive perfume mixed with something warmer, more personal.

"Can't have the senator's daughter speaking the language of the help."

Agatha's expression hardened for a moment, then softened into something almost sad.

"You know, that's exactly what she said when she caught me practising with our housekeeper." She moved to perch on the edge of a desk, her perfect posture at odds with the casual position. "I was twelve. Mirna had been teaching me secretly for months. Mother fired her the next day."

"Jesus, " Rio breathed, forgetting her own discomfort. "That's..."

"Why are you here?"

Rio shifted under Agatha's direct question, the borrowed cardigan suddenly feeling both too warm and not warm enough. The truth hovered on her tongue: Because I can't stop thinking about you. Because you notice things no one else does. Because you're nothing like what I thought and everything I can't have.

Instead, she reached for one of the cooling coffee cups, buying time with a long sip. "Madison told me some things."

"Of course she did." Agatha's voice carried a hint of resignation. "My best friend, the self-appointed matchmaker."

Rio nearly choked. "That's not—I mean, she didn't—"

"Please," Agatha cut her off, but there was something gentle in her tone. "Madison's about as subtle as a brick through a window. Plus, I saw your little heart-to-heart outside Morrison Hall."

"You were watching?" Rio managed, crimson heat creeping to her cheeks.

"My PoliSci seminar has a perfect view of that corner," Agatha replied, her voice carefully neutral. "I saw you drop your posters. Saw Madison help you pick them up. Saw how long you two talked. Honestly, it wasn't hard putting two and two together," Agatha finished, picking up her own coffee cup.

"Especially since Madison's been pushing me to 'broaden my social circle' lately."

Rio shifted uncomfortably, water still dripping from her hair onto the borrowed cardigan. "Did you... hear anything?"

"From the third floor? No." Agatha took a careful sip of her coffee. "Though judging by how red your face got at one point, I'm guessing Madison shared some... personal information."

"You could say that," Rio muttered. "So, um... I should go..."

"You should go," Agatha agreed but made no move to get up from her perch on the desk.

"After all, you're dripping on a hundred-year-old marble floor, wearing my spare cardigan, all because Madison Carter decided to play matchmaker." She paused, taking another sip of coffee.

"I'll dry clean it."

"With what? Your catering money?" The words could have been cruel, but Agatha's tone held something else, something oddly assuasive. "Or perhaps your coffee shop tips?"

"I can afford dry cleaning," Rio bristled, her pride flaring despite her shivering. "I'm not completely destitute."

"No," Agatha agreed, setting down her coffee cup with deliberate care. "You're just a scholarship student who works two jobs, plays guitar in abandoned buildings, and apparently runs through rainstorms to bring me coffee."

She stood, closing the distance between them with measured steps. "The question is: why?"

Rio felt her back hit the wall, though she couldn't remember stepping backwards. Agatha was close now – close enough that Rio could see the flecks of gold in her eyes, could smell the mint on her breath. So fucking close.

"I told you," Rio managed. "Madison—"

"Madison told you things," Agatha finished. "Yes, you mentioned that. But Madison tells lots of people lots of things. That doesn't explain why you're here, looking like a drowned rat in designer cashmere, bringing me perfectly prepared coffee."

Rio swallowed hard; Agatha's proximity made it difficult to think straight.

"Would you believe me if I said I was just being friendly?"

"No. You want to ask me something, and I have a feeling it has nothing to do with being friendly," Agatha said, her voice dropping lower. "So why don't you stop dancing around it and just ask?"

Rio felt her heart hammering against her ribs. This was stupid, too stupid for a genius like her. But she'd come this far...

"Come to my show," she blurted out. "At Voltage Room. This Friday. I mean, if you want to. No pressure. I know it's not really your scene, and your mother would probably hate it, and—"

"Yes."

"—I totally understand if you don't want to be seen with someone who—wait, what?"

"Yes," Agatha repeated, more firmly this time. "I'll come to your show."

Rio blinked incredulously. "Just like that?"

"Just like that."

"Wait, are you saying yes to make me feel better, or are you fucking with me?"

Agatha smiled, that same smile that made Rio's stomach do backflips. "Do I strike you as someone who says things just to make people feel better?"

"No," Rio admitted, trying to ignore how her wet jeans were sticking uncomfortably to her legs. "But you also don't strike me as someone who frequents punk shows at dive bars."

"Maybe that's because you don't know me as well as you think you do," she replied, reaching out to brush a drop of water from Rio's cheek. "I contain multitudes."

"Did you just quote Walt Whitman at me?" Rio asked, her voice catching slightly as Agatha's fingers lingered near her face.

"See? Multitudes." Agatha's smile turned playful, a rare expression that transformed her entire face. "Though I suspect you're more of a Ginsberg fan."

"How did you—"

"The copy of 'Howl' poking out of your guitar case last week. Very on-brand for you, by the way." Agatha stepped back, creating space that felt both necessary and painful. "What time is the show?"

Rio tried to gather her scattered thoughts, still reeling from Agatha's casual display of literary knowledge. "Nine. But you really don't have to—"

"Nine, it is." Agatha picked up her coffee cup again, taking a deliberate sip.

"Though I should warn you if my mother finds out I'm attending a punk show at a place called 'Voltage Room,' she'll probably have the building condemned."

"She can do that?"

"Oh, absolutely. She had my favourite bookstore shut down last year because they displayed LGBTQ+ literature in the front window." Something dark flickered across Agatha's face. "Called it 'aggressive moral decay' in the official complaint."

"That's so fucked up."

"That's politics," Agatha corrected, though her tone suggested she agreed. "But fortunately, Mother will be in Washington this weekend. Something about a fundraiser for 'traditional family values.'" The air quotes were audible in her voice.

"So you're... sneaking out? " Rio couldn't help the note of admiration that crept into her own voice.

"Please," Agatha scoffed, but her eyes danced with amusement. "I'm twenty years old. I don't sneak. I simply... exercise my right to independent social engagement while maintaining plausible deniability about the specific nature of said engagements."

"That's a fancy way of saying sneaking out."

"That's a fancy way of saying 'what Mother doesn't know won't hurt her,'" Agatha corrected. She glanced at her watch.

"Now, as much as I'm enjoying watching you drip on historical architecture, I have a meeting with Professor Wright in twenty minutes."

"Right," Rio said quickly, pushing off from the wall. "I should go. Thanks for the, um..." She gestured vaguely at the borrowed cardigan.

"Keep it," Agatha said, gathering her books with efficient movements. " Or you can return it on Friday. Assuming you survive the freshman umbrella cartel long enough to make it to your own show."

Rio laughed, the sound echoing in the empty classroom. "I'll do my best. Though, if I disappear mysteriously, check the lost and found. I might have been traded for a designer umbrella."

"I'll keep that in mind." Agatha paused at the door, looking back over her shoulder. "Oh, and Rio?"

"Yeah?"

"Next time you want to ask me something, you don't need to use Madison as an excuse. Or get yourself drenched. You can just... ask."

Chapter Text

There was something deliciously rebellious about the way the needle pierced her skin—each prick a tiny act of defiance, sharp and clean and clarifying. The tattoo artist, a woman with kaleidoscope hair and knowing eyes that had probably witnessed countless acts of rebellion like this one, worked in comfortable silence. Agatha appreciated that.

She'd had enough words today.

"Almost done," the artist spoke, wiping away excess ink with the gentleness of someone who understood that this wasn't just about the tattoo.

"You're sure about the placement?"

Agatha simply nodded, watching in the mirror as two delicate stars took shape on her hip—right where they could hide beneath even her mother's most rigorous wardrobe inspections, a secret written in ink and skin. Like the Alexander McQueen dress currently nestled in tissue paper at her feet, all burgundy lace and dangerous promises, both whispered of possibilities that would make Evanora's perfectly maintained smile crack at the edges.

The past six hours felt like a fever dream. After leaving Rio (still dripping, still wearing her cardigan) in that classroom, Agatha had done something unprecedented— she'd skipped her meeting with Professor Wright. Instead, she'd found herself behind the wheel of her car, muscle memory guiding her downtown while her mind replayed every moment of their encounter in high definition: Rio standing there, soaked to the bone, holding coffee like an offering. The way water dripped from her hair onto her skin decorated with ink. How her voice had caught, just slightly , when Agatha's fingers brushed against her cheek. The memory of her voice—raspy, uncertain, and somehow perfect —had followed Agatha through three different boutiques as she searched for something that felt right . Not perfect— she was tired of perfect. She wanted right . The kind of right that made her pulse quicken and her skin flush. The kind of right that felt like Rio's fingers trembling around coffee cups meant for her.

She'd found it in the fourth store: a dress that somehow managed to be elegant and slightly dangerous, like a sonnet written in switchblade script. The exact kind of dress one would wear to a punk show at a place called Voltage Room, especially if one happened to be watching a particular guitarist with tattoos and a voice like honey over gravel.

"There," the artist said, applying a final protective layer to Agatha's newly decorated skin. "What do you think?"

Agatha studied her reflection. The stars were simple but precise, like something sketched in the margins of an old astronomy notebook—celestial bodies rendered in permanent ink. They looked... inevitable . Like they'd always been there, waiting to be discovered, just like certain feelings she'd been trying desperately not to name.

"It's perfect," she breathed, then added with a mix of dread and exhilaration, "My mother's going to disown me."

The artist laughed, a warm, understanding sound that suggested she'd heard similar declarations before. "Honey, at your age, that's how you know you're doing something right ."

Three hours and several circuits of the city later—because going home would have made this real, would have required acknowledging exactly why she'd gotten tattooed and bought a dress that cost more than most people's rent—Agatha stood outside her apartment door. Shopping bags cut into her fingers as she listened to Madison's distinctive laugh mingle with the sounds of late-night television. She'd hoped— prayed , really—that her best friend would be at Alice's. It seemed a reasonable assumption, given that Alice's place had become Madison's second home lately.

But Madison was, unfortunately , home.

She managed to slip inside without immediate detection, feeling rather proud of her stealth until—because the universe had a twisted sense of humour—her shopping bags collided with the kitchen counter in a symphony of crinkling plastic.

"Not so fast, Harkness." Madison's voice carried that particular blend of amusement and accusation that only best friends could achieve.

"Did you go shopping without me? Breaking the sacred covenant? That's grounds for impeachment from the friendship, you know."

Agatha froze, caught between the desire to flee to her room and the knowledge that Madison would absolutely follow her. There was no escape—not from this, not from the questions that would follow, not from the wise look she could already feel boring into her back.

"I can explain," she started, though even to her own ears, the words sounded weak. "Today just sort of... happened."

Madison muted Gordon Ramsay mid-tirade and leaned forward, her expression shifting from playful accusation to genuine curiosity.

"Today just 'happened,' huh? Would this 'happening' have anything to do with a certain guitarist showing up at Blackwell with coffee?"

"Don't act so coy, Madison. You engineered that entire situation."

"I created an opportunity ," Madison corrected, patting the couch beside her. "What you did with it was entirely your choice. Though I have to say, skipping office hours with Wright? That's very un-Agatha of you." She smirked. "And before you freak out, she emailed me concerned, and don't worry, I covered for you."

"Thank you, and to be honest, everything about today has been very un-Agatha of me," she admitted, sinking onto the couch. "I have to show you something... but I swear to God, if you freak out, I will tell Alice about the karaoke incident."

Madison's eyes widened. "You wouldn't dare. We swore never to speak of that night."

"Try me." Agatha's fingers played nervously with the hem of her shirt. "Just... remember to breathe, okay?"

With deliberate slowness, she lifted the edge of her shirt, revealing the fresh tattoo. The two delicate stars seemed to shimmer under the apartment's warm lighting, still slightly raised and tender around the edges. Madison's sharp intake of breath was followed by several beats of absolute silence—the kind of stillness that felt like standing on the edge of a cliff.

" Holy shit ," Madison finally whispered, leaning closer to inspect the artwork. " Holy. Fucking. Shit. Agatha Harkness got a tattoo. The world really is ending."

"It's not that dramatic—"

"You, who once had a panic attack because your manicure was a shade darker than your mother's approved colour palette, just got permanently inked." Madison's voice rose with each word. "This is absolutely that dramatic. This is DefCon 1 dramatic. This is—wait." Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "This isn't just about the tattoo, is it?"

Agatha bit her lip, then reached for the largest shopping bag. "Remember how I said breathing was important?"

The Alexander McQueen dress emerged from its tissue paper cocoon like a dark butterfly, all dangerous grace and precise rebellion.

Madison's hands flew to her mouth.

"You didn't."

"I did."

"For Friday?"

"Maybe."

"For Rio ?"

Agatha's silence was answer enough.

Madison fell back against the couch cushions, one hand pressed dramatically to her forehead. "My little conservative princess, all grown up and buying fuck-me dresses for punk rock shows. I'm so proud I might cry."

"It's not a—what you called it," Agatha protested, but her laughter betrayed her. "It's elegant ."

" Elegantly dangerous ," Madison corrected, running her fingers over the lace. "How much did this particular revolution cost?"

"Three thousand," Agatha groaned, watching Madison's fingers trace the intricate patterns. "Give or take a few hundred."

Madison whistled low. "Your mother's going to—"

"Kill me? Yes, I'm counting on it." Agatha carefully lifted the dress, letting it catch the light. "Though technically, it's an investment piece. Very versatile. Perfect for charity galas, political functions..." She paused, a smile playing at her lips. "and punk shows at questionably legal venues."

"You know," Madison said, studying her friend's face with the kind of attention that came from years of reading between Agatha's carefully constructed lines, "when I orchestrated that little coffee encounter, I was hoping for maybe a phone number exchange. Some light flirting. Instead, you've staged a full-on mutiny– tattoos, designer dresses, skipping meetings..."

"I prefer to think of it as 'efficient escalation,'" Agatha replied, but her fingers betrayed her nervousness as they smoothed invisible wrinkles from the dress. "Besides, you're the one who's been pushing me to 'live a little.'"

"True, but I was thinking more along the lines of trying a new coffee shop, not getting permanent body modifications and buying dresses that cost more than most people's monthly rent." Madison paused, her expression softening. "Not that I'm complaining. It's just... what changed? This morning, you were still taking the long way around campus to avoid her, and now..."

Agatha was quiet for a long moment, absently touching the spot where her new tattoo sat beneath her clothing. "She remembered how I take my coffee," she finally said, her voice barely above a whisper. "She ran through the rain and ruined her leather jacket just to bring me coffee exactly how I like it. And when I helped her out of that wet sweater—"

"I'm sorry, you did what now?"

"Not like that," Agatha rasped, heat pooling at the base of her throat.

"She was soaked, shivering. I even lent her my cardigan. But when I helped her... I saw her tattoos. And I thought about how every mark was a choice she made, a moment she decided to keep forever." She traced one of the stars.

"I wanted that. Just once, I wanted to make a choice that was entirely mine."

Madison reached out, squeezing her friend's hand. "And the dress?"

"The dress..." Agatha's smile turned slightly wicked, "The dress is because if I'm finally being honest about who I am, about being gay..." She paused, the words hanging in the air like delicate crystals, "Then I might as well look devastating while doing it."

Madison's eyes welled with tears, her usual witty demeanour cracking. She launched herself at Agatha, wrapping her in a fierce hug that nearly sent them both tumbling off the couch.

"Why are you crying?" The brunette asked softly, holding her friend close.

"Because I've been waiting six years for you to say those words," Madison managed through sobs. "And I'm honoured to be here for this moment. I'm so incredibly proud of you."

Agatha felt her own eyes growing damp. The weight of what she'd just said—of finally speaking her truth out loud—hit her all at once. She'd known Madison would support her; she never questioned that, but the depth of her friend's emotional response made something tight in her chest finally begin to unwind.

"I'm sorry it took me so long," Agatha cried, her usual perfect composure cracking. "I've known for years, but saying it... making it real ..."

"Hey, no ," the ginger pulled back just enough to look at her friend's face, keeping her hands on Agatha's shoulders. "Don't apologize. Not for this. Never for this. You came out when you were ready, and that's exactly when you should have."

"I like her so much , Mads," Agatha finally confessed, her voice thick with emotion. "And it's not just physical attraction—though God knows that's overwhelming enough. It's... everything . She's so infuriatingly brilliant. I've known her for barely a month, and I catch myself wanting to debate Judith Butler with her at 3 AM. Who does that? Who fantasizes about academic discussions?" She ran a hand through her hair, a rare gesture of frustration.

"Every time I see her, I need more of her. When she's not near, I think about her stupid smirk, that raspy voice, and the way she plays guitar. And her hands. .."

"You've got it bad, babe. Like, catastrophically bad." Madison laughed, wiping her eyes.

"I know," The brunette groaned, falling back against the couch cushions. "And the worst part is, I can't even pretend it's just some passing phase anymore. Not after today . Not after seeing her standing there all soaked, looking like some indie movie dream with her stupid perfect face and those tattoos..."

"The face that launched a thousand dollars in designer rebellion," Madison taunted, gesturing at the McQueen dress still draped across their laps.

"Three thousand," Agatha corrected automatically, then buried her face in her hands.

"Oh God, I spent three thousand dollars on a dress to impress a girl who probably thinks capitalism is a disease."

"To be fair, she's not wrong about capitalism," Madison pointed out. "But I don't think Rio's the type to judge someone for having money. She judges people for how they use it."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" Agatha peeked through her fingers. "Because I just dropped three grand on a dress while she works two jobs to afford textbooks."

"No, what's supposed to make you feel better is that she literally stood in the rain for you. Girls don't do that unless they're seriously interested." Madison paused, her expression turning thoughtful. "Though I have to ask – what made you choose stars?"

Agatha's hand drifted to her hip again. Her voice softened, taking on a quality Madison had never heard before—something raw and honest and almost helpless.

"This is going to sound very gay," she began, "but when I was helping Rio with her sweater, I looked out the window at the rain, and there was this moment—just a split second—where the water on the glass made everything blur like stars. And Rio was standing there, with all her tattoos, telling these beautiful stories, and I thought about how stars are really just ancient stories written in light. So, I wanted my first story to be about this moment. About finally seeing things clearly, even when everything else is a freaking blur."

Madison made a slight sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

"That's not just very gay, honey. That's transcendentally gay. That's poetry-writing, acoustic-guitar-learning, U-Haul-renting levels of gay."

"I know," Agatha groaned, but her smile remained. "But here's the really pathetic part— these stars aren't just about today. They're about her. About how she just... appeared, like some kind of cosmic accident that felt anything but accidental."

"Oh, sweetie," Madison pulled her friend into another hug. "You've got it worse than I thought. You're not just crushing on her—you're full-on sapphic yearning ."

"Is it that obvious?"

"You got permanent body art and bought a dress that costs three thousand dollars, all because she brought you coffee in the rain. Yeah, it's pretty obvious. But you know what? It looks good on you—this honesty. It's like watching you finally breathe after holding your breath for years."

Agatha leaned into her friend's embrace, letting out a shaky breath. "I'm terrified, Mads. Not just of my mother finding out or of what this means for my future in politics. I'm terrified because, for the first time in my life, I want something— someone —more than I want to be perfect."

Madison pulled back, studying Agatha's face with the kind of scrutiny usually reserved for Renaissance paintings.

"You know what the really beautiful thing is? That's exactly how it should feel. Being perfect is exhausting. Being yourself?" She gestured at the tattoo, the dress, the general beautiful chaos of the moment. "That's freedom."

"Freedom comes with a price tag, apparently," Agatha said dryly, but her fingers kept tracing the outline of her hidden stars.

"Speaking of price tags," Madison's eyes sparkled with sudden mischief, "please tell me you bought appropriate shoes to go with that dress. Because if you show up to Voltage Room in Louboutins, Rio might actually combust ."

Agatha's laugh echoed through their apartment, bright and genuine.

"I may have spent an additional hour at Alexander Wang." She reached for another shopping bag, pulling out a pair of combat boots that somehow managed to look both elegant and rebellious. "These seemed... appropriate."

" Oh my god ," Madison breathed, reaching for the boots with reverent hands. "They're perfect. They're absolutely perfect. You're going to destroy her."

"That's not—" Agatha started, then stopped, a blush creeping up her neck. "I just want to look... right . For the venue."

"Honey, in that dress and these boots, you're going to look right for any venue." Madison paused, her expression turning serious. "But you know what this means, don't you?"

"That I've officially lost my mind?"

"No," Madison set the boots aside. "It means you need to practice walking in them before Friday. And," she added with a growing smile, "it means we need to figure out what you're going to do with your hair."

Agatha touched her perfectly styled waves self-consciously. "What's wrong with my hair?"

"Nothing's wrong with it. It's just very... senator's daughter. And while that works for your daily life, you're about to enter Rio's world. We need something that says, 'Yes, I could debate constitutional law in my sleep, but I also know every word to at least one Patti Smith song.'"

"Bold of you to assume I don't already know every word to 'Because the Night,'" Agatha chuckled, then immediately clapped a hand over her mouth as Madison's eyes widened in delight.

"Agatha. Elizabeth. Harkness ." Each word was punctuated with growing glee. "Have you been secretly listening to punk rock?"

"It's research ," Agatha defended weakly. "I wanted to understand the genre before Friday. That's all."

" Research ," Madison repeated, her grin threatening to split her face. "Right. And I suppose the Sleater-Kinney album I saw in your Spotify playlist last week was also 'research'?"

"You know what?" Agatha stood abruptly, gathering her shopping bags. "I think it's time for bed. Some of us have an 8 AM constitutional law seminar tomorrow."

"Oh no, you don't," Madison caught her wrist. "We are not done here. Not even close. Sit your perfectly manicured ass back down and tell me exactly how long you've been 'researching' punk rock."

Agatha sank back onto the couch with a sigh of defeat. "Remember when you made that playlist for the Pride Society fundraiser last semester?"

"The one you said was 'too aggressive' for polite company?"

"I may have... borrowed it. For personal study."

Madison's squeal of delight probably violated several noise ordinances.

"You've been secretly punk this whole time ! I knew it! I knew there was no way someone could quote that much Audre Lorde and not have at least a little anarchist in their soul."

"I am not 'secretly punk,'" Agatha protested, but her lips twitched with suppressed amusement. "I just... appreciate the artistry. The raw honesty of it. The way it takes everything polite society tries to silence and turns it into something beautiful and loud."

"Kind of like getting tattoos and buying fuck-me dresses?"

"Madison! Stop calling it that," Agatha scolded. "It's an Alexander McQueen. It deserves respect ."

"Fine, your ' elegantly dangerous statement piece of sartorial rebellion ,'" Madison amended with a dramatic flourish.

"But can we talk about how you went from colour-coordinated cardigans to combat boots in less than six hours? Because that's character development worthy of a Netflix series."

"I suppose I've just been... waiting. For something. Or someone." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "When Rio showed up today, looking at me like I was worth getting drenched for... something clicked . Like all these pieces of myself I've been hiding, just decided they were tired of waiting."

"And they decided to announce themselves with designer combat boots?"

"They decided to stop pretending ," Agatha corrected softly. "You know what the really insane part is? When I was in that tattoo shop, lying there letting a stranger permanently mark my skin, I felt more like myself than I have in years of perfect posture and approved wardrobes."

Madison's expression softened. "That's because it was your choice. Not your mother's, not your campaign manager's, not some focus group's idea of what a future senator should look like. Just you, choosing yourself."

"Yes, well," Agatha stood, gathering her purchases with careful hands, "let's hope that choice doesn't result in complete social and political suicide."

"Please," Madison scoffed. "If anyone can make combat boots look senatorial, it's you." She paused, her smile turning thoughtful. "Though I have to ask – are you ready for Friday? Really ready?"

Agatha stopped at the threshold of her bedroom, the McQueen dress draped over her arm like a banner of revolution.

"No," she admitted, then smiled – a real smile, bright and dangerous and alive . "But you'll be there, and Rio will be playing, and for once in my life, I want to be exactly where I'm not supposed to be," Agatha finished. "Besides, I've already committed several beautiful little crimes; what's one more in the grand scheme of things."

Madison pushed off from the doorframe. "You should get some sleep. Tomorrow's going to be a long day of pretending those stars aren't burning under your clothes."

"They already are ," Agatha conceded. "Do you think she'll..."

"Show up at your office hours again?" Madison finished. "God, I hope not. I don't think the marble floors could survive another drowning." She stepped forward, adjusting the dress's lace with sisterly care. "But I think Friday's going to be worth every penny of that dress and every pinprick of those stars."

Agatha nodded, then disappeared into her room. Only when the door clicked shut did she allow herself to really breathe , letting the day's weight settle around her shoulders. She hung the dress carefully, positioning it where she could see it from her bed—a reminder that today hadn't been a dream, that tomorrow she'd wake up with stars on her skin and possibility in her veins.

Her phone buzzed, and for a moment, her heart stopped, thinking somehow her mother had developed psychic abilities. But the text was from an unknown number, though the message quickly explained its origin:

I got your number from Alice (who got it from Madison, who says, "You're welcome"). Your cardigan smells like you. Is that creepy to say? Probably creepy. Definitely creepy. I'll wash it before Friday. - R

Another buzz:

Also, thanks for not calling campus security when I showed up looking like a sewer rat. That would've been awkward to explain to my scholarship board.

Agatha found herself beaming at her phone, fingers hovering over the keys. From the living room, she could hear Madison turning the TV back on, Gordon Ramsay's muffled shouting providing a strange soundtrack to this moment.

She thought about perfect posture and approved wardrobes, about rain-soaked guitar players and coffee cups. About stars hidden beneath designer skirts and the way certain choices felt like coming home to yourself.

Her fingers moved across the screen:

Keep it. The cardigan, I mean. It looks better on you, anyway.

She hit send before she could overthink it, then added:

And Rio? Thank you.

Almost immediately, three dots appeared on her screen. Agatha watched them dance, her heart doing a similar rhythm against her ribs. Finally:

For what?

She touched the spot where her new tattoo sat beneath silk pyjamas for the last time:

For giving me a reason to be brave.

The three dots appeared and disappeared several times as if Rio was writing and rewriting her response:

You were already brave. I just gave you an excuse to show it.

Agatha smiled, settling onto her bed and carefully, she typed:

Well then, thank you for the excuse. But next time, check the weather forecast first.

Rio's response was immediate:

Next time? Someone's confident.

Agatha's fingers moved across the screen without hesitation:

Someone's STILL wearing my cardigan.

She could almost hear Rio's laugh through the phone. After a moment:

Touché, Harkness. Get some sleep. Those office hours you skipped today? Pretty sure they're still happening tomorrow.

Agatha froze, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. She hadn't told Rio about skipping office hours; hell, she hadn't told anyone. Unless...

"Madison!" she called out, not even trying to keep the accusation from her voice.

Her best friend's head appeared around the doorframe, wearing an expression of calculated innocence that fooled exactly no one. "Yes, Sugar plum?"

"How exactly did Rio know I skipped office hours?"

Madison sauntered into the room, flopping onto Agatha's bed with practised dramatics.

"Would you believe me if I said it was a... lucky guess?"

" No. "

"Fine," Madison sighed, rolling onto her side to face her friend. "I may have texted her. Just a casual 'hey, thanks for making my best friend skip academic obligations for the first time in her life, that's kind of hot' sort of thing."

" Madison! "

"What? I'm invested!" She propped herself up on an elbow, grinning. "Besides, she needed to know the impact she's having. For science."

Agatha threw a pillow at her friend's head but couldn't quite suppress her smile. "You're impossible."

"I prefer the term 'effectively meddlesome,'" Madison caught the pillow with ease. "And you love me for it."

"I can't believe I'm about to say this," the brunette started, then took a deep breath, "but thank you. For meddling."

" Oh my God , say it again! Let me record it this time—"

" Out ," Agatha pointed to the door, laughing despite herself. "Before I change my mind about the thank you."

Madison bounced off the bed but paused at the door. "For what it's worth," she said softly, "this version of you? The one with stars and rebellion in her smile? She's always been there."

After Madison left, Agatha picked up her phone one last time:

Goodnight, Rio. Try not to drown any more leather jackets between now and Friday.

She saved Rio's number under a simple name: ★R★.

The stars in her contact list matched the ones now permanently etched into her skin—twin reminders of a day that had started with rain and ended with revolution. Small choices, beautiful little crimes, adding up to something that felt dangerously like liberation.

Outside her window, the real stars were emerging from behind the day's storm clouds. Agatha sighed, and for the first time in years, she fell asleep without checking tomorrow's schedule.

She dreamed of coffee cups and combat boots, of tattoo needles and guitar strings, of a voice like honey over gravel, saying her name in the rain.

She dreamed of Friday .

She dreamed of Rio.

Chapter Text

Rio's fingers hovered over her phone, the screen stubbornly blank, with no new notifications beyond Alice's reminder about tonight's practice and her mom's daily check-in text with its characteristic mix of Spanish and English.

Nothing from her.

And after forty-eight hours of near-constant texting, the silence felt deafening.

"Probably just busy," Rio groaned, sliding the phone back into her pocket and reaching for her well-worn Gibson instead.

The Voltage Room's basement practice room wasn't much to look at—water-stained ceiling tiles, mismatched furniture rescued from various curbs across the city, and walls covered in years of band posters and graffiti. But the acoustics were decent, and the rent was free as long as they kept playing regular gigs upstairs. So Rio settled onto the threadbare couch, guitar cradled in her lap, fingers automatically finding the calluses that marked her as someone who belonged here, in this world of music and worn-out furniture, not in the rarefied air of Agatha's political science seminars and cashmere cardigans.

Rio closed her eyes, the instrument's weight against her body more comforting than any words could be. She'd spent the day waiting—hours of checking her phone every five minutes, of crafting and deleting draft messages, of obsessing over whether she'd somehow ruined everything by being too eager, too honest, too much. Hours of wondering if Agatha had finally remembered all the reasons why someone like her shouldn't be texting someone like Rio.

After their encounter in the rain-soaked classroom, something had shifted between them. The impossible had suddenly seemed possible. And that was the most terrifying part—how quickly Rio had let herself believe in something she'd spent her entire life knowing she couldn't have. The text messages had started innocently enough—Rio thanking Agatha for the cardigan, Agatha asking about the show on Friday. But somehow, between the first "good morning," they'd slipped into something deeper—discussions about literature, about music, about the tiny rebellions that kept them both sane in worlds that demanded perfection. Agatha had sent a photo of her morning coffee with "thinking of you" as a caption, and Rio had spent twenty minutes staring at it like it contained the secrets of the universe.

And now, silence.

The notes came unbidden, her fingers finding a minor chord that echoed the hollow feeling in her chest. The song had been forming in fragments since their first meeting—a melody here, a lyric there, all centring around the strange, impossible feeling of wanting someone who existed in a world completely separate from her own.

She played softly at first, just letting the music flow without trying to shape it. Each chord progression followed its own logic, building something both melancholic and hopeful. She hadn't written it down yet, hadn't shared it with the band. It felt too personal, too revealing—like showing someone an open wound and saying, "This is where it hurts, right here."

"Designer smiles and practised grace," she sang quietly, "Your mother's hopes locked in your face."

She thought about Agatha's perfect posture, how she held herself with such precise control, and how something wild and genuine lived just beneath that careful surface.

"I know I'm not what they'd choose," the words came easier now, flowing with the melody, "Just a girl with nothing left to lose."

The volume built with her confidence, the basement's acoustics carrying her voice in almost confessional ways. She didn't hear the basement door open, didn't register the footsteps on the stairs. She was somewhere else—somewhere with rain against windows and, the scent of expensive perfume and the impossible feeling of Agatha's fingers brushing against her skin.

"Let them talk, let them stare," she sang, her voice breaking slightly on the high note, "I'll love you through this perfect nightmare. Your castle walls can't keep me out when your eyes are screaming doubt."

"Damn, Vidal," Wanda's voice cut through the moment like a knife, "if you're going to write breakup songs, at least wait until after you've actually dated her."

Rio's hands jerked across the strings, producing a discordant sound reverberating through the basement. She turned to find Wanda, Lilia, and Alice watching her from the bottom of the stairs, their expressions ranging from amusement to concern. Behind them, Jen struggled with an armful of band posters, trying to navigate around the impromptu audience.

"Jesus Christ," Rio muttered, swinging her guitar around to her back in a single practised motion. "Maybe announce yourselves next time?"

"In a practice room? During scheduled practice time?" Wanda smirked, crossing to her bass case. "Wild concept, I know."

"That was beautiful, Rio," Lilia said, her voice gentle as she claimed the ancient armchair in the corner. Unlike Wanda, who wielded sarcasm like a scalpel, Lilia had always approached Rio with a kind of maternal understanding. "Is it new?"

"It's nothing," Rio replied too quickly, heat crawling up her neck. "Just messing around."

"That didn't sound like 'nothing,'" Alice observed, settling behind her drum kit. "That sounded suspiciously like something about a certain someone whose name rhymes with Schmatha Schmarkness."

Rio glared at her. "I thought we agreed you wouldn't mention that."

"I didn't mention anything," The drummer grinned, twirling a drumstick between her fingers. "I merely made a phonetic observation."

Wanda's head snapped up from where she was tuning her bass, her eyes narrowing. "Wait, you knew? About whatever this is?" She gestured vaguely toward Rio. "And you didn't tell me?"

"Some of us respect the concept of confidentiality," Alice replied primly.

"That's rich coming from Madison Carter's girlfriend," Rio muttered.

"Speaking of," Wanda continued, her focus laser-sharp now, "Madison Carter, who happens to be best friends with Agatha Harkness. Agatha Harkness, who is the subject of whatever musical cry for help we just witnessed..."

"It wasn't a cry for help," Rio protested weakly.

"I'll love you through this perfect nightmare?" Wanda quoted with theatrical precision. "That's textbook emotional crisis material, Vidal."

"You're reading too much into it."

"Am I? Because from where I'm standing, you've been glued to your phone for the past few days, you've been disappearing between classes, and now you're writing sad girl anthems in our basement."

"I think it's romantic," Jen offered, finally freeing herself from the stack of posters. "In a tortured artist kind of way."

"It's pathetic, is what it is," Wanda scoffed, but there was no real malice in her tone. "Pining after Senator Harkness's daughter like some character in a lesbian coming-of-age novel."

Rio's phone vibrated in her pocket—once, twice, three times in rapid succession. The entire band fell silent, watching as Rio's hand froze halfway to her pocket.

"Well?" Wanda prompted. "Aren't you going to check that?"

Rio swallowed, suddenly paralyzed by the possibility of what might be waiting. "It's probably just my mom."

"Your mom doesn't triple-text you," Alice pointed out gently. "Check it, Rio."

With a reluctance that belied her desperation to know, Rio pulled out her phone. Agatha's name lit up the screen along with the preview of a message too long to read without unlocking.

"It's her," she whispered, thumb hovering over the screen.

"Open it," Lilia encouraged. "Before Wanda explodes from anticipation."

Rio hesitated, then looked up at her bandmates. "Can I... have a minute?"

Something in her expression must have communicated her vulnerability because even Wanda nodded, her usual sharp edges softening.

"Take five," Alice said, standing up. "We'll go grab coffee."

"All of us? I promise, Vidal, it'll be like I'm not even here!" Wanda begged, but Alice was already herding everyone toward the stairs.

"Yes, all of us. Come on, drama queen—I'll buy you a muffin."

"I better get the full story when we get back!" Wanda called over her shoulder as Alice physically pushed her up the stairs. "With details!"

Rio waited until their footsteps faded before unlocking her phone with trembling fingers. This was it—the inevitable "thanks but no thanks" that would end whatever fantasy she'd been nurturing.

Rio - I am SO sorry for disappearing today. I feel terrible, and I want you to know I wasn't ghosting you or anything like that. My phone died during my morning class, and I couldn't find my charger ANYWHERE (it turns out Madison "borrowed" it and forgot to tell me). And to make things worse, I was so excited about your Friday concert that I completely forgot to do my morning tapping ritual.

Rio found herself smiling as she read, the knot in her chest loosening with each word.

You know, I always tap everything in pairs before starting my day, and when I don't, everything goes wrong. Which it definitely did. My mother scheduled this surprise conference call with her campaign team that I HAD to sit in on (because apparently, I need to learn firsthand how to manipulate public opinion)—and it lasted for FIVE HOURS. FIVE. I swear I wanted to jump out the window around hour three when they were debating the merits of navy blue vs. royal blue for campaign signage. Like, who FUCKING CARES!

Rio's laugh echoed in the empty basement, genuine and relieved.

Anyway, by the time I escaped, I had to rush to this dinner thing with my advisor and then when I FINALLY got home and found my charger (in Madison's sock drawer of all places??), I realized you might think I was ignoring you, which is the absolute LAST thing I would ever do. And I know I'm rambling, but I was worried that the COOLEST guitarist I know would think I was ghosting her! WHICH I AM NOT!

Rio leaned back against the worn couch, clutching the phone to her chest for a moment. Coolest guitarist. The simple compliment shouldn't have affected her so much, but coming from Agatha—who had probably met actual famous musicians at her mother's fundraisers—it felt like winning a Grammy.

The message continued:

Also, MAJOR update: I've been re-reading that Allen Ginsberg poem you mentioned—the one you said reminds you of your first time playing on stage. You have such good taste. It made me like you even more than before... So... do you still like me? Because I really, really like you, and I would hate to think that one day of technical difficulties ruined everything.

Rio read the final lines three times, making sure she wasn't hallucinating. I really, really like you. The words sent a jolt through her system, like touching a live wire. She hadn't imagined it. Whatever was happening between them was real—real enough for Agatha to admit it in writing, to make herself vulnerable in ways that must have been terrifying for someone raised to never show weakness.

