Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

 

You didn’t expect much from your doctoral journey.

Not glory. Not prestige. Certainly not rest.

What you anticipated were the usual ghosts — long nights hunched over brittle pages, ink-stained fingers twitching from too much caffeine and not enough clarity. You expected footnotes that bled into oblivion, your spine aching from chairs too hard and ideas too heavy.
You braced yourself for loneliness — the kind that lingers in academic hallways long after the lights go out, when even the walls seem to whisper in forgotten tongues.

What you didn’t prepare for was how easily grief would follow you in.

How it would settle beside you in the library, breathe against your neck in archives, lace itself between the lines of your dissertation. No one warns you at orientation that scholarship and sorrow are twin sisters — that they walk hand in hand through every lecture, every paper, every late-night revelation you mistake for progress.

You didn’t expect your advisor to vanish either.

Three weeks in — no warning, no explanation, not even a professional courtesy email. Just gone. As if they’d walked into the stacks and simply… dissolved.

You asked around, once. Politely. Once was enough. Eyes dropped. Conversations rerouted. One of the senior professors said something about a sudden sabbatical, but their voice cracked on sabbatical like it wasn’t quite the word they meant. You caught a TA whispering that he’d been sent away, but the phrase felt too deliberate to be casual.

And still, you waited.

Until the message came — just a line of sterile type in your inbox, timestamped 3:11 a.m., the kind of hour that never delivers good news:

 

Subject: ADVISOR UPDATE

Your research profile has been reassigned. Please report to Professor Harkness this Thursday at 6:00 p.m. (Office 4C, Antiquities Wing). Attendance is not optional.

No greeting. No signature. No attached explanation. Just her name.

Harkness.

The one who reads old tongues like lullabies and walks the campus at hours when the shadows grow too long.

And with it, something cold pressed itself beneath your skin — not fear, exactly, but something quieter. More dangerous. The kind of dread that doesn’t shout, but waits.

You stared at the email for longer than you’ll admit, rereading it like you might unlock a softer meaning the third time through. You didn’t.

You closed your laptop. Sat in the stillness of your apartment for a full hour. Outside, the city moved on — cars passing, wind shifting the curtains, the streetlight flickering in its usual faulty rhythm. But you sat frozen, aware only of the weight behind that name. Of the silence it summoned.

You told yourself you’d heard the rumours.

But the truth is, everyone had — and no one ever told them the same way twice.

And she doesn’t take students.

You sat there in the half-light of your kitchen, your tea cooling you.

Why you?

You weren’t political. You weren’t legacy. You didn’t play the long academic game with the rest of them, smiling at the right faces, asking the right questions at conferences just loud enough to be heard. You sat at the edge of things, always watching. Always digging.

Still, you knew your work was… difficult. Not to write — writing came easily. It poured out of you like breath, like blood. No — difficult to touch.

You’d built your thesis like a locked room, every chapter carefully warded, every argument too sharp for casual handling. Professors left it alone not because they didn’t understand it, but because they didn’t want to. It made them uncomfortable.

And maybe that’s why, when your advisor vanished and the reassignment email came through without explanation, a part of you — a quiet, bitter part you’d never admit aloud — thought:

 

“Of course they gave me to her.” You exhaled.

 

Because your thesis wasn’t gentle.

 

*

 

The day you were supposed to meet her, the world had the strange, alert stillness of a day before a storm.

Leaves curled at the edges, crisp and uneasy. The sky above the university hung low and grey, all color leached from it like a faded memory. The clocktower struck three — slow, resonant chimes echoing through the courtyard — as you stepped across the flagstones toward the North Tower.

No one else was around.

That should’ve been your first warning.

The building itself looked older than the rest of campus — as though it had been moved here from somewhere far more haunted. Ivy crawled thick along its stone skin. Gargoyles watched from high corners with expressions that felt… personal.

You climbed the narrow spiral staircase to the fourth floor, your boots echoing too loudly in the silence. The corridor at the top was cold, despite the season, lit only by wall sconces that flickered with lazy golden flame.

Her door was at the end. Her office.

You hesitated.

The wood was dark, almost black, with an iron handle that looked like it would bite if you touched it wrong. Her name was etched in a brass plate: Professor A. Harkness.

You raised your hand to knock. The door opened before you could. And there she was.

 

*

 

You didn’t expect her to look like that.

Not when she turned toward you, silhouetted against the grey-blue light of the rain-slicked window behind her. Not when her eyes landed on you like a blade sliding into place. She wasn’t old, like the rumors suggested. Nor was she particularly young. She was the kind of beautiful that made age irrelevant — composed of angles and shadows and something ancient humming just beneath the surface of her skin.

Her coat was still on, black and tailored, high-collared and dusted with a fine shimmer like smoke. Her hair was twisted into an elegant knot at the nape of her neck, loose strands curling down like spells half-finished. Her hands, ringed and bare of gloves, rested on the back of the chair before her, fingertips drumming softly — a rhythm without a melody.

Her voice, when it came, was velvet against your throat.

“Miss Y/L/N,” she said. “Right on time.”

You swallowed. “Professor Harkness.”

The door clicked shut behind you without her moving. You didn’t remember stepping inside.

She gestured towards a velvet chair.

You sat, uncertain.

The room smelled of dried herbs, wax, old books. Rain on slate. Something sharp underneath it all — burnt rosemary, maybe. Or binding chalk.

She watched you like a cat might watch a bird that hadn’t realised the window was open.

“I’ve read your proposal,” she said at last, settling behind the desk like a queen slipping into her throne. “Interesting subject. Difficult. Possibly career-ending, depending on how recklessly you pursue it.”

You blinked. “That’s… fair.”

She hummed — not quite approval, not quite amusement. Her fingers trailed across the cover of your thesis file, resting there with eerie familiarity.

“You understand, of course, that words like ‘binding’ and ‘consent’ carry weight beyond the page?”

You met her gaze. “That’s why I chose them.”

Something flickered in her expression — not surprise. Not exactly. More like recognition.

“Good,” she said. “Then we won’t waste time.”

She leaned forward, just slightly, and suddenly the distance between you felt paper-thin. You could see the silver threads at her temples. The fine lines beside her mouth. The coiled stillness of her — like a spell wound tight, waiting for a trigger.

“Tell me,” she murmured, “why do people make vows they can’t escape from?”