She started typing a response, then deleted it. Tried again, deleted again. How could she possibly convey what she was feeling in a text message? That the day of silence had been excruciating, that she'd been writing songs, consciously or not, about Agatha since their first meeting, that she'd been sleeping with Agatha's cardigan like some lovesick teenager?

Finally, she settled on simplicity:

I still really like you. And it's not weird at all. I'm nervous, too. But the good kind of nervous. Like before, something important happens.

She hit send before she could overthink it, then stared at the screen, watching the message status change from "Delivered" to "Read." The response came almost immediately:

Exactly like that. The good kind of nervous. The kind that feels like stars... in your stomach.

Rio's breath caught. Stars in your stomach. The phrase resonated with her, reminding her of those moments on stage when everything aligned perfectly—when the music flowed through her like electricity, when the audience became part of the circuit when the world narrowed to just that perfect moment of connection.

She was still staring at the message when the basement door banged open, and Wanda's voice filled the space:

"Time's up, lovebird! Spill or I start making up my own version, and trust me, mine will be way more scandalous."

Rio looked up to find all four of her bandmates descending the stairs, carrying coffee cups and expectant expressions.

"She wasn't ghosting me," Rio said, a smile breaking across her face. "Her phone died, and then she got stuck in meetings all day."

"Of course, she wasn't ghosting you," Alice replied, handing Rio a coffee cup. "Madison told me Agatha's been insufferable—checking her phone every five minutes, talking about your show on Friday like it's the Second Coming."

"Wait," Wanda interrupted, looking between them. "You've been getting insider information this whole time?"

Alice shrugged. "Perks of dating the best friend."

"And you didn't think to share this with the class?" Wanda demanded, hands on hips.

"It wasn't my story to tell," Alice said simply, settling behind her drums.

Wanda turned her attention back to Rio. "So? What else did she say? I need details, Vidal. My entertainment for the week depends on it."

Rio hesitated, but the warmth spreading through her chest made it impossible to maintain her usual defensive posture.

"She said she's been reading Allen Ginsberg because I mentioned him. And that she really likes me. And she asked if I still like her."

"And?" Lilia prompted gently.

"And I said yes, obviously."

"Not obviously," Alice corrected. "You've spent the day convinced she was regretting ever meeting you. What changed?"

Rio looked down at her phone, at Agatha's words still lighting up the screen. "She said she's nervous. The good kind of nervous."

"And?" Wanda pressed, clearly expecting more.

"And that's it." Rio tucked the phone back into her pocket, its weight somehow lighter now. "We're figuring it out."

"Figuring what out?" Jen asked, arranging the posters on a milk crate. "Whether you'll wear the leather jacket or the denim one when you meet her parents?"

"Whether we're... whatever we are," Rio replied, unable to articulate the nebulous, fragile thing growing between her and Agatha. "Friends. More than friends. I don't know yet."

"You're writing songs about her," Wanda pointed out flatly. "That's not 'friends' territory, Vidal. That's U-Haul territory."

"It's one song," Rio protested. "And it's not even finished."

"It sounded pretty finished to me," Lilia observed. "And quite beautiful, actually. Have you thought about adding it to our set for Friday?"

Rio froze. "No. Absolutely not. It's not—it's not ready."

"Not ready, or not ready for her to hear it?" Alice asked perceptively.

"Both. Neither. I don't know." Rio ran a hand through her hair, suddenly feeling exposed. "It's personal, alright? It's not like our usual stuff."

"That's exactly why it works," Wanda said, surprising Rio with her serious tone. "Look, we've been playing the same angsty indie rock shit for two years. This—" she gestured toward Rio's guitar, "—this has actual feeling behind it. It's vulnerable. It's real."

"It's embarrassing, is what it is," Rio muttered.

"It's brave," Lilia corrected. "And it's good, Rio. Really good."

"What if she hates it?" The question escaped before Rio could stop it, revealing the fear that had been lurking beneath her hesitation.

"Then she has terrible taste in music, and you should dump her," Wanda replied promptly.

"We're not even dating."

"Yet," Alice added. "Not dating yet."

Rio's phone buzzed again. She pulled it out to find another message from Agatha:

Just confirming that your show starts at 9 on Friday? Madison says we should arrive early if we want a decent spot near the stage. Also, is there anything I should know that Madison might have "forgotten" to mention?

A laugh bubbled up from Rio's chest. Of course, Agatha would be concerned about what Madison might have left out—probably the sticky floors or the perpetually broken bathroom door in the women's restroom.

"What's so funny?" Jen asked, peering over.

"She's worried about what Madison hasn't told her about the Voltage Room."

"Tell her about the bathroom situation," Wanda suggested with a wicked grin. "She should be prepared for that disaster."

"Yeah, I should probably mention that," Rio replied, already typing a response.

Yes, 9PM. Arrive by 8:30 if you want a good spot. The only thing Madison probably didn't mention is that the bathroom door doesn't lock properly, so you might want her to stand guard. And it gets hot with everyone packed in there.

She hit send, then immediately cringed at her choice of words. It gets hot with everyone packed in there sounded like an innuendo she hadn't intended. Before she could clarify, Agatha's response arrived:

Hot, hm? Guess I'll dress accordingly. Looking forward to it. 💫

The star emoji made Rio's heart skip. She stared at it, remembering Agatha's words: The kind that feels like stars in your stomach. Was it a coincidence or something more intentional?

"Earth to Rio," Wanda's voice broke through her reverie. "We came here to practice, remember? Unless you'd rather spend the next two hours texting your girlfriend."

"She's not my girlfriend," Rio replied automatically, but the protest lacked conviction.

"Yet," the entire band chorused, making Rio laugh despite herself.

She set her phone aside and picked up her guitar again, the weight of it reassuring against her body. The song—Agatha's song—still lingered in her fingers, but for the first time since she'd started writing it, it didn't feel like a confession of something hopeless. Now, it felt like a possibility, like the first notes of something that might actually have a chance to be played all the way through.

"So," she said, looking around at her bandmates, "about the setlist for Friday..."

Wanda's eyebrows shot up. "Are you saying what I think you're saying?"

Rio took a deep breath. "The new song. We should play it."

"The one we just heard?" Lilia clarified.

"Yeah. 'Perfect Nightmare.'" The title felt right on her tongue, bridging the gap between the fear and the hope that characterized everything about her feelings for Agatha.

"Last song before the encore," Wanda decided immediately. "End with a bang."

"Or a confession," Jen added with a smile.

"Same thing, in this case," Alice observed, adjusting her drumsticks.

Rio's phone lit up with one more message from Agatha:

Remember to get some sleep, Vidal. You've got a big show coming up. Only 48 hours until I see you on stage. (Not that I'm counting or anything.)

Rio smiled and typed back:

Right back at ya, Harkness. And keep your charger close.

She set the phone face-down on the amp beside her and positioned her fingers on the fretboard, ready to share the song—her song—properly this time.

"Alright, from the top. I'll play it through once so you can get a feel for it, then we'll break it down."

As the first notes filled the basement, Rio closed her eyes, letting the music speak what words couldn't—about impossible meetings in abandoned buildings, about coffee brought through rainstorms, about cardigan loans and all the tiny rebellions that led them here, to a song about a perfect nightmare that felt, somehow, like the beginning of a dream coming true.

"Designer smiles and practised grace," she sang, her voice steadier now, stronger, "Your mother's hopes locked in your face."

The band listened silently, but Rio could feel them leaning in, catching the melody, understanding the story. This was what music had always been for her—a way to say the things she couldn't otherwise articulate, a language more honest than speech.

"Let them talk, let them stare," the chorus built beneath her fingers, "I'll love you through this perfect nightmare. Your castle walls can't keep me out when your eyes are screaming doubt."

But for the first time since writing those lyrics, Rio wondered if they were still true. Maybe, just maybe, the things they could never be were fewer than she'd thought. Maybe there was room for something real, something possible, between a scholarship student with callused fingers and a senator's daughter who counted stars.

As the song reached its end, Rio let the final chord linger, vibrating in the basement's oddly perfect acoustics. When she opened her eyes, she found her bandmates watching her with expressions that ranged from Wanda's calculating excitement to Lilia's gentle pride.

"Well?" she asked, the question hanging in the air.

"We're fucking playing it," Wanda declared, settling her bass strap over her shoulder. "We have to play it!"

"I agree," Lilia nodded. "It's beautiful, Rio. And honest."

"It's the gayest thing I've ever heard," Jen added with a grin. "And I've heard Wanda's Melissa Etheridge phase."

"We do not speak of that," Wanda hissed, but she was smiling too.

Alice just caught Rio's eye and nodded once, a simple gesture that somehow conveyed everything—understanding, support, and perhaps a touch of "I told you so."

"Okay then," Rio said, the decision settling into her bones with surprising rightness. "Let's work it out."

For the next two hours, they built the song together—Wanda adding a bassline that anchored the melody, Alice finding the perfect rhythm to drive it forward, Lilia suggesting harmony points that made Rio's simple verses soar. By the time they finished, "Perfect Nightmare" had transformed from a private confession into something powerful, something meant to be heard.

As they packed up their instruments, Wanda nudged Rio's shoulder. "So, you ready for Friday?"

"No," Rio admitted, zipping her guitar into its case. "Not even close."

"Good," Wanda replied with surprising gentleness. "The ready ones never make history."

Rio checked her phone one last time before leaving. No new messages, but Agatha's star emoji still glowed on the screen—a tiny constellation of possibility.

Forty-eight hours. Two days until she'd stand on stage and sing words written for a girl who existed in a world completely separate from her own yet somehow kept finding ways to bridge the gap. Two days to perfect a song that laid bare every fear and hope she'd been carrying since she first heard Agatha claim to have a gun in her designer purse.

Rio smiled, running her fingers over the worn edges of her guitar case. For the first time in longer than she could remember, the future didn't feel like something to guard against or prepare for—it felt like something to embrace, with all its beautiful uncertainty.

Finally, the stars were aligning, and Rio was ready to play.

Chapter Text

The wind whipped through Agatha's hair, rushing past her ears in a chaos of sound that almost—but not quite—drowned out Madison's convertible speakers. The night air tasted like freedom, like possibility, like the kind of reckless abandon Agatha had spent twenty years of her life carefully avoiding.

She glanced at her reflection in the side mirror—her makeup was immaculate, of course (some habits couldn't be broken even in revolt), but there was something different in her eyes tonight. Something wild and unfamiliar that both thrilled and terrified her.

"Holy shit," Madison shouted over the music as she blew through a yellow light turning red.

"Who are you, and what have you done with my best friend?"

Agatha laughed, the sound torn from her throat and scattered behind them on the asphalt. Three shots of tequila thrummed in her veins, not enough to make her drunk—she was too careful for that—but just enough to blur the edges of her usual caution.

"I've always been here," she called back, raising her arms above her head in a gesture of surrender to the night, to the music, to the version of herself she'd kept locked away for so long. "You're just seeing me without the Senator's filter for once, Mads."

Madison shot her a quick glance, eyebrows raised in delighted surprise.

"Damn, tequila-Agatha is philosophical. And kinda hot, not gonna lie."

"Eyes on the road, Carter!" she yelled, turning up the volume on her carefully curated playlist. Siouxsie and the Banshees filled the night air, Siouxsie Sioux's distinctive voice belting out "The Passenger" while Agatha and Madison sang along, their voices a messy, joyful accompaniment.

"I am the passenger, and I ride, and I ride..."

Madison took a corner too fast, the tyres squealing in protest. At twenty-one, Madison had perfected the art of calculated recklessness—knowing exactly how far to push the boundaries without actually breaking anything important. At twenty, Agatha was still learning, still testing the limits of who she could be when she wasn't being Senator Harkness's perfect daughter.

"Fucking hell, Aggie!" Madison crowed as the song shifted to Violent Femmes' "Kiss Off," the punk-folk anthem that had been Agatha's secret obsession for days. "I've never seen you this...uninhibited."

"Must be the alcohol," Agatha shrugged, but the smile playing at her lips suggested something else entirely.

"Or it could be the guitarist you're about to see perform," the redhead teased, hitting the accelerator with more enthusiasm than skill. "The one who's had you checking your phone every two minutes for a week."

"Maybe both."

She hadn't told Madison about the texts she and Rio had exchanged just hours earlier. The last one from Rio still burned in her memory:

Can't wait to see you tonight. I might be a disaster on stage knowing you're watching.

The vulnerability in those words had made Agatha's heart skip and had been the catalyst for the tequila shots lined up on their kitchen counter—liquid courage for a night that felt heavy with potential.

"I hope you know that this will go down on your permanent record..." they screamed along with Gordon Gano, Madison's hands leaving the wheel to drum against the dashboard during the emphatic "one, one, one 'cause you left me..."

The convertible ate up the miles, carrying them closer to Voltage Room, closer to Rio, closer to whatever awaited them in the pulsing heart of a Friday night that felt different from any that had come before.

"What if she doesn't like the dress?" Agatha blurted suddenly, the question that had been nagging at her all evening finally escaping into the night air.

Madison actually took her eyes off the road long enough to give Agatha an incredulous look.

"Are you kidding me? You look like sex on legs in that dress. Rio's going to take one look at you and forget how to play guitar."

"That's not what I want!" Agatha protested, though the thought sent a pleasant warmth just beneath her belly. "What if it's too much? Too obvious?"

"That's exactly what you want," Madison laughed, swerving to avoid a stray cat crossing the road.

"And obvious is good! You've been playing this cat-and-mouse game for weeks. Time to show your cards, Harkness."

Agatha fell silent, fingering the soft lace of her dress. Madison was right—she'd chosen this outfit precisely because it was a statement, a declaration of intent. Gone was the girl who matched her cardigans to her mother's approved colour palette. Tonight, she was someone new—someone with stars on her skin and desire in her heart.

"Besides," Madison added, her voice gentler now, "Rio already likes you. The real you, not the outfit. Though I guarantee she's going to appreciate the packaging."

"Madison Carter, when did you get so wise about relationships?"

"When I stopped pretending I didn't want Alice," Madison replied simply. "Best decision I ever made."

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________

"ID, please," the bouncer grumbled, blocking the entrance to Voltage Room with a body that could have doubled as a brick wall.

Madison flashed her legitimate ID while Agatha slipped her exceptionally well-crafted fake from her clutch. The bouncer glanced at Madison's, nodded, then looked at Agatha's. His eyes travelled from the card to her face and back again, recognition dawning in his expression.

"You're kidding me, right?" He let out a low chuckle. "You expect me to believe that Senator Harkness's daughter is trying to sneak into my bar with a fake ID?"

Agatha felt Madison tense beside her, ready to deploy backup plans, excuses, possibly even bribes. But something in Agatha—perhaps the tequila, perhaps the memory of Rio's fingers trembling around coffee cups meant for her—decided on a different approach.

"Well," she smiled, channelling her mother's political precision while deliberately shedding her inflexion, "I suppose we could debate the wisdom of a venue refusing entry to a young woman with access to both social media and a mother who sits on the committee that oversees alcohol licensing regulations. But really, wouldn't that be terribly tedious for everyone involved?"

The bouncer stared at her for a long moment, then threw his head back and laughed.

"Fuck, you really are her daughter." He stepped aside. "Go on in. But if anyone asks, I scrutinized the hell out of that ID and was completely convinced."

"Naturally," Agatha agreed, her smile all teeth and triumph. "I wouldn't dream of suggesting otherwise."

Madison clutched her hand as they entered, squeezing it in a silent mixture of admiration and amusement. "Did you really threaten a bouncer using your mother's political tactics?"

"I merely suggested a mutually beneficial course of action," Agatha replied primly, her eyes widening at the scene before them.

Voltage Room pulsed with life—bodies packed together in the dim red light, the air thick with anticipation and the faint scent of spilt beer. String lights crisscrossed the ceiling, casting a warm glow over the crowd that seemed to move as a single organism. The room was industrial in design, all exposed brick and high ceilings, but there was something intimate about it, too—as if the hundreds of people gathered here shared a secret the outside world couldn't possibly understand.

"I need a drink," Agatha breathed; the Alexander McQueen dress suddenly feeling both too much and not enough for this space. The burgundy lace clung to her skin, already damp from the heat of so many bodies packed together. The combat boots were perfect, though, grounding her even as the energy of the room threatened to sweep her away.

She felt eyes on her as they moved through the crowd—curious glances, appreciative stares, a few double-takes from people who most likely recognized her. It wasn't unusual for Agatha to be noticed; anonymity had never been an option between her mother's political career and her own campus prominence. But these looks felt different—less about who she was supposed to be and more about who she chose to be tonight.

"Two vodka cranberries!" Madison called to the bartender, who nodded and reached for glasses.

"And two double whiskey sours," Agatha added.

"I've created a monster," Madison laughed, passing over cash for the drinks. "A very well-dressed, Whiskey-sipping monster."

Agatha accepted both whiskey sours, taking a long sip from one and closing her eyes as the burn traced down her throat. The tequila from earlier had created a pleasant warmth in her veins, but she needed this edge now—something to steady her nerves, to quiet the voice in her head that sounded suspiciously like her mother.

What would Evanora say if she could see you now?

The thought came unbidden, and Agatha forced it away. Tonight wasn't about her mother. Tonight was about the music about to start, the guitarist who had somehow crashed through her carefully constructed defences.

"You okay?" Madison asked, her voice rising above the ambient noise of the crowd.

"I'm perfect. Absolutely perfect. And more importantly, I'm me."

Madison clinked her glass against Agatha's. "To being you. Finally."

They'd barely collected their drinks when a tall, muscular figure materialized beside them.

"You're with Midnight Rapture?" he asked, his voice surprisingly gentle for someone built like a linebacker.

"Yes," Madison confirmed, clearly recognizing the routine. "I'm Alice's girlfriend, and this is—"

"This way, please," he interrupted, gesturing toward a slightly elevated area near the stage. "The band set aside VIP space."

Agatha hesitated, but Madison's hand at the small of her back urged her forward. "It's okay," she whispered.

"This is normal. Alice always makes sure we have good spots."

The VIP section was small but offered an unobstructed view of the stage. A few people were already gathered there, including a tall man with striking features who immediately hugged Madison.

"Vision!" Madison laughed. "I didn't know you'd be here."

"Wouldn't miss it," he replied with a warm smile. "Especially since Wanda mentioned Rio's written something new."

Madison's eyes gleamed with conspiratorial knowledge. "Oh, she has," she assured him before turning to Agatha. "Aggie, this is Vision, Wanda's boyfriend. And that's Alec," she added, gesturing to a handsome trans man nearby. "And this is Jen," she continued, introducing a woman with a bald head and bright, eclectic clothing. "She does all the band's graphic design and merch."

"Agatha Harkness," she introduced herself, extending her hand in a polished manner sixteen years of etiquette classes had ingrained in her.

"The Senator's daughter," Vision nodded, recognition dawning. "And head of the Honor Council, right?"

Heat crept up Agatha's neck that had nothing to do with the close quarters of the club. "That's me," she confirmed, taking a larger sip of her whiskey than she'd intended.

"Rio talks about you all the time," Alec volunteered, his smile warm and open. "It's nice to finally meet the girl who's been driving her crazy."

"She does?"

"God, yes," Vision chuckled. "According to Wanda, it's all 'Agatha said this' and 'Agatha likes that.' They apparently have a bet on how many times she'll mention you during soundcheck... but to be honest, at first, I thought you were made up—this perfect, untouchable girl from another world. But then Wanda showed me a photo of you at that fundraiser."

"Fundraiser?"

"The catering gig," Vision explained. "According to Wanda, Rio managed to snag a photo of you from the official event photographer. It's her lock screen now, though I probably shouldn't be telling you that."

Agatha wasn't listening anymore. Rio had a photo of her as a lock screen?

"I promise we're not always this embarrassing," Alec offered apologetically. "But we've all been rooting for this to happen for the past... five days."

"I don't mind," Agatha replied honestly, finishing her first whiskey sour and starting on the second. "It's... nice. To be around people who just say what they mean."

Further introductions were cut short as the house lights dimmed and a roar went up from the crowd. Agatha's breath caught in her throat as four figures took the stage, silhouetted against blue and purple lights. She recognized Alice first, settling behind her drums with casual authority. Then Wanda adjusted the strap of her bass. Lilia moved stage right behind her keyboard.

And then there was Rio.

She strode to centre stage with a confidence that made Agatha's mouth go dry, her Gibson slung low across her hips. The stage lights caught on her—illuminating dark, tousled hair, and casting dramatic shadows across the sharp planes of her face. She wore a dark brown leather jacket over a black crop top that revealed a tantalizing strip of skin above low-waisted jeans. A thin black belt. A simple silver chain around her neck. Chunky black boots that somehow managed to make her already impressive height more imposing.

But the strip of exposed skin at her midriff captured and held Agatha's attention—specifically, the faint trail of dark hair that disappeared beneath her waistband. That small, intimate detail—so unexpectedly, brazenly sensual—sent a jolt of electricity straight through Agatha's body, igniting something primal and hungry in the pit of her stomach.

Time seemed to slow, the room narrowing to just that sliver of exposed skin. Agatha had seen attractive people before, had even experienced the flutter of desire, but this—this was something else entirely. This was a visceral reaction that bypassed her careful rationality and spoke directly to something buried deep within her. A part of herself she'd denied for so long that its sudden awakening left her dizzy.

She tried to look away, to compose herself, but her eyes kept returning to that line of dark hair, to the way Rio's hips moved as she adjusted her stance, to the firm, tattooed arms that Agatha suddenly wanted wrapped around her.

"Oh my god," Agatha moaned, unable to tear her eyes away from that small but devastating detail. Her heart hammered against her ribs, blood rushing to her face as she stared, transfixed by something she'd never given much thought to before but now couldn't stop thinking about.

"Jesus, Aggie, get it together, you disaster lesbian," Madison whispered in her ear, laughter colouring her words. "Seriously, pick your jaw off the floor before Rio notices...you're practically drooling."

But it was too late. Rio's eyes scanned the crowd and locked onto Agatha's with laser precision as if she'd been searching for her specifically. The moment their gazes connected, Agatha felt another jolt—this one more emotional than physical. Because in Rio's eyes was the same hunger, the same need, the same desperate wanting that Agatha felt coursing through her own body.

A slow, dangerous smile curved Rio's lips, and she winked—a gesture somehow both casual and deeply intimate—before turning to address the audience.

Agatha's legs felt suddenly unsteady, and she gripped Madison's arm for support. "I'm in trouble," she whispered, the words barely audible over the crowd's roar.

"The best kind of trouble," Madison replied, squeezing her hand reassuringly. "The kind that makes you...wet."

"Good evening, Voltage Room!"

Lilia's voice carried through the speakers, rich and confident. "We are Midnight Rapture, and we're so fucking happy to be here with you tonight!"

The crowd roared its approval, bodies pressing closer to the stage. Agatha swayed slightly, whether from the alcohol or the overwhelming sensory experience; she couldn't tell.

"We're going to start with something I think some of you might know," Rio added, her raspy voice sending another shiver down Agatha's spine. She struck a chord, the sound reverberating through the room, and immediately launched into a song Agatha recognized from their first meeting—"People Are Strange" by The Doors.

"People are strange when you're a stranger..."

Rio sang, her voice wrapping around the lyrics with a raw authenticity that transcended the original.

"Faces look ugly when you're alone..."

The crowd sang along, a chorus of voices supporting Rio's lead. Agatha found herself joining in, the melody already etched into her memory from that first day in the abandoned building—the day everything changed, though she hadn't known it then.

The song ended to enthusiastic applause, and Rio adjusted her guitar, exchanging a glance with Lilia before addressing the audience again.

"This next one's by The Smiths," she announced, a wry smile playing on her lips. "Which means it's about as cheerful as a funeral in the rain. But it's got a good beat, so you can dance while contemplating your inevitable doom."

Laughter rippled through the crowd as the opening notes of "There Is A Light That Never Goes Out" filled the space. Rio and Lilia's voices blended in perfect harmony—Lilia's clear soprano complementing Rio's smokier alto.

"Take me out tonight, where there's music and there's people who are young and alive..."

Madison grabbed Agatha's hand, pulling her closer to the stage. Around them, bodies moved in rhythm, hands raised toward the ceiling. Agatha let herself be swept up in it, the music washing over her, through her, as she moved her hips and sang along to lyrics that suddenly felt profoundly personal:

"And if a double-decker bus crashes into us, to die by your side is such a heavenly way to die..."

The song built to its climax, the crowd singing the final refrain with religious fervour, hundreds of voices joining as one in the dark, intimate space of the club.

As the last notes faded, there was a moment of perfect stillness before the room erupted in cheers and whistles. Rio grinned, the expression transforming her face from intense to almost boyish, and Agatha felt something squeeze in her chest.

"Thank you," Rio said into the microphone, pushing sweat-dampened hair from her forehead. "You guys are amazing tonight."

She turned to look at her bandmates, some unspoken communication passing between them. Wanda stepped forward, bowing dramatically to the crowd, which drew laughter and more cheers.

"So," Rio continued, adjusting her guitar strap, "we've got something a little different for you now. Something new."

The crowd quieted slightly, anticipation rippling through the room.

"It's called 'Perfect Nightmare,'" Rio's voice dropped lower, more intimate, "and it's for a very special girl who probably doesn't know how special she really is."

Agatha's heart stuttered in her chest as Rio's eyes found hers again in the darkness. The rest of the room seemed to fade away, narrowing to just the two of them, connected across the space by something fragile, new, and fucking terrifying.

The opening chords were gentle, almost hesitant, before building into something more confident. Rio's fingers moved across the fretboard with practised precision, her eyes half-closed as she began to sing.

"Designer smiles and practised grace, your mother's hopes locked in your face... But I can see beneath the show. The revolution burning low..."

The lyrics washed over Agatha like a wave, each word striking with devastating accuracy. She felt exposed, seen, understood in a way that was both startling and rousing. Rio had taken everything—the way she moved through the world, the secrets she kept hidden behind perfectly maintained walls, the silent rebellion brewing beneath her skin—and woven it into poetry set to music.

It was like having someone read her diary, except Agatha had never dared to write her truths down, not even in the privacy of her own thoughts. Yet somehow, Rio had excavated them anyway, had peeled back the layers of performance and pretence to find the real Agatha underneath—the one who chafed against her mother's expectations, who read forbidden books, who longed for an authenticity she'd never been allowed to claim.

"I know I'm not what they'd choose, just a girl with nothing left to lose. But baby, when you look at me, I swear that we could both be free..."

Her mind flashed to the memory of Rio in that abandoned building, on that first rain-soaked day—how she'd called Agatha "princess" with that sardonic smile, how she'd played music that spoke to something wild and untamed in Agatha's soul.

Had Rio seen her even then? Had she recognized the cage Agatha lived in, the gilded bars of privilege and expectation that kept her trapped?

And if she had, why hadn't she run? Why hadn't she dismissed Agatha as just another rich girl playing at rebellion? What had made her look deeper, write songs, brave rainstorms with coffee cups trembling in her hands?

Tears pricked at the corners of Agatha's eyes, blurring the stage lights into fractured stars. She felt Madison's arm slip around her waist, steadying her.

"She wrote this about you," Madison whispered, though she didn't sound surprised.

"How?" Agatha choked out, voice thick with emotion. "How did she know? All of it—the books, the masks, the lies. How did she see what no one else could see?"

Madison squeezed her closer. "Because she was looking, Aggie. Really looking. Not at what you were supposed to be, but at who you are... and I may have helped some..."

"Let them talk, let them stare, I'll love you through this perfect nightmare. Your castle walls can't keep me out when your eyes are screaming doubt..."

The chorus hit Agatha like a physical force, the word "love" echoing in her ears, making her knees weak. She'd been seen before—her mother saw every imperfection, every deviation from expectation. But this was unquestionably different. Rio saw her and liked, maybe loved, what she saw, not despite the contradictions and complexities but because of them.

As the song continued, Agatha heard references to her secret reading habits—Marx and Butler tucked beneath approved textbooks—and the careful game she played in political spaces. She heard understanding of the masks she wore and the truth she kept hidden. She heard an invitation, a promise, a declaration.

"You don't have to be their golden child, we could run this whole world wild. Break these chains they've placed on you; love could be enough if you want it to if you let it through..."

The bridge hit Agatha with the force of an epiphany—not just about Rio's feelings for her, but about the possibilities that lay before them both. It wasn't just a song; it was a manifestation, an invitation to a different kind of life. One where Agatha could shed the poundage of Evanora's expectations, where she could embrace the parts of herself she'd kept hidden for so long.

The final chorus built to a crescendo, the entire band pouring everything into the last moments of the song. The crowd responded in kind, energy surging through the room like electricity, everyone caught in the emotional current of Rio's confession.

Rio was looking directly at her now, singing the final lines with raw intensity, as if the rest of the crowd had disappeared and it was just the two of them in this moment. Agatha saw vulnerability in those hazel eyes, the fear of exposure, of rejection—and it struck her that Rio, for all her confidence and talent, was as terrified as she was. That this song, this public statement, had cost her something precious.

That realization was what finally broke the dam inside Agatha. A sob rose in her throat, but it wasn't from sadness or fear—it was from a sudden, overwhelming release.

As the final notes faded, Agatha found herself moving before she'd made a conscious decision to do so.

"I need to see her," she said to Madison, already pushing toward the side of the stage where a doorway led backstage. "Now."

"Let's go get your girl," Madison smiled, a fierce pride in her voice as she grabbed Agatha's arm to keep them together while they navigated through the crush of bodies. Vision and Alec trailed behind, clearly curious. Jen followed as well, her keen artist's eyes not missing a moment of this unfolding drama.

The crowd was still cheering, screaming for more, but Agatha barely heard them. The only sound that mattered was her heart pounding in her ears; the only destination that mattered was Rio.

Backstage was chaos—technicians moving equipment, other band members loitering, the noise from the main room still vibrating through the walls. But Agatha moved through it all with single-minded purpose, following the sound of familiar voices until she found herself in a small green room where Midnight Rapture had gathered.

Rio stood in the centre, still flushed from the performance, her guitar now set aside. She froze when she saw Agatha, eyes widening with unmistakable panic.

"Agatha, I—" she started, words tumbling out in a rush. "I'm so sorry. I should have asked before playing that. It was too personal, too much. I didn't mean to make you cry. I just—it just came out, and the band thought it was good, and I wanted to tell you how I felt, but not like this, not if it was going to upset you, and—"

Agatha crossed the room in three quick strides, cutting off Rio's frenzied apology in the most effective way possible—by grabbing the front of her leather jacket and pulling her down into a fierce, desperate kiss.

For a heartbeat, Rio seemed frozen in shock. Then, her arms wrapped around Agatha's waist, lifting her effortlessly; the guitarist had no trouble supporting her weight as Agatha responded instinctively, legs circling Rio's hips, arms looping around her neck as the kiss deepened from desperate to deliberate.

Rio's hands moved to cup Agatha's ass, ostensibly to support her weight, but the slight squeeze drew a soft moan from Agatha that vibrated against Rio's lips.

"Ew, get a room!" Wanda called from nearby, earning a sharp slap to the back of her head from Lilia and an equally reprimanding glare from Madison.

When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Rio didn't set Agatha down. Instead, she held her closer, one hand moving to stroke her hair as Agatha buried her face against Rio's neck, inhaling the intoxicating scent of her skin—a mixture of sweat, faint cigarette smoke, and something uniquely Rio.

The backstage area had fallen eerily quiet, the only sounds the muffled cheering of the crowd beyond and the synchronized breathing of two people who had been moving toward this moment since... forever.

"You're not mad," Rio rasped, her voice barely above a whisper, disbelief shading every word.

"I should be," Agatha laughed, her voice muffled against Rio's skin. "I should be furious that you turned my life into a song without permission. I should be outraged that you made me feel things—in public, no less."

"But?" Rio prompted, her arms tightening around Agatha as if afraid she might disappear if she loosened her grip.

"But it was beautiful," Agatha admitted, pulling back just enough to meet Rio's eyes without breaking the circle of her arms. "No one's ever seen me like that before. No one except you."

The vulnerability in Agatha's admission hung in the air between them, delicate and precious. For a girl raised to never show weakness, to never admit need, those words represented a risk greater than Rio could fully comprehend.

"Why?" Rio whispered, echoing Agatha's earlier thought. "Why did you let me see you?"

"I didn't," Agatha confessed, her fingers tracing the line of Rio's jaw with wonder. "You just... saw me anyway."

Rio felt something new—a cautious joy that threatened to overwhelm her. "So you don't hate me?"

"I tried," Agatha chuckled, the sound shaky with emotion. "I tried so hard to hate you from the moment you called me 'princess' in that stupid abandoned building. But then you brought me coffee in the rain, and you let me see your tattoos, and you wrote me a fucking song, Rio. How am I supposed to hate you after that?"

The raw honesty in that question made Rio's heart stutter in her chest. She'd spent weeks convincing herself that the connection between them was one-sided, that someone like Agatha—with her perfect pedigree and polished exterior—couldn't possibly want someone like her. The barriers of class, background, and expectation were too high to overcome.

Yet here was Agatha, wrapped around her like she belonged there, looking at her like she'd hung the stars in the sky.

"I've had a thing for you since you threatened me with an imaginary gun," Rio admitted, resting her forehead against Agatha's. "Even when you stormed out. Even when you avoided me. I kept thinking about you—how you notice everything, how you hide your real thoughts behind that perfect smile, how you looked at me like I was a puzzle you couldn't solve."

"I still can't solve you," Agatha whispered. "But I'm starting to think that's why I like you so much."

"Okay, I'm calling it—this is officially the gayest thing I've ever witnessed," Wanda declared from her spot against the wall, where the entire band and Madison had been watching with varying degrees of delight. "And I once saw Lilia drunk-cry over a documentary about gay penguins."

"That was ONE time," Lilia protested, though her beaming smile betrayed her approval. "And those penguins had a beautiful love story. They overcame so much adversity!"

"See what I deal with?" Rio murmured against Agatha's lips, though her smile ruined any pretence of complaint. "They've been insufferable ever since I showed them the song. Especially Wanda."

"I heard that!" Wanda called out. "And don't pretend you didn't spend the entire soundcheck panicking about whether Agatha would hate the song. 'What if she thinks it's creepy? What if she never speaks to me again?' We were this close to staging an intervention."

"Wanda!" Alice hissed, emerging from behind her drum kit. "We agreed not to mention the pre-show meltdown."

"Meltdown?" Agatha asked, still wrapped around Rio but now looking at her with amusement dancing in her eyes. "The cool, confident guitarist had a meltdown over little old me?"

"It wasn't a meltdown," Rio muttered, colour rising in her cheeks. "It was a... reasonable concern about artistic interpretation."

"She changed outfits four times," Jen supplied helpfully from where she stood by the door. "And almost called you to cancel twice."

Rio groaned, burying her face in Agatha's shoulder. "I'm firing all of you. Immediately."

Agatha laughed, the sound so free and uninhibited that everyone turned to look at her in surprise. "If it serves as any consolation, I spent three thousand dollars on this dress, an absurd amount on these boots, and got permanent stars tattooed on my hip because I couldn't stop thinking about you."

Now, it was Rio's turn to pull back in shock. "You did what?"

Agatha bit her lip, suddenly shy despite their intimate position. "I got tattoos. Stars. Two of them. Right here." She shifted slightly, guiding Rio's hand to rest against her hip, where the dress covered the still-healing ink.

Rio's eyes widened, then darkened with something that made Agatha's breath catch. "You'll have to show me sometime," she said, her voice dropping to a register that sent shivers down Agatha's spine.

"God! You two are fucking helpless! But lucky for you... I, Madison Eloise Carter, have a brilliant idea!"

"Which is?" Alec questioned.

"Everyone should come to our apartment." Madison declared, "I think this calls for a proper celebration... an after-party at our apartment? It's Friday night, we're all legal adults—mostly—and I think we deserve to keep this party going."

Rio and Agatha barely registered the commentary, lost in each other's eyes, still breathing the same air. When Rio leaned in again, capturing Agatha's lips in a softer, more deliberately tender kiss, the entire room erupted in cheers and whoops of approval.

"That's right, Vidal! Get your girl!" Wanda shouted.

Vision clapped appreciatively while Alec let out a piercing whistle that momentarily drowned out the ambient noise. Even the stage techs had stopped what they were doing to witness this moment—the collision of two worlds that seemed destined to remain apart, now gloriously entangled.

Rio finally, reluctantly, pulled away and let Agatha slide down her body until her feet touched the floor, though she kept one arm wrapped around her waist.

"What do you think, princess? Ready to scandalize your mother's society friends by partying with a bunch of degenerates?"

Agatha leaned into Rio's side, feeling more at home in her own skin than she could ever remember.

"I think I started scandalizing them the moment I walked into this club in this dress," she replied, looking around at the group of people who had so readily accepted her into their circle. "Might as well go all in."

"That's my girl," Madison crowed, throwing an arm around Alice. "Alright, troops—pack it up! We've got alcohol at home and a senator's daughter to corrupt."

"Pretty sure I beat you to that," Rio murmured, pressing a kiss to Agatha's temple.

"Please," Madison scoffed, "if anything, she'll be corrupting you. You should have seen her in the car on the way here. Total wild child."

"Really?" Rio's eyebrows rose as she looked down at Agatha with new appreciation. "I'm going to need to hear about this."

"Later," Agatha promised, her fingers intertwining with Rio's. "We have all night."

The group began collecting their instruments and gear, a chaotic but well-practised dance of cases being snapped shut and cables being wound. Agatha found herself pulled into the orbit of their post-show rituals, handed a guitar case to hold while Rio carefully packed away her Gibson, exchanging easy smiles with Lilia as she stacked keyboard parts into a wheeled case.

"You know," Lilia said quietly, just for Agatha's ears, "I've never seen Rio like this before. Happy, yes. Excited about music, absolutely. But this..." she gestured between them, "this is different."

"Different good or different bad?" Agatha asked, surprising herself with the vulnerability in her voice.

"Different, perfect," Lilia replied with a gentle smile. "Like the missing piece of a puzzle finally sliding into place."

Before Agatha could respond, Wanda emerged from a small storage closet with a bottle of champagne. "Fucking found it! I knew we were saving this for something special."

"Where did you even get that?" Alice asked, eyebrows raised.

"The owner keeps a stash for special occasions," Wanda replied, already working on the cork. "And I'd say this qualifies—our resident genius finally getting the girl she's been writing sad songs about for weeks."

"They weren't sad songs!"

"Please," Wanda snorted, "You gave The Smiths a run for their money. I had to talk you out of including a verse about dying alone surrounded by guitar picks and regret if you didn't make a move."

The cork popped with explosive force, champagne foaming over Wanda's hand as everyone laughed—even Rio, though she rolled her eyes dramatically.

"To Rio and Agatha," Wanda declared, lifting the bottle high. "May your love be as epic as your meet-cute and considerably less damp than Rio's first attempt to ask you out."

"I'll drink to that," Madison agreed, taking the bottle for a swig before passing it to Agatha.

The champagne was warm and slightly flat, but Agatha couldn't remember anything ever tasting so good—perhaps because she was sharing it with people who saw her and liked what they saw.

She passed the bottle to Rio, their fingers brushing in a touch that sent sparks through her system all over again.

"To breaking stupid rules," she murmured, eyes never leaving Agatha's as she took a drink.

"And expectations," Agatha added softly.

"And to a world-shattering after-party!" Madison laughed, already halfway out the door with Alice in tow. "Everyone in the cars! We've got celebrating to do!"

The group spilt out into the night air, their excited chatter filling the alleyway behind Voltage Room. Wanda passed the champagne bottle to Vision, who took a ceremonial sip before handing it to Jen. Their laughter echoed against brick walls as they gathered instruments and each other, a constellation of newfound connections forming in real-time.

Agatha hung back slightly, watching them—these people who had so easily welcomed her into their orbit, who saw past her carefully constructed façade to the person underneath.

Suddenly, although not unwelcomed, Rio appeared at her side, fingers finding hers with casual intimacy.

"Ready for whatever comes next, princess?"

Agatha looked up at the guitarist, and as Rio smiled that devastating smile, she realized that she didn't need a roadmap for what came next. For once in her life, she was content to simply follow where her heart led her. Because perfect girls might not carry guns, but they apparently did kiss punk guitarists backstage at dive bars. And for tonight, at least, that was more than enough.

Chapter Text

The problem with perfection, Agatha was discovering, was that once you abandoned it—even for a moment—the world became terrifyingly, exhilaratingly unpredictable.

Three days had passed since the night at Voltage Room, since Rio's song had unravelled her carefully constructed walls, since their kiss backstage had torched something so profound that she still felt it smouldering beneath her skin. Three days, and Agatha Harkness—the golden girl of Harrington, her mother's pride, leader of Young Conservatives—had not managed to complete a single reading assignment.

The Chaucer anthology lay open before her, its Middle English prose swimming uselessly across the page as her mind wandered, repeatedly and without permission, to the memory of Rio's fingers tangled in her hair, the taste of tequila and possibility on her lips, the weight of Rio's arms around her waist lifting her as if she weighed nothing at all.

She'd tried to focus. God knows she'd tried . But how was anyone supposed to care about pilgrims when they had kissed Rio Vidal? When they had danced on coffee tables to Sleater-Kinney? When they had fallen asleep in a guitarist's lap, their fingers tracing gentle patterns against their scalp?

The memory of that night had crystallized into a kaleidoscope of sensory fragments—the initial rush of being recognized through Rio's song, the backstage kiss that had felt inevitable, the after-party at her and Madison's apartment that had devolved into a beautiful chaos of tequila shots and revolutionary theory.

She remembered, with visceral clarity, the moment she'd kicked off her designer combat boots and climbed onto Madison's West Elm coffee table, commanding everyone's attention as she delivered an impromptu lecture on Butler's theory of gender performance. Wanda had cheered, Alice had recorded it on her phone, and Rio—Rio had watched her with such unfiltered admiration that Agatha had felt beautiful in a way that had nothing to do with the careful aesthetic she'd cultivated her entire life.

Later, much later, when the others had begun to drift off or depart, she had curled against Rio on the sofa, her head finding its way to the guitarist's lap as if it belonged there. Rio's fingers had combed through her hair, gentle and hypnotic, as she spoke softly about music theory, about growing up in San Juan before moving to the mainland, about the first time she'd held a guitar.

Agatha had fallen asleep like that, wrapped in Rio's voice, anchored by her touch. And somehow, that felt more intimate than any kiss—that moment of unguarded vulnerability, of letting herself be seen at her most defenceless.

She blinked, forcing her attention back to the text, forcing her eyes to track the words she'd read at least five times already. The library clock mocked her with its methodical precision, minute hand jumping to 3:22 PM with an audible click. Rio was now twenty-two minutes late for what they'd carefully termed a "coffee meeting"—not a date, not yet.

She checked her phone again, the screen illuminating with her last message to Rio, sent at 1:47 PM: Still on for coffee?

No response.

Agatha set the phone down, smoothing her expression into something practised and neutral as anxiety twisted in her stomach. She wasn't new to waiting—she'd spent countless hours at political functions, at charity galas, at her mother's endless fundraisers, perfecting the art of patience. But this was different.

She forced her eyes back to her book, again, determined to at least appear productive when— if —Rio arrived.

Behind her, the library door swung open with a whisper of air against polished wood.

Agatha didn't turn around, didn't allow herself that small surrender to hope. But her body betrayed her, heartbeat accelerating, skin prickling with awareness as footsteps approached her table—not the measured click of sensible heels or the whisper of dress shoes, but the distinctive shuffle-thump of well-worn boots on marble.

"Sorry I'm late," Rio's voice, low and slightly breathless, sent a current along Agatha's spine.

"I had a meeting with my scholarship advisor that ran long, and then my phone died— again. I'm sorry for making you wait."

Agatha turned, words of casual reassurance dying on her lips as she took in Rio's appearance. The guitarist looked slightly rumpled as if she'd been running—dark hair tousled, cheeks flushed with exertion, leather jacket hanging open to reveal a vintage band t-shirt that hugged the curves of her torso in ways that made Agatha momentarily forget how to breathe.

"It's fine," she managed, proud of how steady her voice sounded despite the sudden flutter in her chest. "I've been productive." She gestured to the anthology.

Rio's eyes—those sapient, brilliant eyes that seemed to miss nothing—flickered to the book, then back to Agatha's face. A wise smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, revealing the slightest hint of that endearing gap between her front teeth.

"Canterbury Tales?" she asked, sliding into the chair opposite Agatha, the leather of her jacket creaking softly as she leaned forward. "Enjoying Chaucer's exploration of medieval social hierarchy and hypocrisy?"

Agatha blinked, momentarily thrown. "You've read The Canterbury Tales?"

"English Lit minor," the woman shrugged, the movement causing her jacket to slip slightly off one shoulder. "Plus, I'm a sucker for stories that expose social inequality through satire. The Wife of Bath was an early feminist icon, you know."

"I—yes, of course," Agatha stammered, her carefully composed image of Rio—all music and rebellion and raw instinct—rewriting itself in real-time. "I just didn't expect..."

"That little old me would know her 14th-century literature?" Rio's smile widened, a mixture of amusement and something softer, more vulnerable. "There's a lot about me you don't know yet, Harkness."

Yet . 

"I'm discovering that," Agatha admitted, closing her book with deliberate care. "Though if I'm being honest, I haven't absorbed a single word of this text in the past hour."

"No?" Rio leaned forward, elbows on the table, closing the distance between them by precious inches. The scent of her—a subtle mix of sandalwood and something uniquely her —drifted across the space between them. "What's been distracting you?"

The question was innocent enough, but Rio's tone—slightly lower, tinged with a subtle huskiness—suggested she already knew the answer.

"Would you believe me if I said the couple to our right making out?" she tried.

Rio laughed, a sound like rough velvet in the library's hushed atmosphere. "No, Princess. I wouldn't."

"Fine," Agatha conceded, meeting Rio's gaze directly now. "I've been thinking about Friday night. The concert. The kiss." She paused, gathering courage. " The after-party."

"Ah," Rio nodded, leaning back slightly, her expression shifting to something more guarded. "The after-party. Where you danced on furniture and fell asleep in my lap after giving me a second, very thorough kiss."

Agatha winced, memories flooding back in vivid, mortifying detail. "I was hoping some of that might have been an alcohol-induced hallucination."

"Which part?" Rio asked, her voice gentle despite the teasing. "The part where you debated Wanda about late-stage capitalism while mixing tequila shots? Or the part where you cited Bell Hooks from memory before singing along to every word of 'Rebel Girl'?"

"Oh God, " Agatha groaned, burying her face in her hands. "Both? Neither? I don't even know anymore."

When she dared to look up, she found Rio watching her with an expression of such tender amusement that her embarrassment melted into something warmer, much warmer.

"If it helps," Rio offered, "you were brilliant. Even Wanda was impressed, and she's read more theory than most of our professors." She hesitated, then added more softly, "And as for falling asleep on me—that was... nice."

"Nice?" Agatha echoed, searching Rio's face for signs of mockery or discomfort.

"More than nice," Rio amended, a hint of vulnerability creeping into her voice. "It was... I don't know. Special? To see you like that—relaxed, unguarded." Her fingers tapped an anxious rhythm on the table. "I know you don't usually do stuff like that."

"No," she admitted after a moment. "I don't."

"But you did." Rio's voice was gentle. "With me. With everyone there that night."

"I was drunk," Agatha pointed out, though even to her own ears, the excuse sounded ludicrous.

"Drunk Agatha is still Agatha," Rio countered, her lips curving into that half-smile that never failed to make Agatha's heart skip.

"Just with fewer filters. Believe me, tequila doesn't give you the ability to quote radical feminist theory or debate economic structures—it just removes the barriers you've built around what you already know."

Agatha was silent, absorbing this. Rio's perception of her—this version that contained multitudes beyond what she showed the world, that held knowledge and passion and rebellion beneath a carefully constructed surface—was both terrifying and thrilling.

"I should probably apologize," she finally said, studying the grain of the wooden table. "For... all of it. The dancing, the debates, falling asleep on you. Madison says I'm an 'enthusiastic' drunk."

"Don't apologize," Rio's response was immediate, fierce enough that Agatha looked up in surprise. "That night—seeing you like that, all brilliant fire and zero inhibitions—it was fucking incredible. You have nothing to apologize for."

A beat of silence stretched between them, charged but comfortable.

"Besides," Rio added, her voice dropping to that intimate rasp that sent shivers across Agatha's skin, "I liked the second kiss just as much as the first."

Heat rushed to Agatha's face, but she refused to look away, refused to retreat into the safety of propriety or denial. Instead, she leaned forward, closing some of the distance between them.

"Just as much?" she asked, surprising herself with the boldness in her tone. "Not more?"

Rio's eyes darkened, pupils dilating slightly as her gaze dropped briefly to Agatha's lips.

"Well," she replied, "the first had the element of surprise. The second had... intention."

"Intention," Agatha reprised, the word feeling significant in ways she couldn't quite articulate.

"Hmm," Rio nodded, still watching her with that heated intensity. "Like you knew exactly what you were doing, even half-drunk and sleepy."

The memory surfaced with sudden clarity—how she'd pulled Rio down by the collar of her shirt just before drifting off, how she'd whispered, "I've been wanting to do that again all night" against her lips, how Rio had responded with a gentleness that belied the hunger in her eyes.

"I did," Agatha confirmed, feeling oddly liberated by the admission. "Know what I was doing, I mean."

Something shifted in Rio's expression then—a softening around the eyes, a vulnerability that made her look younger, less certain of herself.

"And now?" she asked quietly. "Do you know what you're doing now?"

The question carried weight; it asked about intentions, futures, and what existed between them in the sober light of day three days after a night that had changed everything.

Agatha took a deep breath, steadying herself against the tide of uncertainty.

"I think so," she replied, reaching across the table to touch Rio's hand—a deliberate, intentional contact.

"In fact, I wanted to ask you something."

Rio turned her palm upward, allowing their fingers to intertwine. "Okay, shoot ."

Agatha swallowed, the question she'd been rehearsing all morning suddenly stuck in her throat. It wasn't that complicated—just a simple dinner invitation—but somehow, it felt monumental.

"Would you have dinner with me tonight?" she finally managed, the words coming out in a rush. "At El Rinconcito."

Rio's eyebrows shot up, genuine surprise flickering across her features. "El Rinconcito?"

"It's this little Ecuadorian place south of campus," Agatha explained, words tumbling over each other. "The owner, Señora Rosa, is incredible, and the food is amazing; honestly, I think you'll love it."

"You're asking me to dinner," Rio said slowly as if processing the concept. "At your favourite restaurant." It wasn't quite a question, but uncertainty lingered in her voice.

"Yes," Agatha confirmed, heart hammering against her ribs. "As a date. A proper one. If you want to."

For a moment, Rio just stared at her, an unreadable expression on her face. Then, a slow smile spread across her features, transforming her from guarded to radiant in the space of a breath.

"No one's ever asked me out before," she admitted, voice soft with wonder. "I'm always the one who does the asking."

"Oh," Agatha blinked, suddenly uncertain. " Is that—should I not have—"

"No, it's good," Rio interrupted, squeezing Agatha's hand. "It's really good. I'd love to have dinner with you tonight."

Relief washed through Agatha, so powerful she felt almost dizzy with it. "Really?"

"Really," Rio confirmed, her smile teasing.

"Though I'm not sure what to wear to an Ecuadorian restaurant. Is there a dress code I should know about?"

Agatha laughed, the tension dissipating like morning fog. "Just wear something you feel good in," she advised. "Señora Rosa cares more about appetite than appearance."

"I can definitely bring an appetite," Rio promised. "What time should I be ready?"

"Seven?" Agatha suggested. "I can pick you up at your place."

"Picking me up too? You really are going all out on this date thing."

"I believe in doing things properly," Agatha replied, though there was nothing proper about the way her pulse jumped when Rio smiled at her like that. "Text me your address?"

Rio nodded, that wonderful smile still playing around her lips. "It's a date, Princess."

____________________________________________________________

"You did WHAT?"

Madison's shriek echoed through their apartment, startling Alice, who had been peacefully scrolling through her phone on the couch. The drummer looked up to find her girlfriend staring at Agatha with an expression of comical disbelief while Agatha herself stood in the doorway looking both pleased and slightly apprehensive.

"I asked her out," Agatha repeated, dropping her book bag on the counter with uncharacteristic carelessness. "To El Rinconcito. Tonight at seven."

"You," Madison pointed at Agatha, "asked Rio Vidal on a date."

"Yes."

"The girl who wrote you a song."

"Yes."

"The girl who held you while you slept."

"Yes, Madison, the same Rio. Is there a point to this interrogation?"

Madison turned to Alice, gesturing wildly. "Are you hearing this? Agatha Elizabeth Harkness, former closeted lesbian, just asked a girl out. On a real date. To her favourite restaurant."

"I'm impressed," Alice admitted, setting down her phone. "Though a little surprised. I thought Rio would be the one to make the first move."

"So did I," Madison agreed, turning back to Agatha, who was now rummaging through the refrigerator with unusual intensity. "What prompted this sudden burst of romantic initiative?"

Agatha emerged with a bottle of water, her expression thoughtful. "I don't know, exactly. It just... felt right. We were talking about the after-party, and she looked so beautiful, and I realized I didn't want to wait around for her to make the next move. I wanted to be the one to take it."

Madison clutched her chest dramatically. "My little conservative princess, all grown up and asking hot guitarists on dates . I think I might cry."

"Please don't," Agatha said dryly, "Save your tears for when you help me figure out what to wear tonight."

At this, Madison's expression shifted from theatrical to predatory. "Oh, we are definitely going to find you something spectacular . You need to look hot but not like you're trying too hard, sexy but not desperate, casual but still put-together."

"That's... a lot of contradictory adjectives," Agatha observed, taking a sip of her water.

"Fashion is an art, not a science," Madison declared. "Alice, you're helping too."

Alice raised an eyebrow. "Am I?"

"Yes," Madison insisted. "We need your objective opinion. I tend to go too slutty, and Agatha tends to go too… senatorial. You're our Goldilocks —you'll tell us when it's just right."

"Fine," Alice agreed, rising from the couch with fluid grace. "But I want it on record that I think Agatha could wear a paper bag, and Rio would still look at her like she's the sun."

"Noted, but irrelevant," Madison waved dismissively. "We're not dressing for Rio's appreciation—we're dressing for Agatha's confidence. Now, to the closet!"

Forty-five minutes later, Agatha's bedroom looked like a bomb had detonated in a high-end boutique. Dresses, skirts, and tops were strewn across every available surface, shoes scattered like casualties on the battlefield of fashion. The air was thick with competing perfumes from various options they'd considered and discarded.

"This is fucking ridiculous," Agatha groaned, surveying the wreckage. "I've attended state dinners with less sartorial stress."

"That's because state dinners have clear protocols," Madison pointed out, rifling through another stack of discarded options. "Date attire is much more nuanced, especially for a first official date."

"What about this?" Alice suggested, holding up a black ribbed top with a boat neckline. "Simple, elegant, shows off your collarbones. You could pair it with those wide-leg jeans… I saw somewhere."

Madison's eyes lit up. "Oh my god, yes! With the brown leather belt and those pointy black boots." She dug through the pile on Agatha's bed, triumphantly extracting the jeans in question. "This is perfect—sophisticated but hot."

"You think it's enough?" Agatha asked, taking the top from Alice with a sceptical expression. "It's not too casual?"

"Trust me," Madison assured her, "simple is better for a first date. Besides, you look incredible in this silhouette—it shows off your figure without being obvious about it."

Agatha held the outfit against herself, studying her reflection in the full-length mirror. The contrast between the fitted black top and the flowing dark blue jeans created an elegant line, and the belt would add just enough definition to her waist.

"The boots will make it," Alice added. "They elevate the whole look. Plus, they're practical enough that you won't be uncomfortable all night."

Decision made, Agatha took the outfit and disappeared into the bathroom. Twenty minutes later, she emerged transformed—the black top skimming perfectly over her curves, the high-waisted jeans elongating her legs, the leather belt adding a touch of sophistication. She'd pulled her hair up slightly at the front while leaving the rest down, framing her face in a way that softened her features.

"Turn around," Madison commanded, twirling her finger in the air.

Agatha complied, the jeans swishing around her ankles as she moved.

"Damn, Aggie," Madison finally said, voice tinged with genuine admiration. "You look sexy."

"Rio's going to forget how to speak," Alice added with a gentle smile. "In a good way."

"You think so?"  

Agatha, for all her confidence in political arenas and academic settings, this territory—dating someone she genuinely cared about—felt foreign and fraught with potential missteps.

"I know so," Madison assured her, stepping forward to adjust a strand of Agatha's hair. "You're gorgeous, you're thoughtful, you're taking her to your special place. It's going to be perfect."

Agatha caught Madison's hand, squeezing it gratefully. "Thank you. For helping with this, and for... everything else. Being supportive. It means a lot."

"Oh god, don't make me cry," Madison groaned, though her eyes did look suspiciously bright. "Just promise me you'll relax and enjoy yourself tonight. No overthinking, no catastrophizing, just have fun."

"I promise," Agatha said and was surprised to realize she meant it.

____________________________________________________________

Rio's apartment was a fucking mess. Clothes covered every surface, and in the centre of the chaos stood Rio herself, wearing nothing but black boxers and a tank top. She was staring at the options with an expression of complete despair.

"This is dumb," she muttered to herself, running a hand through her hair for the tenth time in as many minutes. "It's just dinner. I've been on dates before. Why am I freaking out?"

The answer, of course, was obvious. This wasn't just any date. This was Agatha Harkness—brilliant, beautiful, complicated Agatha who danced on coffee tables and looked at Rio like she was something treasured. Agatha, who had surprised her by asking her out instead of waiting to be asked, who was taking her to her favourite restaurant, who had seen Rio at her most vulnerable and hadn't run away.

Her phone buzzed from somewhere beneath a pile of discarded shirts. Rio dug it out to find a message from Wanda:

So, have you asked her out yet?

Rio grimaced, typing back:

She asked ME out, actually. Tonight at 7. To her favourite Ecuadorian restaurant.

Three dots appeared immediately, followed by:

HOLY SHIT. She asked YOU? The princess has game!

Then, another message:

What are you wearing? Please tell me NOT your usual band rehearsal outfit.

Rio glanced at the chaos surrounding her.

I have no idea. Every outfit I own is either too casual or trying too hard.

Wanda's response came quickly:

Start with the good jeans. The ones that make your ass look fantastic. Build from there.

It was actually decent advice. Rio dug out the jeans in question—wide-legged and slightly faded, sitting lower on her hips in a way that complemented her long torso. She pulled them on, already feeling marginally better.

Jeans selected. Now what?

The response was instantaneous:

That white t-shirt, no logos. And the black blazer you found at the thrift store last month. Layer them.

Rio found the shirt and blazer, laying them on the bed and stepping back to visualize the complete look. The blazer would add structure to her lanky yet muscular frame, while the casual t-shirt underneath kept it from looking too formal.

What about accessories?

She asked, her phone glued to her hand.

Keep it simple. That guitar pick necklace you sometimes wear. And make sure your hair is tousled—not too neat. She definitely likes it when it looks a little messy.

The observation was surprisingly astute, especially for Wanda.

How do you know what she likes?

Rio could almost hear the laugh in the redhead's response:

I have eyes, dude. The way she looks at you when you run your hand through your hair is borderline pornographic.

Rio felt heat rise to her cheeks, pleased despite herself. She spent the next twenty minutes pulling the outfit together—ironing the white shirt (a rare concession to formality), cleaning her best boots, even digging out a simple silver chain that her mother had given her for her eighteenth birthday.

She was just finishing her minimal makeup when her phone buzzed again. This time, it w as Alice:

Fair warning: Agatha looks amazing tonight. Be prepared to have your brain short-circuit.

Rio smiled, a mixture of nerves and anticipation fluttering in her stomach.

Thanks for the heads up. Is she nervous?

Yes, but in a good way. She really likes you, Rio.

The simple message sent a warm current through Rio's body. She was about to reply when another message came through:

Also, Madison says to tell you that if you hurt Agatha, she'll dismember you and feed you to the ducks in the campus pond... which is kinda scary since she's holding a very sharp knife right now...

Rio laughed out loud, some of her anxiety-dissolving.

Tell Madison I'd expect nothing less. And that I have no intention of hurting Agatha.

She gave herself one final critical assessment in the mirror. She looked good - not in the polished, curated way of Agatha's usual social circle, but in a way that felt authentic to who she was. The outfit captured her essence - part musician, part academic, wholly herself.

A final text from Alice:

She just left. ETA about 15 minutes.

Rio took a deep breath, surveying her apartment with a critical eye. It wasn't much—a converted warehouse studio with high ceilings and one stunning window that made up for the limited square footage—but it was hers, earned through scholarships and hard work. The thought of Agatha seeing it brought a twinge of anxiety; their different worlds had never been more apparent than they would be when Agatha Harkness stepped into Rio Vidal's tiny apartment.

But then, Agatha had been the one to reach across that divide. To ask Rio out, to choose to share her special restaurant. Maybe the differences between them weren't as insurmountable as she had first believed.

She gathered her wallet and keys, doing one last check in the mirror before settling in to wait, perching on the edge of her bed with a guitar across her lap. Playing always calmed her nerves, gave her fingers something to do besides fidget. She strummed softly, picking out the melody that had been forming in her mind since Friday night.

The knock, when it came, was distinctive—two precise taps followed by two more after a brief pause. Rio set the guitar aside carefully, took a deep breath, and crossed to the door. For a moment, her hand hovered over the knob, a final hesitation before stepping into whatever this night might bring.

Then she opened the door, and the sight of Agatha standing there—beautiful in a simple black top and high-waisted jeans that somehow managed to look both elegant and casual, her hair softer than usual, eyes bright with anticipation, a hint of uncertainty in her smile—drove every coherent thought from Rio's mind.

"Hi," she managed.

"Hi," Agatha echoed, her gaze travelling over Rio with undisguised appreciation. Her eyes lingered on the blazer, the way it framed Rio's shoulders, the casual confidence of the white t-shirt beneath it, the wide-leg jeans that somehow made her legs look even longer. "You look amazing."

"So do you," Rio replied, momentarily stunned by the sight before her, a sight so stimulating it made Rio's mouth go dry. She looked sophisticated but accessible, elegant but not untouchable—like everything Rio had ever wanted and never thought she could have.

They stood there for a moment, caught in the simple wonder of seeing each other anew.

"Ready to go?" Agatha asked, offering her hand.

Rio took it without hesitation, fingers intertwining with Agatha's in a gesture that already felt familiar despite its newness.

"Ready," she confirmed, closing her apartment door behind her and stepping into the night, into possibility, into the uncertain, exhilarating territory of a first date with Agatha Harkness.

Chapter Text

El Rinconcito existed in its own pocket of reality—a small universe of mismatched chairs and hand-painted murals where time moved according to laws different from those of the world outside. Warm light spilt from wrought-iron fixtures, casting a golden glow across wooden tables worn smooth by years of elbows and conversations. The air was thick with promise—cumin and garlic and cilantro dancing together in the steam that escaped from the kitchen, carrying whispered Spanish that rose and fell like music.

It was perfect.

It was terrifying.

Rio sat across from Agatha at a corner table draped in a cloth the colour of marigolds, a single carnation standing between them in a blue ceramic vase.

They'd been seated for precisely eight minutes, and they'd exchanged exactly twenty-three words. Rio knew because she'd been counting, as if quantifying the silence might somehow make it less deafening.

"Hi."

"Hi."

"Your car is really nice."

"Thank you, it was a birthday gift."

"This place is lovely."

"I'm glad you think so."

And now—nothing.

The guitarist's fingers dismantled her napkin with scientific precision, folding and unfolding until the creases resembled topographical maps of territories she hadn't yet found the courage to explore. Across the table, Agatha's posture remained flawless, her spine so perfectly aligned it made Rio instinctively want to straighten her own slouching shoulders. The black top Agatha wore looked effortlessly elegant—the kind of garment that whispered its quality rather than shouting it, draping across her collarbones with quiet confidence. Her hair, pulled slightly up at the front, with the rest cascading in soft waves, framed her face in a way that softened the usual sharp edges of her public persona.

Rio had never felt so simultaneously drawn to and intimidated by another human being in her life.

Most importantly, she'd never had trouble talking to Agatha before. They'd debated everything from Romantic poetry to labour movements through marathon text exchanges. For three days after the night at Voltage Room, their conversations had flowed like water, urgent and natural—deep philosophical musings giving way to silly jokes about campus squirrels, confessions exchanged in the sacred space between midnight and dawn. It had been easy, effortless. So why now, when it mattered most, had every coherent thought abandoned her?

Agatha cleared her throat delicately, eyes lifting from where she'd been studying her water glass with the concentration of someone attempting to divine the future in its condensation.

"The, um, weather has been nice lately," she offered, breaking the silence with what had to be the most superficial conversation starter in human history.

Rio nodded too enthusiastically, grateful for any lifeline. "Very atmospheric."

"That's exactly what I was thinking. All the... air and... precipitation."

"Definitely weather-like."

Another silence descended, somehow more excruciating than the first. Rio could practically feel her legendary IQ points vaporising with each passing second of meteorological discussion.

"You're here often, right?" she tried again, hating how the question sounded like a bad pickup line.

"At least once a week for the past year," Agatha replied, visibly relaxing at the familiar subject. " It's my sanctuary."

"It seems really..." Rio searched for the right word, "...authentic."

"It is," Agatha nodded, latching onto this conversational lifeline.

"Señora Rosa and Carlos make everything from scratch. The recipes have been in their family for generations. The empanadas are incredible—she makes the dough fresh every morning."

"That's...cool."

And they were back to verbal quicksand.

Agatha lifted her water glass, apparently deciding to take a drink at the exact moment Rio had the same idea. Their eyes met over the rims, and something about the absurd formality of their synchronised sipping cracked the tension like thin ice.

Rio's lips twitched. Then Agatha's mouth quirked upward. A small, huffed laugh escaped Rio—which triggered a soft giggle from Agatha—which somehow escalated until they were both laughing, the sound building like a wave until they were gasping for breath.

"What the fuck—" Rio managed between fits of laughter, "—are we doing?"

"I have no idea," Agatha wheezed, wiping tears from her eyes. "We've literally danced on coffee tables together , and now we can't make small talk?"

"We've literally kissed— twice! —and now we're discussing precipitation patterns?" Rio added, the absurdity of their situation hitting her all at once.

"We're being ridiculous."

"Completely ridiculous, " she agreed, feeling the tension drain from her shoulders like water. "We've talked for hours before. Why is this so hard?"

"Because it's a date," Agatha said, her laughter subsiding into a warm smile that transformed her entire face. "Because it matters."

The simple honesty in her words struck Rio silent, but this time, the silence felt comfortable rather than strained.

"Also," Agatha added, leaning forward conspiratorially, "because we're overthinking it."

Rio grinned, leaning in to match Agatha's posture. "So what do we do about it?"

Agatha's eyes lit with mischief—an expression Rio was still getting used to seeing on her normally composed face.

"I have an idea. A game, sort of."

"A game?" Rio raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "What kind of game?"

"Let's pretend we're meeting for the first time," the brunette suggested. "No history, no baggage, no expectations. Just two strangers having dinner."

Rio couldn't help herself. "Roleplay, Harkness? On the first date? I didn't realise you were so adventurous."

She wiggled her eyebrows dramatically, enjoying the ruddiness that rose to Agatha's cheeks like dawn breaking over marble.

"Not that kind of roleplay, Vidal," she countered, rolling her eyes even as her lips curved upward. "Get your mind out of the gutter."

"It likes it there," the guitarist replied with a wink. "It's cozy. Made a little home for itself. Hung curtains and everything."

Agatha giggled, shaking her head. "You're impossible."

"Part of my charm," Rio countered, feeling more like herself with each passing second. "So this roleplay—"

"We're calling it a 'pretend scenario' now, thank you very much."

" This pretend scenario ," Rio corrected with a grin, "how does it work?"

"Simple. We introduce ourselves and start fresh. Learn about each other without assumptions." Agatha's expression softened into something almost vulnerable. "I think we could both use a reset button."

"I like it," the artist nodded, already slipping into character. She extended her hand across the table, her movements taking on a theatrical formality.

"Hi, I'm Rio Vidal. And you are?"

Agatha took her hand, her grip firm and warm, sending a current of electricity up Rio's arm that had nothing to do with their game.

"Agatha Harkness. Pleasure to meet you."

"The pleasure's all mine," Rio responded, letting her fingers linger against Agatha's skin a moment longer than necessary.

"So, Ms. Harkness, what brings you to El Rinconcito on this fine evening?"

"I'm a regular, actually... best empanadas in the state. And you?"

"A friend recommended it," Rio answered smoothly. "Said I hadn't lived until I'd tried the food here."

"Your friend has immaculate taste."

"I'm beginning to think so, yes."

They were interrupted by the arrival of Señora Rosa herself, a diminutive woman whose presence somehow filled the room like sunshine. Her silver-streaked hair was pulled back in a neat braid, and laugh lines radiated from eyes the colour of dark honey. She wore a hand-embroidered apron over a simple dress, her movements as graceful and deliberate as a dancer's despite her age.

"¡Agatha, mija, qué bueno verte!" Her voice was warm as bread fresh from the oven.

"Hola, Señora Rosa," Agatha replied, her face lighting up in a way that transformed her entire countenance. Gone was the carefully composed woman Rio knew; in her place sat a young woman genuinely happy to be recognised, to be known. "Es bueno verte también."

The older woman set down a basket of what smelled like freshly baked bread and then turned to Rio with open curiosity.

"And who is this lovely young lady you've brought with you? No es Madison." The observation carried a hint of pleased understanding.

"No, this is Rio," Agatha replied, a note of something like pride in her voice. "Rio, this is Señora Rosa, the heart and soul of El Rinconcito."

"Mucho gusto," Rio said, switching easily to Spanish, the language of her childhood rising to her lips like a forgotten song suddenly remembered. "Es un placer conocerla. Agatha me ha hablado mucho de este lugar."

Señora Rosa's eyes widened with delight. "¡Hablas español! ¿De dónde eres, mi niña?"

"Soy de Puerto Rico, nací en San Juan."

"¡Ah, boricua!" Señora Rosa clapped her hands together. "Mi hermana vivió en Ponce por muchos años. Linda tierra."

"¿En serio? Ponce es hermoso," Rio smiled, momentarily forgetting their audience as she slipped into a rapid exchange about Puerto Rico's different regions, comparing notes on favourite places she remembered from childhood and local dishes she missed.

The easy flow of Spanish between them seemed to light something in Señora Rosa's eyes—a connection, a recognition. She studied Rio with new interest, then glanced back at Agatha, who was watching their exchange with a soft smile.

"Esta es especial, Agatha," Señora Rosa declared, nodding firmly. "La has elegido bien."

Agatha's flush deepened, but her smile remained steadfast. "Sí, lo es."

"¿Entiendes lo que estamos diciendo?" Rio asked Agatha, curious about her level of comprehension.

"Enough to follow along," Agatha replied. "Like I told you before, my Spanish isn't fluent, but I understand more than I speak."

Señora Rosa patted Rio's hand, her palm warm and slightly rough from decades of work.

"What would you like to drink, mi niña? We have fresh passion fruit juice today—Carlos's speciality. Or maybe you prefer something stronger? Wine, beer?"

"The juice sounds perfect," Rio said, glancing at Agatha, who nodded in agreement.

"For both of us," Agatha added. "We're driving."

"Two passion fruit juices," Señora Rosa confirmed. "And I will bring you some appetisers. No menus tonight—I will take care of everything." She winked at Agatha. "Special occasion, special treatment."

Before either of them could protest, she had bustled away, disappearing back into the kitchen with the efficiency of someone who had navigated the same path thousands of times.

"She's amazing," Rio said, genuinely impressed. "And she clearly adores you."

"The feeling is mutual," Agatha replied, breaking off a piece of bread. "She's been a sort of... sanctuary for me. This whole place has."

"I can see why," Rio looked around, taking in the homey atmosphere. "It feels safe here. Like a pocket dimension where you can just... be."

"Exactly," Agatha said, looking at Rio with something like wonder in her eyes. "So, Rio Vidal from San Juan, tell me about yourself. What do you do when you're not being recommended excellent restaurants by mysterious friends?"

Rio smiled, appreciating how easily they'd slipped back into their roleplay. "I'm a student at Harrington University. English Literature minor, Music Theory major. I play guitar in a band called Midnight Rapture— maybe you've heard of us?"

"Can't say that I have," Agatha teased. "Are you any good?"

"I've been told I'm not bad," Rio replied with mock humility. "But I work a couple of jobs too. Coffee shop barista by day, occasional caterer by night."

"Sounds busy."

"It is, but necessary. I'm on scholarship, but textbooks don't buy themselves." Rio leaned back, deciding to share more substantial truth beneath their playful facade. "And I help support my family back home. My mom—Carmen—works two jobs herself, but it's not easy being a single parent."

A flicker of genuine interest crossed Agatha's face, momentarily breaking character. "I didn't know you help support your family."

Rio shrugged, feeling suddenly exposed as if she'd accidentally revealed more of herself than she'd intended. "It's not a lot, but every little bit helps. The scholarship covers tuition and some rent, but there are always extra expenses. And my brother Mateo is autistic—some of his therapies aren't covered by insurance, and mom does cleaning at a school during the day and administrative work at a hospital reception desk in the evenings."

"That's a lot of responsibility for you to take on as a student," Agatha observed, no judgment in her tone, just empathetic concern.

"It's just what you do for family," Rio replied, the words carrying the weight of years of lived experience.

"Mom sacrificed everything to get me here. Least I can do is send money when I can. The band gigs help—better pay than the coffee shop, at least."

She twirled her fork between her fingers—a musician's habit, always needing to keep her hands in motion. "Actually, it's part of why I'm so serious about keeping my scholarship. If I lost it, I'd have to drop out. Can't afford tuition otherwise."

"And your father?" Agatha asked gently. "Is he in the picture?"

"Never was," Rio replied, the old familiar phrase rolling off her tongue with practised ease. "Left before I was born. Just another dude who wasn't ready to be a dad, I guess." She paused, then added, "Mateo's dad was different—he was good, caring. They were engaged, planning a life together. But he died of a stroke two weeks before Mateo was born. Just... collapsed at work. Gone. So it's just been the three of us since then."

"I'm sorry," Agatha said softly, her hand moving across the table as if to touch Rio's before hesitating. "Your mother sounds like an incredible woman."

"She is," Rio nodded, a smile softening her features. "Strongest person I know. Never complained, never made us feel like we were a burden, even when she was working eighteen-hour days. She's why I play music, actually. She's always singing around the house, and she saved up for years to buy me my first guitar when I was ten."

Something in Agatha's expression shifted—a mix of admiration and perhaps a touch of covetousness.

"That's beautiful. To have that kind of support."