Your breath caught.

And not just because it was the question at the heart of your work. But because her voice had dropped — intimate, intrusive, like she already knew your answer. You thought of all the texts you’d read. The names signed in blood. The whispered pleas buried beneath layers of formal phrasing. You thought of want. Of love that felt like ruin. Of fear, too deep to name. Of devotion that didn’t need to be returned to feel real.

“Because,” you said, your voice quieter than you meant, “they want to belong to something. Even if it hurts.” Her eyes didn’t leave yours.

“Very good.” She didn’t blink. Neither did you.

 

*

 

When she dismissed you, twenty-seven minutes later, it was with a small nod and the simple phrase:

“I expect progress weekly. No excuses.”

You nodded, hand tightening around your satchel strap. As you turned to go, her voice followed, soft and deliberate.

“And Miss Y/L/N?” You paused.

“Careful with your phrasing.”

You swallowed, pulse tripping.

“Words have teeth.”

And though she smiled — elegant, amused, all ice and shadow — you couldn’t help but feel that something had already been written between you.

Not in ink.

Not in blood.

But in silence.

Something binding.

Something beginning

Chapter Text

 

 

 

The night stretched long and hollow. You lay awake beneath the thin linen, the whispering dark pressing close as though it might unravel your thoughts and scatter them like dry leaves in a wind. The window’s thin glass was cold against your skin, and the faint rumble of distant rain pattered softly, a tentative lullaby that refused to soothe. Hours slipped between the creaks of the old house settling, the scratch of your pen against forgotten pages, and the restless beat of your heart.

Sleep was a stranger, elusive and sharp. Your mind tangled between memories and the weight of new expectations, the strange pull of something you dared not name. Agatha’s voice echoed in your thoughts — clipped, commanding, and yet somehow wrapped in a strange warmth that unsettled you more than comforted.

The days that followed drifted in a haze of quiet tension. Your mornings were a slow crawl through fogged streets, the university’s ancient stones slick with autumn mist. The air was thick with the scent of wet earth and dying leaves, and the hollow echo of footsteps—your own or others—seemed to follow you down every corridor.

You found yourself thinking of Agatha far more than you dared. Not just her words, but the way she filled a room, the slight arch of her brow when she questioned you, and the way her eyes lingered longer than necessary, dark and calculating, like a flame held too close. You scolded yourself—foolish, stupid to let your thoughts stray so freely when you should be immersed in translation, thesis, scholarship. Yet, the ache inside you was stubborn, a quiet longing that refused to be silenced.

When the first pale fingers of dawn touched the horizon, you finally rose — bones aching, mind still tangled. You dressed slowly, the chill of morning seeping through your thin blouse, and checked your inbox one last time.

There, waiting like a sharp breath, was her message:

Dear Y/N,

Be in my office at 10 o’clock sharp. We need to discuss your research.

Professor A Harkness

The note was brief, clipped — no invitation, no warmth, only command. Your heart hammered with a mixture of apprehension and something else you dared not name.

*

The morning of the meeting dawned grey and uncertain, rain softly spattering against the windowpanes as you pulled on your coat, heart fluttering with a mix of dread and anticipation. Each step toward Agatha’s office was measured and slow, your breath visible in the chilly air, thoughts a tangled skein of hope and caution.

The heavy door groaned open beneath your hand, and the familiar scent of old books and faint lavender wrapped around you like a whispered promise. Agatha was there, seated behind her desk with an unreadable expression. Her dark hair was loose about her shoulders, soft waves catching the pale light filtering through the curtains. Her eyes, sharp and unyielding, found yours immediately.

She was dressed in deep plum today. Silken, slightly unbuttoned, with the sleeves rolled to the crook of her forearms. She wasn’t wearing glasses this time, but a pair rested on the open book before her, as though recently discarded.

She didn’t stand. Didn’t greet you. Only watched.

You hesitated in the doorway.

“Are you going to hover all morning?” she asked, not unkindly.

Your legs obeyed before your brain did.

The silence stretched between you — not awkward, but charged. Her gaze skimmed over your frame, not lingering inappropriately, but also not shying away. She seemed to be taking stock. Measuring something you couldn’t quite name.

Then, as she leaned back slightly in her chair, her lips parted — just barely — and her teeth caught her lower lip in a way that made your stomach twist.

She bit her lower lip once, a subtle gesture that betrayed a flicker of something—curiosity? Amusement? You couldn’t tell.

“Sit,” she commanded, voice low and smooth but edged with steel.

You obeyed, sliding into the chair across from her. The distance between you felt charged, the room narrowing until it was just the two of you, caught in a quiet war of gazes and unsaid words.

She pushed a folded sheet of paper toward you, the edges crisp and clean. Your fingers trembled slightly as you unfolded it to reveal a text — precise, rigid, unyielding in its structure.

“I want you to translate this,” Agatha said, eyes never leaving yours. “It’s for a lecture I’m preparing. Next week, you will teach it.”

The weight of the responsibility settled on your shoulders like a mantle—heavy, thrilling, terrifying.

Her gaze softened briefly, a flicker of something almost tender, before hardening again. “Perfection, precision, command. That is what I expect from you.”

You swallowed hard, heart pounding in your throat. Agatha’s eyes roamed over your face, sharp and assessing, as if measuring how much of yourself you were willing to give.

You hesitated. Teaching a lecture for Professor Harkness was no small responsibility. It was both a compliment and a test. You weren’t sure which you preferred.

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “You may decline, but I don’t recommend it.”

There was an unspoken weight beneath her words. You felt it deep in your chest, the slow burn of something dangerous.

“I’ll do it,” you said, voice steadier than you felt.

Agatha’s gaze lingered, the faintest curve tugging at the corner of her lips.

“Smart girl,” she said softly. “Now, I suggest you get started on that translation. I want to see your progress by the end of the week.”

You nodded, the parchment heavy in your hand as you rose to leave.

As you reached the door, Agatha’s voice stopped you.

“Don’t keep me waiting, little scholar.”

You glanced back, catching her watching you with an intensity that sent an unbidden shiver down your spine.

*

The next days were spent in the library.

Mornings bled into afternoons, afternoons into the kind of dusky twilight that made the stained-glass windows burn with colour. You hardly noticed the passing of time — only the quiet ache in your shoulders, the faint smudge of ink on your fingers, and the rhythmic scratching of your pen against paper as you translated word after stubborn word.

You camped out at a corner table beneath a vaulted archway, away from the bustle of the main reading hall. The air there was still, suspended — as if it, too, were holding its breath. You liked it. Or maybe you didn’t. Maybe it was just the only place where you could still feel her eyes.

The parchment Agatha had given you lay open in front of you each day, carefully weighted with smooth stones to keep the edges flat. The ancient Occitan script was a forest of curves and lines, its grammar archaic and elusive, but its intent sharp. The further you read, the more you realised it wasn’t simply a ritual text — it was a record of survival. Not spells, but instructions passed down through the voices of midwives, heretics, daughters. Hidden knowledge, pressed between prayers. You were certain Agatha already knew that.

And you couldn’t help but wonder why she had chosen it for you.

Some lines felt too pointed, too intimate. A passage about sacrifice. Another about devotion masked as duty. You caught yourself rereading the same stanza over and over again, your mind wandering not through syntax, but into darker territory — the curve of Agatha’s mouth when she was amused, the way her voice folded around the word perfection like silk around a blade.

It unnerved you, how easily she occupied your thoughts. And more than that, it infuriated you.

You were smarter than this. You knew better.

You weren’t some naïve undergraduate nursing a doomed crush on a sharp-tongued professor. You were a scholar, and this was supposed to be about language. Text. Scholarship.

So why did you find yourself, on more than one occasion, brushing your thumb across the edge of the parchment and imagining her hands had done the same?

You tried to shut it down. Tried to let the structure of the language — rigid, ancient, rational — override the heat curling in your belly every time you thought of her voice saying little scholar like a secret.

*

Your fingers paused above a line you’d nearly deciphered, your thoughts halfway between a metaphor about milk and blood, when you heard it — a voice too close.

“Still at it, then?”
The tone was light. Familiar. Too familiar.

You blinked up.

A figure leaned against the carved bookcase near your table — tall, backlit by golden afternoon light, with the casual confidence of someone who knew they were being watched. Julian, another doctoral candidate in the department. His thesis had something to do with the socio-political implications of 17th-century witch trials — and he always said it like you were in one.

You gave him a polite nod. “Still at it.”

Julian grinned, stepping closer. “You’ve barely moved from this table all week. I’ve started to worry you’ve fallen under some kind of bibliomantic curse.”

You laughed, a small thing, polite. “Maybe I have.”

He took the chair beside yours without asking.

You stiffened slightly, eyes flicking back to the manuscript as if it might shield you.

“I heard you’ve been working on something special,” he said, lowering his voice just enough to feign intimacy. “Something from Harkness herself.”

You didn’t respond immediately. The instinct to protect whatever thread existed between you and Agatha — tenuous, unspoken, dangerous — flared like a reflex.

Julian didn’t seem to notice your silence. “She doesn’t give out material like that often. Must trust you.”

You offered a tight smile, eyes scanning the same sentence for the fifth time.

He leaned in a little further, forearm brushing against yours. “Listen, I’m giving a talk next Thursday. Thought you might want to come. Might be nice to see someone in the audience who isn’t asleep.”

You opened your mouth to politely decline — to say you were busy, to say anything — but then you felt it.

The prickle at the back of your neck.

You didn’t need to turn around. You knew.

Across the mezzanine, in the shadow of the upper gallery, Agatha stood between the shelves — half-shrouded in gloom, her coat still on as though she’d just arrived.

But her eyes were fixed on you.

Unmoving.

Unblinking.

The air changed. Heavier. Sharper.

Julian didn’t notice. He continued talking — about lecture halls and critical theory and some poorly veiled compliment about your “intensity” — but you didn’t hear him.

You smiled despite yourself, the tension easing just a little. For a moment, it was just two students—two scholars—sharing a quiet corner of the ancient library.

But then, beneath the archways and carved wood, you felt the shift.

Agatha’s gaze had not wavered. She watched every movement, every glance exchanged, every falter in your composure. Her lips pressed together, just so, as if she were biting back a warning—or perhaps a claim.

Julian continued, oblivious or uncaring of the silent storm brewing behind you.

“I can come by after the seminar tomorrow. We’ll crack this puzzle together. No distractions, no interruptions.”

You wanted to say yes. You wanted to believe in the simplicity of collaboration.

But Agatha’s eyes—dark, unyielding—held you captive.

Her presence was a shadow pressing closer, a silent demand you could not ignore.

Julian’s fingers brushed yours once more—an unspoken invitation.

You withdrew, heart pounding.

Agatha didn’t approach. She didn’t interrupt.

She watched.

That was worse.

Her expression was unreadable — but her jaw was set, and her mouth was drawn tight in a way that made your breath catch.

As though this — Julian’s proximity, his lean, his smile — was an offence.

As though you were hers.

And for a moment, you wanted to be.

Your phone buzzed suddenly, the screen lighting up with a message that made your breath catch:

Meet me in my office. Now.

No sender name, just her unmistakable sharpness.

You swallowed, heart already quickening. “I—I have to go. Now.”

He frowned but nodded, clearly not wanting to press. “Right. I’ll catch you later, then.”

You hurried from the quiet sanctuary of the library, footsteps echoing softly as you moved through the ancient corridors toward Agatha’s office. The air felt suddenly thicker, charged with something you couldn’t name — anticipation? Unease? Desire?

Reaching the heavy wooden door, you hesitated a moment, catching sight of Agatha through the narrow glass pane.

She was standing perfectly still, the light outlining her dark hair in a halo that seemed almost otherworldly. Her lips pressed together, biting down hard on her lower lip — a flicker of impatience or something deeper, something more possessive.

When she caught your eye, there was a sharpness in her gaze, an unspoken claim that made your breath hitch.

You stepped inside.

Agatha didn’t move to greet you but let the door close behind you with a soft click.

Her eyes followed you with a weight that was almost tangible.

Without a word, she simply said, “Sit.”

You eased into the chair, still caught in the whirl of hurried footsteps and hurried thoughts that had brought you here. Agatha’s gaze didn’t waver, pinning you with an intensity that made your pulse quicken.

“I don’t suffer fools, little scholar,” she murmured, voice low and intimate, “and I don’t take kindly to having my time wasted. Especially not when it’s mine I’m giving you.”