As if summoned by the word "support," Señora Rosa reappeared with two tall glasses of juice the colour of sunset, vibrant orange with undertones of deep red, garnished with fresh mint leaves. "Passion fruit, fresh this morning," she announced proudly. "And empanadas coming soon. Carlos made special ones just for you, Agatha—the cheese ones you like." She patted Agatha's shoulder affectionately before disappearing again.

When she had gone, Agatha took a sip of her juice, its colours reflecting in her eyes. "Your turn," she declared, steering them back to their game.

"You've told me about you—now let me tell you about me. What would you like to know about Agatha Harkness?"

"Let's start with the basics," Rio suggested, leaning forward. "What do you do, Agatha Harkness?"

"Well," Agatha began, her fingers toying with the condensation on her glass, "I'm also a student at Harrington. Political Science major, with a focus on Constitutional Law. I'm involved in... campus leadership." She hesitated, her expression briefly clouding like sun behind gathering storm clouds. "Though I'm considering stepping down from one of my positions."

"Oh?" Rio raised an eyebrow, genuine surprise registering. "Which one?"

"Young Conservatives," Agatha admitted quietly, her voice barely carrying across the small table. "It's... complicated."

"I have time," Rio said, her tone gentle despite her curiosity. This wasn't something they'd discussed before, and it felt significant—a new piece of the intricate puzzle that was Agatha Harkness.

Agatha took a deep breath, her shoulders rising and falling under the weight of her confession. "The truth is, I'm not as conservative as most people think. As my mother would want me to be. I've been using my position to subtly introduce more progressive ideas—framing universal healthcare as 'fiscal responsibility,' for instance—but it's exhausting always wearing a mask."

Their roleplay was thinning, reality bleeding through the pretence like watercolour paints merging on wet paper, but Rio didn't mind. This felt important, necessary.

"That's a pretty big deal," Rio acknowledged. "How long have you been feeling this way?"

"Years," Agatha confessed, a lifetime of careful calculation evident in her voice. "I joined for my mother—Senator Harkness expects certain things from her daughter. But my own views... well, let's just say I have Malcolm X and Angela Davis hidden behind approved textbooks on my shelves at home." Her eyes met Rio's, vulnerability and determination warring in their blue depths. "But until recently, I didn't have the courage to even think about changing it. Recent... developments have made me reconsider a lot of things."

The unspoken acknowledgement of what had grown between them hung in the air, sweet and heavy with prospect.

"How do you think your mother will react?"

Agatha's laugh had an edge to it, sharp as broken glass. "Not well. But I've been thinking about what you said in your song—about not having to be their golden child. Maybe it's time to find out who I am without my mother's blueprint."

Rio's heart skipped at the reference to "Perfect Nightmare"—at the realisation that her lyrics had actually meant something to Agatha, had perhaps even helped catalyse a change.

"That's brave," she said softly.

"Frightening," Agatha corrected with a small smile that didn't reach her eyes. "But necessary, I suppose."

"And what do you do when you're not leading campus organisations or reconsidering your political affiliations?" Rio asked, curious to learn more about this woman who continued to surprise her.

"I volunteer at a women's shelter downtown," Agatha said, her expression lightening. "Twice a week. I help with legal paperwork, childcare, and whatever's needed. I started my freshman year."

"Really?" Rio couldn't hide her surprise. "I didn't know that."

"Not many people do," Agatha admitted. "It's not something my mother would approve of—too 'activist' for her tastes. She thinks time spent on volunteer work could be better spent networking with 'the right people.' But it's the most meaningful thing I do. These women and children—they've been through so much, yet they're so resilient. It puts my own problems in perspective."

"How did you get started with that?"

"After my father died," Agatha said, her voice softening into something almost reverential. "I was fifteen when he passed. He was a prosecutor, specialised in domestic violence cases. The shelter was his passion project—he helped set it up, provided pro bono legal services. After the accident, I wanted to keep that connection to him. So, as soon as I turned eighteen, I joined."

"I'm sorry about your dad," Rio said gently, understanding loss in a way that transcended their differences.

"Thank you." Agatha's smile was tinged with sadness, like watercolour blue bleeding into grey. "He was... different from my mother. Believed in justice more than politics. I think that's why they eventually drifted apart, though they never divorced. He was living in an apartment downtown when it happened—black ice, a semi-truck, over in seconds." She took a steadying breath.

"Anyway, the shelter work helps me feel like I'm continuing something important to him."

"Do you want to be a prosecutor like him?"

"Yes, though my mother is pushing for corporate law or politics. But criminal prosecution is where I could make a real difference—help people who can't help themselves, like the women at the shelter."

"That's why you were so fired up during our debate about the justice system at the after-party," Rio realised, pieces clicking into place. "This isn't abstract for you—it's personal."

"It is," Agatha smiled. "Though I was also pretty fired up from the tequila," she added with a self-deprecating laugh.

"I'm still a little embarrassed about dancing on Madison's coffee table."

"Don't be," Rio insisted, leaning forward as if to physically press her point home. "That was the highlight of my night. Well, second highlight."

"What was the first?" Agatha asked though the slight quirk of her lips suggested she already knew the answer.

"You falling asleep in my lap. Trusting me enough to let your guard down completely."

Agatha's cheeks coloured again, but this time, she didn't look away.

"That was the most restful sleep I've had in years. Usually, my brain won't shut off—always planning, anticipating, worrying. But with you... I felt safe."

The simple admission hung between them, profound in its defenselessness.

Their conversation paused as Señora Rosa returned, this time bearing a large earthenware platter loaded with golden empanadas, each one perfectly crimped and glistening. Small dishes of vibrant sauces surrounded them, alongside a colourful salad dotted with edible flowers.

"Empanadas de queso, de carne, y de mariscos," she announced, setting down the platter with the reverence of someone delivering sacred objects. "Salsa verde, salsa de ají, and a little ensalada to balance." She beamed at them. "Enjoy, mis niñas. Main courses will come when you are ready."

"This looks amazing, Señora Rosa," Rio spoke admiringly. "Muchas gracias."

"De nada, sol. It is good to see Agatha with someone who makes her smile. She works too hard, this one." She tapped her temple. " Always thinking, this one."

"I'm learning that," Rio replied, glancing at Agatha with undisguised affection.

"You enjoy! Food tastes better when shared with someone special."

When she had gone, Rio noticed Agatha staring at the platter with an odd expression—part hunger, part anxiety. She remembered what Madison had mentioned and suddenly understood.

"These look incredible; which one would you recommend starting with?"

The question seemed to ground Agatha, pulling her from wherever her thoughts had gone. "The cheese ones are my favourite," she said, her voice almost normal. "But they're all good."

Rio nodded, selecting a cheese empanada and taking a bite. "Oh my god," she moaned rather loudly.

"That's... incredible. The dough is so flaky, and the cheese—what is that, some kind of herb mixed in?"

Agatha laughed, some of the tension leaving her shoulders as she selected a cheese empanada for herself.

"Oregano and something else Rosa won't reveal. A family secret, apparently."

Rio watched from the corner of her eye as Agatha hesitated, then took a small bite. Something in the way she chewed—deliberately as if counting—confirmed Rio's suspicion. Not wanting to draw attention to Agatha's discomfort, the guitarist deliberately kept the conversation flowing, steering it toward lighter topics.

"What's your favourite colour?" she asked abruptly.

Agatha blinked, once, then twice, momentarily thrown by the non-sequitur.

"Pardon?"

"Your favourite colour," Rio repeated. "Mine's green. Forest green, specifically. Like the trees back in Puerto Rico after it rains. Everything gets this deep, rich colour—so alive it almost hurts to look at. I still remember that from when I was little before we moved."

"Oh." Agatha seemed to relax slightly, focusing on the question rather than the food. "Purple. Deep purple, like the sky just after sunset but before true darkness. That moment when everything is still visible but softened, mysterious."

"That's very specific," Rio smiled. "And very poetic."

"What can I say? I contain multitudes," Agatha quipped, echoing her words from their rain-soaked classroom encounter.

"In that case, what's your favourite season?" Rio asked before taking another bite of her empanada.

"Fall," Agatha replied without hesitation. "The colours, the coolness in the air, the sense of change. Everything feels... possible in autumn." She paused, considering. "What about you?"

"Summer," Rio said, memories washing over her like warm waves. "Warm nights, music festivals, that feeling of freedom when you don't have to bundle up just to go outside. I have vivid memories from Puerto Rico—street festivals, the smell of food cooking, and music everywhere. I was young when we left, but those impressions stay with you, you know?"

"You miss it," Agatha observed gently.

"Parts of it," Rio nodded. "The memories are a bit fuzzy now, but I remember the feeling of belonging, of community. My mom still makes traditional dishes on holidays, keeps up the connections. My abuela and some cousins still live there. We try to visit when we can afford it, which isn't often."

"How old is your brother?" Agatha asked, taking another small bite of her empanada.

"Mateo's four," Rio said, a note of pride entering her voice. "Smart as hell, already obsessed with the night sky. He can recognise most of the major constellations... the kid's brain just absorbs information like a sponge."

"He sounds wonderful."

"He is," Rio agreed. "Challenging sometimes—he struggles with changes in routine and gets overwhelmed easily in crowds or loud places. But he's got the sweetest heart. Lights up when he sees me on the screen and always wants to show me his newest drawings. He's part of why I'm studying music theory, actually."

"Really? How so?"

"We discovered when he was two that music could help him regulate—certain rhythms, certain tones would calm him when he was overwhelmed. I started researching how music affects the brain, the connections between mathematics and music, all of it. Figured if I understood it better, I could help him better." Rio shrugged as if the depth of her devotion were the most natural thing in the world. " Then I fell in love with music theory for its own sake."

They fell into an easier rhythm then, Rio deliberately keeping the conversation light and engaging, asking about favourite books (Agatha: Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston; Rio: One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel García Márquez), favourite music (beyond what they'd already discussed), and childhood dreams.

"I wanted to be an astronaut," Agatha admitted, laughing. "I had glow-in-the-dark stars all over my ceiling until I was twelve, and Mother decided they were 'childish' and had them removed while I was at school."

"That's... harsh," Rio loured.

"That's Evanora," Agatha chuckled. "Everything is about appearance, about what's 'appropriate' for a future senator's daughter." She took a sip of her passion fruit juice. "When I was seventeen, I applied for a summer internship at NASA—just administrative work, nothing fancy. Got accepted, too. Mother intercepted the acceptance letter and declined on my behalf because she'd already arranged for me to intern at a law firm owned by one of her donors. Micheal Mann, biggest asshole in human history."

"Jesus! That's beyond controlling!"

"It is what it is. What about you? Childhood dreams?"

"Professional baseball player," Rio grinned, accepting the change of subject. "I was actually pretty good—played shortstop after we moved to the States. Had a killer arm and a decent batting average. There was a community league that was basically my second home from ages nine to thirteen."

"What happened?" Agatha asked.

"Found my dad's old guitar in a closet, and that was it. Music took over everything else. Mom didn't even know she still had it—my dad left it behind when he split. It was nothing special, just a cheap acoustic with half the strings missing. But when I found it... I don't know, something clicked. Mom scraped together enough money to get it restrung, found someone to teach me the basics, and after that, I was obsessed."

"And now you're in a band, writing your own songs," Agatha observed. "Seems like you found your path."

"I did," Rio agreed. "Though I still love baseball. I'm trying to get Mateo interested too—he's still figuring out the rules, but he loves the excitement when everyone cheers."

Señora Rosa returned to clear their appetiser plates, nodding approvingly at Agatha when she saw both of them had eaten well. "Main courses now? Or do you need a little time?"

"A little time, please," Agatha requested. "Everything is delicious."

"Of course, mija." Señora Rosa patted her hand. "No rush. This is not a fast food restaurant." She winked at Rio. "Tell me, mi niña, what do you think of our little place?"

"It's wonderful," Rio replied sincerely. "I can see why Agatha loves it here. The food is incredible, and you make everyone feel like family."

"Good, good," the older woman nodded. "You bring her happiness. I can see it in her eyes. Different than when she comes with her friend." She gave Agatha a knowing look.

Rio felt warmth spread through her chest at the simple observation. "She brings me happiness too."

Señora Rosa's smile deepened, carving well-worn paths across her weathered face. "As it should be. I will leave you two alone now. More juice?"

They both nodded, and she disappeared once more, returning moments later with fresh glasses before retreating to give them privacy.

"She's very perceptive," Rio commented.

"Unnervingly so," Agatha agreed. "She knew I was... not in a good place when I first started coming here. Never pushed, just made sure I ate something every time. Small portions, nothing overwhelming. Just... acceptance."

The indirect acknowledgement of her eating disorder hung between them, not exactly uncomfortable but significant. Rio decided to respond with equal vulnerability.

"My mom was the same way when I was going through a rough patch in high school," she offered. "Didn't push, just... was there. Made sure I knew I wasn't alone."

"What happened in high school?" Agatha asked gently, permission rather than demand in her voice.

Rio hesitated, then decided to trust Agatha with a piece of herself she rarely shared. " Depression. Pretty bad for a while. I was sixteen, had just gotten fired from my pizza delivery job, and money was tight. Add in finding out you're a lesbian while also maintaining a perfect GPA to qualify for scholarships. It all just... got to be too much." She twisted her napkin in her hands, a habit from when anxiety threatened to overwhelm her.

"Started having panic attacks, couldn't sleep. Mom noticed right away and got me help. That's actually when I started writing songs more seriously—it became an outlet, a way to process everything I couldn't put into words."

"Is that why music is so important to you?"

"Part of it," Rio nodded. "It's my voice. My truth. When I'm playing, I feel... most myself. Most real." She gave a self-deprecating laugh. "That probably sounds pretentious."

"It doesn't," Agatha insisted, reaching across the table to still Rio's nervous hands with her own. "It sounds honest. And I get it—that's how I feel when I'm working at the shelter. Like I'm doing what I'm meant to do, not what's expected of me."

"Is this your first real date?" Rio asked suddenly, the question fleeing her lips before she could consider it.

Agatha blinked, surprised, then nodded. "That obvious?"

"No... I mean, maybe... sorry that was..."

"Relax," Agatha giggled, "I've been to plenty of formal dinners and political events with 'suitable young men' of my mother's choosing, but this—choosing to be here with someone I actually want to be with—yes, this is a first."

"Mine too," Rio admitted, vulnerability suddenly feeling easier than bravado. "I mean, I've dated, hooked up, whatever. But never... this. Never something that felt important. Thank you for sharing this with me," Rio said softly. "I know it's special to you."

"You're special to me," Agatha replied, the words simple but profound. She reached across the table, palm up in invitation.

Rio placed her hand in Agatha's, their fingers interlacing naturally.

"Careful, Harkness. Keep talking like that, and people might think you're sweet on me."

"People would be right." Agatha's thumb traced gentle circles on Rio's wrist, "is that okay?"

"More than okay," Rio assured her, voice husky with emotion. "But we should probably get back to our game. I haven't learned nearly enough about you yet."

Agatha smiled, accepting the gentle redirect. "What else would you like to know, mysterious guitarist?"

"Big life questions," Rio suggested. "Where do you see yourself in ten years?"

Agatha considered this, her expression turning contemplative as if gazing into a future only she could see. "Professionally? Working as a prosecutor, hopefully having made some kind of difference. Maybe taking on cases like the ones my father handled—domestic violence, protecting vulnerable people." She hesitated before continuing. "Personally... I'd like a family of my own. Something different from what I grew up with."

"Children?" Rio asked, curious about this glimpse into Agatha's dreams.

"Yes," Agatha nodded, a softness entering her expression. "At least two. I always wanted siblings. Mother wasn't interested in 'diluting her focus,' as she put it."

"I get that," Rio said. "I want kids too, someday. When I'm more stable financially. I'd want them to have more security than I had growing up. But I'd also want them to know their heritage, speak Spanish, understand where they came from." There was a wistfulness in her voice. "I'd like a house with a yard, space for music, a room for Mateo to stay in when he's older and visits his big sister. Nothing fancy, just... home."

"You'd be a good parent," Agatha said with surprising certainty.

"What makes you say that?"

"The way you take care of people. Your brother, your mother, even your bandmates. You notice things—what people need, what they're feeling. That matters." She squeezed Rio's hand. "You talk about your brother with such love, such understanding. Not everyone would see his differences as gifts."

Rio felt her cheeks warm at the unexpected praise. "You'd be a good parent, too," she countered. "You care deeply about things, even when you try to hide it. And you fight for what's right in your own way. The women at that shelter are lucky to have you."

Their eyes met across the table, and something shifted in the air between them—a recognition, a possibility. The idea of a shared future hung unspoken but palpable between them.

"And where would this theoretical family live?" Rio asked her voice light despite the weight of the conversation. "City? Suburbs? Beachfront villa paid for with your trust fund?"

Agatha laughed, the sound like wind chimes in a gentle breeze. "Nowhere too urban, I think. Somewhere with trees, space, maybe near water. I've always loved the idea of living near a lake—peaceful but not isolated." She took a sip of her juice. "And I don't actually have a trust fund, for the record."

"No?" Rio raised an eyebrow. "I just assumed with your background..."

"My situation is...complicated," Agatha admitted. "My father left me financially independent when he died. The apartment I share with Madison is actually mine—part of my inheritance. There's quite a substantial amount in investments, too." She paused, looking slightly uncomfortable discussing her wealth. "But I keep that quiet. Mother would prefer I live in her approved housing, under her control. It's one of the few battles I've won."

"Then why does she still have so much influence over you?" Rio asked gently. "If you're financially independent..."

Agatha looked down at her glass, tracing the rim with her finger. "Because I want her to love me," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "As complicated as our relationship is, she's still my mother. And I've spent my entire life trying to be perfect for her. Old habits die hard, I suppose."

"I get that," Rio nodded. "Family is... complicated."

"Even my college choice was a battle. Mother wanted me at her alma mater, but I insisted on Harrington. To my shock, I actually won." Pride flickered across her face. "Though I suspect she only relented because Harrington has stronger political science connections."

"Still a victory," Rio pointed out. "You're here, not where she wanted you."

Agatha considered this. "I suppose you're right. Small uprisings." She smiled, glancing down at her outfit. "Getting more frequent lately."

"I like the disobedient side of you," Rio admitted, gently stroking her thumb across Agatha's knuckles.

"I'm finding I do too." Agatha looked thoughtful for a moment. "What about your future home? I know you want a yard and music space, but where would the famous Rio Vidal settle down? Any cities in mind?"

"Nothing specific yet; I just want somewhere with a good music scene," Rio replied immediately. "Not necessarily a big city, but a place with soul, you know? Where people appreciate art, creativity. Maybe a college town—I could see myself teaching music theory someday."

"Professor Vidal," Agatha tested the title. "It suits you, actually."

"You think?" Rio grinned. "Dr Rio Vidal, PhD in Music Theory and Composition, specialising in the intersection of classical structures and contemporary expression."

"I can absolutely see it," Agatha nodded. "Your students would adore you."

"Or fear me," Rio countered with a wicked smile. "I'd be demanding. Accept nothing but their best."

"Just like you demand of yourself," Agatha observed softly.

Their conversation flowed easily after that, weaving between serious topics and lighter ones. They compared childhood memories, debated the merits of different literary movements, and discovered a shared love of thunderstorms. The main courses arrived—arroz con pollo for Agatha, cazuela de mariscos for Rio—and they shared bites across the table, exclaiming over the flavours.

"Okay, important question," Rio said as they were halfway through their entrees. "Best concert you've ever been to?"

Agatha hesitated, seeming almost embarrassed. "Honestly? Yours."

"What?" Rio nearly choked on her food. "At Voltage Room? That's the only concert you've ever been to, isn't it?"

"Not technically," Agatha defended. "I've been to plenty of classical performances—symphonies, chamber music, that sort of thing. But rock concerts? Yes, yours was my first."

"No wonder you were so impressed," Rio teased. "You have nothing to compare it to."

"I don't need comparisons to know when something is special," Agatha retorted, her eyes meeting Rio's with unexpected intensity. "Some things you just... recognise."

Rio felt heat creep up her neck at the double meaning. "Fair enough."

"If it helps," Agatha added with a playful glint in her eye, "I've done extensive research since then. Madison gave me a crash course in punk and indie rock history. I can now identify at least three Sleater-Kinney songs on first listen."

Rio laughed, delighted by this revelation. "Look at you, expanding your musical horizons."

"I'm a quick study," Agatha replied with a hint of pride. "Though I have to admit, I still prefer your music to most of what Madison's shown me."

"Now you're just trying to butter me up, Harkness."

"Is it working?"

"You know it is, princess."

As the evening progressed, Rio noticed that Agatha had relaxed completely—the tension that had briefly appeared when the food arrived was long gone. She ate with genuine enjoyment now, laughing more freely, gesturing with her fork as she told stories about her law seminars and the outrageous arguments some of her more conservative classmates would make.

"And then this guy—Tucker, of course, his name is fucking Tucker—has the audacity to suggest that the Fourteenth Amendment was never intended to protect 'those kinds of minorities,' " Agatha recounted, indignation colouring her voice. "So I just smiled sweetly and walked him through the entire legislative history and judicial interpretation, complete with citations, until he literally couldn't form words anymore."

"You destroyed him," Rio grinned, imagining the scene.

"Academically eviscerated him," Agatha confirmed with satisfaction. "The best part was, I did it so politely that he couldn't even complain about it. Professor Chen just sat there with this tiny smile, watching the whole thing."

"Remind me never to debate constitutional law with you," Rio said, impressed.

"Oh, I don't know," Agatha's voice dropped slightly, taking on a teasing quality that sent a pleasant shiver down Rio's spine. "I think debating with you could be... stimulating."

"Is that right?" Rio matched her tone, leaning in. "What other activities with me might you find stimulating, Ms. Harkness?"

Colour bloomed on Agatha's cheeks like roses unfurling, but she didn't back down. "I suppose we'll have to discover that gradually, won't we?"

The moment stretched between them, electric, arousing even, until Señora Rosa's arrival broke the tension. She carried a single plate of flan, two spoons balanced delicately on the edge.

"Dessert," she announced. "To share. Very romantic." She winked at Rio, who couldn't help but laugh.

"Gracias, Señora. It looks delicious."

"Best flan in New England," Agatha confirmed.

When Señora Rosa had gone, Rio picked up one of the spoons and offered the other to Agatha. "Shall we?"

The flan was, as promised, exceptional—silky and perfectly caramelised, with just the right balance of sweetness and complexity. They took turns taking bites, their conversation slowing as they savoured the dessert.

"You know," Agatha said after a moment, "this is the first time I've ever really enjoyed a meal out like this."

"What do you mean?" Rio asked.

"Usually, I'm too in my head—counting calories, worrying about appearances, thinking about how my mother would critique my posture or my choice of entree." Agatha's admission was quiet but significant. "Even here, with Señora Rosa, it's been a process. But tonight..." She gestured between them. "This feels different. Good different."

Rio reached across the table, taking Agatha's hand. "I'm glad," she said simply. "Food should be joy, not anxiety."

"You make a lot of things joyful that used to be anxious," Agatha replied, her voice soft with wonder. "How do you do that?"

"I don't do anything," Rio said. "Maybe you're just giving yourself permission to feel joy."

Agatha considered this. "Maybe you help me find that permission."

When the bill came, Agatha reached for it without hesitation.

"My invitation, my treat," she insisted when Rio protested.

"Next time is on me, then."

"Next time," Agatha agreed, a promise in the words.

They said their goodbyes to Señora Rosa, who embraced them both and pressed a small package of leftovers into Rio's hands with strict instructions to enjoy them tomorrow.

"You will come back together," she told them, more statement than a question. "You are good for each other. I can see these things."

"We will," Agatha promised, accepting a kiss on both cheeks from the older woman.

"You take care of her," Señora Rosa said to Rio in Spanish, quiet enough that Agatha wouldn't hear. "She needs someone who sees her, not just what she shows the world."

"I will," Rio promised in the same language. "Thank you for tonight. For making it special."

Outside, the night air had cooled, stars visible above despite the city lights. They walked to Agatha's car in comfortable silence, hands finding each other naturally. The drive to Rio's apartment was quiet, a gentle tension building between them. As Agatha drove, Rio watched her profile in the passing streetlights, memorising the curve of her jaw, the slight furrow of concentration between her brows as she navigated a turn.

"You're staring," Agatha noted, her still glued to the road.

"Can't help it," Rio admitted. "You're beautiful."

Agatha's smile was so soft, almost timid.

"Even without the fancy dress and combat boots?"

"Especially without them," Rio replied. "Though those were pretty spectacular."

"I'll wear them again sometime," Agatha promised.

When they reached Rio's apartment building, Agatha parked and walked the artist to her door, their fingers still intertwined. The simple domesticity of the gesture wasn't lost on either of them—a reflection of something deeper than mere physical attraction.

"Do you want to come up?" Rio asked when they reached her apartment door, her voice slightly husky. "For coffee or something?"

"I don't think that would be a good idea."

"Of course," Rio nodded immediately, understanding in her eyes. "No pressure at all."

"It's not because I don't want to," Agatha clarified, stepping closer until they were breathing the same air. "It's because I don't trust myself to keep things... appropriate."

Rio's pulse quickened at the blunt admission, but she was careful not to push. Something in Agatha's hesitation, the careful way she approached intimacy, made Rio suspect this might be new territory for her.

"Hey," Rio said softly, taking Agatha's hands in hers . "We have all the time in the world. There's no rush."

Relief flickered across the younger woman's face, followed by gratitude. "This matters too much to me," she admitted. "And I've never... I mean, I haven't..." She trailed off, but her meaning was clear.

"I understand," Rio said, and she did. The revelation that Agatha was likely inexperienced didn't exactly surprise her, given what she knew about Evanora's strict control and Agatha's careful approach to rebellion.

"When we take that step— if we take that step —it should be because we're both ready. Not because we got carried away after a first date."

"Exactly," Agatha nodded, visibly relieved that Rio understood without judgment. "I want it to be deliberate. With intention. The way we're approaching everything else. Besides, when we do take that step, I'd prefer not to have to worry about your neighbour's strange furniture-moving habit."

Rio laughed, the tension of the moment breaking.

"That's fair. Connors's midnight feng shui is definitely a mood killer."

"That doesn't mean I'm leaving without a goodnight kiss, though," Agatha added, stepping closer.

"I'd be disappointed if you did," Rio rasped.

Their lips met, tentative at first, then with growing confidence. Rio's hands came up to frame Agatha's face, thumbs brushing gently against her cheekbones as the kiss deepened. Agatha's fingers tangled in Rio's hair, drawing them closer together until there was no space left between them.

When they finally parted, both slightly breathless, Rio rested her forehead against Agatha's, not yet ready to break the connection.

"That was..."

"Yeah," Rio agreed, understanding perfectly what she meant.

"I should go," Agatha said reluctantly. "Before I change my mind about your coffee invitation."

"I'll see you soon?" Rio asked, unable to keep the hopeful note from her voice.

"Very soon," Agatha promised, pressing one more quick kiss to Rio's lips before stepping back. "I'll call you tomorrow."

"I'm holding you to that, Harkness."

Rio watched as Agatha walked back to her car, the streetlights turning her hair to pale gold. She waited until the taillights disappeared around the corner before entering her apartment, closing the door behind her and leaning against it with a smile she couldn't have suppressed if she tried.

First date, first dance. And it had been perfect—not despite the initial awkwardness, but because of it. Because they'd found their rhythm together, stepping through uncertainty into something real.

Rio crossed to her bed, picking up her guitar and letting her fingers find the chords of a new melody that had been forming all evening—something hopeful, something beginning.

Something like possibility.

The notes flowed easily, a gentler progression than her usual style. She hummed along, fragments of lyrics already forming in her mind: about stars on skin and purple twilight skies, about hands that fit perfectly together, about the courage to choose one's own path.

Rio played until her fingertips grew sore until the melody had solidified into something she could share with the band. Then she set her guitar aside and reached for her phone.

A text from Agatha was already waiting:

Home safe. Tonight was perfect. Thank you again for seeing me—the real me.

Rio smiled, typing her response:

Thank YOU for letting me see her. She's pretty amazing. Sleep well, princess.

As she set her phone on the nightstand and prepared for bed, Rio found herself thinking about everything Agatha had shared—about her father, her volunteer work, her quiet rebellions against her mother's expectations. About her favorite color being purple, like the twilight sky. About her dreams of a family by a lake someday.

And for the first time in her life, Rio allowed herself to imagine a future that wasn't just about survival—about scholarships and gigs and sending money home. A future that included someone else's dreams intertwined with her own.

It was terrifying.

It was exhilarating.

It was, as Agatha would say, intentional.

Chapter Text

Sorry guys this isn’t an update—I just wanted to say how grateful I am for the wonderful community we’ve built together. Your comments truly brighten my day. I start each morning by reading them before work (and sometimes I revisit them during the day), and they bring me so much joy that I can’t help but giggle! In public! At my grown age of 23!

Since starting this fanfic journey, I have struggled with feeling inept. I criticise my writing, sometimes I don't feel good enough, but after reading your comments and feeling supported, I realise that maybe I don't suck at this. Also, I wanted to add that while I may not always reply directly (I kinda suck at that), I sincerely appreciate everyone here (I love you all, which is sappy and crazy, but it's how I feel!)

Thank you all again!

SPF (my initials 🥲)

Chapter Text

Two weeks.

Two weeks of Rio falling deeper, harder than she'd ever fallen before. Two weeks of being joined at the hip, of spending every possible hour together—studying in the library until closing, sharing meals, Rio sleeping over in Agatha's apartment, in her bed. Never sex, Agatha wasn't ready for that, but together—wrapped in each other's arms, breathing in sync, Rio's fingers tracing gentle patterns on Agatha's skin until she fell asleep.

Beautiful. Perfect. Almost.

And yet, something felt... unfinished. Undefined. Rio couldn't shake the feeling that they were hovering on the edge of something, neither fully committed nor casual but suspended in a beautiful, terrifying in-between. She'd nearly said "I love you" a dozen times—when Agatha fell asleep mid-sentence while they were studying, her long eyelashes casting delicate shadows across her cheeks; when she passionately argued constitutional points in their mock debates, her eyes blazing with an intensity that made Rio's heart stutter; when she absentmindedly hummed along to Rio's guitar practice, her voice a perfect countermelody to the strings.

But the words stuck in her throat every time, heavy with potential consequences.

And there was the apartment issue. In the two weeks, Agatha had yet to set foot in Rio's place. She'd dropped her off and picked her up but never come inside. When Rio suggested studying at her apartment, the younger woman always had a plausible reason why her place or the library would be better.

At first, Rio hadn't thought much of it. Agatha's apartment was larger, nicer, had a proper dining table for spreading out books. But as the pattern continued, a knot of insecurity had taken root in Rio's chest, growing with each evasion until she couldn't ignore it anymore.

"You're overthinking this," Lilia told her as she helped Rio clean her apartment for tonight's study session. They were two weeks away from midterms, and somehow, Rio had volunteered her tiny place as the gathering spot. Maybe it was masochism, or maybe it was a test—either way, Agatha had agreed with only the slightest hesitation, and now Rio was frantically vacuuming while Lilia wiped down surfaces.

"Am I?" She asked, stopping to rewrap the cord around the ancient vacuum cleaner. The machine wheezed as she shut it off, a sound like an elderly patient being taken off life support.

"Two weeks, Lilia. She's been to the library, the coffee shop, that dingy practice room in Morrison Hall, but never here. That seems pretty deliberate to me."

"Or maybe it just hasn't been convenient," Alice suggested, emerging from the tiny kitchen with a garbage bag. "This place is small, no offence. Madison says Agatha likes to spread out when she studies—colour-coded notes, multiple textbooks, the works."

"No offence taken," Rio replied, though the comment stung more than she'd admit. Her fingers flexed instinctively, calluses catching on the rough fabric of her jeans. "But if she's avoiding my apartment because it's small, that proves my point, doesn't it?"

"That's not what I—" Alice began but was interrupted by a sharp knock at the door.

"Saved by the bell," Lilia murmured, exchanging a glance with Alice that Rio chose to ignore.

Opening the door revealed Wanda, Vision, and Alec, all carrying backpacks laden with textbooks and laptops. Wanda immediately pushed past her, surveying the apartment with critical eyes.

"Not bad, Vidal. You actually cleaned."

"Don't sound so surprised," she replied dryly, accepting Vision's offering of a grocery bag filled with snacks. The plastic handles strained against the weight of chips, cookies, and energy drinks. "I am capable of basic adulting."

"Debatable," Wanda said, but her smile took the edge off the words. She dropped onto the futon that served as Rio's couch, sprawling across like she owned the place. "How many people are we expecting? This futon can fit maybe three if we get cosy. Four if I sit on Vision's lap."

"I'm sure that would be a hardship for you," Vision remarked, settling beside her and unpacking his laptop.

"Eight, not counting me," Rio rasped, arranging the snacks on the coffee table—a repurposed wooden crate she'd found on the street and sanded down.

"Jen texted that she's running late but should be here by six."

"And Princess Harkness?" Wanda asked, her tone deliberately casual in a way that made Rio tense. "Will she be gracing us with her presence?"

"She'll be here," Rio said, more confidently than she felt. "She's finishing up a meeting with Professor Oswald. Some project she's working on."

"Ah yes, the infamous constitutional analysis," Alec nodded, pulling out a thick textbook. "Madison says she's been obsessing over it for weeks. Apparently, Oswald told her it was 'too ambitious for someone of her limited experience.'"

"He said what?" Rio's head snapped up, outrage flaring. "That misogynistic ass—"

"—is unfortunately tenured and on the law school admissions committee," Alec finished with a grimace. "Madison says Agatha's determined to prove him wrong."

"Of course she is," Rio murmured, a flicker of pride cutting through her annoyance. This was the Agatha she was falling for—brilliant, stubborn, refusing to be underestimated. But even that knowledge couldn't silence the voice in her head asking why Agatha hadn't shared this with her directly.

The conversation shifted to upcoming exams, complaints about professors, and the latest campus gossip. Rio participated mechanically, her attention divided between the discussion and the door, waiting for the knock that would announce Agatha's arrival.

At 6:15, Jen showed up, bringing a box of doughnuts as a peace offering for her tardiness. Five minutes later, Madison arrived.

"Traffic was a nightmare," she explained, tossing her designer bag onto an empty chair. "And parking around here is—" She stopped abruptly, seeming to realise what she'd been about to say. "Is Aggie not here yet?"

"No," Rio replied, checking her phone for the tenth time in as many minutes. No new messages. "She said she'd be here by six."

Madison frowned, pulling out her own phone. "That's weird. She's usually pathologically punctual. Let me text her."

By seven o'clock, the study session had officially begun without Agatha. Rio's attempts at focus were undermined by the constant urge to check her phone, to glance at the door, to wonder why her girlfriend— was that even the right word? —was over an hour late without so much as a text.

"Maybe... continue without her," Alice suggested gently after Rio had read the same paragraph three times without absorbing a word. "I'm sure she'll be here soon."

Rio nodded, forcing herself to concentrate on her music theory textbook. They worked in relative silence, occasionally asking questions or sharing notes. It was almost peaceful—or would have been, if not for the hollow feeling in Rio's chest growing with each passing minute.

At 7:10, a sharp knock finally cut through the quiet.

Rio was at the door instantly, pulling it open with more force than necessary. And there was Agatha, looking like she'd stepped out of a different planet.

While everyone else had dressed casually in sweats and hoodies—even Madison had foregone her usual designer labels for a comfortable Harrington sweatshirt—Agatha stood before them in a tailored navy dress and black coat, her hair pulled into a sleek ponytail, makeup flawless. She looked beautiful, polished, and entirely out of place.

"I'm so sorry I'm late," she said, slipping past Rio without meeting her eyes. The scent of her perfume—something expensive and floral that Rio had come to associate with Agatha's public persona—lingered in her wake, too formal for the casual gathering.

"The meeting with Professor Oswald ran long."

She surveyed the room with a distracted gaze, barely seeming to register the space she was entering. Her mind was clearly elsewhere, her usual warm presence replaced by something distant and cold.

"No problem," Rio replied, her tone slightly clipped. "We've been managing."

If Agatha noticed the edge in Rio's voice, she gave no indication. She simply nodded, checking her phone briefly before sliding it back into her purse.

"Everything okay?" Madison asked, eyeing her friend with concern.

"Fine," Agatha replied automatically, the response too quick to be convincing. "Just stressed about this project. Professor Oswald has been... challenging."

"We were just getting started," Rio said, gesturing to the scattered textbooks. "Find a spot and jump in."

Agatha nodded, carefully removing her coat and draping it over the back of a chair. She settled on the floor near the coffee table, spreading out her colour-coded notes with practised efficiency. Within moments, she was utterly absorbed in her work, the tension in her shoulders visible even through the structured fabric of her dress.

The room fell into an uncomfortable silence, broken only by the turning of pages and the clicking of laptop keys. Rio tried to focus on her work, but her attention kept drifting to Agatha, who hadn't looked up from her notes once since sitting down. The distance between them felt physical, a tangible barrier that Rio couldn't cross.

Wanda caught her eye from across the room, raising an eyebrow in silent question. Rio just shook her head slightly, not wanting to draw attention to the obvious uncertainty.

Time crawled by. Agatha remained silent, completely focused on her project, occasionally checking her phone with a slight furrow between her brows. She didn't engage in the scattered conversation, didn't look up when Jen offered doughnuts around, didn't even seem to notice when Madison tried to catch her attention with a concerned glance.