You opened your mouth to ask, but the words faltered, swallowed by the weight of her gaze.

Agatha’s eyes narrowed, the shadows in the room deepening with the weight of her words. “I have high expectations for you. This isn’t some leisurely pastime — it’s your work, your future. I expect you to be working, not dawdling.”

You blinked, a flush creeping to your cheeks. “But I have been working, Professor. I’m nearly done with the translation. I’ve barely had time for anything else.”

A slow, almost predatory smile curved her lips. “Oh? Is entertaining Mr Delacroix part of your research now? Because from what I see, that’s not quite what I’d call dedication.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Fumbled. “He— he offered help. That’s all.”

“Did he.” Her gaze flicked down to your lips — just for a moment. “How generous of him.”

Agatha let out a sharp breath through her nose — not quite a laugh, not quite a scoff. Her eyes, however, told another story entirely. They flared with something unmistakable: not anger, but something far more dangerous. A storm not yet spoken aloud.

She stood abruptly, the wooden legs of her chair creaking against the stone floor. Her heels clipped sharply as she took a step toward you, arms folded tight across her chest. The very air around her seemed to bristle.

“Oh, I’m sure he was trying,” she said, tone brittle, voice curling around the words like silk wrapped around steel. “Trying to sit close enough to touch your hand when you pointed at the parchment? Trying to look down your collar while pretending to care about your footnotes?”

Your breath caught.

She was still moving — slow, deliberate, like a shadow sliding closer. “Don’t play naïve with me. I saw him. I saw the way he looked at you — like he thought you were available.”

The final word dropped like a stone between you. Agatha’s voice lowered further, almost a growl.

“You think he wanted to help?” She tilted her head, eyes gleaming. “That excuse of a human doesn’t even know what the bloody text is about. But you—”

She stopped just short of you now, her presence overwhelming. You could smell her perfume — something dark and heady, like incense in an ancient cathedral. Her gaze raked over you, and you felt it like a touch.

“You’re mine to instruct,” she murmured. “Mine to teach, to shape, to guide. Not his. Not anyone else’s.”

Your heart thudded in your chest like a warning bell, but you couldn’t look away. The words stung and soothed all at once. You didn’t know what to say — or whether you even wanted to say anything at all.

Agatha seemed to sense your hesitation, the confusion in your expression. She leaned in, voice barely above a whisper now.

“If I ever see him hovering over you like that again,” she said, lips brushing the air near your ear, “I’ll make sure he understands how deeply inappropriate that is.”

You stared at her, stunned. “You can’t be serious—”

“Oh, I’m rarely anything but serious,” she said, straightening again. Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Especially when it comes to what’s mine.”

“I—” you tried again, but it was hopeless.

Agatha studied you, gaze flicking to your parted lips, the way your hands gripped the edge of your chair.

Then, just like that, she turned away.

The shift in energy was abrupt, almost cruel. She moved to her desk, rifling through papers as if the moment hadn’t happened. As if she hadn’t just undone you without lifting a finger.

She spoke without looking at you. “Finish the translation. Bring it to me tomorrow.”

Her voice was clipped, her accent crisp. Back to the version of her the department knew — efficient, brilliant, unreachable. The door between you slammed shut again.

You rose on uncertain legs, the back of your neck hot. You wanted to demand something — clarification, apology, anything. But all you could manage was a quiet, “Yes, Professor.”

As you reached for the door, her voice stopped you.

“Oh, and one more thing,” she said.

You turned.

Agatha finally looked up, something unreadable in her expression. Her mouth curved, just slightly.

“Don’t disappoint me, little scholar.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

You stepped out into the corridor, the door clicking shut behind you like the end of a sentence. But your body still hummed with tension, and Agatha’s voice echoed in your skull like a spell.

Mine.

The word followed you all the way back to the library, and settled somewhere deep in your chest.

*

The sun had long since dipped behind the spires of the old campus, but its afterglow still haunted the streets — a bruised violet bleeding into amber, like the ghost of a fire refusing to die. The day had slipped through your fingers in a quiet sort of frenzy. You’d spent hours hunched over the manuscript, eyes skimming dense lines of Occitan script that blurred the longer you stared.

It was nearly done — not perfect, but close. The translation scrawled across your notebook in hurried margins, ink pooling like little moons where your pen had paused in hesitation. The words were older than you’d expected, layered with hidden meaning, softened by time, and still sharp enough to cut. You should have felt accomplished. Instead, you felt… stuck.

As if something still didn’t sit right beneath your ribs.

Agatha had given you no further instruction. Just the text, the deadline, and her gaze — cool and lingering, like she already knew what you’d uncover. Like she was waiting for something. From you.

That thought had haunted you all day. The pressure of her expectations, the strange intimacy of being singled out, her clipped words, her narrowed eyes when she’d seen you speaking with Julian. The possessiveness — unspoken, but unmistakable.

And beneath it all, the worst part: your own ridiculous, unwelcome feelings. The way her voice echoed in your mind far too often. The way her praise, sparse as it was, felt like a spotlight you hadn’t asked for. You hated that. Hated how much space she took up in your head.

You exhaled sharply and tied your apron at the waist, pushing it all down — translation, tension, and her — as you stepped into the warm bustle of the restaurant.

*

Candles flickered low on each table. Soft music curled around the clatter of cutlery and clinking glasses. This place was a kind of escape, if you let it be. You moved through it all with easy familiarity, taking orders, refilling water, offering wine suggestions in your softest, most serviceable voice.

You’d nearly settled into the rhythm when the hostess caught your eye, nodding discreetly toward the back of the room.

Corner table. Shadowed alcove. Two women seated across from each other, their silhouettes half-lit in gold.

Your breath caught — not sharply, not dramatically — just enough to falter your next step.

Agatha.

Hair swept up, a deep navy coat draped over her shoulders like armour. Her lips moved slowly as she spoke, eyes fixed on the woman opposite her — tall, striking, severe. You didn’t recognise her outright, but she looked familiar in the way certain professors did: all composed elegance and deliberate silence. She reminded you of something elemental — the ocean, maybe. Or a storm about to break.

Professor Rio Vidal. You’d only seen her twice — once at an academic mixer, once passing through the Department of History. Her reputation preceded her — arcane history, post-war reconstruction theories, brilliant and a little bit cruel.

You stared for a beat too long.

Agatha didn’t look at you. Not yet.

But then — a pause in her conversation. Her head tilted, her gaze drifting lazily toward the front of the restaurant.

And found you.

There was no surprise on her face. No flicker of recognition. Only a slow, unreadable blink — and then something sharper, quieter, settled behind her eyes.

You turned away, pulse quickening, throat suddenly dry.

She’s not here for you, you reminded yourself.

She’s not thinking about you.

And yet.

*

You spent the rest of your shift avoiding the back corner, hovering instead near the bar, near the kitchen, anywhere her presence felt less immediate. You caught snatches of her voice — low, deliberate — though never loud enough to parse. The woman with her rarely spoke. Whatever their exchange was, it didn’t sound casual.

More than once, your eyes betrayed you — flickering toward her table, only to find her already watching.

Not openly. Not obviously. But with the quiet focus of someone who noticed everything.

You dropped a tray of glasses when Julian called your name.

“Hey—sorry!” he said, ducking to help you gather the scattered stems. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

You muttered something about nerves and bent down beside him, cheeks burning.

“You okay?” he asked, brushing a shard of glass into the dustpan. “You looked a little… somewhere else.”

You glanced toward Agatha’s table. She was still there, unmoving.

“Just tired,” you said.

Julian smiled softly, standing. “You’ve been working nonstop lately. On that translation, right? Need help?”

The question was kind. Innocent, even. But it grated.

“No,” you said, too fast. Then softer, “No. It’s almost done. Just… complicated.”

Julian didn’t take the hint. “Well, if you change your mind — I don’t know much Occitan, but I know enough Latin to spot false friends. You’d be surprised how often that trips people up.”

You nodded absently, barely hearing him.

When you dared another glance toward the back — Agatha was still watching.

Expression unreadable. Posture relaxed, almost bored. But her eyes were fixed on Julian.

You looked away quickly, heart hammering.

*

Julian lingered longer than he should have.

You stood with the dustpan still in hand, your fingers stiff around the handle, knuckles tight. He was speaking again — something about a mutual seminar, a professor who’d gone entirely off-script in their last lecture, his voice warm, eager, almost sweet in its attempt to draw you into familiarity.

And part of you wanted to let him. To lean into the simplicity of his presence, the uncomplicated kindness of someone who didn’t look at you like you were a problem to be solved, or worse — an answer they were too afraid to name.

But then you felt it again — the weight of a gaze threading itself through the air like static.

You turned, subtly.

Agatha was still seated, half-turned in her chair now, the line of her body elegant and predatory in equal measure. Her elbow rested lazily on the table, chin perched on her knuckles. That smirk remained — curled at the corner of her lips, knowing and sharp, a blade disguised as amusement.

As if she’d heard every word Julian had said. As if she already knew you were about to disappoint him.

You took a shallow breath and offered Julian a thin smile. “I should get back. The kitchen’s running behind and I’m on double shifts.”

He looked like he wanted to protest — his brows lifted, mouth parted — but you were already stepping back, already moving.

You didn’t see it, but Agatha’s smirk deepened. Just barely.

The rest of the shift blurred.

You moved from table to table on autopilot, offering polite smiles and carefully recited specials, all while your thoughts tangled into themselves like thread drawn too tight. You weren’t proud of how it felt — the sharp satisfaction in Agatha’s expression, the way your dismissal of Julian seemed to register with her more than any translated page ever had.

By the time the dining room quieted and the final candles guttered in their holders, your head ached. The air inside was thick with warmth and perfume, and you needed to breathe something that wasn’t expectation.

You slipped out the back door with your apron still on, hands shoving deep into your coat pockets. The alley behind the restaurant was empty, save for a single rusted bin and the hum of distant traffic. A cold wind pushed down the narrow corridor between buildings, threading through your hair, tugging at the edges of your clothes like fingers made of fog.

You tipped your head back, staring at the bruised clouds above. The night sky was bloated and heavy with London’s glow — stars swallowed whole by light pollution and your own exhaustion.

You hated that you were still thinking about her.

Even here. Even now.

That smirk. That look. The tension that had coiled itself around your spine the moment you’d stepped into her orbit.

You’d done everything right — hadn’t you? The translation was nearly done. You were on time, respectful, careful with your tone and your boundaries. You weren’t flirting. You weren’t even interested—

Liar.

You closed your eyes, your head pressing lightly to the cool brick wall behind you.

*

You didn’t hear her footsteps.

Only the feeling—thick and sudden, like the air had changed its shape.

You turned, and she was already there.

Agatha.

Leaning against the alley’s mouth, arms crossed, wrapped in a silhouette of cool indifference. Her presence was the kind that filled a space without trying — effortlessly powerful, like stormclouds gathering before rain. Her gaze met yours, sharp and unsparing, the kind of look that made your lungs tighten.

She said nothing at first. Just watched you.

Not like a professor watching a student.

Not like anything safe.

Your breath hitched before you could stop it. “Professor Harkness.”

Her name came out quieter than you meant. Reverent. Accusatory. Both.

Agatha’s head tilted slightly, the shadows catching the fine angles of her jaw.

“You’re far from campus,” she said at last. Her voice was a study in composure. But her eyes—her eyes were anything but.

“I work evenings,” you replied, your voice steadier than you felt. “Part-time.”

“So I see,” she murmured, gaze drifting briefly down your apron before returning to your face. “Interesting choice, for someone supposedly buried in translation.”

“I’m still working on it,” you said, a touch too quickly. “It’s nearly finished.”

There was a twitch at the corner of her mouth. Not quite a smile. Not quite disapproval either.

A pause stretched between you — thick, loaded, impossible.

You opened your mouth to speak again, to fill it, but Agatha’s eyes flicked over your shoulder, toward the front windows of the restaurant. Her expression shifted, just slightly. You followed her gaze.

Inside, through the low gleam of candlelight and glass, you spotted her.

Rio Vidal.

Seated at one of the corner tables, posture loose, fingers wrapped around a wine glass. She looked elegant, casually so, as if expensive things had always made room for her. Her expression was unreadable, but her attention was clearly focused on the seat across from her.

Agatha’s seat.

You felt your stomach dip.

“You’ve got… company,” you said, before you could stop yourself.

Agatha’s eyes didn’t leave yours. “So I do.”

“Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You didn’t,” she said — too fast, too flat. She was studying you now, carefully. Like she was trying to read between the lines of your expression. “She’s an old colleague. Nothing more.”

You didn’t ask. You hadn’t meant to care.

But something in her tone felt… defensive. Barely. Like she’d anticipated your reaction before even you did.

Agatha’s gaze dropped to your mouth. For a second too long.

The air between you grew heavy — not warm, not safe, but sharp, like the moment before a thunderstorm. The kind of silence that begged to be broken by something reckless.

But then — footsteps.

Heels, brisk and confident.

A second figure emerged from the kitchen door, brushing past the bins with all the ease of someone used to stepping into forbidden places.

“Ah,” said Rio Vidal, her tone dry and amused. “There you are. I was beginning to think you’d ghosted me.”

You felt it instantly — the way Agatha shifted, just slightly, stepping back from you but not away. She rolled her shoulders, her expression unreadable now, cool and closed like a slammed book.

“I said I’d only be a moment,” Agatha replied, her voice clipped.

Rio looked between you both. Something in her glance lingered — a subtle curiosity, the kind that cut. “Didn’t realise you were mentoring students outside office hours now,” she said with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Agatha gave a small scoff. “This one’s stubborn. Hardly knows when to quit.”

The words shouldn’t have stung. But they did.

Your throat went dry, hands curling slightly at your sides.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” you said, stepping away. “Good night, Professor.”

Agatha didn’t respond right away. Just looked at you. Not like a professor. Not like anything polite.

Like something claimed.

Then Rio placed a hand lightly on Agatha’s elbow. “Shall we?”

Agatha hesitated — just long enough to wound — and then nodded, turning away with a sweep of her coat.

You watched them disappear down the alley, voices low, heels echoing on wet stone.

And all that was left was the press of the night and the echo of what might have been.

You breathed out slowly, stomach twisted, heart heavy.

She had no right. No claim.

And yet you burned.

Chapter Text

 

 

The morning was grey — not in colour, but in feeling. The kind of cold that slipped through wool and wove itself into your bones. Even the coffee burned bitter, unwelcoming, as you stood in front of the mirror, staring past your own reflection.

You’d slept, but only barely. Tossed under crumpled sheets with the memory of her eyes — that look — seared into the back of your eyelids. You weren’t even sure what it was. Concern? Disapproval? Something closer to possession?

And then Rio Vidal had appeared like smoke, all sharp eyes and silk. It had taken nothing at all for Agatha to fall into step beside her and disappear into the night, without a word more to you.

You’d stood outside the restaurant for a full minute after the door shut, your breath frosting in the air, fury and shame tangled in your throat.

It wasn’t jealousy. That would be ridiculous. You barely knew her.

But you were still thinking about it now, hours later, notebook in hand, thumb worrying the corner of the page as you paced the stone corridor toward her office.

You were meant to deliver the translation today — your work from the Occitan manuscript she’d given you, the one with the looping script and the broken margins, filled with half-legible accounts of heresy and exile. The kind of text that could shift careers if you handled it right.

Your boots echoed softly against the stone, the morning quiet swallowing your footsteps like a cathedral holding its breath. You paused outside her office door.

You pressed your hand to the cool doorframe before entering, clutching the manila folder tight against your chest. Inside, she sat at her desk, silhouette crisp—pin-straight posture, dark blouse buttoned to the neck, hair wound with purposeful precision.

Her head lifted as you came in. Pale eyes met yours, and something in her expression flickered—almost a smile, but sharper, more private. She waved toward the chair in a slow, refusalless motion.

“Pet,” she greeted you, voice low and even. The soft word landed in your chest like a promise—or a warning.

You swallowed. “Good morning.”

She didn’t hurry; the moment paused. “You look… composed.”

You shook off a flush. “The translation is complete.”

“You’re early,” she said, voice clipped. Polished. The vowels as sharp as her gaze.

You held up the folder, willing your fingers not to tremble.

“The translation. You said you wanted it by today.”

A beat.

Then she leaned back slowly in her chair, like she was measuring the distance between you.

“Of course. Leave it on the desk.”

You stepped forward, placed the folder carefully atop a stack of open books, and straightened.

She didn’t touch it.

Not yet.

Instead, her eyes stayed on you.

You shifted under the weight of them — that familiar pressure. As though she could read your thoughts inked across your forehead.

She flipped it open and lightly tapped the margin, fingers lingering over your annotations. “Efficient.” She looked up, gaze becoming an assertion. “And thorough.”

Something flickered behind her eyes—appraisal, hunger, interest. You couldn’t tell which. She paused. Then she added, voice silk laced with steel: “You behave exactly as I hoped you would.”

Your breath caught. You tried to meet her eye, but her glance pressed across your skin, tracking slow, deliberate.

“If you feel—” you started, noting the tiny hesitation that crept in, “—if there’s anything you’d like me to refine—”

“You’ve done more than enough,” she interrupted, soft but certain. “It’s precisely what I asked.”

The tension took shape between you—neither airy nor heavy, but alive. You wanted to breathe—but catching your breath felt like moving in a storm.

Her fingers brushed a margin where you’d scribbled an alternative translation. “You changed your mind here,” she said quietly.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“It felt truer,” you replied. “The older reading flattened the nuance. This one allowed the metaphor to breathe.”

She didn’t respond for a beat.

Then, softly, “Good girl.”

Your stomach dropped.

The words were simple—commonplace even. But in her voice, they unspooled something hot and breathless inside you. You hated how it made you feel. Or rather—you hated how much you liked it.

You looked away. “I’ll leave you to read it—”

“No,” she interrupted. “Stay.”

You blinked.

Agatha circled the desk, manuscript in hand. “You’re here, you’ve done the work. We’ll go through it now.”

You sat, trying not to shift too much. Trying not to notice the way her eyes lingered. Or the way her voice dropped when she leaned over your shoulder to point something out. Or the subtle press of her fingers against the desk beside you, steady, deliberate, always just close enough.

“Your linguistic choices here,” she said, “suggest a certain… intimacy with the source material.”

“It spoke to me,” you said.

Agatha looked at you. “Did it?”

You swallowed. “Yes.”

She was too close.

You were too aware.

There was something coiled behind her gaze—tension or amusement or something more dangerous. But before either of you could speak again, there was a knock at the door.