The tight knot in Rio's chest grew, expanded, until she couldn't breathe past it. Every minute of Agatha's detachment felt like confirmation of her worst fears—that this was too real, too much, that Agatha was already pulling away, already regretting stepping outside her perfect world.

"I need some air," Rio announced abruptly, setting her textbook aside and standing. Nobody questioned her, though she felt their eyes tracking her movement as she grabbed her cigarettes from the counter and headed for the door.

The hallway offered no relief, so she continued to the small balcony at the end of the corridor—just a concrete slab with a rusted railing, barely big enough for two people, but it was better than nothing. The night air was cool against her skin as she leaned against the railing, fumbling with her lighter.

She'd quit smoking a week and three days ago after Agatha had kissed her and wrinkled her nose, saying she tasted like an ashtray. The memory stung now, another reminder of how hard she'd been trying, how much she'd been changing— and for what? For someone who couldn't even be bothered to text when she was going to be late?

The cigarette tasted bitter, the smoke harsh in lungs that had started to remember what clean air felt like. But the familiar ritual calmed her, gave her something to focus on besides the hollow ache in her chest.

She was so absorbed in her thoughts that she didn't hear the door open behind her.

"I thought you'd quit."

Rio turned to find Agatha standing in the doorway, arms wrapped around herself against the chill. Without her coat, the thin fabric of her dress offered little protection from the night air, and goosebumps had raised along her bare arms. Her makeup, perfect as always, couldn't hide the tight lines around her eyes that spoke of exhaustion or stress— maybe both.

"I had," Rio replied, taking another defiant drag. The smoke burned down her throat, acrid and familiar. "Changed my mind."

Agatha hesitated, then stepped onto the balcony, closing the door behind her. The small space suddenly felt even smaller, charged with unspoken tension.

"You're angry," Agatha observed, her voice carefully neutral.

"What gave it away?" The words came out sharper than Rio intended, but she couldn't seem to soften them. "The fact that I'm literally poisoning myself, or the fact that I haven't spoken more than ten words to you since you arrived?"

Agatha flinched slightly, her composure cracking. "I said I was sorry for being late—"

"This isn't just about you being late," Rio interrupted, flicking ash over the railing. "This is about you being inconsiderate. Not texting and then barely acknowledging anyone's existence. This is about you looking like you'd rather be anywhere but here."

"That's not true," Agatha protested, but the words sounded hollow.

Rio turned to face her fully, really looking at her for the first time that night. Agatha stood with perfect posture, chin tilted at the exact angle that made her look confident, collected. But underneath the careful façade, Rio could see tension in the set of her jaw, in the way her fingers twisted together.

"Your apartment is nice," Agatha finally offered.

A truce, perhaps.

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Lie to make me feel better," Rio said, flicking ash over the railing. "It's small and old and nothing like your place."

"That's not—" Agatha began, but Rio cut her off.

"It's fine. I know what it is. I'm not ashamed of it."

"I never thought you were," Agatha said quietly, hugging herself tighter.

"Then why have you been avoiding coming here for two weeks?" Rio asked, finally voicing the question that had been eating at her. "And don't say you haven't because we both know that's not true."

Agatha looked away, her profile elegant against the night sky. A passing car's headlights briefly illuminated her face, highlighting the shadows beneath her eyes that makeup couldn't quite conceal. "It's complicated."

"Bullshit!" Rio spat, anger finally breaking through her hurt. "It's a yes or no question, Agatha. Did you not want to see where I live? Is this—" she gestured to encompass her apartment, her life, herself, "—too real for you?"

Agatha turned back to her, genuine shock evident in her expression. "You think I've been avoiding your apartment because I'm what? Embarrassed by where you live?"

"What else am I supposed to think!?" Rio rasped. "You've had an excuse every single time I've suggested coming here. You've seen Wanda's place, Alice's, even Vision's, but never mine. And then you show up looking like you're headed to a fundraiser instead of a study session."

"That's because I was at a fundraiser!" Agatha's voice rose slightly, a rare crack in her composure. "Right after meeting with Oswald. My mother insisted. I didn't have time to change!"

Rio faltered, caught off guard by this information. "You didn't mention a fundraiser."

"Because I knew you'd be upset that I'd chosen her over you!" Agatha explained, frustration evident in her tone. "And I especially didn't want to talk about it because Mother Dearest spent the entire hour I was there parading me in front of potential donors like some prize heifer, including Trevor Walsh and his insufferable 'mommy'."

The mention of Trevor's name doused Rio's anger like cold water. "Trevor was there?"

Agatha nodded, wrapping her arms tighter around herself, shielding herself, perhaps.

"Mother's latest attempt at matchmaking. Apparently, the Walshes' financial situation has improved enough that she's reconsidering them as allies."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because it's humiliating!" Agatha's voice cracked, a tremor running through it. "Because I'm twenty years old, financially independent, and still letting my mother dictate who I socialise with. Because Trevor spent the entire evening staring at me like I was something he wanted to devour and sending me disgusting messages."

She pulled out her phone, unlocked it and handed it to Rio. "He's been texting all day."

Rio scrolled through the messages, each one more revolting than the last. They were drenched in entitled male bravado and thinly veiled threats disguised as compliments—classic red-pill rhetoric about "knowing what she really needed" and how he could "teach her to appreciate a real man."

"What the fuck," Rio breathed, rage building with each word she read. Her finger scrolled through message after message, each more nauseating than the last. "Has he been harassing you like this for two weeks?"

Agatha moaned, a single tear escaping down her cheek. "Ever since the fundraiser where you were catering. I thought I could handle it. I should be able to handle it. He's just some pathetic 6'4" mommy's boy."

"Agatha, this is serious," Rio said, all her previous anger forgotten as protective instinct surged to the forefront. "These are practically threats."

"I know," Agatha whispered, another tear following the first. "But if I tell my mother, she'll just say I'm overreacting. And if I tell the police or report him to his school, they'll involve her because she's my emergency contact. And Trevor's family donates to her campaign, so she'll just dismiss it."

Her voice broke completely on the last word, a sob escaping her control.

And then she was crying, all the carefully constructed walls crumbling at once. Her shoulders shook with its force, tears streaming down her face, smearing the makeup she'd applied so perfectly.

Rio moved without thinking, crushing out her cigarette and pulling the woman into her arms. Agatha collapsed against her, face buried in Rio's shoulder as the sobs wracked her body.

"I'm sorry," Agatha gasped between breaths. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to avoid your apartment. I've just been so stressed with this project and Oswald telling me I'm too ambitious for a 'little girl' and Trevor's messages and my mother's constant pressure, and I just— I couldn't handle one more uncertain thing."

Rio held her tighter, one hand stroking her hair as the other pressed firmly against her back. "Shh, it's okay. I've got you. I'm right here."

"I should have told you," Agatha continued, words muffled against Rio's shirt. "But I was embarrassed. I was ashamed . I should be able to handle this. I shouldn't let them get to me."

"Hey, no," Rio pulled back just enough to look into Agatha's tear-stained face. "You don't have to handle everything alone. That's what I'm here for. What we're all here for."

Agatha shook her head, trembling now in the cool night air. "I didn't want you to see me like this. Weak. Falling apart."

"Agatha," Rio said, cupping her face with both hands, thumbs gently wiping away tears that had left tracks through her perfect makeup. "You are the strongest person I know. And even the strongest people need support sometimes."

Agatha let out a watery laugh, but the sound was more like a hiccup. "Not me. I'm supposed to be perfect, remember? Senator Harkness's daughter doesn't break down crying on balconies."

"Well, Agatha Harkness can do whatever she damn well pleases," Rio countered fiercely. "Including crying if she needs to."

This drew a genuine, if shaky, smile from Agatha. But it faded quickly as another shiver ran through her. Rio noticed she was trembling violently now, having no significant protection against the breeze.

"You're freezing. Let's go back inside."

Agatha nodded, allowing Rio to guide her toward the door. But as they reached it, she hesitated, glancing back at Rio with uncertain eyes. "I'm a mess. Everyone's going to know I've been crying."

"So what if they do?" Rio asked gently. "These are our friends, Agatha. They care about you."

Agatha took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders in a gesture Rio had come to recognise as her gathering courage. "Okay. Let's go."

When they re-entered the apartment, all conversation stopped. Seven pairs of eyes turned to them, widening at the sight of Agatha's tear-streaked face and Rio's protective arm around her waist.

"What happened?" Madison was on her feet immediately, moving toward her friend with concern etched on her features. "Agatha, what's wrong?"

Agatha looked at Rio, who gave her an encouraging nod. Drawing strength from the support, Agatha addressed the room.

"I owe you all an apology," she began, her voice steadier than Rio would have expected. "I've been distant and rude, and I'm sorry. The truth is, I've been dealing with some... difficult situations."

She took another deep breath and, with Rio's hand in hers, explained about Oswald's condescension, Trevor's harassment, and her mother's increasing pressure. With each word, her voice grew stronger, more resolved, as if the simple act of sharing her burdens was lifting them from her shoulders.

When she finished, there was a moment of shocked silence. Then Wanda spoke, her tone deadly serious.

"My uncle, back in Sokovia, knows a hitman who could take care of Walsh." She paused, then added, "I'm only half joking."

"Wanda!" Alice exclaimed, looking both aghast and amused.

"What? I said, half joking," Wanda shrugged. "The other half is dead serious. No one messes with our people."

"Our people," Agatha repeated softly, a note of wonder in her voice.

"Yes, Harkness," Wanda confirmed, unusually temperate. "Whether you like it or not, you're one of us now. And we protect our own."

"Even without resorting to Wanda's concerning family connections," Vision added, "there are steps we can take. Those messages clearly constitute harassment. The university has policies—"

"And I have screenshots of all of them," Madison interrupted, her expression fierce. "I've been documenting every interaction since I met the bastard. I've got a file that would make any Title IX coordinator at any university sit up and take notice."

Agatha stared at her best friend in shock. "You have?"

Madison nodded. "Of course I have. Did you think I didn't notice? He's been circling you like a shark for years."

"I didn't realise you knew," Agatha admitted. "I've been trying to handle it quietly."

"Because that's what Evanora taught you to do," Madison said, not unkindly. "Keep everything neat and tidy and out of the public eye. But some things shouldn't be handled quietly, Aggie."

"Like harassment," Alec added firmly.

"And academic discrimination," Lilia chimed in. "Oswald had no right to speak to you that way. I've heard him pull the same crap with female grad students last year."

"And your mom using you as political currency," Jen added, gentle but direct. "That's not okay either."

Agatha looked around the room, seeming dazed by the outpouring of support. "I don't know what to say."

"You don't have to say anything," Rio murmured, squeezing her hand. "Just know that you're not alone in this."

The tension that had filled the apartment earlier had transformed into something else entirely—a sense of unity, of shared purpose. No one even suggested returning to their studies. Instead, they pushed the textbooks aside, making room for Agatha on the futon between Rio and Madison.

The conversation flowed naturally from there, shifting between strategies for dealing with Trevor and Professor Oswald to lighter topics. Jen shared a story about a disastrous first date, which led to Alec recounting how he'd accidentally sent a nude meant for Lilia to his family group chat.

"My grandma was... let's say... traumatised."

Agatha, seeming more relaxed than she had all evening, settled against Rio's side. Instead of perching primly on the edge of the futon as Rio had expected, she curled into Rio's lap, her head resting on the guitarist's shoulder. The simple intimacy of the gesture made Rio's heart stutter in the best possible way.

As midnight approached, the group began to disperse. Wanda and Vision left first, citing an early morning commitment. Alec and Lilia followed soon after, exchanging meaningful glances that made their plans explicitly obvious. Jen departed with a yawn, mentioning an 8 AM class the next day.

That left just Madison and Alice, who lingered, casting uncertain glances at Agatha. Madison seemed reluctant to leave, hovering near the door even as Alice gathered their things.

"Are you ready to go, Aggie?" she finally asked.

Agatha, still nestled against Rio, looked up with a flicker of hesitation. She glanced at Rio, a question in her expression that she understood immediately.

"You could stay," she offered softly, just for Agatha's ears. "If you want to."

The smile that bloomed across Agatha's face was answer enough.

"I think I'll stay tonight," she told Madison, who nodded with barely concealed satisfaction.

"Thought you might," Madison smiled. "Text me in the morning?"

"I will," Agatha promised.

After they left, a new kind of silence settled over the apartment—intimate, expectant. Agatha shifted on Rio's lap, suddenly seeming aware of how closely they were pressed together.

"I should have brought overnight things," she said, glancing down at her formal dress. "This isn't exactly comfortable for sleeping."

"I can lend you something," Rio offered, trying to ignore the flutter in her stomach at the thought of Agatha in her clothes. "T-shirt, sweatpants? They'll be too big, but they'll work."

"That would be perfect," Agatha smiled, rising gracefully to her feet.

Rio moved to her dresser, pulling out her most comfortable t-shirt and a pair of drawstring sweatpants. When she turned back, words of offering died on her lips.

Agatha stood in the centre of the room, her dress pooled at her feet, clad only in a delicate pair of pale blue panties. She'd taken her hair down, the sleek ponytail dissolved into soft waves framing her face. Her small breasts were bare, nipples pebbling in the cool air of the apartment.

Rio couldn't move, couldn't breathe . Her eyes traced the gentle curve of Agatha's waist, the soft swell of her stomach, the jut of her hipbones where two small stars were inked into her skin—exactly as she'd described them. The tattoos that Rio had heard about but never seen—delicate and precise against Agatha's fair skin, placed perfectly where they could be hidden beneath clothing but revealed in this moment of vulnerability.

Rio had imagined this moment countless times over the past weeks—Agatha revealing herself, trusting Rio with her body—but reality far surpassed fantasy. The stars, inked in deep blue with subtle silver highlights, looked like real celestial bodies against the pale canvas of Agatha's skin. Each point seemed to catch the dim light of Rio's apartment, creating the illusion of actual stars suspended in the night sky of her flesh.

Agatha's body was a study in gentle curves and soft planes—her breasts small but perfect, crowned with rosy nipples that had hardened with each passing second. Her stomach had a gentle roundness to it, not the harsh flatness of fitness models but the natural softness of a human body. A scattered constellation of freckles adorned her shoulders and the tops of her breasts, like stars waiting to be mapped by fingertips. The slight flush creeping across her chest betrayed her nerves even as she stood proudly, allowing herself to be seen.

It wasn't until Agatha's arms moved to cover herself, a flash of indecision crossing her features, that Rio realised she'd been staring.

"You're beautiful," she breathed, the clothes in her hands forgotten as she crossed the room.

Agatha lowered her arms slowly, trust warring in her expression. "I forgot I wasn't... I'm so comfortable with you that I just..."

"It's okay," Rio assured her, cupping Agatha's face in her hands. "More than okay."

She kissed her then, gentle at first, then with growing hunger as Agatha responded, arms wrapping around Rio's neck. The feel of Agatha's bare skin against the fabric of Rio's clothes sent heat spiralling through her body, pooling low in her belly. The contrast of textures—Rio's soft cotton t-shirt against Agatha's warm skin—heightened every sensation. Agatha's scent filled Rio's senses, no longer the formal perfume she'd worn earlier but something more intimate—clean sweat, a hint of vanilla from her shampoo, and something uniquely Agatha that made Rio's head swim.

When they broke apart, both breathless, Rio rested her forehead against Agatha's.

"You don't have to be ashamed with me," she whispered. "Not about anything."

"I know," Agatha replied, her voice thick with emotion. "That's why I love you."

Agatha's eyes widened as if she hadn't meant to say them aloud. But before she could retract them, Rio's smile bloomed, transforming her entire face.

"I love you too," she said, the words she'd been holding back for days, maybe weeks, finally set free. "So much."

Agatha's answering smile was radiant, relief and joy mingling in her eyes. "You do?"

"Of course I do," Rio affirmed, kissing her again briefly. "How could I not?"

In the quiet that followed, a sudden tension built between them—not the misunderstanding of earlier, but something electric, charged with possibility. Agatha's fingers found the hem of Rio's t-shirt, tugging questioningly.

"Can I?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Rio nodded, lifting her arms to help as Agatha pulled the shirt over her head. Her sports bra followed, leaving her upper body bare. Agatha's gaze travelled over Rio's exposed skin with reverent curiosity.

Rio's torso was a canvas of art and story—the "Las flores en el campo" tattoo on her left wrist that Agatha had often traced with her fingertips, the musical note behind her ear that peeked through her dark hair. But now Agatha could see more—birds taking flight across her shoulder blade, an abstract constellation on her hip that seemed to mirror Agatha's own stars, a red phoenix design curling under her right breast, its wings spreading across her ribcage.

Unlike Agatha's soft curves, Rio's body was all lean muscle and graceful angles, shaped by years of carrying guitar cases and equipment up and down stairs, of working physical jobs between classes. Her small breasts were firm, their dusky nipples contrasting sharply with Agatha's paler ones. The muscles of her abdomen shifted subtly beneath her skin as she breathed, creating valleys and ridges that Agatha found herself wanting to explore with more than just her eyes.

Agatha's fingers reached out tentatively, tracing the outline of the phoenix. The skin felt different there—slightly raised where the ink had scarred in places, smoother in others. She marvelled at the contrast between the tattooed areas and Rio's natural olive skin, the way the colours seemed to come alive under her touch.

"This is beautiful," she murmured. "Does it mean something?"

"Rebirth," Rio explained softly. "I got it after my depressive episode in high school. A reminder that we can rise from our own ashes."

Agatha nodded, understanding in her eyes as her fingers continued their exploration, finding a polaroid-shaped tattoo on Rio's forearm. "And this one?"

"For my mom," she said. "She used to take pictures of everything when I was little—said memories were more important than money. Even when we had nothing else, we had photographs."

Agatha continued her tactile discovery, finding more artwork with each touch—a pomegranate on Rio's upper back, a minimalist human figure with a star on her inner wrist, a heart starburst on her other forearm, and a collection of wildflowers scattered across her back. Each had a story, a meaning, a piece of Rio's journey inked permanently into her skin.

Then she paused, dropping her hands to Rio's waist, then lower, fingers now tracing the waistband of the taller woman's sweatpants.

"Fair's fair," she whispered, "I want to see all of you."

The artist hesitated only briefly before sliding them down her legs along with her boxers. She stood naked before Agatha in the soft light of her apartment, vulnerable and open in a way she'd never been with anyone else.

Agatha's eyes widened, taking in the rest of Rio's body with quiet wonder. She observed with hungry eyes the trail of dark hair that started just below her navel, leading down between her thighs where Agatha could see the subtle swell of her clit.

"You're perfect," Agatha breathed, hands hovering just above Rio's skin as if asking permission to touch.

Rio caught her hands, guiding them back to her waist. "Not perfect. Real."

"Real is significantly better than perfect," Agatha decided, stepping closer until their bodies were pressed together, skin to skin for the first time.

The sensation was overwhelming—the warmth of Agatha's softer breasts against Rio's firmer ones, the contrast of Rio's callused fingers against Agatha's smooth skin. They stood like that for a long moment, simply feeling the closeness, the intimacy of being completely bare with each other. Then Rio guided them toward the bed, marvelling at how natural it felt to have Agatha there, to lay her in a space that had always been just hers.

Agatha settled on her back, looking up at the woman with unfiltered trust and love in her eyes. Rio watched as Agatha's legs parted slightly, an invitation that made her heart race.

"Are you sure?" Rio asked, needing to be certain. "We don't have to—"

"I'm sure," Agatha interrupted, reaching up to touch Rio's face. "I've never been more sure of anything."

Rio nodded, lowering herself to lie beside Agatha, propped up on one elbow. With deliberate gentleness, she began to trace patterns on Agatha's skin, starting at her collarbone and working downward in a whisper-light touch. Agatha's breath hitched as Rio's fingers skimmed the side of her breast, circling but not yet touching her nipple.

"Is this okay?" Rio asked, voice hushed in the quiet apartment.

"Yes," Agatha breathed, eyes half-closed. "Please don't stop."

Rio continued her exploration, mapping the geography of Agatha's body with reverent attention. When her fingertips finally brushed across a nipple, Agatha gasped, arching slightly into the touch. The small bud hardened further under her touch, sending visible shivers across the brunette's skin.

"Sensitive," Rio observed with a gentle smile.

"I didn't know it could feel like that," Agatha admitted, a flush spreading from her cheeks down to her chest.

"Like what?"

"Like... electricity. Like every nerve is suddenly awake."

Rio lowered her head, replacing fingers with lips as she pressed soft kisses to the curve of Agatha's breast. "What about this?"

Agatha's answer was a quiet moan, her hand coming up to tangle in Rio's hair. Encouraged, Rio continued, lips exploring the soft skin before finally taking a nipple into her mouth, sucking gently.

"Rio!" she gasped, the sound somewhere between shock and pleasure.

Rio looked up, checking for any sign of discomfort, but found only wonder and desire. She moved to the other breast, giving it the same attention while her hand stroked along Agatha's side, hip, thigh—everywhere except where Agatha was beginning to ache for contact.

With unhurried patience, Rio introduced Agatha to sensations she'd never experienced before. She learned that Agatha shivered when lips traced the hollow of her throat, that she giggled when fingers skimmed her ribs, that she sighed when teeth gently nipped her earlobe. Each response was carefully noted, each reaction treasured as Rio built a map of Agatha's pleasure.

"Can I touch you too?" Agatha asked, breathless from Rio's attention.

"Of course," Rio nodded, guiding Agatha's hands to her body. "Show me what you want to explore."

Agatha's touch was tentative at first, fingers tracing Rio's collarbones, shoulders, the curve of her breasts. She grew bolder as she gained confidence, cupping Rio's firm breasts, thumb brushing across a nipple and drawing a soft gasp from the woman.

"Did I hurt you?" Agatha asked immediately, pulling back.

"No," Rio smiled, guiding her hand back. "The opposite. It feels good."

Encouraged, Agatha continued her exploration, fascinated by the way Rio's body responded to her touch. She traced the outline of the phoenix tattoo under Rio's breast, following its wings across her ribcage. Her fingers found the constellation on Rio's hip, tracing the lines between stars.

"It matches mine," she praised softly.

"I know," Rio smiled. "When you told me about your stars, I felt like we were connected somehow. Like the universe had built this parallel between us before we even met."

Agatha's heart swelled at the sentiment. She leaned forward, pressing a kiss to Rio's shoulder where flowers bloomed in permanent ink. "Tell me about these," she whispered, fingers trailing along the botanical collection across Rio's back.

"Wildflowers from Puerto Rico," Rio explained, voice deepening as Agatha's hands continued their gentle wandering. "Each one reminds me of home, of who I am regardless of where I go."

Agatha hummed admiringly, understanding the need for such anchors. Her hands travelled lower, hesitating at the trail of dark hair below Rio's navel.

"You can touch me," Rio encouraged softly. "If you want to."

Agatha nodded, her hand slipping lower with gentle curiosity. When her fingers encountered the warmth and wetness between Rio's thighs, she gasped softly in wonder, surprised by the physical evidence of Rio's desire.

"This is because of me?" she asked, amazed.

"All because of you," Rio confirmed, voice husky with want.

Agatha's fingers explored carefully, learning the contours of this new territory. When she found Rio's clit, slightly larger than her own, she paused, looking to Rio for guidance. The small nub was firm beneath her fingers, a different texture from the surrounding folds.

"Is this okay?" she hummed, worried she might be doing something wrong.

"More than okay," Rio assured her, "just... gentle at first."

Agatha nodded, adjusting her touch to the lightest pressure. She watched Rio's face intently, learning from every subtle reaction which movements brought the woman pleasure. The slight parting of Rio's lips, the colour rising on her chest, the way her breathing shifted – each sign guided Agatha's exploration. When Rio's breathing quickened at a particular circular motion, Agatha focused there, captivated by the power of her touch to elicit such responses.

"Is it always like this?" Agatha asked, marvelling at their connection.

Rio shook her head, eyes holding Agatha's gaze. "No," she answered honestly. "It's never been like this. Because it's never been with someone I love."

The simple truth of those words sent a rush of emotion through Agatha. She continued her exploration, delighting in each gasp and shiver she drew from Rio's body.

"Can I..." Agatha hesitated, then gathered her courage. "I want to taste you."

Rio's eyes widened, darkening with desire. "You don't have to."

"I want to," Agatha insisted, already shifting down Rio's body. "I want all of you."

Rio nodded, unable to find words as Agatha settled between her legs. Agatha hesitated only briefly before leaning forward, guided by instinct and curiosity. The first brush of her lips against Rio was experimental, uncertain. She tasted salt and musk and something uniquely Rio—earthy and intimate.

"Is this right?" she asked, looking up for reassurance.

"There's no wrong way," Rio assured her, fingers gently combing through Agatha's hair. "Just do what feels natural."

Emboldened, Agatha continued her exploration, using her tongue to trace patterns she'd earlier drawn with her fingers. She discovered the movements that made Rio's thighs tense, the pressure that drew soft curses from her lips, the rhythm that caused her breathing to quicken.

What she lacked in experience, she made up for in attentiveness and enthusiasm. She learned quickly, adapting to Rio's responses, finding joy in the discovery of what brought her pleasure. Time seemed to stretch and compress simultaneously as she lost herself in the taste and scent of Rio, in the sounds of her mounting pleasure.

"Agatha," Rio gasped, hips lifting slightly. "That's—I'm close."

Rather than pulling back, Agatha increased her focus, adding her fingers to supplement her mouth. She curved them gently inside Rio while her tongue maintained its steady rhythm against her clit.

When Rio finally came, it was with a broken cry of Agatha's name, her body arching off the bed, thighs trembling. Agatha stayed with her through the waves of pleasure, gentling her touch as the tremors subsided, learning this aspect of Rio as well—how she needed softness in the aftermath, how her breath came in short, staccato gasps before gradually evening out.

"Come here," Rio finally whispered, tugging gently at Agatha's shoulders.

Agatha moved up Rio's body, settling beside her. Rio immediately pulled her into a deep kiss, tasting herself on the woman's lips.

"You're amazing," Rio murmured when they parted. "Where did you learn to do that?"

Agatha blushed, pleased by the compliment. "I just paid attention to what you seemed to like. Was it really okay?"

"More than okay," Rio laughed softly, still catching her breath. "You're a very fast learner, Princess."

They lay together for a few moments, Rio's fingers tracing lazy patterns on Agatha's skin. Just as Agatha was beginning to think they might simply fall asleep like this, Rio shifted, rolling her gently onto her back.

"My turn," she said, eyes dark with renewed desire.

Before Agatha could respond, Rio was kissing her way down her body, taking time to appreciate each curve and hollow. She lingered at Agatha's breasts, drawing out pleasured sighs with lips and teeth and tongue. Her hand slid lower, finding the thin fabric of Agatha's panties already wet with arousal.

"These need to go," Rio murmured, hooking her fingers in the waistband.

Agatha lifted her hips, allowing Rio to slide them down her legs. Now completely bare, she fought the instinct to cover herself, to hide the soft, wispy hair that had begun to grow back after her missed waxing appointment. But the look of reverence on Rio's face banished any insecurity.

"You're beautiful," Rio whispered, settling between Agatha's thighs. "Every part of you."

The first touch of Rio's mouth against her sent a jolt through Agatha's system—a sensation so intense, so different from anything she'd experienced before, that she gasped in surprise. Rio looked up, checking that she was okay before continuing with soft, exploratory strokes of her tongue.

Unlike Agatha's methodical approach, Rio knew exactly what she was doing. She varied pressure and speed, using her lips and tongue in ways that had Agatha clutching at the sheets, struggling to process the building pleasure. When Rio added her fingers, carefully sliding one inside while her mouth continued its attention to Agatha's clit, the dual sensation was overwhelming.

"Rio," Agatha gasped, "I feel—it's too much—I can't—"

"You can," Rio assured her, briefly lifting her head. "Just let go. I've got you."

Agatha had barely processed the words before the pleasure crested unexpectedly, washing over her in an intense wave that took her by surprise. She cried out, body arching, unprepared for the power of her first orgasm. It was like nothing she'd imagined—more intense, more all-encompassing, more emotional than she could have anticipated. Heat surged through her body in waves, each one slightly less powerful than the last but no less exquisite, until she lay boneless against the sheets.

Rio stayed with her, easing her through it with gentle touches before moving up to gather her trembling body in her arms. But as the physical sensations began to ebb, something else replaced them—a sudden, overwhelming surge of emotion that caught Agatha completely off guard.

Without warning, tears welled in her eyes, spilling over before she could stop them. A sob escaped her throat, followed by another, and then another until she was crying in earnest—deep, wracking sobs that shook her entire body.

"Agatha?" Rio pulled back slightly, alarm evident in her voice. "Oh god, did I hurt you? Are you okay?"

For a terrible moment, Rio thought she'd done something wrong, pushed too far, or that perhaps Agatha was experiencing a rush of clarity that left her with regret.

"I'm sorry," Rio whispered urgently. "We shouldn't have—"

But Agatha's response was to cling tighter, her arms wrapping around Rio with desperate strength, face pressed against her chest as the sobs continued. She couldn't speak, couldn't explain that these weren't tears of pain or regret but something far more complex—the release of years of tension, of hiding, of pretending to be perfect when all she'd ever wanted was to be seen.

Rio's expression softened as Agatha held onto her like an anchor in a storm. This wasn't rejection; this was overwhelm. This was an emotional floodgate opening after years of careful control.

"Shh, I've got you," Rio murmured, gathering Agatha closer, one hand cradling the back of her head. "It's okay. Let it out. I'm right here."

She peppered Agatha's tear-streaked face with gentle kisses—her forehead, her temples, her wet cheeks, the corner of her mouth. Each touch a silent promise, each kiss an affirmation: you are safe, you are loved, you are seen.

"It's just—so much," Agatha finally managed between sobs, her voice breaking on the words. "I didn't know it could feel like this—not just physically but—everything. Being with you. Being truly seen. I've never—no one has ever—"

"I know," Rio whispered, her own eyes glistening with emotion. "I know, mi vida. It's overwhelming."

Gradually, the storm of emotion began to subside, Agatha's sobs quieting to soft, hiccupping breaths. Rio continued to hold her, one hand making slow, soothing circles on her back, the other gently wiping away tears.

"I must look terrible," Agatha said finally, attempting a watery laugh.

"You look beautiful," Rio corrected, kissing her forehead. "So fucking real."

The word hung between them, weighted with meaning. Real—not perfect, not polished, not performing. Just Agatha, with tear-swollen eyes and messy hair and a heart finally beating freely in her chest.

"I love you," Agatha whispered, the words simple but profound in their honesty. "I love you so much it scares me sometimes."

"I love you too," Rio replied, gathering her closer. "The scary parts, the messy parts, all of you."

They lay together in comfortable silence, Agatha's heartbeat gradually slowing to its normal rhythm. She curled against Rio's side, head resting on her chest, listening to the steady thump of her heart.

"I want to be your girlfriend," Agatha said suddenly, the words spilling out without premeditation. "Officially. Not just whatever we've been for the past two weeks. I want everyone to know that we belong to each other."

Rio's arms tightened around her, and when Agatha looked up, she found her smiling—a full, unguarded smile that transformed her entire face.

"Are you asking me to go steady, Harkness?" Rio teased gently, though her eyes were serious.

"Yes," Agatha replied simply. "I am."

"Well then, yes," Rio said, kissing her softly. "I would be honoured to be your girlfriend. Officially."

The smile that bloomed across Agatha's face was radiant, joy and relief melding in her expression. She settled more comfortably against Rio's chest, her ear pressed to the steady rhythm of her heartbeat.

"I never thought I could have this," she admitted softly, the words barely audible in the quiet room. "Someone who sees me—really sees me—and loves me anyway."

"Not anyway," Rio corrected gently, fingers combing through Agatha's hair. "Because. I love you because of who you are, not despite it."

Agatha nodded against her chest, understanding the distinction. As sleep began to claim her, she pressed a final kiss to Rio's collarbone.

"Goodnight, mi amor," she whispered, the Spanish endearment falling naturally from her lips.

"Goodnight, Princess," Rio hummed, her own voice thick with emotion. "Sweet dreams."

Though Agatha drifted off, secure in the circle of Rio's arms, Rio remained awake a little longer, marvelling at the turn her life had taken. Two weeks ago, she'd been falling deeper and deeper for a girl she feared might never fully let her in. Now, that same girl slept peacefully against her heart, having shared not just her body but her fears, her vulnerabilities, her love.

For the first time in her life, Rio allowed herself to imagine a future built on more than survival and obligation. A future with stars and music and shared dreams. A future with Agatha Harkness, who had stepped beyond perfection to find something real.

It wasn't a perfect future—there would be challenges ahead, battles to fight, fears to face. Trevor's harassment, Oswald's discrimination, Evanora's manipulations—these were not problems that would disappear overnight. But they were problems that no longer had to be faced alone.

Because love, real love, was always worth the risk.

Chapter Text

Agatha woke to the gentle percussion of morning rain against unfamiliar windows, consciousness returning like waves lapping at the shore of sleep—gradually, then all at once. She was naked, sheets tangled around her legs, her skin bearing the tender evidence of passion in the form of purpling marks scattered across her collarbone, breasts, and inner thighs.

Her fingers traced one particularly vivid bruise just below her left breast, cataloguing it with the same precision she applied to case law annotations, though with decidedly more appreciation. The memory it evoked sent a rush of heat through her core. Rio's mouth, hot and insistent against her skin. Rio's hands , gentle yet demanding as they explored her body. Rio's voice, rough with desire, whispered words that would have made Senator Harkness's daughter blush just weeks ago but now felt like the truest language Agatha had ever learned.

She stretched languidly, wincing slightly at the delicious soreness between her thighs, and reached across the bed—finding only empty space where Rio should have been. The sheets were cool to the touch; she'd been gone for some time.

A momentary flicker of uncertainty passed through her before her gaze settled on the nightstand, where a small tray held a mug of coffee, two ibuprofen tablets, a glass of water, and a folded piece of paper. She sat up, gathering the sheet around her waist as she reached for the note.

It was written on staff paper, musical notation sketched in the margins, transforming a simple morning message into something like a love song. Rio's handwriting was strong and deliberate, with unexpected flourishes that reminded Agatha of the way she played guitar—technically precise yet undeniably passionate.

Morning, Princess,

Had to leave for my 7 AM shift at The Daily Grind. Didn't want to wake you—you looked too peaceful, drooling on my pillow. (Yes, you snore a little too. It's cute, don't worry.)

Coffee's made how you like it. Take ibuprofen if you're sore. I know I am.

There's a purple toothbrush next to my green one in the bathroom. Figured you might need it.

Make yourself at home. Eat something before you leave—and don't try to tell me you did if you didn't. You have a tell when you lie, you know.

See you tonight? - R

P.S. I love you and already miss you.

"I do not have a tell," Agatha murmured, then caught herself mid-pout, suddenly aware that this, in fact, might be the very tell Rio had mentioned.

She sipped the coffee—black with two sugars, exactly as she preferred—and felt a warm, unfamiliar sensation blooming in her chest that had nothing to do with the hot liquid. It was the simple intimacy of being known, of preferences remembered and honoured without advertisement.

After taking the ibuprofen with a grateful sigh, Agatha wrapped the sheet around herself like a makeshift toga and padded to the bathroom. She paused in the doorway, struck by the purple toothbrush in the chipped ceramic holder beside Rio's green one. Such a small, casually domestic thing made her throat tighten with emotion. The purple wasn't just any purple, either—it was the deep shade of twilight that Agatha had once mentioned was her favourite colour during their date at El Rinconcito. Rio had remembered that detail, too.

Dropping the sheet, she examined herself in the mirror—her hair tumbled in what her mother would call "an absolute disaster," her makeup long gone, and evidence of Rio's affections scattered across her skin like a constellation of belonging. She touched a mark on her neck, remembering the precise moment it was made—Rio's teeth grazing her pulse point as Agatha gasped her name, fingers tangled in dark hair.

She turned on the shower, finding the water temperamental. It required adjustment every few minutes, alternating between scalding and freezing with little warning. Agatha perfected a dance of reaching around the spray to twist the knobs, a far cry from the digitally controlled rainfall shower in her own apartment. Yet there was something charmingly authentic about it, like Rio herself—sometimes overwhelming, occasionally challenging, but always worth the effort.

The sensation of Rio's shampoo in her hair made up for the temperature fluctuations—sandalwood and something citrusy, the scent that had become synonymous with safety in Agatha's mind. She closed her eyes, letting the fragrance envelop her as water cascaded over her shoulders, washing away sweat and dried evidence of the previous night's passion while leaving the memories gloriously intact.

After towelling off, she wandered back to the bedroom and hesitated before the dresser. Would it be presumptuous to borrow clothes? But the alternative was yesterday's formal attire, which felt woefully inappropriate for a rain-soaked morning after.

Deciding to risk it, she slid open the top drawer and selected a worn Clash t-shirt, the fabric thin and soft from countless washings. The next drawer revealed boxers—not the silky, feminine ones Agatha owned, but proper men's boxer shorts with a button fly. She selected a dark blue pair with tiny guitars printed on them, something Rio would likely wear for comfort rather than show. The domesticity of the gesture—borrowing Rio's most personal clothes—sent a thrill through her that was equal parts transgressive and deeply satisfying.

The cotton was soft against her skin as she pulled on the t-shirt, the material draping over her curves differently than it would on Rio's more angular frame. She rolled the waistband of the boxers twice to keep them from sliding off her hips and surveyed herself in the small mirror propped against the wall. Senator Harkness would have a stroke at the sight of her daughter dressed in men's underwear and a punk band shirt, hair dripping wet and face bare of makeup. The thought made Agatha smile with the particular satisfaction that comes from both knowing what would horrify her mother and embracing it anyway.

She padded through the apartment, a studio that felt both compact and airy thanks to its high ceilings and the single large window that dominated one wall. Rain streamed down the glass in rivulets, casting moving shadows across the wooden floor. The space was undeniably Rio's—musical instruments carefully displayed on stands that contrasted with the more haphazard arrangement of everything else, books stacked in precarious towers that looked seconds away from collapse, and plants lining the windowsill in varying states of health.

Agatha approached the plants, touching a drooping leaf on what appeared to be a struggling pothos.

"You need some attention, don't you?" she whispered, finding a water glass and filling it from the tap. She watered each plant methodically, talking softly to them as she worked.

"You're getting neglected because she's so busy caring for everyone else, right? She takes good care of everyone else, doesn't she? Sometimes forgets about herself, though."

The practice was oddly comforting, reminding her of the small routines that had once served as anchors during her recovery. Dr. Lewin, her therapist during those difficult post-eating disorder years, had encouraged her to care for plants as a way of relearning how to nurture herself.

"If you can remember that this plant needs regular water and sunlight," she'd said, "perhaps you'll remember that your body has needs too."

It had worked to some extent. Agatha had gotten better at feeding herself regularly, even if she still sometimes forgot during periods of intense stress or when her mother's criticism became particularly cutting.

With the plants tended to, she surveyed the kitchenette, deciding to honour Rio's instruction to eat. The refrigerator contained mostly condiments and a suspicious-looking container of leftover takeout, but she managed to find bread that passed the sniff test and half an avocado that wasn't completely brown. She made toast, spread the salvageable parts of the avocado on it, and ate standing by the window, watching the rain while feeling oddly, perfectly at home.

Her phone buzzed from somewhere in the apartment, and she followed the sound to her discarded purse, pulling it out to find a text from Madison:

Still alive? Or did Rio wear you out completely? Details, please. I NEED DETAILS! RAUNCHY AND ALL!!

Agatha smiled, typing back:

Alive and well. Staying at Rio's. Will explain everything later.

EVERYTHING! Came Madison's immediate response, followed by a string of suggestive emojis that made Agatha roll her eyes fondly.

With breakfast finished and her best friend updated, she felt strangely at loose ends. The normalcy of her morning routine—the compulsive tapping, the rigid scheduling, the constant awareness of appearances—seemed unnecessary here in Rio's apartment, where perfection wasn't expected or required. The usual anxiety that drove her to tap everything in pairs before starting her day had receded to a background hum rather than its usual demanding screech.

She found herself gravitating toward Rio's desk, where her laptop sat beside music theory textbooks and staff paper covered in notations. The desk was organized in Rio's particular way—not conventionally tidy, but with a system that made sense if you understood how her mind worked. Agatha was learning to read these patterns, to see the logic in arrangements that had initially seemed chaotic to her order-trained eye.

Without conscious decision, she settled into the chair and pulled her own laptop from her bag. Might as well use this unexpected free time productively. She opened the draft of her midterm paper for Constitutional Law and began to review it, losing herself in the work as the rain continued its steady rhythm against the window.

The ambient soundtrack of raindrops paired with the lingering scent of Rio on the clothes she wore created a strangely conducive environment for concentration. Without her usual anxiety triggers—her mother's voice in her head questioning every sentence, the pressure of perfection that usually accompanied any academic endeavour—Agatha found herself writing with an unusual fluidity. Ideas connected more naturally, her arguments flowing with logical precision yet passionate conviction.

Two hours later, she had not only finished revising that paper but had also completed the first draft of another essay that wasn't due for another four days. She'd even started notes for a third assignment, organizing her thoughts with an efficiency that surprised her.

She stretched, feeling satisfaction in a different, more genuine way than the hollow achievement of meeting her mother's expectations. This felt earned, personal. The accomplishment belonged to her alone, not tallied in some invisible ledger of 'credit to the Harkness name' that her mother seemed to keep.

Reaching for a sticky note to jot down a reminder, her hand knocked against a stack of papers that cascaded to the floor. She knelt to gather them, freezing when she recognized what they were—bills. Past-due notices for electricity, rent reminders with ominous "FINAL NOTICE" stamps across the top, and, most heart-wrenching of all, medical bills for Mateo's therapy sessions with insurance denials attached.

Among them lay Rio's planner, open to a page where she'd meticulously calculated which bills could be paid now and which would have to wait. Next to each entry were carefully noted consequences: Late fee of $35, can manage or Disconnection warning, pay ASAP . On another page, Rio had lined up her expected income from various sources—coffee shop ($220), catering gig ($175), band performance at Voltage ($65 after expenses)—against her obligations. A significant portion was earmarked as "Home," which Agatha realized must be the money Rio sent to her mother and brother.

In the margin, almost too small to read, was a calculation for "Purple toothbrush + coffee" with "$8.42" written beside it and then emphatically circled, as if to say this expense was non-negotiable despite the precarious financial balance surrounding it.

Agatha sighed as she carefully returned everything to its place, suddenly understanding the true meaning of Rio's generosity. The purple toothbrush, the prepared coffee—these weren't casual gestures from someone with abundance to spare. They were deliberate choices from someone who calculated the cost of everything yet chose to share anyway, without complaint or expectation of repayment.

The realization made her eyes sting with sudden tears.

Agatha thought of the three thousand dollars she'd spent on the Alexander McQueen dress for Rio's concert—more than Rio's entire monthly income, based on those carefully recorded numbers. The contrast was stark, yet Rio had never once commented on it or made her feel self-conscious about her wealth. Instead, she'd looked at Agatha in that dress with pure appreciation, as if the woman wearing it mattered infinitely more than its cost.

She was still processing this when the sound of keys in the door jolted her from her thoughts. Rio entered, soaked from the rain, her hair plastered to her forehead and her coffee shop apron bunched in one hand. Unlike her usual warm presence, she radiated a cold, sharp energy that immediately filled the small apartment with tension.

"Fuck rain, fuck morning shifts, and especially fuck customers who change their orders four times then complain when they're late for work," she growled, throwing her keys onto the counter with such force that they skidded across the surface and fell to the floor with a harsh clatter. "And fuck public transit that's never on time when you need it to be."

The venom in her voice made Agatha flinch, instinctively taking a step back. This wasn't the playful grumpiness of someone having a bad day; this was raw anger, and the way Rio's gaze fixed on her made Agatha's stomach clench.

Rio's eyes narrowed as they took in the borrowed clothes. "You're still here," she said, her tone flat.

"I am," Agatha replied carefully, feeling the familiar tightening in her chest that always preceded her mother's worst moods. "I thought we—"

"Is that my shirt?" Rio interrupted, her voice sharp. "And my boxers?"

Agatha looked down at herself, suddenly feeling exposed in a way that had nothing to do with the amount of skin showing. "Yes, I—I hope that's okay? I didn't have anything else to wear, and—"

"Those are my favourite boxers," Rio said, peeling off her wet jacket with jerky movements and flinging it toward the chair, where it landed with a wet slap.

Agatha's cheeks burned with humiliation. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize—"

"Of course, you didn't realize," Rio cut her off, her voice lower now but no less cutting. "Why would you? People like you never have to think about what belongs to others, do you?"

The unfairness of the accusation hit Agatha like a physical blow. She'd been so careful, so considerate of Rio's space, so mindful of not overstepping. She'd watered the plants, made her own food from what was available, worked quietly to avoid disturbing the neighbours. She'd tried so hard to be a good guest, to be worthy of Rio's trust.

"That's not fair," she said, her voice small but steady. "I was trying to—"

"Fair?" Rio barked out a harsh laugh that held no humour. "You want to talk about fair? Nothing about this is fair, Agatha." She gestured widely to encompass the apartment, herself, the situation. "Nothing about any of this is remotely fair."

Tears welled in Agatha's eyes, blurring her vision. She blinked rapidly, trying to force them back, refusing to let them fall. She would not cry, not here, not now. She wouldn't give Rio the satisfaction of seeing how deeply her words cut. That's what her mother had taught her—never show weakness, never let them see you break.

"I can go," she managed, her voice remarkably composed despite the tremor in her hands. She moved toward the bathroom, intent on changing back into her dress and escaping this suddenly hostile environment. "I'll get my things and be out of your way."

Something in her tone, or perhaps the sight of her fighting back tears, seemed to penetrate Rio's anger. "Agatha, wait—" she called, the edge in her voice now tinged with panic.

But Agatha kept walking, gathering her discarded dress from the chair, keeping her back to Rio to hide the tears that were now dangerously close to spilling over. She could handle this. She'd weathered far worse from her mother. This was nothing new; it was just another lesson in keeping her guard up, not getting too comfortable, and remembering that safety was always temporary.

"Agatha, please." Rio's voice was closer now, the anger giving way to something like desperation. "I didn't mean—I'm not—fuck, I'm being such an asshole."

Agatha turned, composure nearly shattered by the naked regret on Rio's face. A single tear escaped, tracing a warm path down her cheek before she could wipe it away.

"You're crying," Rio whispered, looking stricken. "I made you cry."

"I'm not crying," she lied, her voice thick with unshed tears. "It's fine. You had a bad day. I understand."

"No, it's not fine," Rio insisted, taking a hesitant step toward her. "Nothing about what I just did is fine. I had no right to talk to you like that." She ran a shaking hand through her wet hair, distress evident in every line of her body. "I'm so sorry, Agatha. I'm not—I don't—" She broke off, gesturing helplessly. "I've never been good at this part."

"Which part?" Agatha asked, still clutching her dress like a shield.

"The part where someone sees me at my worst," Rio admitted, her voice dropping to a near-whisper. "The part where I'm tired and soaked and angry at the world, and someone's still here when I get home." She gestured around the small apartment. "No one stays, you know? They visit, they hang out, but they leave before they see this side of me."

Another tear slipped down Agatha's cheek, and this time, she let it fall.

"You were cruel," she said quietly. " And unfair. I was trying so hard to be respectful of your space."

Rio's face crumpled with shame. "I know," she whispered. "I know you were!" She took a deep breath, seeming to gather herself.

"This isn't even about the damn clothes, Agatha. You can wear whatever you want—I don't care about that. Hell, it actually makes me happy seeing you in my things."

She shook her head, looking disgusted with herself. "I was just... angry at everything else. The shitty weather, the entitled customers, my boss cutting my hours next week... and then I walked in and saw you, and—" Her voice broke slightly. "I panicked. Because you saw the bills, didn't you?"

Agatha's silence was answer enough.

"You saw how I can barely keep the lights on, how I have to choose between paying rent and sending money home," Rio continued, her voice thick with embarrassment. "You saw what a fucking disaster my life is, and I couldn't stand it. I couldn't stand you seeing me like that— so I lashed out."

"I don't pity you," Agatha said fiercely, letting the dress fall from her hands as she took a step toward Rio. "I admire you." The words tumbled out, urgent and sincere. "Working multiple jobs, maintaining a scholarship, sending money home, all while being this incredible musician and student and friend to everyone around you?" She shook her head in disbelief. "Rio, when I saw those bills, all I could think was how selfless you are."

Rio looked stunned as if this perspective had never occurred to her. "You're not... disgusted? By how I live?"

"Why would I be disgusted?" Agatha asked, genuinely confused. "You're doing everything you can with what you have. That's not disgusting, that's... praiseworthy."

Rio's shoulders slumped, tension draining from her body so suddenly she seemed to shrink before Agatha's eyes. "Why did I just do that?" she whispered, shaking her head. "I don't even understand why I reacted that way,"

"Fear," Agatha supplied gently, taking another step closer. "Fear that I'd judge you or that the differences between us would matter to me." She hesitated, then added with quiet insight, "And perhaps there's some resentment there too— justified resentment —about how I've avoided coming here for two weeks."

Rio's eyes widened slightly, surprised by Agatha's unnerving accuracy.

"I'm not stupid, Rio," Agatha continued softly. "I know you invited me over multiple times, and I always found reasons to meet at my place or the library instead. And while we talked about it yesterday, I never gave you a concrete reason why." Her voice grew quieter, more vulnerable. "The truth is I was afraid, too—afraid I might say or do something insensitive without realizing it. Afraid that anything I did might come across as pity."

Rio was quiet for a moment, absorbing Agatha's words. "So you do see them," she finally said. "The differences between us."

"Of course I do," Agatha replied gently.

"And they don't matter to you?"

"Only in that they make me more aware of my own privilege," Agatha admitted. "Only in that, they remind me to be grateful for what I have and mindful of how I use it." She closed the remaining distance between them, reaching up to cup Rio's cheek in her palm. "They don't change how I feel about you."

Rio leaned into the touch, her eyes closing briefly. "You still have every right to be angry with me," she murmured. "What I said was inexcusable."

"You're right, it was," Agatha agreed, her voice gentle but firm. "And I don't want you to ever speak to me like that again. But I understand that you were coming from a place of fear and exhaustion, not malice." She brushed a strand of wet hair from Rio's forehead. "Everyone has bad days, Rio. The difference is in what happens afterwards."

"What happens afterwards?" Rio echoed, her voice small.

"You apologize, which you've done. You recognize what triggered your reaction, which you're doing. And you try to do better next time," Agatha explained, her therapist's long-ago words returning to her. "That's all any of us can do."

Rio nodded, then hesitantly opened her arms, a silent question. Agatha stepped into the embrace, wrapping her arms around Rio's waist and burying her face in the crook of her neck, inhaling the familiar scent beneath the coffee shop odours and rain.

"I'm so sorry I hurt you," Rio whispered into her hair. "I promise I'll do better. I've never been good at letting people take care of me. At showing weakness."

"I know a thing or two about that," Agatha said, pulling back just enough to meet Rio's gaze. "I was raised by Evanora Harkness, remember? The woman who considers asking for help a moral failing and vulnerability a tactical disadvantage."

A ghost of a smile touched Rio's lips. "Quite the pair we make, huh?"

"The perfect amount of broken," Agatha agreed, kissing Rio softly.

As they pulled apart, Rio's eyes drifted over Agatha's borrowed outfit, and her expression softened with unmistakable tenderness. Her gaze lingered, something raw and vulnerable surfacing in her eyes.

"I really am sorry about before," she said quietly. "I never should have made you feel bad about borrowing my clothes." Her hands settled gently on Agatha's hips, thumbs brushing the fabric of the boxers with a touch that felt almost reverent. "The truth is... seeing you in my things does something to me I can't even explain."

A small, vulnerable smile tugged at her lips. "It's like... you've claimed a part of me. Like we're connected in this tangible, visible way."

Rio's eyes grew suspiciously bright as she continued, "All my life, I've had to guard what's mine so carefully—count every penny, protect every possession. But seeing you wearing my things... it doesn't feel like you're taking something from me." She shook her head in wonder. "It feels like I'm finally giving something worth giving."

Agatha felt warmth flood her cheeks, the emotional weight of Rio's words hitting her with unexpected force. "So you really don't mind?" she asked softly. "I was worried it might be presumptuous."

"Presumptuous?" Rio shook her head with a laugh that sounded dangerously close to a sob. "Princess, you can raid my closet anytime. Though I'm warning you now, there's nothing in there worth even a fraction of that McQueen dress."

"I don't care about that," Agatha replied honestly, tugging at the hem of the worn t-shirt. "This is more comfortable anyway. Plus, it smells like you."

"You like how I smell?" Rio asked, her familiar playfulness beginning to resurface through the emotional vulnerability.

"Mmm," Agatha hummed, leaning closer. "Sandalwood, citrus, and something uniquely you. It makes me feel safe."

Rio's expression turned tender, surprised. "Safe? Even after I just acted like a complete jerk?"

"Even then," Agatha confirmed. "Because that wasn't really you. That was fear talking." She pressed her palm against Rio's chest, feeling the steady heartbeat beneath. "This is you. The real you."

Rio kissed her then, a gentle press of lips that held gratitude and promise in equal measure. When they parted, she shivered slightly, her clothes still soaked from the rain.

"Now, let's get you out of these wet clothes before you catch something," Agatha insisted, noting the chill of Rio's skin beneath her hands. "You seem to have a habit of getting caught in downpours. Remember the first time you brought me coffee? You looked like you'd swum to Blackwell."

Rio's lips curved into a more genuine smile. "At least this time, I wasn't trying to impress anyone," she said, letting Agatha guide her toward the bathroom. "Though I think I preferred being soaked for romantic reasons rather than capitalist exploitation."

"Less noble perhaps," Agatha agreed, turning on the shower, "but this time, you get a personal attendant to help you warm up."

As the bathroom filled with steam, Agatha helped Rio undress, her movements careful and deliberate, without a hint of the previous night's passion. This was a different kind of intimacy—caring for someone at their lowest, seeing their worst and choosing to stay anyway. As she guided Rio under the hot spray, Agatha felt something new settling between them—a deeper understanding, a stronger foundation built not just on passion and shared interests but on the knowledge that they could weather storms together, both literal and emotional.

Later, as they lay in bed, Rio's head resting on Agatha's chest while they discussed their holiday plans, Agatha found herself thinking about the purple toothbrush beside Rio's green one. Such a small thing, yet it represented something profound—the deliberate creation of space in one's life for another person, the conscious choice to intertwine futures despite differences and difficulties, the brave decision to let someone see you fully, flaws and all, and trust them to stay anyway.

This, she realized, was what domesticity really meant. Not the perfect harmony portrayed in magazines or the coordinated aesthetics her mother's interior designers strived for, but the messy, complicated, beautiful reality of two imperfect people choosing each other every day, in both calm and storm.

Chapter Text

The persistent rap of rain against the tall windows of the Manson Building had been the soundtrack to Agatha's misery for the past forty-seven minutes. Through the glass, the November sky hung leaden over Harrington's campus, an incredible reflection of the suffocating atmosphere inside the Young Conservatives meeting room. Agatha shifted in her uncomfortable wooden chair, trying to focus on David Porter's monotonous droning about 'traditional family structures' and their supposed erosion in modern society.

"As future leaders of this great nation, we must understand the societal repercussions of abandoning the proven family structure that built America," David declared, pushing his wire-rimmed glasses up his nose with practised authority. His wavy brown hair and boyish features might have been considered handsome if not for the permanent expression of smug superiority etched across his face. "The statistics speak for themselves."

Next to Agatha, Madison stifled a yawn behind her hand, shooting her friend a look that clearly communicated: Kill me now .

Agatha quashed a laugh, returning her attention to the notebook open in front of her. She'd stopped taking actual notes fifteen minutes ago, her page now filled with doodles of stars and musical notes. Her thoughts drifted, as they inevitably did these days, to Rio. Three days had passed since the raw, electric moment in Rio's apartment—the argument cracking open something vulnerable, true between them. Tender reconciliation had melted into heated makeup sex against the kitchen counter, the shower wall, and finally, blissfully, Rio's bed, apologies and promises whispered against skin until...

"Wouldn't you agree, Ms. Harkness?"

David's voice cut through her daze, his tone suggesting it wasn't the first time he'd addressed her. The room fell silent, all eyes turning toward her expectantly.

"I'm sorry," she said, straightening her posture automatically. "Could you repeat the question?"

"I was asking whether you agree that children raised in households without traditional parental gender roles suffer developmental disadvantages. Given your mother's strong stance on this issue, I assumed you'd have some insight."

Before Agatha could respond, the meeting room door swung open with enough force to rattle the nearby bookshelf. Tucker Barnes strode in twenty-five minutes late, with neither apology nor acknowledgement of his tardiness. His cable-knit sweater was artfully rumpled in a way that suggested intentional dishevelment rather than actual carelessness, and his boat shoes squeaked against the polished floor as he claimed an empty seat.

"Ah, Tucker," David grinned, "Perfect timing. We were just discussing the importance of traditional family structures. Perhaps you'd like to share your thoughts on Senator Armstrong's new bill?"

Tucker leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms with the confidence of someone who had never been told his opinion wasn't valuable. "It's about time someone took a stand against this 'alternative lifestyle' propaganda. My father says—"

Agatha tuned out, a skill she'd perfected over three years of these meetings. Her gaze drifted to Professor Hamilton, their faculty advisor, who had achieved the remarkable feat of appearing simultaneously asleep and judgmental. The sixty-something political science professor claimed to be "apolitical" while consistently supporting every conservative policy initiative that crossed his desk. He was also, conveniently , a longtime friend of Evanora's, which explained why he always seemed to have detailed reports of Agatha's activities.

Somewhere between Tucker and David's endless tautology, a familiar pressure built behind her breastbone—the mixture of anger, resentment, and guilt that these meetings always inspired. She shouldn't be here. She didn't belong here. She was living a lie, and with each passing day, the weight of that deception grew heavier.

She shifted in her seat again, discomfort radiating through her lower back and abdomen; her period had started that morning with a vengeance, cramps twisting her insides while she tried to project her usual composed facade. She'd almost cancelled the meeting, almost stayed wrapped in Rio's arms in that small but infinitely comfortable apartment, but dutiful habits were hard to break. So here she sat, in physical discomfort and emotional turmoil, listening to Tucker Barnes espouse views that made her skin crawl.

"Speaking of moral decay," Tucker was saying , his gaze sliding toward Agatha with deliberate intent, "I heard an interesting rumour about our esteemed president's new… friend."

Madison stiffened beside her, subtle but unmistakable.

"This is hardly relevant to our agenda, Tucker," David interjected, though the gleam in his eyes betrayed his interest.

"Oh, but it speaks directly to the decay of values on our campus," Tucker pressed. "When even the daughter of Senator Harkness is consorting with scholarship trash, what hope is there for maintaining standards?"

The room temperature dropped several degrees.

"Careful, Tucker," Madison warned her face flush, anger rising hot and fast beneath her skin.

"What?" He raised his hands in mock innocence. "I'm just saying when someone from one of our nation's most respected political families starts slumming it with some Puerto Rican dyke musician —"

"Finish that sentence," Agatha spoke, her voice so quiet the room fell silent to hear her, "and I will personally ensure that everyone in this room learns about what you and Caroline did in Professor Wright's office after the Spring Formal."

Tucker's face drained of colour. "You wouldn't—"

"I would," she replied, rising to her feet with a serenity that belied the storm raging inside her. "And I'd include the part about Brittany joining the fun too, which I'm sure your girlfriend, Brit's best friend, would find fascinating."

She felt Madison shift beside her, clearly surprised by this unexpected revelation. She'd never told anyone about what she'd accidentally witnessed that night—the memory filed away as potentially useful leverage, a tactic she'd learned from Mother Dearest.

"You're bluffing," Tucker said, but his voice wavered uncertainly.

"Am I?" Agatha's smile was all ice. "Shall we test that theory, Tuck? While we're at it, we could discuss the contents of your father's private email server —the one you so proudly showed off when you were drunk at the Phi Delta mixer last semester. I think the ethics committee would be particularly interested in his communications regarding certain campaign finance allocations."

Tucker's mouth opened and closed wordlessly.

"But we're getting off-topic," Agatha continued, her voice gaining strength as years of bottled rage and resentment surged through her veins. "You were sharing your enlightened views on my personal relationships. Please continue. I'm eager to hear more from someone whose political ideology is directly proportional to his daddy's approval and inversely proportional to his own capacity for original thought."

Professor Hamilton straightened in his chair, suddenly fully awake. "Ms. Harkness, I think that's enough—"

"No, Professor, I don't think it is," Agatha cut him off, turning to face the room at large. Her heart pounded in her chest, but somehow, she'd never felt more clear-headed.

"For three years, I've sat in this room listening to hateful rhetoric dressed up as political discourse. I've nodded and smiled while people like David and Tucker regurgitate talking points without a shred of critical thinking or human empathy."

She looked around at the shocked faces of her fellow members—some uncomfortable, others intrigued, a few even showing hints of agreement.

"You know what traditional family values really are?" she continued, unable to stem the flow of words now that the dam had broken. "Love. Support. Acceptance. Not the narrow-minded bigotry that this group peddles as moral superiority. And for what it's worth, Rio Vidal—yes, the scholarship student from Puerto Rico who plays guitar in a band—has shown me more about those values in a few weeks than I've seen in three years of these meetings."

David rose to his feet, his face scarlet with anger. "If you're so unhappy with our organisation, perhaps you should reconsider your position as president."

"You know what, David? You're absolutely right." Agatha gathered her notebook and pens, sliding them into her bag with deliberate care.

"I should have done this a long time ago. I resign, effective immediately. You can tell my mother yourself why her daughter is no longer interested in being associated with this hateful, regressive excuse for a political organisation ."

A chorus of gasps and murmurs rippled through the room. Professor Hamilton stood now, too, his face a mask of alarm.

"Agatha, don't be hasty—"

"I'm not being rash, Professor. I'm being honest—probably for the first time since I joined this group." She shouldered her bag, feeling lighter than she had in years despite the gravity of what she'd just done.

"Enjoy your echo chamber, everyone. I'm sure you'll accomplish great things without the burden of diverse perspectives."

She turned to go, but Madison's voice stopped her.

"Wait!" Madison stood, gathering her own belongings with quick, efficient movements. "If Agatha's resigning, then so am I."

"Mads, you don't have to—"

"Yes, I do. I only joined this ridiculous club to keep an eye on my best friend while she performed her daughterly duties. I've never believed a word of the garbage you people spout, and frankly, the only thing that's kept me sane during these meetings is imagining all of you in embarrassing situations—like David stuck in a revolving door or Tucker with his head caught in a bucket."

A sophomore girl in the corner stifled a laugh, quickly covering it with a cough when David glared at her.

"Well," David said stiffly, "I think we've all heard quite enough—"

"Actually," Madison interrupted, slinging her designer bag over her shoulder, "you haven't. Because I'd like to add that your proposed 'voter education initiative' is not only ethically questionable but potentially violates three university policies regarding partisan political activities on campus. I've kept a detailed record of every questionable proposal this group has made over the past two years, and I'd be happy to share it with the student activities board if anyone tries to retaliate against Agatha or me for our resignations."

She smiled sweetly, linking her arm through Agatha's. "That's all. Carry on with your bigotry. We'll see ourselves out."

The silence that followed them out was profound, broken only by the squeak of their shoes on the polished floor and the persistent drumming of rain against the windows. As Agatha reached for the doorknob, Professor Hamilton finally found his voice.

"Your mother will hear about this, Ms. Harkness."

Agatha paused, turning back to meet his gaze. "I'm counting on it, Professor. Please give her my regards."

The door closed behind them with a satisfying click, leaving stunned silence in their wake.

"Holy shit," Madison breathed as they strode down the corridor, her eyes wide with disbelief and admiration. "Holy fucking shit, Aggie!"

"Did I really just do that?" she asked, her voice small as the adrenaline began to ebb, leaving her light-headed and slightly nauseated.

"You absolutely did," the redhead laughed, a fierce pride evident in her voice.

"You marched in there and delivered the most glorious 'fuck you' speech I've ever witnessed. It was beautiful. I think my ovaries exploded."

Despite the gravity of the situation, Agatha chuckled—a sound somewhere between genuine amusement and incipient hysteria.

"Oh god, what have I done? Mother is going to eviscerate me."

"Probably," Madison agreed cheerfully, shouldering open the heavy door that led to the stairwell. "But it was worth it to see Tucker's face when you mentioned his little office adventure. I didn't even know about that!"

Agatha winced as another cramp twisted through her lower abdomen.

"No one did. I walked in on them after the Spring Formal last year when I was returning some books. They didn't notice me, and I… filed it away for future reference."

"That's disturbingly calculating," Madison observed as they descended the stairs. "Remind me never to get on your bad side."

"I learned from the best," Agatha replied, her tone turning bitter. "Evanora Harkness's daughter knows how to collect leverage."

They reached the ground floor, the sound of rain growing louder as they approached the building's entrance. Beyond the glass doors, sheets of water obscured the view, transforming the familiar campus landscape into a storm-blurred impressionist painting.

"Shit," Madison muttered, digging through her bag. "I didn't bring an umbrella."

"Neither did I," Agatha sighed, staring out at the deluge. "I thought it was supposed to clear up by noon."

Madison glanced at her watch. "I'm parked in the faculty lot behind Blackwell. If we make a run for it, we might only get partially drenched instead of completely soaked."

"You parked in the faculty lot? Again?" Agatha's momentary elation at her own rebellion was replaced by annoyance. "Madison, they're going to tow your car. They warned you last time."

"Relax," her friend waved dismissively. "They never actually tow. They just leave those little threatening notes on the windshield to scare students."

Agatha could feel a headache forming behind her eyes. "You can't keep parking in restricted areas and expect to get away with it just because your mother donates to the alumni fund."

"Says the girl who just went full scorched-earth on the Young Conservatives," Madison retorted with a raised eyebrow. "Didn't realise we were being rule-followers today."

"That's different," she protested, though she knew her argument was weak. "That was standing up for something important."

"And me parking closer to buildings in the pouring rain isn't important?" Madison's tone was playfully defensive. "My shoes are Louboutins, Aggie. They're not designed for wading through puddles."

Agatha rolled her eyes, another cramp making her wince. "Fine. But when your car gets towed, don't come crying to me."

"It won't get towed," the redhead insisted, peering out at the rain. "Ready? On three. One… two… three!"

They pushed through the doors together, immediately assaulted by the full force of the downpour. The rain was shockingly cold, soaking through Agatha's light jacket within seconds as they ran across the quad toward Blackwell Science Center. Her Miu Miu Patent Buckle-Trio Slingback Pumps, completely impractical for this weather, splashed through puddles that sent water seeping between her toes.

By the time they rounded the corner of Blackwell , headed for the faculty parking lot , they were both thoroughly drenched . Agatha's hair hung in wet ropes around her face, rainwater streaming down her neck and beneath her collar. Madison didn't look much better, her carefully styled auburn waves plastered to her head, mascara beginning to smudge beneath her eyes.

"See?" Madison gasped between breaths as they entered the parking lot. "No problem. I told you they don't actually—"

She stopped dead, causing Agatha to nearly collide with her.

The faculty parking lot stretched before them, neat rows of vehicles glistening in the rain. However, the spot where Madison's silver Mercedes convertible should have been was conspicuously empty.

"No," she whispered, then louder: "No fucking way!"

Agatha didn't need to ask what was wrong; the absence of Madison's distinctive car spoke volumes.

"They towed it, didn't they?"

"No, no, no!" Madison spun in a frantic circle as if her car might materialise if she just looked hard enough. "This is bullshit! They've never actually towed anyone before!"

Rain streamed down Agatha's face, mingling with the tears of frustration that threatened to fall. Between her period cramps, the adrenaline crash from confronting the Young Conservatives, and now this—she felt her carefully maintained composure beginning to fracture.

"I told you this would fucking happen," she groaned, her voice rising. "I literally just told you five minutes ago that they would tow your car!"

Madison whirled to face her, mascara creating dark rivulets down her cheeks. " Oh, that's helpful, Aggie. Really fucking helpful right now!"

"What did you expect!?" the brunette demanded, gesturing wildly at the empty parking space. "You've been parking illegally for weeks! The campus security officer literally wrote 'FINAL WARNING' on your last ticket!"

"Which I paid!" Madison protested, rain dripping from her chin as she shouted. "I paid every single one of those stupid tickets!"

"That's not the fucking point!" Agatha's voice echoed across the empty parking lot. "The point is that you keep doing whatever you want without considering the consequences! Did you think about how we'd get home if your car got towed? Did you think about that at all?"

Madison's expression hardened. "Oh, I'm sorry, I was a little distracted by supporting my best friend while she burned her entire political future to the ground ! Excuse me for not anticipating that today would be the one day they'd actually follow through on their threats!"

"Don't you dare put this on me," Agatha hissed, another cramp twisting through her abdomen with such intensity that she had to suppress a gasp. "Your behaviour has nothing to do with what happened in that meeting. You're just irresponsible!"

"Irresponsible?" Madison repeated, her voice dropping dangerously. "That's rich coming from Senator Harkness's perfect daughter who just told her mother's oldest friend to go fuck himself— which, by the way, I fully supported!"

"God! This isn't about that!" Agatha insisted, though deep down, she knew her anger was being fueled by the panic of what she'd just done. "This is about your constant disregard for rules that you think don't apply to you because of your privilege!"

Madison stepped back as if she'd been slapped. "My privilege? Are you serious right now? You, trust fund Barbie, of all people, are going to lecture me about privilege?"

"At least I acknowledge mine!" Agatha shot back, her voice breaking. "I don't use it as an excuse to do whatever I want, whenever I want, without thinking about how it affects others!"

"Oh, that's bullshit, and you know it!" Madison's face flushed with anger. "You've been hiding behind your mother's name for years! The only difference is you used it to maintain your perfect facade while I use mine to make my life more convenient!"

They stood facing each other, chests heaving, rain pouring down between them. Agatha felt a dangerous mixture of emotions swirling inside her—anger, betrayal, fear, all amplified by hormones and physical discomfort.

"I can't believe you're throwing that in my face," she said quietly, her voice nearly drowned by the rain. "After everything I've been through, after watching me struggle for years to break free from my mother's control, you're going to stand there and accuse me of hiding behind her name?"

Madison's expression wavered, regret flickering across her features. " Aggie, I didn't mean—"

"No, you meant it," Agatha cut her off, wiping rain from her eyes. "You meant every word. Because deep down, you think what I've been through is just some rich girl's rebellion, don't you? Like I'm playing at being oppressed while you—what? Slum it with the scholarship students?"

"That's not fair, and you know it," Madison said, her voice cracking. "I've been there for you through everything—the eating disorder, the panic attacks, every single time your mother made you feel worthless. I was there, Agatha!"

"And you still don't get it!" Agatha was shouting now, uncaring who might hear. "You still don't understand what it's like to live under constant scrutiny, to have every decision, every friendship, every goddamn breath analysed for how it might reflect on the Harkness legacy!"

"You think I don't understand scrutiny?" Madison's laugh was harsh and humourless. "Imagine being the gay daughter of two moms in a town where people still whisper 'lesbian' as if it were a disease. Imagine spending your childhood witnessing others, including Senator Evanora Harkness, judge my biological mom for simply living, for leaving my abusive father who beat her. Imagine being shunned from church because my mother dared to be happy with Carol, the one person who showed her love and compassion and helped her discover who she was! Imagine living with that!"

Agatha felt her anger begin to fragment, breaking apart to reveal the fear beneath—fear of her mother's reaction, fear of the consequences of her actions, fear of losing the one person who had always been her safe harbour. Fear of becoming Madison's mother, of losing everything she knew, of becoming Diane.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, the words nearly lost in the downpour. "I shouldn't have said that."

Madison stared at her, mascara streaking down her cheeks, her designer clothes plastered to her body. "No, you shouldn't have."

Another cramp seized Agatha, stronger than the others, and this time, she couldn't suppress her gasp of pain. She bent forward slightly, wrapping an arm around her midsection.

"Aggie?" Madison's wrath instantly transformed into concern. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Just cramps," Agatha managed through gritted teeth. "Started this morning."

"Jesus, why didn't you say something?" Madison was at her side instantly, supporting arm around her waist. "We need to get you home."

"In case you've forgotten, we don't have a car," she reminded her, though the bite had gone out of her voice, replaced by exhaustion and pain.

"We'll figure it out," Madison insisted, pulling out her phone. "I'll call Alice. Maybe she and Rio can—" She stopped, staring at her phone screen. "Shit."

"What now?"

"Dead battery," Madison sighed, turning the phone toward Agatha to show the black screen. "What about yours?"

Agatha reached into her purse, her fingers closing around her phone. The relief of finding it was immediately overwhelmed by the realisation that it, too, was unresponsive—damaged by the rain.

"It's not turning on. Must have gotten wet in the downpour."

They stood in silence for a moment, rain drumming around them, the absurdity of their situation settling in. Two privileged young women, stranded in a faculty parking lot, soaked to the skin, with no working phones and no transportation.

"Well," Madison said finally, a hint of her usual humour creeping back into her voice, "this is certainly a plot twist I didn't see coming."

Despite everything—the pain, the cold, the lingering tension—Agatha found herself laughing . Once she started, she couldn't stop the laughter as it bubbled up from some deep well of stress and emotion. Madison stared at her momentarily before joining in, their shared mirth a temporary bridge across the chasm their argument had opened.

"We're a mess," Agatha managed between gasps of laughter. " Look at us!"

"Speak for yourself," Madison retorted, though she was laughing too. "I'm still fabulous; the wet look is still totally in."

They stood there in the rain, laughing like lunatics, some of the tension bleeding away with each shared breath. When the laughter finally subsided, Madison reached out, taking Agatha's cold hand in hers .

"I'm sorry," she said simply. "I was out of line."

"So was I," Agatha admitted, squeezing Madison's hand. "You've been my rock for so long, and I had no right to throw your privilege in your face, especially given my financial situation."

"Truce?"

"Truce."

Madison's smile faded as another gust of wind swept icy rain across the parking lot.

"Okay, so how are we going to get home? Because I don't know about you, but I'm starting to lose feeling in my extremities."

Agatha looked around, considering their options. "The campus shuttle stops at Blackwell at—" She checked her watch, dismayed to find the face obscured by condensation. "—sometime. I'm not actually sure when."

"Great," Madison sighed. "So we either wait for a shuttle that may or may not be running in this weather, or we walk two miles home in a deluge."

"Or we go back inside Blackwell and try to borrow someone's phone," Agatha suggested, pragmatism reasserting itself. "There's bound to be a faculty member or student with a working device we could use to call Alice."

"See? This is why you're the brains of this operation," Madison said, linking her arm through Agatha's as they turned back toward Blackwell Science Center. "And why I put up with your judgy attitude about my parking choices."