A pause. Then a secretary’s voice, muffled: “Professor Harkness, the seminar starts in fifteen minutes.”

Agatha straightened. “Tell them I’ll be there shortly.”

Footsteps retreated.

She turned back to you.

“You’ll be joining me,” she said.

Your brow creased. “I thought I was meant to join you next week?”

Agatha didn’t answer right away. Her gaze—sharp, ice-blue like glacial water just before it freezes—held you in place. There was that familiar flicker in her eyes, neither fully stern nor entirely amused, but something deliciously calculating, like she was weighing you against some invisible scale only she could see.

“This is a different seminar,” she said at last, her voice clipped but smooth as velvet. “Philology and the Arcane Tongue. I expect you to keep up.”

Your mouth parted in mild disbelief. “I haven’t prepared for that—”

A slow, deliberate smile curved her lips—half-mocking, half-inviting. She circled you like a prey, the subtle scent of lavender and incense drifting around her, sharp and intoxicating. The soft rustle of her coat followed, then the muted tap of her heels on the floor, each step measured and commanding.

She stepped closer, gaze steady, voice low. “You don’t need to prepare. You’re sharp. I wouldn’t have asked otherwise.”

Her fingers lightly grazed the edge of your manuscript, just a breath against the paper, but enough to send a shiver up your arm. Her eyes dropped for a moment, lashes casting delicate shadows over her pale skin, before snapping back up, locking onto yours with that piercing intensity.

The fine lines at the corners of her eyes softened her sharp gaze — wrinkles not of age but of a lifetime lived fully, etched like delicate lace that only made her more captivating, more real. It was a beauty not easily forgotten, like a memory that lingers.

The fine planes of her face—high cheekbones, perfectly arched brows, a mouth always poised on the verge of a knowing smirk—made her seem carved from something cold and exquisite. Yet, there was warmth in that look now, an almost teasing fire beneath the surface.

“And besides,” she said, voice dipping just enough to make your stomach twist, “I like you best when you’re focused.” She flicked her wrist with elegant disdain, the movement sharp and graceful. “Pet.”

The word landed heavy and hot, and your cheeks flamed before you could stop them.

Agatha’s smile deepened, almost wicked now, the kind that promised both challenge and something dangerously close to pleasure. She gave a slight shake of her head, as if amused by your reaction, then straightened her posture with the faintest tilt of her chin.

Agatha stepped back with an elegant flick of her coat, the kind that made it clear she was done — not because she had to be, but because she’d chosen to be.

“Come,” she said, already turning toward the door, her heels clicking softly, a steady rhythm that pulled you in. “We’ve work to do.”

And just like that, she was gone—the echo of her heels fading like punctuation to a lesson you hadn’t yet realised you were being taught.

*

The corridor stretched long and echoing before you, the high-arched ceilings framed in crumbling filigree, glass panes catching fractured light. Your boots scuffed faintly against the old stone floor as you followed the crisp cadence of Agatha’s heels — sharp, decisive, never hurried.

She didn’t glance back to see if you were behind her. She didn’t have to.

Each step she took carried the scent of lavender and incense, curling in her wake like something summoned. And you followed it, as if compelled.

As if bound.

Your mind raced with the translation notes folded under your arm, but none of it seemed to hold shape. The memory of her voice — I like you best when you’re focused, pet — looped like a spell, caught between your ribs. You couldn’t name the feeling. Not quite panic. Not desire. Something between: sharp-edged and impossible to admit.

She paused at the threshold of a wood-panelled door. The brass plaque read:

Seminar Room III – Restricted Access

Her hand rested against the worn handle, a flick of her wrist adjusting her sleeve — a gesture practised enough to look accidental, but you were watching her too closely not to notice the precision of it. Everything she did seemed deliberate. Beautifully so.

You wondered, stupidly, if she knew the effect she had on you.

Then she turned her head just enough for her profile to catch the light — the high cheekbone, the curve of her mouth, a single strand of hair brushed back with a gloved fingertip.

“I expect you to observe,” she said, not looking at you, her tone low and unreadable. “Take notes. I’ll ask for your input toward the end.”

You blinked. “Input?”

She opened the door and stepped inside, letting her answer hang in the air like perfume.

You followed, trying not to look like you were hesitating.

*

The room was smaller than you expected — warmer, with lamps casting soft gold over worn bookshelves and a circle of desks. A handful of students were already seated, their faces drawn with the weight of whatever reading list they’d been subjected to.

Agatha took her place at the head of the room, sliding her coat from her shoulders with a single fluid motion, revealing dark navy tailoring beneath — sharp lines and a silk scarf knotted at her throat.

She looked — unreachable.

You hovered, unsure, until she glanced your way and murmured, “Sit there.”

She gestured to the seat nearest hers — not across, not down the side, but close enough that your knees would nearly touch if you turned slightly.

You took your seat, your pulse thudding dully beneath your skin. The papers in your hands felt heavier now. You weren’t sure if you wanted to vanish or be seen.

The room filled — not bustling, exactly, but dense with quiet tension. Eighteen students had filed in, coats damp from morning mist, shoulders hunched against the marble chill of the corridor outside. Most looked as though they’d come prepared for a bloodletting.

In a way, they had.

Agatha Harkness didn’t do casual. Nor did she tolerate underperformance. The students knew this. You’d seen it in their eyes as they settled around the old mahogany table, pens poised, spines straight. No one was foolish enough to speak without invitation.

When the final student settled, she stood with a grace so fluid it startled you, the soft click of her heels slicing the quiet.

“This is Philology and the Arcane Tongue,” she began, her voice low and clear. “We will not be wasting time.”

A shiver passed through the room. She let it hang for a beat before continuing, tilting her head slightly toward you.

She allowed herself a satisfied flick of her wrist — then gestured to you.

“This,” she said, tone formal but unmistakably proud, “is Miss Y/L/N. A doctoral candidate of considerable promise, currently specialising in magical oaths and binding language. She’ll be co-teaching this seminar.”

Several students glanced between the two of you. One of the boys — a tall, pale thing with too much gel in his hair — let his gaze dip too slowly over your body.

Agatha didn’t even look at him directly.

“If any of you forget where to keep your eyes,” she said, tone razor-smooth, “you’ll find yourselves reassigned. Permanently.”

Gulps. Silence.