"I'm not judgy; I'm practical," Agatha corrected, but there was no heat in her words. "And look where your impractical parking choices got us."

"I maintain that this is a statistical anomaly," Madison insisted as they trudged through puddles. "They've never towed anyone before."

"First time for everything," Agatha replied, wincing as another cramp rippled through her abdomen. "Just like me telling Tucker Barnes to go fuck himself in front of Professor Hamilton."

"That was pretty spectacular," Madison admitted, supporting more of Agatha's weight as she noticed her friend's discomfort. "The look on his face when you mentioned Caroline and Brittany—priceless."

"I should have done it years ago," Agatha said, surprised by how much she meant it. Despite the physical discomfort, despite the consequences that would inevitably come crashing down, she felt lighter than she had in months. Years, maybe.

They were halfway across the quad when the sound of a car horn cut through the downpour. Agatha turned, squinting through the rain to see a familiar vehicle pulling up alongside them—her own sleek black Audi, with Rio behind the wheel and Alice in the passenger seat.

Rio rolled down the window, her expression a mixture of concern and delight as she took in their bedraggled state. "Need a ride, Princesses?"

"Rio!" Agatha had never been so glad to see anyone in her life . "How did you—"

"Find My iPhone," Rio smiled, gesturing for them to get in . "You weren't answering my texts, so I got worried. I tracked your phone location— sorry if that's creepy —and figured you might need a rescue when I saw you were still on campus in this downpour." 

"And I remembered Madison mentioning this morning that she was parking in the faculty lot again," Alice added. "So when Rio said you were near Blackwell, I had a feeling her car might have finally been towed."

"I was going to call," Madison defended, already moving toward the car, "but then we had our little disagreement, and you know how time flies when you're screaming at each other in a parking lot."

Alice leaned across Rio to peer out at them. "You two fought? That's like finding out Santa and Mrs. Claus are getting divorced."

"It was a minor philosophical difference," Agatha said, climbing gratefully into the backseat, the warmth of the car a blissful contrast to the chill of the rain. "Regarding the ethics of parking in faculty spaces."

"Which was exacerbated by Agatha going full rebel mode in the Young Conservatives meeting and then having period cramps from hell," Madison added, sliding in beside her. "But we're fine now. Mostly."

Rio twisted in her seat to look at Agatha, concern evident in her expression. "You're in pain? Why didn't you text me? I would have picked you up earlier."

"I was going to," Agatha assured her, touched by the worry in Rio's eyes. "But then everything happened so fast, and my phone got wet in the rain, and—"

"And I parked in the faculty lot again, and they actually towed my car this time," Madison finished for her. "After explicitly being warned multiple times that this would happen by… multiple people."

"You don't say," Alice remarked dryly, exchanging a knowing look with Rio. "It's almost like actions have consequences."

"Not now, Babe," Madison groaned, slumping against the seat. "I've already endured Agatha's 'I told you so' lecture. I don't need it in stereo."

Rio put the car in drive, pulling away from the curb as Agatha leaned her head against the cool window, watching the rain blur the campus into watercolour smudges. She felt drained, physically and emotionally, yet oddly at ease.

"So," Alice said, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled over the car, "are we going to talk about the fact that Agatha apparently told Professor Hamilton and the rest of YC to go fuck themselves?"

"I did not use those exact words," Agatha clarified, though a small smile played at her lips. " I was much more eloquent in my delivery."

"She was magnificent," Madison confirmed. "Shakespeare himself could not have crafted a more elegant 'fuck you' to the entire conservative establishment."

Rio caught Agatha's eye in the rearview mirror, her expression a mixture of pride and concern. "Are you okay, though? Really?"

Agatha considered the question, looking past the physical discomfort and the emotional turbulence to the core of what she was feeling . "I'm actually... okay. Better than okay, in some ways."

"Even knowing what your mother's going to say?" Rio asked gently.

"She'll be angry," Agatha acknowledged, a ripple of anxiety coursing through her at the thought. "But for the first time, I'm not sure I care. Or rather, I care, but not enough to regret what I did."

"That's my girl," Rio said softly, the simple declaration making Agatha's heart swell despite her exhaustion.

The rest of the drive passed in comfortable conversation, the four of them dissecting every moment of Agatha's confrontation with the Young Conservatives, with Madison providing dramatic reenactments of Tucker's expressions. By the time they pulled up to Agatha and Madison's apartment building, Agatha's clothes had progressed from soaking to merely damp, though her hair still hung in wet tangles around her face.

"Home sweet home," Alice announced as Rio parked in front of the building. "Where Madison can change into dry clothes while Agatha lectures her, again , about responsible vehicle ownership."

"I'm looking forward to it," Madison replied, her sarcasm belied by the affectionate squeeze she gave Alice's shoulder. "Nothing says sisterhood like being scolded."

They piled out of the car, the rain having finally slowed to a gentle drizzle. Agatha took Rio's offered hand, grateful for the support as another cramp reminded her of her body's ongoing revolution.

"Want me to come up?" the guitarist asked softly. "I can make you some tea, get you a heating pad?"

"You're perfect," Agatha said, leaning in to kiss her lightly, warmth spreading through her chest at the simple domesticity of the offer. "But aren't you supposed to be at work in an hour?"

Rio grimaced. "Yeah, Jake will kill me if I'm late again. But I can call in sick if you need me."

"No, go to work," Agatha insisted. "I've got Madison, and I'll be fine with some ibuprofen and my heating pad. I'll see you later?"

"Count on it," Rio promised, kissing her once more before reluctantly stepping back. "I'll bring soup when I get off my shift. And chocolate. And maybe a guillotine for when your mother finds out about your revolutionary activities."

"The soup and chocolate should suffice. I'll handle my mother."

They said their goodbyes, Rio and Alice pulling away with promises to check in later. Madison linked her arm through Agatha's as they made their way to the building's entrance, both of them moving with the careful gait of people whose clothes were uncomfortably adhered to their skin.

"So," Madison said as they reached the door, "on a scale of one to nuclear winter, how bad do you think Evanora's reaction is going to be?"

"Chernobyl, at minimum," Agatha replied, fishing her keys from her purse. "Possibly approaching dinosaur-extinction-level event."

"Well, look on the bright side," Madison offered as Agatha unlocked the door. "At least you won't have to sit through any more of David's mind-numbing—"

Her words died in her throat as they stepped into the apartment.

"Aggie..."

"What's wrong?" she asked, peering around her friend. "Did you forget to—"

The words died in her own throat as her gaze landed on the immaculate figure seated on their couch, ankles crossed, hands folded primly in her lap, expression carved from ice and steel.

"Hello, Agatha, I think it's time we had a talk."

Chapter Text

"Hello, Agatha. I think it's time we had a talk."

The scent hit her first. Chanel No. 5, clinical and invasive—seeping through the apartment before she'd even processed the scene before her: Evanora Harkness perched on their couch, not a wrinkle disturbing her charcoal Chanel suit despite the hours she must have spent waiting.

At the doorway, Agatha froze.

A slow vice tightened around her chest, each breath shallower than the last, catching against her ribs like fabric snagging on barbed wire as the rainy afternoon light caught on the perfect coif of Evanora Harkness's bob.

Water from her ruined hair trickled onto the hardwood floor, each drop landing with a soft percussion that seemed obscenely loud in the sudden silence. Behind her, Madison's sharp intake of breath punctuated the moment. The storm they'd just escaped paled in comparison to the tempest now brewing within these walls.

Vertigo swept through Agatha, the room tilting briefly before righting itself. The monthly cramps she'd been fighting all day twisted harder as if her body conspired with her mother to amplify her discomfort. The dampness of her clothes transformed from mild inconvenience to a claustrophobic second skin, clinging with clammy insistence.

Questions ricocheted through her mind while her face arranged itself into practised neutrality, an expression she'd perfected by age seven.

"Mother," she managed, the single word emerging surprisingly level despite feeling like glass in her throat. "What a surprise."

"Clearly," Evanora replied, gaze travelling from Agatha's rain-soaked clothes to Madison's equally dishevelled appearance. She assessed them with the detachment of an entomologist cataloguing specimens, disapproval bending the very light around her.

"I've been waiting for over an hour."

A sound escaped Madison—half scoff, half indignation—as she shifted beside Agatha, expensive shoes squelching against the floor.

"How did you get in?" A futile question for a woman who navigated life as if permissions and boundaries applied only to others.

"Your superintendent was quite accommodating when I explained the family emergency."

The lie rolled from Evanora's tongue with such fluid ease it barely registered as deception. One manicured finger traced the edge of her wedding ring, a subtle tell Agatha had catalogued years ago—Evanora's unconscious gesture when particularly pleased with her own manipulations.

"Mr Jensen has always been so... understanding of my concerns for you."

Jensen. The name lodged in Agatha's memory like a splinter, adding another item to her mental checklist—a conversation with building management about security protocols. Another breach to address, another vulnerability exposed.

Evanora's attention pivoted to Madison, lips compressing into a pale line that betrayed her displeasure at the girl's continued presence.

"Madison, dear, I need to speak with my daughter privately."

Not a request—a banishment, delivered with the quiet certainty of someone unaccustomed to resistance.

Madison glanced sideways, expression transforming into a silent question: Want me to stay?

Sixteen years of friendship gave her words without speaking—the promise of alliance, protection, a buffer against the woman who had weaponised maternal concern into psychological warfare.

Warmth bloomed beneath Agatha's breastbone despite their rain-soaked argument hours earlier. This confrontation was inevitable—perhaps since she'd stormed from the Young Conservatives meeting, perhaps since she'd first locked eyes with Rio in that abandoned building. Some part of her had been laying groundwork since childhood for the moment authenticity would demand its price.

Her fingertips buzzed with adrenaline, a dizzying lightness spreading from her extremities towards her core. "It's okay, Mads," she said softly, the words emerging as if from someone else's mouth. "I'll be fine."

"Are you sure? I can stay."

"I'm sure." Agatha brushed her friend's forearm, the touch drawing strength from connection—a reminder that regardless of what happened next, isolation was no longer her default state.

"This has been coming for a long time."

Madison hesitated, then nodded. "I'll be in my room if you need me," she announced, loud enough for Evanora to catch the implied threat: I'm within earshot.

With a smile sharp enough to draw blood, she retreated down the hallway, wet footprints marking her path like breadcrumbs in a dark forest.

Agatha stood alone before her mother, jaw aching from clenching against another wave of cramps. Every instinct urged her to remain standing, to maintain maximum distance, but that would telegraph weakness.

Instead of cowering, she moved deeper into the apartment with deliberate nonchalance. Each step required focused control as her soaked pumps betrayed her with embarrassing squeaks against the floor.

The kitchen counter offered strategic advantages—a physical barrier between them, a height that prevented looking up at her mother, a distance that balanced composure with engagement. She settled onto a stool, ankles crossing automatically despite the unwelcome sensation of wet stockings rubbing against her skin.

The apartment around them seemed strangely altered by Evanora's presence—familiar objects rendered alien in the context of this invasion. The throw pillows Rio had rearranged during movie night, the half-empty teacup Madison had abandoned that morning, the stack of poetry books on the coffee table—all these personal touches now seemed like evidence in a case against her.

As silence stretched between them, Agatha studied her mother's appearance. Despite her immaculate exterior, tiny fissures suggested the effort it required: faint shadows beneath her eyes where concealer had begun to fail; a slight tension radiating from the corners of her mouth; the too-deliberate placement of her hands on her knee.

She's off-balance, Agatha realised, a flicker of satisfaction warming her chest. This isn't strategic displeasure—she's genuinely unsettled.

"You look unwell," Evanora observed, her voice a masterclass in false concern. She tilted her head like a bird, considering whether its prey was sufficiently weakened. "Have you been taking care of yourself?"

The familiar opening gambit nearly provoked a smile—Evanora's signature move, criticism masquerading as maternal worry, designed to snare Agatha in immediate defensiveness. In years past, she would have tumbled into justifications, explaining, reassuring. Now, she recognised the trap's architecture.

"I'm fine," she replied, voice remaining level despite the cold droplet that chose that moment to slide down her spine.

"Just caught in the rain." No mention of her cramping abdomen—Evanora didn't deserve additional ammunition. "Why are you here, Mother?"

The direct question disrupted their usual choreography. Surprise registered in the momentary widening of Evanora's eyes before her expression recalibrated. Without changing her features, something shifted in her demeanour—the subtle repositioning of a fencer facing an unexpected thrust.

She reached for her designer handbag, movements graceful as a conductor beginning a familiar symphony. Each gesture flowed with such practised precision it bordered on performance art.

"I received a most disturbing call from Professor Hamilton this afternoon," she said, extracting a slim leather portfolio with meticulous care. Her fingers moved with unsettling economy, never wasting a motion as she aligned the portfolio perfectly with the edge of her knee. "He was quite concerned about your... outburst during today's Young Conservatives meeting."

The word "outburst" landed with calculated effect—reducing Agatha's principled stand to an emotional tantrum. Heat crawled up her neck, but she inhaled silently through her nose, employing Dr Lewin's technique. Four counts in. Hold two. Six counts out. The rhythm steadied her when nothing else could.

"I wouldn't call it an outburst," Agatha countered, Tucker's shocked face flashing in her memory, followed by Madison rising beside her in solidarity.

"I simply stated my position and resigned from an organisation whose values I no longer share— if I ever truly did."

"He said you verbally attacked Tucker Barnes and made veiled threats regarding his family," Evanora continued, fingers tracing the edge of a document Agatha couldn't see. "Is that true?"

The question hung suspended: a test—was Hamilton fishing, or had he shared specifics? Internal calculations ran quick as Agatha weighed her options.

Partial truth, she decided. Enough to seem forthcoming without revealing everything.

"Tucker attacked me first. He called someone I care about 'scholarship trash' and used a homophobic slur. I simply reminded him that people in glass houses shouldn't throw stones."

The euphemism lingered between them like smoke. Evanora absorbed the implication, connections forming behind her carefully arranged features.

"I see," the matriarch said. "And this... person you care about. That would be Rio Vidal, I presume?"

The name struck like an unexpected blow to the solar plexus. She'd anticipated her mother would know—had steeled herself for it—yet hearing Rio's name from Evanora's lips felt profoundly degrading, like finding muddy footprints across pristine bedsheets.

How could she possibly—Hamilton must have mentioned Rio, or Tucker has connections I've underestimated, or—

"How do you know that name?" The question escaped before she could trap it, her voice constricting against her will.

Instead of answering, Evanora removed several glossy photographs from her portfolio, arranging them across the coffee table in a leisurely display. Each placement carried a deliberate indifference, the unspoken message clear: I've always been three steps ahead of you.

From her position at the counter, Agatha couldn't make out the images clearly, yet she didn't need to—their contents burned in her imagination with scalding certainty. Nausea rose from her core, mingling with her cramping muscles until she had to swallow repeatedly to keep bile from climbing her throat. Her fingertips pressed against the counter's edge, the pain of pressure against bone offering an anchor to reality.

"Did you really think I wouldn't notice?" her mother asked, her voice dangerously soft. A ghost of something—hurt?—flickered beneath the steel, gone before Agatha could adequately identify it.

"That I wouldn't investigate when my daughter suddenly started behaving haphazardly, missing events, abandoning responsibilities?"

Of course, Agatha had known her mother would notice—she'd simply hoped for more time to fortify her defences, to prepare for this exact confrontation with Rio safely distant from the blast radius.

Despite every instinct screaming retreat, she rose from the stool.

When she reached the coffee table, her worst fears materialised in high-resolution clarity. The photographs documented moments she'd believed private—her and Rio outside Voltage Room after the concert, fingers intertwined, gazing at each other in the glow of streetlights; sharing coffee at The Daily Grind, Rio's thumb brushing against her wrist; laughing together near the campus pond, Agatha's head thrown back in genuine joy while Rio watched her with unguarded tenderness.

Sacred memories transformed into surveillance photos. Their connection rendered tawdry by the predatory lens that had captured them.

"You had me followed? You hired someone to spy on me?"

The violation of it—the comprehensive intrusion into her most vulnerable moments—triggered a wave of dizziness so intense she had to lock her knees to remain standing. How many moments? How many genuine connections had been observed, catalogued, and documented? The memory of Rio's hands on her waist, her lips against her neck, now seemed contaminated by unknown eyes.

"I had you protected," Evanora corrected, the distinction presented as meaningful as if semantics could sanitise invasion.

"When your behaviour changed so dramatically, I grew concerned. And rightfully so, it seems."

She gestured towards the photographs.

"You've been associating with people of... questionable character. Making choices that could jeopardise everything we've worked for. As your mother, I needed to understand what was happening."

The justification was so artfully constructed, so seamlessly delivered, that Agatha momentarily swayed towards acceptance—her conditioned response to her mother's rhetorical skill. Recognition of her own programming sent a jolt of clarity through her, dissolving the fog of habitual compliance. Her fingertips prickled with returning sensation, pins and needles spreading up her arms as if her body were waking from long sleep.

"There was no need for concern," she said, surprising herself with her steadiness. "I'm an adult making my own choices."

"Choices," Evanora echoed, derision curling around the word like poison ivy. Leaning forward, her posture immaculate while intensity radiated from her narrowing eyes.

"Like abandoning your future in politics to associate with a scholarship student with questionable connections? A girl who works as a barista and plays in some band? A girl who sends money to Puerto Rico every month for reasons that remain conveniently unclear?"

The thinly veiled xenophobia ignited something primal behind Agatha's sternum. The familiar anxiety that had shadowed her since childhood suddenly transmuted into a molten rage, burning away fear and replacing it with incandescent clarity.

"Her name is Rio," she said. "And there's nothing questionable about her. She's brilliant, talented, and works harder than anyone I know. She maintains a 4.0 GPA while working two jobs and helping support her family."

Oxygen flooded her lungs as strength surged through her limbs, fear temporarily banished by protective fury. "The money goes to her mother and younger brother. Her brother is autistic and needs therapy that insurance doesn't fully cover. Rio helps support them because that's what family does for each other—though I wouldn't expect you to understand that concept."

The barb landed precisely—Evanora's pupils contracted to pinpoints, a muscle along her jaw jumping before she could suppress it. The unexpected counterattack had found its mark, blood drawn in their verbal duel.

"How noble," she replied after the briefest pause. New tension vibrated underneath her words like plucked piano wire. "And I'm sure this... friendship ... is purely based on mutual intellectual admiration."

Agatha knew what her mother was asking—had rehearsed this moment during sleepless nights, imagined every variation of this confrontation. But reality rendered all preparation inadequate. How could mere words possibly convey the transformation Rio had catalysed in her life?

Images cascaded through her mind: coffee cradled in rain-soaked hands, guitar calluses rough against sensitive skin, gap-toothed smiles reserved only for moments of true joy, whispered reassurances when nightmares jolted her awake. The sanctuary she'd found in Rio's arms, the liberation of being seen in all her flawed, human complexity.

"No," she said simply, meeting her mother's gaze without flinching. "It's not just friendship."

This precipice—she'd reached it, stepped over it, was now falling or flying, impossible to determine which.

Evanora's expression remained fixed, but for a heartbeat, something unidentifiable flickered in her eyes—a complexity beyond simple anger or disappointment.

"Are you a lesbian, Agatha?"

Time dilated around her. The world compressed to this moment, this question, this threshold. Years of confused adolescence crashed through her memory—tears shed in private after political functions when handsome sons of donors paid attention she couldn't reciprocate, the persistent emptiness that had haunted her until Rio illuminated the darkness with colour and music and truth.

She thought of the stars tattooed on her hip—her rebellion made permanent, inspired by Rio but chosen for herself. The exhaustion of perpetual performance, the sweet relief of authenticity.

"Yes," she answered, the syllable hovering between them, simple and irrevocable. "I am."

Something convulsed across Evanora's face—shock despite her obvious suspicions, grief as if witnessing a death, and, most surprising, naked fear that transformed her commanding features into something almost childlike in its vulnerability.

"I see," Evanora murmured. "And you've chosen to announce this... lifestyle choice ... by humiliating yourself and this family in front of Professor Hamilton and the children of some of my most important political allies."

The calculated phrasing—"lifestyle choice" instead of identity, "humiliating" rather than expressing—sliced with surgical precision, designed to diminish, to reframe Agatha's authenticity as selfish rebellion. The tactical brilliance behind the attack didn't lessen its sting.

"It wasn't planned," Agatha said, managing a small, wry smile as she sidestepped her mother's verbal trap.

"Tucker provoked me. But I'm not sorry it happened. I've been living a lie for too long."

"A lie?" Evanora repeated, eyebrows arching. The movement revealed momentary lines on her forehead—evidence of humanity beneath the Botox. "Is that what you call the future I've been carefully building for you? The connections I've cultivated? The doors I've opened?"

Genuine indignation coloured her voice—the affronted disbelief of someone whose life's work had just been casually dismissed. She leaned forward anew, fingers spreading across the leather portfolio as if physically anchoring her plans before they could slip away.

"No," Agatha shook her head, damp hair adhering to her temples. "Those things were real. But they were for your future, Mother. Not mine. I never wanted a political career."

The admission—simple yet fundamental—removed a weight she'd carried since childhood. Her lungs expanded fully for what felt like the first time in years.

"Because you were too naive to understand what was best for you," Evanora disputed. Colour bloomed high on her cheekbones, the only outward sign of her mounting agitation.

"Everything I've done has been for your benefit, Agatha. Every sacrifice, every long night, every compromise—all to secure your future."

Something plaintive threaded through the steel, genuine bewilderment suggesting Evanora truly couldn't comprehend the disconnect between them. For the first time, Agatha wondered if her mother was capable of understanding that they wanted fundamentally different things—if any explanation could possibly bridge their divergent worldviews.

"I know you believe that," Agatha said, her tone softening as realisation settled into her bones. A different kind of ache bloomed beneath her ribs—not the sharp pain of confrontation but a deeper sorrow for a relationship that might never fulfil her needs. "And I'm grateful for the opportunities you've given me. But I'm twenty years old, Mother. Old enough to choose my own path."

"Old enough to throw away everything for some... infatuation?" Evanora's voice rose slightly, her gestures losing their customary restraint as she motioned towards the scattered photographs. "You have no idea what the real world is like, Agatha. No idea what people will say, what doors will close permanently once word of this gets out."

With sudden clarity, Agatha recognised genuine fear beneath her mother's anger—misguided concern rooted in outdated beliefs and personal prejudices, but fear nonetheless.

"I'm not naive," she insisted, emboldened by the shifting power dynamic. "I know there will be consequences. But I'm an adult, and unlike what you might think, I'm financially independent."

She hadn't intended to reveal this card yet, but instinct pushed her forward, recognising the necessary adjustment in leverage to redirect their confrontation.

Evanora's head snapped up, and for a heartbeat, she appeared truly blindsided.

"What are you talking about?" she demanded.

"I know about the inheritance Dad left me," she said quietly, watching every microexpression that crossed her mother's face. "The trust fund, the investments, this apartment. I've known for over a year."

It was then that Evanora's polish vanished completely, leaving only a woman confronting an unexpected threat.

"That's impossible," she breathed, words emerging with uncharacteristic roughness. "Those arrangements were confidential. You couldn't possibly—"

"Uncle Mark told me," Agatha interrupted, the name landing with visible impact. "Dad's brother. He contacted me on my nineteenth birthday, said Dad had asked him to make sure I knew everything when the time was right."

Genuine fear flashed across her mother's features, not for Agatha now, but fear of what else Robert's brother might have revealed.

"Mark had no right—"

"He had every right," Agatha countered softly, an unexpected serenity settling over her despite the tension crackling between them. "Dad made him executor of my trust for a reason. He knew you might try to... control access to that information."

Evanora sat motionless, recalculation evident in her shallow breathing, the stillness of a predator reassessing after an unexpected counterattack.

When she finally spoke, her voice had dropped, control reasserted through visible effort.

"I see," she said, the words carrying new weight—wariness replacing dismissal. "So this rebellion of yours has been brewing for some time. You've been planning this... betrayal."

The framing, independence recast as personal attack, was so characteristic that Agatha nearly laughed despite the gravity of their confrontation. The predictable pattern revealed how truly little had changed between them—Evanora still reshaping reality to position herself at its centre, transforming Agatha's self-discovery into calculated treachery against her.

"It's not a betrayal, Mother," she sighed, exhaustion washing through her. Physical discomfort, emotional exertion, and persistent cramping combined into bone-deep weariness. "It's me trying to live authentically. To be who I really am, not who you want me to be."

"And who you 'really are' is someone who turns her back on everything she's been raised to believe? Someone who flaunts her perversions in public? Who throws away a future in politics to sleep with some scholarship case?"

The crude reduction of her relationship with Rio hit Agatha like a physical blow; the beautiful connection between them reduced to something sordid.

"My relationship with Rio is not a perversion," she stated, each word emerging with deliberate clarity despite her trembling voice. "And my faith is between me and God, not for you to weaponise against me."

"God?" A harsh laugh escaped Evanora, brittle as shattering crystal. Rising in one fluid motion, she claimed the height advantage with practised intimidation.

"You dare speak of God while living in sin? 'If a man lies with a male as with a woman, both of them have committed an abomination.' Leviticus 18:22. Or have you conveniently forgotten the faith you were raised in?"

The biblical quotation was so predictable Agatha had armoured herself against it years ago, researching counterarguments during sleepless nights of doubt. She'd anticipated this exact attack, yet it cut deeper than expected—not because she believed it, but because it revealed how fundamentally her mother refused to see her, to understand her, to accept her.

"I haven't forgotten anything. Including that Jesus said to love one another as He loved us. That He taught compassion, not judgment. He dined with tax collectors and prostitutes while condemning the hypocrisy of religious leaders."

Drawing herself upward, she continued with the theological arguments she'd rehearsed countless times alone. "The verse you quote from Leviticus comes from the same section that forbids wearing mixed fabrics and eating shellfish. The original Hebrew has been debated by scholars for centuries, with many arguing it refers to specific pagan ritual practices, not loving relationships. And Paul's letters were written in a specific cultural context that—"

"Don't you dare lecture me on scripture," Evanora hissed, advancing until Agatha could smell her perfume—Chanel No. 5, the scent of her childhood now corrupted by confrontation. "Not while you're destroying everything I've built. Robert would be ashamed of what you've become."

Her father.

Her gentle, principled father had been her childhood sanctuary, the counterweight to Evanora's ambition. Having his love retroactively conditioned struck a wound so deep that reality wavered around her, colours blurring as unbidden tears threatened.

Her hands shook uncontrollably, no longer concealable. Another cramp coincided with the emotional blow, doubling her forward slightly before she could right herself. She pressed her palm against her abdomen, seeking minimal relief while fighting to maintain dignity.

"Dad loved me. He would have wanted me to be happy."

Memories surfaced unrequested—Robert's warm laugh, his genuine interest in her opinions, how he'd sit beside her bed during anxiety attacks, holding her hand until the world stopped spinning. He'd never shared Evanora's obsession with appearances, never seemed concerned with political consequences. His priority had always been kindness over achievement, integrity over advancement.

"Robert was weak," Evanora spat, face momentarily twisting with naked bitterness. Age lines deepened around her mouth, exposing what her careful skincare routine normally concealed.

"Always too soft, too willing to compromise. And look where that got him."

The implicit reference to her father's early death ignited something primal in Agatha's chest.

"Don't," she warned, voice dropping dangerously low. Something solidified within her, malleable clay hardening into immovable stone. "Don't you dare speak about him like that!"

They faced each other across the coffee table—genetic echoes of each other, one polished to political perfection, the other increasingly, defiantly authentic.

Agatha exhaled slowly, consciously relaxing her shoulders, levelling her voice.

"I'll ask again. Why are you here, Mother? What is the purpose of this visit? You clearly didn't come to understand or support me."

The direct question seemed to catch Evanora mid-stride. She blinked, momentarily thrown by Agatha's pivot away from emotional engagement. It was a technique borrowed from Evanora's own playbook—redirecting conversation when it veered into dangerous waters.

She adjusted her jacket with meticulous attention, fingers smoothing non-existent creases—buying seconds to recalibrate her approach. The gesture betrayed her fundamental need to impose order, to control what had become uncontrollable.

"I came to offer you a choice, Agatha. One last opportunity to rectify this situation before it becomes irreparable."

Desperation lurked beneath the authoritative tone—a plea disguised as demand. For all her power and influence, Evanora was frightened by what was transpiring between them.

The realisation brought no triumph, only a hollow ache. This was her mother—deeply flawed, often cruel, but still the woman who had held her hand during childhood doctor visits, taught her to read before kindergarten, and tried, however misguidedly, to build what she believed would bring Agatha security and respect.

"What kind of choice?" Agatha asked, though she already knew the answer. It resonated through her mind with terrible clarity—the price of reconciliation, the cost of maintaining the Harkness legacy.

Evanora straightened, her posture taking on the formality of a prepared statement. Each word emerged with rehearsed exactness, balanced and measured like testimony before a committee.

"You will return to the Young Conservatives and apologise for your behaviour. You will end whatever... relationship... you have with this girl. You will resume your duties as my daughter and future political protégée." The ultimatum hung between them, absolute and uncompromising. "Or you can forget you have a mother."

For a heartbeat, old conditioning surfaced; the child who had shaped herself into Evanora's perfect daughter urged surrender.

But that child no longer controlled her actions.

Her gaze drifted around the apartment, taking inventory of the life she'd built outside Evanora's influence—bookshelves filled with volumes Rio had introduced her to, concert ticket stubs pinned haphazardly to the bulletin board, the small cactus in its hand-painted pot Rio had given her after she confessed to killing every houseplant she'd ever owned. Each item represented a choice made without seeking approval, a small act of self-determination.

She thought of Madison standing beside her at the Young Conservatives meeting, eyes blazing with loyal indignation. Of Rio looking at her as if she were already complete, not a project to be perfected. Of the lightness in her chest when she existed without constant self-monitoring when laughter emerged unfiltered by calculation.

Agatha felt something shift within her—the final piece of a long-forming decision sliding into place.

"I love you, Mother," she said quietly, the complex emotion genuine despite everything. The truth of it ached beneath her ribs—a tangled knot that might never fully unravel.

"But I can't keep sacrificing my sanity and my authentic self for this relationship. Not anymore."

Evanora physically recoiled as if Agatha's calm refusal struck harder than any emotional outburst could have. For a heartbeat, naked hurt transformed her features. Pain shadowed her eyes, tightened her mouth, carved temporary lines across her forehead that no Botox injection could smooth away.

The vulnerability vanished almost instantly, hardening into indignation with breathtaking speed.

"After everything I've sacrificed for you," she hissed, voice dropping to a venomous whisper, "this is how you repay me? With ingratitude? With rebellion?" Disgust radiated from her rigid posture. "You're just like your father—too weak to do what needs to be done. Too selfish to see beyond your immediate desires."

The comparison to Robert intended as condemnation, washed through Agatha like an unexpected balm. Yes, she was like him—in all the ways that mattered most. The thought brought a surprising sense of peace, of connection to the parent who had loved her unconditionally.

"If caring about people more than politics makes me weak, then yes, I'm like Dad," she agreed softly. A strand of damp hair fell across her face; she tucked it behind her ear with deliberate calm. "And I'm grateful for that inheritance—far more than the financial one."

Her deliberate double meaning—referencing both the spiritual legacy and the financial independence her father had provided—wasn't lost on Evanora.

"Your little infatuation won't last, Agatha," she said, her voice dropping to a register Agatha recognised from congressional hearings—Evanora's tone when delivering her most devastating blows. "And when it ends, you'll find yourself alone, with no family, no connections, no future. Is this girl really worth that? This... Rio?"

She twisted the name as if tasting something rancid, a deliberate, final insult.

"Do you think she'll still want you when my opponents start digging into her background? When her scholarship comes under review? When her mother's maternal competencies are questioned?"

The threat landed with the precision of a skilled archer, ice flooding Agatha's veins as its implications registered. That Evanora would threaten Rio directly was unsurprising; that she would extend that threat to Rio's innocent family—a struggling single mother and a vulnerable child—revealed a cruelty Agatha had always suspected but never fully confronted.

Light sparked at the edges of her vision. Her world crystallised into unexpected clarity, colours intensifying as her body prepared for fight rather than flight. Her heartbeat pounded against her eardrums, yet somehow steadied her rather than undermining her resolve.

"Are you threatening Rio?" she asked, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. All trace of vulnerability had vanished, replaced by something harder, colder—ironically, something she'd inherited from Evanora herself. "Her family?"

The image of little Mateo—Rio's autistic brother who loved stars and baseball—rose in her mind, alongside Carmen, who worked two jobs to support her children. The thought of them suffering because of Evanora's vindictiveness created a clarity Agatha had never experienced before—a line in the sand, a boundary she would defend at any cost.

"I'm simply pointing out the realities of the world we live in," Evanora replied smoothly, though something in her eyes suggested she recognised she'd pushed too far. She took a half-step back, maintaining her authoritative stance while creating distance. "Actions have consequences. For everyone involved."

The deliberate ambiguity in her phrasing—neither confirming nor denying that she would act on her implied threats—was classic Evanora, providing plausible deniability while ensuring the message was received. In political settings, Agatha had always admired her mother's strategic communication; now, witnessing it turned against people she loved, the admiration curdled into something resembling contempt.

The threat against Rio and her family was a line crossed that could never be uncrossed. Without a word, she turned and walked towards her study, each step leaving a damp footprint on the hardwood floor like evidence at a crime scene.

Her study had always been her sanctuary, the one space even Evanora rarely invaded. It was here that Agatha kept her most precious possessions—books her mother would disapprove of, photographs of moments her mother hadn't witnessed, mementoes of experiences that belonged solely to her. And it was here that she kept the manila envelope her Uncle Mark had given her on her nineteenth birthday.

She retrieved the envelope from its hiding place in the locked bottom drawer of her desk, the heavy-grade paper cool and textured beneath her fingers.

She hadn't opened it—hadn't needed to after Uncle Mark explained its contents—but she'd kept it close, understanding instinctively that it might someday be necessary. The weight of it in her hands felt significant now as if the papers inside had gained mass through potential energy, like a weapon about to be discharged.

When she returned to the living room, Evanora was exactly where she'd left her, though her expression had shifted subtly—a new wariness in her eyes as she watched Agatha approach with the sealed envelope. The rain had intensified, wind driving water against the windows in diagonal sheets, nature providing dramatic accompaniment to their confrontation.

"Before he died," Agatha said, her voice steady despite the turmoil churning inside her, "Dad left this with Uncle Mark. For me. In case I ever needed protection."

She placed the envelope on the coffee table, directly atop the photographs Evanora had arranged so carefully. The symbolism wasn't lost on either of them—the glossy surveillance images buried beneath heavy manila paper, violations hidden under truth.

"You should know that there are copies. With people you don't know and can't reach." She met her mother's gaze directly, unflinching for perhaps the first time in her life. "If anything happens to Rio, to her family, to any of my friends—if scholarships are mysteriously revoked or maternal competencies are suddenly questioned—this information becomes public."

She didn't specify what "this information" entailed—didn't need to, given the sudden pallor that washed across Evanora's face. The specifics weren't important; what mattered was that Robert Harkness, ever the careful attorney, had anticipated that his daughter might someday need leverage against his ruthless wife.

Evanora stared at the envelope, its bland exterior belying its explosive potential. Anyone without context might have missed her reaction, but Agatha had spent a lifetime studying her mother's expressions. She recognised the envelope or at least understood its implications. For a moment, Agatha glimpsed genuine fear in her mother's eyes—not the calculated political concern she displayed for cameras, but raw, personal alarm.

After a long pause filled only with the sound of rain and their breathing, Evanora nodded curtly—a gesture of concession, however reluctant. Her composure returned with visible effort, the politician's mask sliding back into place like armour being donned. When she spoke, her voice had regained its professional detachment, though a new brittleness underlined each word.

"The financial arrangements established by your father will remain intact," she stated, checking her watch with practised discretion. The gesture was so familiar, so quintessentially Evanora—time always scheduled, always monitored, never simply experienced.

"Beyond these legal obligations, you should expect no further support—financial, social, or otherwise—from me or any institutions under my influence."

The clinical nature of the declaration—this formal severance of their relationship—hit Agatha with unexpected force. Despite everything that had transpired, despite the threats and accusations, some part of her had hoped for... what? Reconciliation? Understanding? Some acknowledgement of her as a person rather than an extension of Evanora's ambitions?

The realisation that no such recognition would be forthcoming created a hollow ache beneath her ribs, a physical manifestation of loss that took her by surprise. After all the preparation, all the anticipation of this moment, she hadn't expected to feel grief alongside the relief.

"Is this really necessary?" Agatha asked, her voice sounding distant and strange to her own ears. Her wet clothes had begun to dry in patches, creating an uncomfortable dampness that matched her internal state—neither fully immersed nor fully free of the past. "This... formal severance. As if we're dissolving a corporation rather than a family."

"Clarity is kindness, Agatha," Evanora replied, the political aphorism emerging with practised ease. It was one of her favourite phrases, trotted out in interviews when explaining controversial decisions. "Ambiguity in separation leads only to prolonged pain."

The words were rehearsed, a stock response that revealed nothing of the woman beneath the Senator. Agatha wondered if her mother ever spoke without calculating the impact of each syllable, if she ever experienced a moment of genuine spontaneity, of unfiltered emotion. The thought brought a fresh wave of sadness—not just for herself, but for Evanora, trapped in a self-constructed prison of performance.

Her mother closed her portfolio, returning it to her handbag with methodical precision. Her movements were slower now, heavier as if the conversation had drained something vital from her. Her gaze swept the apartment in a final assessment, taking inventory of the space where her daughter had built a life separate from her influence.

"In the eyes of God," Evanora said, her voice dropping to a lower register, "and the Harkness family, Agatha Elizabeth Harkness died today. I will grieve her as such." Each word was measured and final, a door closing with deliberate force.

The words were melodramatic, almost theatrical in their finality, and yet they carried a genuine weight—a severing more absolute than legal documents could have accomplished. Evanora was not merely cutting ties; she was performing a kind of death rite, erasing Agatha from her personal narrative.

Agatha absorbed the blow without flinching, years of practice allowing her to maintain her composure despite the wound. The child within her wept at the rejection, but the woman she had become—the person who had found her voice and her courage—stood firm, her feet planted on the hardwood floor of an apartment she owned, paid for by the father who had loved her unconditionally.

"I'll pray for you, Mother," she said quietly, the words emerging from some deep well of compassion she hadn't realised she still possessed.

"I'll pray that someday you realise what you've thrown away. The milestones you'll miss—my graduation, my engagement, my wedding, your grandchildren. I'll pray that it was worth it."

She meant it—every word—and the truth of it resonated in her voice, unburdened by manipulation or strategy. For perhaps the first time in their relationship, Agatha spoke without calculation, without monitoring her mother's reaction, without adjusting her phrasing for maximum impact. Just truth, offered without expectation.

For a heartbeat, Agatha glimpsed something vulnerable in her mother's expression—a flash of regret, of loss, of something that might have been pain. Her throat moved in a swallow that seemed to require effort, and her fingers tightened on the strap of her designer handbag until the knuckles whitened.

For a breathless moment, Agatha thought her mother might say something, might reach out, might show some hint of the person who existed beneath the politician's mask. She could almost see the internal struggle, the war between Evanora's carefully constructed persona and whatever genuine maternal instinct still resided within her.

But the moment passed. Evanora straightened, adjusting her pearl necklace with perfectly manicured fingers. The motion was deliberate, a physical manifestation of restraint, of composure regained, of vulnerability rejected. Her face settled back into the mask she presented to the world—implacable, untouchable, self-contained.

Without another word, she turned and walked to the door, her heels clicking against the hardwood floor with metronomic precision.

She didn't look back as she pulled the door open, didn't hesitate as she stepped through it, didn't falter as she closed it behind her with a soft, final click.

Agatha stood perfectly still, her body rigid with the effort of maintaining her composure. She counted her heartbeats, focusing on the rhythm to steady herself as the world seemed to waver around her.

The hollowness she'd expected crashed through her in waves, leaving her light-headed and strangely distant from her own body. This was what she had prepared for, what she had anticipated for years—the final break, the severing of the umbilical cord that had both nourished and strangled her. Freedom, purchased at the cost of family.

Her breathing grew ragged, her hands shaking violently now that there was no one to witness her weakness.

The tears wouldn't come, though she could feel the pressure building behind her eyes, the tightness in her throat that signalled their proximity. She was, after all, Evanora's daughter— trained since childhood to swallow pain, to transform it into something useful, something controlled.

Her fingers drifted to her hip, pressing against the fabric of her damp skirt to the spot where two stars were inked into her skin. The pressure sent a dull ache through the tattoo, a physical reminder that her body was her own—marked as she chose, displayed as she decided, loved as she deserved. A constellation of her own making, a map to a future she was free to chart.

A mother had severed a daughter. A future had been rewritten. A lifelong performance had reached its final act.

Chapter Text

Grief was a strange, slippery thing. It had been eight days since Evanora had severed their relationship, had walked out of her apartment and her life, and Agatha still couldn't properly categorise what she felt. That was perhaps the most unsettling part—she, who excelled at systems and classifications, found herself utterly incapable of organising her own emotions into anything resembling order. It wasn't simply sadness. It wasn't just anger. It wasn't merely relief, though that emotion snuck up on her at odd moments, bringing waves of guilt in its wake. It was all these things and more, a tangle of contradictory responses that seemed too large for her body to contain, as if her skin might split from the pressure.

Day Eight AD.

She'd begun marking time that way in her journal—After Disownment—a private play on the historical BC/AD divide. As if her life could be neatly bisected into before and after her mother informed her that "Agatha Elizabeth Harkness died today."

A new epoch, a changed world.

Despite the emotional maelstrom, or perhaps because of it, Agatha had thrown herself into

productivity with near-manic energy. She'd completed all her midterms by Day Three AD, revised her Honour Council constitution draft, increased her volunteer hours at the women's shelter, and reorganised her entire closet by colour, fabric, and season. Madison had watched this whirlwind of efficiency with growing concern but had said nothing—one of the many small mercies for which Agatha was silently grateful.

Now, on Day Eight, she stood in her bedroom surrounded by precisely folded clothes, breathing in the lingering scent of Rio from the t-shirt she'd borrowed and never returned.

Suddenly, her phone buzzed on the nightstand, Madison's name lighting up the screen.

Ready for Operation Phoenix?

A small smile tugged at her lips. Madison had been insistent about today's plans, organising something and everything while revealing only the barest details to Agatha herself.

As ready as I'll ever be, she typed back. Though I still think this might be ridiculous.

Madison's response was immediate and predictable:

You need this. We ALL need this. Pack your overnight bag and be ready in 30. Rio just texted that they're loading the van.

Agatha sighed, turning to the small duffel bag she'd half-heartedly begun packing the night before.

Madison's instructions had been cryptic but specific: comfortable clothes, a swimsuit, something "ceremonial" (whatever that meant), and overnight essentials for Friday and Saturday nights.

The "ceremonial" item had given her pause until Rio had called last night, her voice soft and raspy in the darkness of Agatha's bedroom.

"Bring something that represents what you're leaving behind," she'd suggested. "Something you can let go of."

Now, Agatha picked up the photograph she'd selected—her and Evanora at some political function three years ago, both smiling with rehearsed perfection at the camera, not a hair out of place, not a genuine emotion between them. She slipped it into the side pocket of her bag alongside a sealed envelope containing a letter she'd spent hours writing and rewriting last night. A soft knock on her bedroom door pulled her from her thoughts.

"Come in."

Madison poked her head in, her normally perfectly styled hair twisted into a messy bun, face bare of makeup. She was dressed in black jeans and a simple grey t-shirt—an unusually subdued outfit for someone whose wardrobe typically spanned the entire colour spectrum.

"You ready?" she asked, eyes scanning Agatha's face with the careful assessment of someone who knew exactly what to look for.

"The others are downstairs. Wanda borrowed Vision's mom's minivan, which is hilarious and terrifying. I've never seen someone so dangerous behind the wheel of something so suburbanly wholesome."

"I still can't believe you convinced everyone to give up a whole weekend right before midterms," Agatha hummed, shouldering her bag. Her spine tensed involuntarily, a familiar response to stress that sent a dull ache between her shoulder blades.

"Some of us have already finished our exams, but Wanda was panicking about her music theory submission just three days ago."

"Some things are more important than exams," Madison answered, her typical flippancy replaced by something softer, more earnest.

"Even Wanda knows that. Besides, Lilia and I have been planning this since... well, since That Day. We wanted to give you a proper way to mark the transition."

"You've been planning this?" Agatha asked, momentarily blindsided by the revelation.

"Of course we have!" Madison laughed, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

"Lilia did research on grief rituals from different cultures, and we all contributed ideas. Even Wanda, though her initial suggestion involved burning Evanora in effigy, which seemed a bit grotesque." Despite herself, Agatha felt a startled laugh escape her lips. The sound was rusty, unfamiliar, as if her body had temporarily forgotten how joy worked.

As they made their way downstairs, the reality of what they were doing—this strange, improvised ritual —began to settle into Agatha's bones. A farewell ceremony. A beach funeral for the person she once was, the life she'd left behind. Part of her wanted to dismiss it as absurd, overly dramatic, an unnecessary theatricality. But another part—a part that seemed to be growing stronger each day— recognised the power of ritual, of marking transitions, of making the invisible visible.

Outside, Vision's mother's minivan idled at the curb, a vehicle so sensibly beige it was almost comical. Wanda sat in the driver's seat, sunglasses perched on her nose despite the overcast day, looking like she'd hijacked a PTA mom's car for a joyride. Alice was riding shotgun, clutching the dashboard with white-knuckled intensity that suggested Wanda's driving skills hadn't improved since Madison's last assessment.

The side door slid open to reveal Rio, dressed in black jeans and a faded band t-shirt, her hair dishevelled in that perfectly deliberate way that always made Agatha's heart skip. Behind her, Lilia, Jen, Vision, and Alec were crammed into the back rows, surrounded by duffel bags, coolers, and what appeared to be several bags of wood for a bonfire.

"Princess," Rio's face broke into that gap-toothed smile that Agatha had grown to love. "Your chariot awaits."

"I'm not sure 'chariot' is the word I'd use," Agatha replied, eyeing the minivan dubiously. "More like

'potential death trap' if Wanda's driving."

"I heard that!" Wanda called from the front seat. "And I'll have you know I've only gotten three speeding tickets this year, which is basically a personal best."

"That's not as reassuring as you think it is," Madison muttered, sliding into the middle row beside Rio, leaving the space next to the guitarist open for Agatha.

For a brief, irrational moment, Agatha considered turning around, walking back into her apartment, and locking the door. The weight of what they were doing, acknowledging the permanent rupture in her family, the irrevocable change in her life, suddenly felt too heavy to bear. Her pulse quickened, breath coming in shorter bursts as the familiar tendrils of anxiety wrapped around her lungs.

But then Rio's hand extended toward her, strong and steady, calluses rough against her palm as their fingers interlaced.

"It's okay to be scared, you know," Rio said quietly, just for her. "But you don't have to face it alone. Not anymore."

Agatha simply nodded, unable to form words around the sudden thickness in her throat. She climbed into the van, settling against Rio's side, their hands still linked between them like an unbroken circuit.

"Alright, funeral road trip is a go!" Wanda yelled, shifting into drive with alarming enthusiasm. "Two hours to Westview Beach with just one bathroom stop, so if anyone needs to pee, speak now or hold it like an adult."

"Technically," Vision began from the back, where he sat surrounded by textbooks and notes, "this isn't a funeral, since no one has actually died. It's more of a symbolic transition ritual marking the..."

"Babe," Wanda interrupted, catching his eye in the rearview mirror. "I love you, but if you start lecturing about the anthropological significance of transition rituals before I've had my second coffee, I will drive this van into the ocean."

"Point taken," Vision conceded with a good-natured smile.

"For what it's worth," he added, turning to Agatha, "While I need to study for Monday's polyphony exam, I wouldn't miss this for anything. The intersection of Renaissance music and modern harmonic structures can wait... a few hours."

"Way to make the rest of us look like slackers," Alec commented, glancing up from his laptop where he appeared to be editing video footage. "Though I should also be finishing my film analysis right now. The patriarchal subtexts in Hitchcock aren't going to deconstruct themselves."

As they pulled away from the curb, Agatha caught a final glimpse of her apartment building in the side mirror—the place that had been both her sanctuary and her first real assertion of independence from her mother. It seemed fitting, somehow, that this journey started there, at the physical manifestation of her father's legacy and protection.

The two-hour drive up the coast was a study in beautiful chaos. Wanda drove like someone who viewed speed limits as mere suggestions, weaving through traffic with a combination of skill and recklessness that had Alice alternating between panicked gasps and resigned sighs. The soundtrack to their journey was an eclectic mix controlled by Rio, who seemed determined to educate Agatha on every punk band she'd missed growing up.

"This is Bikini Kill," Rio explained as "Rebel Girl" played through the speakers. Her fingers tapped against Agatha's thigh in perfect rhythm, each touch sending tiny electrical currents through Agatha's body, heat blooming just beneath her skin. "Pioneers of the Riot Grrrl movement. Raw, feminist, revolutionary."

"I know this one," Agatha said, surprised at her own recognition. "I may have done some research after you mentioned them." She caught Rio's surprised expression and shrugged. "What? I was curious."

"A woman of hidden depths," Rio teased, her eyes crinkling at the corners in that way that made Agatha's heart flutter.

"I liked it," Agatha hummed, leaning more firmly against Rio's shoulder. "It feels honest."

"That's why punk endures," Rio nodded, her eyes brightening with passion. "It's not just noise—it's truth wrapped in three chords and a middle finger to authority."

From the row behind them, Lilia laughed. "And here comes Professor Vidal's Punk Rock 101 lecture.

Just wait until she gets to The Raincoats or X-Ray Spex—then she'll really get going."

"I'm taking mental notes," Agatha said, enjoying the flush that spread across Rio's cheeks. "I find her enthusiasm endearing."

"You find everything about her endearing," Jen called from the back row. "Even when she does that thing where she talks in her sleep about guitar tunings."

"I do not talk about guitar tunings in my sleep!" Rio protested, though the way she averted her eyes suggested otherwise.

"You absolutely do," Alice confirmed from the front seat. "Last band retreat, you woke me up at 3 AM muttering about how 'drop D is superior for emotional expression but standard tuning provides better tonal clarity.'"

The van erupted in laughter as Rio buried her face in her hands, shoulders shaking with a mixture of embarrassment and amusement. Agatha leaned in, pressing a kiss to the patch of skin exposed just behind Rio's ear.

"They're right. I always find you endearing," she whispered, enjoying the way Rio's breath caught at the closeness.

"Especially when you're passionate about something."

Between the music, the friendly banter, and the freedom of the open road, Agatha felt something inside her begin to loosen—a knot of tension that had been wound so tight for so long she'd forgotten it wasn't a natural part of herself. Around these people, she didn't need to measure her words or monitor her expressions. She could laugh too loudly, express opinions without calculating their political impact, exist without constant self-surveillance.

About an hour into the journey, Wanda pulled into a gas station, announcing a fifteen-minute break for "bladders and provisions." As everyone piled out of the van, stretching limbs and heading toward the convenience store, Rio caught Agatha's hand, guiding her around the side of the building where a small patch of grass offered momentary privacy.

"How are you doing?" she asked, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind Agatha's ear.

"Really, I mean. Not the version you're presenting for everyone else."

Agatha considered deflecting, giving the polished answer she'd perfected over the past week. But this was Rio—the person who had seen through her careful façades from that very first day.

"I don't know," she moaned, the words feeling like stones in her mouth.

"I keep waiting to feel something definitive—complete devastation or total liberation. But it's all mixed up. Some moments I feel like I can't breathe from the loss, and others I feel guilty for not feeling worse." She paused, swallowing against the tightness in her throat.

"What kind of person feels relief when their mother disowns them?"

Rio's hands came up to frame her face, thumbs brushing gently across her cheekbones. The calluses on her fingers created a delicious friction against Agatha's skin, grounding her in the physical present. "The kind who's been carrying an impossible weight her entire life," she said softly. "The kind who's been trying to earn love that should have been freely given. The kind who deserves so much better than what she got."

"I keep thinking about the look on her face when she left," Agatha whispered, the memory surfacing despite her efforts to suppress it. The words were accompanied by a sharp pain just beneath her ribs, as if her body was physically recoiling from the recollection. "For just a second, I thought she might... but then it was gone, and she was back to being Senator Harkness instead of my mother."

"That's on her, not you," Rio said fiercely. "You gave her a chance to see you, and she chose not to take it. That's her loss."

Agatha leaned forward, resting her forehead against Rio's shoulder, breathing in her familiar scent. The solid warmth of Rio's body against hers acted as a tether, keeping her from floating away on waves of grief.

"I'm glad you're here," she murmured. "I don't think I could do this without you."

"You could," Rio corrected, arms wrapping securely around her girlfriend's waist. "You're stronger than you know. But you don't have to do it alone. That's what today is about: showing you that you're not alone. That you have family, even if it's not the one you were born into."

Family.

The word resonated in Agatha's chest, both painful and hopeful. When they pulled apart, Rio brushed a quick kiss across her lips before leading her back to the van, hands linked between them like a promise.

As everyone settled back into their seats, snacks were distributed with the solemnity of communion wafers—Doritos for Wanda, dark chocolate for Vision, Red Vines for Lilia, and so on. Madison passed Agatha a package of the peanut butter cups she'd loved since childhood but rarely allowed herself to enjoy. The thoughtfulness of the gesture—the fact that Madison remembered this small detail from their shared past—brought a lump to Agatha's throat.

The second hour of the drive was quieter, a comfortable silence settling over the group as the van wound along coastal roads. The landscape transformed from suburban sprawl to rocky seaside vistas, the Atlantic spread out beside them like a slate-blue promise. Agatha watched the ocean through the window, mesmerised by its vastness, the way it seemed both immutable and in constant flux—an apt metaphor for what she was experiencing.

By the time they reached Westview, clouds had gathered on the horizon, but patches of sunlight still broke through, casting dappled patterns across the water. Wanda navigated the narrow streets with surprising care before pulling into the driveway of what could only be described as a coastal mansion.

"Holy shit," Alice breathed as they all piled out of the van, staring up at the sprawling, shingled structure perched at the edge of a private beach.

"Madison, when you said you'd found a place, I was expecting a couple of motel rooms, not the summer home of a Kennedy."

Madison shrugged, retrieving her bag from the back. "It was available last-minute, and I figured we might as well be comfortable for both nights," she explained.

"The off-season rates for Friday and Saturday weren't as insane as you might think."

"Still," Jen whistled, taking in the wraparound porch and floor-to-ceiling windows facing the ocean.

"This is next level."

"I helped," Agatha admitted quietly, feeling a familiar flush of discomfort about her financial situation. Her shoulders tensed as everyone turned to look at her.

"It seemed like the least I could do, since everyone was giving up their weekend for... well, for me."

Rio's arm slipped around her waist, a gentle squeeze communicating understanding.

"It's amazing," she rasped. "And you deserve this, all of it. Let's not start the day with apologies for having resources and choosing to share them."

Inside, the house was a testament to understated luxury—wide plank floors, exposed beam ceilings, and an open concept living area that flowed onto a deck overlooking a private stretch of beach. Floorto-ceiling windows brought the ocean inside, making it feel as if they were suspended between sky and sea.

"Alright, here's the plan," Madison announced once everyone had chosen rooms and deposited their bags. She stood in the centre of the living room, commanding attention with the ease of someone accustomed to being heard.

"We have about two hours until sunset. That gives us time to set up on the beach, gather firewood, and start the bonfire before dark. The ceremony will begin at sunset, followed by a proper wake involving obscene amounts of alcohol and embarrassing stories."

"I brought marshmallows for s'mores," Jen added, holding up a bag. "Because no beach bonfire is complete without someone inevitably setting a marshmallow on fire and nearly burning their eyebrows off."

"You swore we'd never speak of that day!" Wanda groaned. "And my eyebrows grew back eventually."

As everyone dispersed to change clothes and gather supplies, Agatha found herself drawn to the deck, stepping outside to feel the salt-laden air against her skin. The wind was picking up, bringing with it the distant scent of an approaching storm—not close enough to threaten their plans, but near enough to feel the edge of anticipation in the atmosphere.

She sensed rather than heard Lilia join her, the vocalist's presence a gentle intrusion that somehow didn't break the moment.

"It's beautiful here," Lilia observed, leaning against the railing beside her. "Liminal spaces are powerful for transitions. Not quite land, not quite sea—the perfect place to become something new."

Agatha glanced at her, surprised by the depth of the observation. Of all Rio's friends, Lilia was the one she knew least. The maternally nurturing vocalist had always been kind but somewhat reserved, as if carefully assessing Agatha from a distance.

"That's a poetic way of looking at it," Agatha responded. "Though I'm not sure exactly what I'm transitioning into."

"Does anyone ever know?" Lilia smiled, her dark eyes reflecting the gathering clouds.

"That's what makes it an adventure rather than a script." She paused, turning to face Agatha more directly. "Madison and I did a lot of research for today's ceremony. We wanted it to be meaningful, not just theatrical."

"Thank you for doing that," Agatha said, genuinely moved. "I wouldn't have known where to begin."

"The ritual incorporates elements from different traditions," Lilia explained, her voice taking on a gentle, instructive quality.

"The fire from cremation ceremonies, water from sea burials, the gathering of loved ones from wakes and shivas. Each element represents a different aspect of transformation." Lilia hesitated, then reached into her pocket and pulled out a small deck of cards wrapped in silk.

"I also brought these. My grandmother taught me to read tarot when I was twelve. She always said cards don't tell the future—they illuminate the present, help us see the patterns we're too close to recognise."

"I didn't know you read tarot," Agatha said, intrigued.

Lilia smiled, a secretive curl of her lips.

"There's a lot about me most people don't know. I've always had a sense about things... energies, patterns, connections. When Rio first told us about you, the cards showed the Tower and Death—not as warnings, but as promises of necessary transformation."

"That sounds... ominous."

"Only if you fear change," Lilia corrected gently.

"The Tower breaks down false structures. Death clears away what no longer serves us. Both make room for new growth." She tucked the cards away. "

When I look at you now, I see someone at the threshold of rebirth. The pain is real, but so is the potential." Lilia hesitated, then continued with a more personal tone. "Although if I'm being honest... in the beginning I was super worried."

The admission caught Agatha off guard. "Worried? About what?"

"That you'd break her heart," Lilia said simply, without accusation. "The cards gave me some comfort, but still... I was scared. Rio feels everything so deeply, even when she pretends not to. And the situation...your mother, the class differences, all of it, seemed designed to cause pain." She gestured toward the horizon, where the sun was beginning its slow descent. "But watching you two together, I realised something important: the depth that makes her vulnerable to pain is the same depth that allows her to love so completely. And you see that in her, and you love her for it."

"I do," Agatha admitted softly. "From the first moment, even when I tried not to."

Lilia smiled, reaching out to squeeze Agatha's hand briefly.

"Pain is inevitable in life—what matters is who's beside you when it comes. And I know deep down you'll both be alright. " She straightened, nodding toward the beach where the others were beginning to gather driftwood.

"I should help with the setup. Take your time."

As Lilia walked away, Agatha remained on the deck, watching as her friends—and she could call them that now, truly call them that—worked together below. Wanda and Vision argued good-naturedly over the best location for the bonfire. Alec and Jen dragged pieces of driftwood across the sand. Alice chased Madison with what appeared to be a piece of seaweed, their laughter carrying up to the deck on the wind.

And Rio—Rio stood at the water's edge, facing the ocean, her profile outlined against the darkening sky. Even from a distance, there was a solidity to her, an uncompromising authenticity that had drawn Agatha from the start. As if sensing her gaze, Rio turned, looking up toward the deck. Their eyes met across the distance, and Rio lifted her hand in a simple wave, a question in the gesture.

Agatha nodded, pushing away from the railing. It was time to join them, to step fully into this new life she was building from the ashes of the old.

By the time Agatha changed into more beach-appropriate attire and made her way down to the shore, an impressive driftwood structure had been assembled. Wanda was arranging smaller pieces at the base with the focused intensity she brought to everything, while Vision followed behind with a fire extinguisher, looking equal parts supportive and concerned.

"The tide's coming in," Madison noted, joining Agatha at the edge of their impromptu ceremonial space. "But we should have a good three hours before we need to worry about wet feet."

Agatha nodded, surveying the setup. Someone—likely Lilia—had created a rough circle of larger pieces of driftwood around the bonfire site, creating a natural gathering space. Jen was unloading supplies from a cooler—bottles of wine, plastic cups, a few candles in glass holders that would protect them from the wind.

"This is really happening," Agatha murmured, more to herself than to Madison.

"It really is," her friend confirmed. "But only if you want it to. We can still turn this into a regular beach party if it feels like too much."

Agatha considered the offer, genuinely considered it. But as she watched her friends preparing this ritual just for her, felt the weight of the photograph and letter in her pocket, she knew she needed this closure, however unconventional.

"No," she said firmly. "I want to do this. I need to."

Madison squeezed her shoulder, eyes shining with a mixture of pride and unshed tears.

"Then let's do it right."

As the sun began its final descent toward the horizon, painting the sky in dramatic strokes of orange and pink, they gathered in a loose circle around the unlit bonfire. The wind had died down to a gentle breeze, just enough to carry the salt scent of the ocean around them without threatening their candles or fire.

Lilia stepped forward, her theatrical background evident in the way she commanded attention. She wore a simple black dress, her dark hair loose around her shoulders, catching the last rays of sunlight like a halo.

"Dearly beloved," she began, her rich voice carrying across the beach, "we gather here to say our goodbyes. Here she lies, no one knew her worth, the late great daughter of Mother Earth. On this night when we celebrate the birth..."

"Lilia, are you seriously quoting 'Rent' right now?" Wanda interrupted, a mixture of horror and delight on her face.

"It felt appropriate," Lilia defended, breaking character with a small smile. "Death and rebirth, chosen family... plus, it's the only funeral speech I know by heart."

"It's perfect," Agatha interjected, finding herself oddly moved by the theatrical reference. "Please continue."

Lilia nodded, composing herself before continuing in a more natural tone. "We're here today to mark an ending and a beginning. To say goodbye to a version of Agatha that no longer exists...the daughter defined by her mother's expectations, the young woman living a life prescribed rather than chosen. And to welcome the Agatha who stands before us now—authentic, brave, and finally free to determine her own path."

Rio moved to Agatha's side, their hands finding each other instinctively. The guitarist's palm was warm against hers, a physical anchor in the emotional tide.

"In traditional funeral services," Lilia continued, "we often say that the deceased has 'returned to the elements'—ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Tonight, we'll use those elements—fire, water, earth, and air— to transform what was into what will be."

At some signal Agatha didn't catch, Alec stepped forward with a lighter, setting flame to the carefully constructed bonfire. The fire caught quickly, spreading along the paths of kindling previously arranged. The flames danced in sinuous patterns, copper and gold and crimson, sending tendrils of light reaching upward into the gathering dusk. Within moments, the blaze had grown, casting all their faces in a warm, golden glow and sending sparks spiralling upward into the darkening sky.

The heat pulsed against Agatha's skin, immediate and intense, making her instinctively step back even as she was drawn to its fierce beauty. There was something primal in the way the flames consumed the driftwood, transforming solid matter into light and heat and smoke.

"Fire transforms," Lilia said, her voice soft yet clear above the crackling flames. "It consumes what was, leaving only the essential behind. Tonight, we offer to the fire those things we wish to release— patterns that no longer serve us, expectations that constrain rather than support, identities outgrown."

She turned to Agatha, extending an open palm. "What do you wish to release to the flames?" Agatha's hand trembled slightly as she withdrew the photograph and letter from her pocket. Her muscles felt both tense and liquid, a strange contradiction that made her movements less precise than usual. The picture seemed smaller somehow, less significant than it had this morning—just glossy paper bearing the image of two people playing roles they'd assigned themselves.

"This is who I was," she said, holding the photograph up so everyone could see. Her voice was steadier than she'd expected, carrying clearly across their circle.

"The perfect daughter of Senator Evanora Harkness. Always appropriate, always restrained, always performing. Never fully seen, never fully known."

She turned the photo toward the fire, feeling the heat on her face.

"I release the person who believed that love had to be earned through perfection. Who thought that worth was measured in achievements and appearances."

She paused, looking down at the sealed letter in her other hand.

"This is what I would say to my mother if she could hear me—if she would hear me. All the things I never had the courage to speak, the truths I swallowed to keep the peace." Her voice caught then, emotion finally breaking through.

"I release the hope that she will change, that she will one day see me, and still choose to love me."

Without further words, she let the photograph slip from her fingers into the flames. It curled immediately, blackening around the edges, the image of her and Evanora consumed by fire. As the photograph caught fire, heat pulsed against Agatha's face, making her eyes water—or perhaps those were tears finally breaking free. Her chest loosened, as if bands that had been constricting her lungs for years were finally falling away.

The letter followed, its sealed contents never to be read by human eyes, its purpose served simply in the writing and releasing. She watched as the envelope browned, then burst into flame, sending a column of sparks skyward. A sudden, involuntary sob escaped her throat, the sound torn from some deep place she hadn't known existed.

For a moment, no one spoke. The only sounds were the crackling fire, the rhythmic wash of waves against the shore, and Agatha's slightly ragged breathing as she watched the physical symbols of her past life turn to ash. Then Rio's arm slipped around her waist, drawing her close against her side, offering silent support.

"The ocean," Lilia continued after allowing the moment its due weight, "represents emotion, intuition, the depths of our unconscious. It washes away, cleanses, and returns us to our most essential selves." She gestured toward the water's edge, where the incoming tide was beginning to erase the day's footprints from the sand. "The ash and smoke from our fire will be carried on the wind, over the water, returning to the cycle of creation and destruction that governs all life."

Madison stepped forward then, a small wooden box in her hands.

"We all brought something," she explained, looking around the circle at each of their friends. "Something to contribute to this transition."

One by one, they approached the fire, adding their offerings with words of support.

"From me," Madison began, opening the box to reveal a collection of old campaign buttons and event wristbands from Senator Harkness's political functions, "I release the times I watched you shrink yourself to fit into spaces that were never designed to hold all of you. And I celebrate the woman who now takes up exactly the space she deserves."

The campaign buttons melted and warped in the heat, plastic twisting into unrecognisable shapes. Agatha felt her throat constrict as she watched these tangible pieces of her past dissolve, yet with each offering consumed by the flames, her breathing came a little easier, her shoulders relaxing incrementally.

Wanda came next, surprisingly solemn as she approached the fire. "Madison gave me a copy of Professor Oswald's essay on 'Traditional Family Structures,'" she explained, holding up several stapled pages. "The one you demolished in your midterm response. I figured burning academic bullshit might be cathartic." She flashed a wicked grin. "Besides, if we can't use our powers for good, what's the point of having them?"

Alice contributed a handwritten note. Vision offered a small book of poetry "to replace the texts you were forbidden to read openly." Jen added a beautifully calligraphed quotation about authenticity framed in driftwood she'd collected that afternoon.

Alec's offering was a small, handmade bracelet of woven threads.

"I started making these when I first came out to my parents," he explained, his voice gentle. "They symbolise new beginnings. The colours represent different aspects of identity—the blue for truth, the purple for courage, the green for growth."

Rio was the last to approach the fire, her expression unreadable in the flickering light. From her pocket, she withdrew a small, worn guitar pick, the edges smoothed by years of use.

"This was the pick I was using the day we met," she explained, turning it over in her callused fingers.

"It's my lucky pick —the one I used for every important performance, including the night I played 'Perfect Nightmare' for you at Voltage. I've carried it with me since that first day, as a reminder of how one small moment can change everything." She met Agatha's gaze across the flames, her eyes reflecting the fire.

"I'm not giving it to the fire—I'd like you to have it instead. Because some pieces of our past aren't meant to be released, but rather transformed into something new."

She crossed the circle to where Agatha stood, pressing the pick into her palm and closing her fingers around it. The small piece of plastic was warm from Rio's pocket, its edges smooth against Agatha's skin. The simple gesture, more than any of the planned ritual, broke something open inside Agatha's chest. Tears she'd been holding back for days finally spilt over, tracking hot paths down her cheeks as she clutched the pick like a talisman.

"Thank you," she managed, the words inadequate for the depth of feeling behind them.

"All of you. I don't know what I did to deserve friends like you, but I'm grateful beyond words."

"You exist," Lilia answered simply. "That's enough."

The ceremony concluded with Lilia asking everyone to join hands around the fire. As they stood there, the last light faded from the sky, leaving only the stars above and the fire between them. The tide continued its inevitable advance, waves breaking a little closer with each passing minute, a reminder of the constant change that defined their lives.

"To Agatha," Madison raised her voice in a toast once the formal part of the ceremony had concluded.

"May her past rest in peace, and her future be nothing but possibilities."

"To Agatha!" the group echoed, plastic cups of wine raised to the star-scattered sky.

The solemnity of the moment gradually gave way to a more celebratory atmosphere as Madison produced a speaker from somewhere and music began to play. Jen distributed marshmallows for roasting, Vision opened more wine, and conversations fragmented into smaller groups scattered around the beach.

Agatha found herself standing at the edge of the water, watching the fire's reflection dance across the dark surface. The grief was still there, a hollow space beneath her ribs that might never fully heal. But alongside it now was something else—a tentative hope, a sense of possibility that hadn't existed before tonight. Her body felt lighter, as if she'd set down a physical burden she'd been carrying for years. Even her breathing came easier, deeper, filling her lungs completely for perhaps the first time since childhood.

Rio joined her, silhouetted against the bonfire behind them. Without words, she opened her arms, and Agatha stepped into her embrace, resting her head against Rio's chest, listening to the steady rhythm of her heartbeat. The guitarist's body was warm and solid against her own, smelling of wood smoke and salt air and that unmistakable scent that was uniquely Rio.

"How do you feel?" Rio asked, her voice gently vibrating against Agatha's ear.

"Like I'm standing on the edge of a cliff," Agatha answered honestly.

The words had barely left her lips when something cracked inside her chest—a final protective wall giving way. The tears came suddenly, violently, her body wracked with sobs that seemed torn from the very core of her being. Years of suppressed grief, rage, disappointment, and longing poured out of her in a torrent so powerful she would have collapsed if not for Rio's arms holding her upright.

"That's it," Rio muttered, one hand cradling the back of Agatha's head while the other held her steady at the waist. "Let it out. I've got you. I've got you."

Agatha clung to Rio like a drowning woman to a lifeline, her fingers digging into the fabric of Rio's shirt as her body heaved with the force of her weeping. She cried for the little girl who had never been enough, for the teenager who had shaped herself into a perfect doll to please an unpleasable mother, for the young woman who had buried her true self so deeply she'd almost forgotten it existed.

"I miss her," Agatha choked out between sobs, her voice raw and broken. "Even after everything, I miss her. What's wrong with me?"

"Nothing's wrong with you," Rio rasped, her own voice thick with emotion.

"She's your mom. You're allowed to miss what could have been, what should have been. You're allowed to grieve."

The words hit like permission, allowing Agatha to surrender completely to the storm of emotion. She wept until her throat was raw, until her eyes burned, until her body trembled with exhaustion. And through it all, Rio held her steady and unwavering, a solid presence in the shifting sands of Agatha's grief.

Gradually, the violence of her sobs subsided, leaving her drained but strangely peaceful. She became aware of the waves lapping at their feet, the distant sounds of laughter from around the bonfire, the gentle rhythm of Rio's breathing against her cheek.

"I got your shirt all wet," she murmured, voice hoarse from crying.

Rio laughed softly, the sound rumbling through her chest. "I've survived worse. Remember the day I brought you coffee?"

"How could I forget? You looked like you'd swum the Atlantic." Agatha lifted her head, taking in Rio's face in the moonlight. Her eyes were suspiciously bright, suggesting she hadn't been unmoved by Agatha's breakdown.

"Thank you. For holding me. For loving me."

"Always," Rio promised, brushing away the tears that still clung to Agatha's lashes."For as long as you want me."

"That might be a very long time," Agatha warned, her voice steadier now.

"I'm counting on it." Rio pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, her lips warm against Agatha's cool skin.

"Ready to rejoin civilisation, or do you need a few more minutes?"

Agatha glanced toward the bonfire, where their friends were engaged in what appeared to be an increasingly competitive marshmallow roasting contest, judging by Wanda's animated gestures and Vision's careful documentation of the proceedings.

"A few more minutes," she decided, turning back to the ocean. "I want to remember this moment."

They stood together at the edge of the water, Rio's arm wrapped securely around Agatha's waist, watching as the waves erased their footprints in the sand. Behind them, the fire crackled and music played, voices raised in laughter and conversation. Ahead, the vast Atlantic stretched into darkness, reflecting stars and moonlight on its restless surface.

"You know what I find strangely comforting?" Agatha said after a while, her voice almost lost in the sound of the waves. "The ocean was here long before us and will be here long after. No matter what happens in our tiny lives, some things remain constant."

"Constantly changing," Rio corrected gently. "The ocean never looks the same twice. That's what makes it perfect—it's always becoming something new while remaining essentially itself."

Agatha smiled, recognising the unintentional parallel. "Like someone else I know."

When they finally rejoined the group, Agatha felt different—hollowed out in a way that made space for new growth, raw but healing. The evening evolved into a proper celebration, with music and dancing, stories and laughter. Madison recounted embarrassing tales from their childhood. Wanda indeed set a marshmallow spectacularly on fire, and Vision provided impromptu astronomical observations as the stars emerged in full force above them.

As midnight approached, they began to drift back toward the house in pairs and small groups, tired but content. The weekend stretched before them—another full day tomorrow to solidify what had begun tonight, to cement these new connections, to build memories that belonged solely to Agatha rather than to the daughter of Senator Harkness.

"Coming?" Rio asked, holding out her hand as the fire died down to embers.

"In a minute," Agatha replied, her gaze drawn back to the ocean one last time. "I just want to say goodbye."

Rio nodded, understanding without needing explanation. "I'll wait for you inside."

Alone at the water's edge, Agatha took a deep breath of salt-laden air. The horizon was invisible now, the boundary between sea and sky lost in darkness, creating the illusion of infinite space stretching before her.

"Goodbye, Mother, I love you", she whispered, the words immediately caught and carried away by the wind. "And I hope someday you understand what you gave up."

She touched the guitar pick in her pocket, a tactile reminder of new beginnings, then turned away from the water. Ahead, the beach house blazed with light, silhouettes of her friends visible through the windows. Her chosen family, waiting for her to join them.

Tomorrow would bring its own challenges—practical matters to address, emotions to navigate, a new life to construct piece by piece. But for tonight, she had done what she came to do. She had grieved, she had released, and in doing so, had created space for whatever came next.

Agatha Harkness walked up the beach toward the light, each step taking her further from who she had been and closer to who she was becoming.