“Miss Y/L/N’s background in arcane linguistic studies is exceptional. During her master’s, she produced significant work on the nuances of spellcasting dialects, particularly how foreign linguistic structures influence magical efficacy.”

A faint surprise flickered in your chest at her detailed knowledge of your past research. You managed a small nod.

Agatha’s voice softened but remained authoritative. “We expect rigorous engagement and discipline. Magic is not merely spoken; it is shaped by the tongue, the rhythm, and the subtle inflections of language itself.”

*

Agatha resumed her place at the front, the seminar flowing under her command. Her voice, rich and measured, wove through the room as she elaborated on the interplay between language and magic — how arcane utterances were far more than mere words, but living conduits of power. She gestured gracefully with a flick of her wrist, moving like a shadow cast by candlelight.

“As you see,” she said, her gaze sweeping the room, “the precision of language here is paramount. Even the slightest mispronunciation can shift the entire matrix of a spell.”

“Let us consider this transcript from the 14th century Drakonic codex,” she said, lifting a worn parchment carefully. “Notice the inflection in the final binding phrase — it’s subtle, but crucial. The sibilant ‘sh’ sound here softens the curse, almost redirecting the spell’s energy. Miss Y/L/N, what might this imply about the caster’s intent?”

You glanced briefly at the text projected behind her, then met her steady gaze.

“It suggests a deliberate tempering,” you began, voice clear and steady. “The caster wasn’t aiming to cause harm but to bind with precision, perhaps to limit collateral damage. The ‘sh’ sound acts almost like a linguistic brake, controlling the spell’s force.”

Agatha nodded once, sharp and approving.

“Excellent. Now, take us deeper.” Her voice lowered just slightly, the challenge clear. “Explain how this contrasts with the Sylvan dialect’s approach, particularly in their use of the trilled ‘r’—a phonetic element that often clashes with Drakonic’s harsher consonants.”

You stood, feeling the weight of the room’s eyes on you as you moved forward. The soft click of her heels echoed faintly as she settled into her seat with deliberate grace. Resting her chin lightly on the knuckles of her hand, she leaned forward slightly, her piercing blue eyes locking on you. Her lips parted just enough for the tip of her tongue to flick out and moisten them—a small, knowing smile curving the corner of her mouth. The delicate wrinkles framing her eyes deepened.

The scent of lavender and incense wafted subtly, grounding yet intoxicating.

Her gaze held you fast as you began to speak.

“The Sylvan dialect’s trilled ‘r’ introduces a rhythmic vibration that can enhance a spell’s stability but can also cause interference if misaligned with Drakonic’s sharper tones. When combined incorrectly, it may lead to a destabilisation of the magical matrix, sometimes causing the spell to backfire.”

Agatha’s eyes glinted with challenge.

“Very good,” she murmured, voice low but audible. “But tell me—what would happen if a novice caster confused the intonation of these dialects during an attempted binding?”

You hesitated for barely a moment before answering confidently.

“A novice would likely cause a misfire. The spell’s energy could become erratic, leading to unintended consequences—perhaps even breaking the binding entirely or causing harm to the caster.”

Agatha’s smile deepened, clearly pleased. She reclined slightly, fingers steepled elegantly, watching you with an intensity that made your pulse quicken.

As you spoke, Agatha slowly removed her glasses, her fingers gliding over the frame before she tucked them carefully beside her notes. She rested her chin lightly on her knuckles, tongue just visible between her lips, eyes fixed intently on you.

Near the end, she fixed you with a particularly sharp look, voice lowering just a fraction. “Miss Y/L/N, consider the dialectical shifts in the northern incantations. How might these variations affect the resonance frequency required for successful spellcasting?”

You paused for a heartbeat, gathering your thoughts, then spoke with measured confidence. “The shifts alter the phonemic emphasis, which in turn requires a corresponding adjustment in the caster’s vocal modulation. Without this, the spell’s vibrational energy becomes unstable, leading to rapid decay or unintended side effects.”

The room was silent, the students hanging on your every word. Agatha’s lips parted slightly, eyes wide in genuine astonishment. She leaned back, fingers to her mouth, nearly speechless — an expression so rare it sent a thrill straight through you.

After a moment, she recovered her composure, voice calm but with a new, quiet respect. “Exceptional. Truly. You’ve not only mastered the theory but intuitively grasped the subtle art that many only ever glimpse.”

Her gaze lingered, an unreadable flicker in her brilliant blue eyes. “Well done, Miss Y/L/N.”

*

As the session drew to a close, Agatha’s usual poised command softened just enough to let a flicker of warmth slip through.

“Miss Y/L/N,” she said quietly, voice low but clear only ti you, “you’ve exceeded my expectations. It’s a rare pleasure to witness such dedication and intellect. I look forward to seeing how far you will go.”

The students stirred and slowly left , the spell broken, but your eyes remained locked on hers.

You felt the pull of her gaze, electric and insistent. “Thank you, Professor. I… I didn’t expect—”

Her fingers brushed lightly against your forearm, a touch so delicate it could have been accidental, yet it lingered—warm and deliberate. “Expectations are a curious thing, aren’t they? Sometimes they reveal what we really desire, rather than what we say aloud.”

You swallowed, still feeling the ghost of her touch. “I didn’t expect… that you wanted me to co-teach the others as well?”

Agatha tilted her head slightly, studying you in that maddening, quiet way that always made it feel as if she already knew what you were going to say. “Why limit yourself, pet?” Her voice curled around the word like silk. “The more you expose yourself, the better you’ll become. And I do like watching you rise to the challenge.”

She turned, her scent trailing in her wake as her heels clicked softly across the stone floor.

Just before she reached the door, she glanced back over her shoulder. “See you tomorrow.”

You blinked. “Tomorrow?”

But Agatha was already gone—disappearing down the corridor with her coat flaring behind her like a shadow come to life, leaving you suspended in the doorway with your pulse skittering and a dozen questions echoing in her wake.

Chapter Text

Chapter A Trace of Tongue

Your thumb hovered over your phone screen as you typed, biting your lip.

Dear Professor Harkness,

I hope this email finds you well.

I wanted to confirm when you would like me to join you again.

Kind regards,

Y/N Y/L/N

You hesitated a moment before pressing send.

Above, the sky was a dull slate, diffusing soft light over the Gothic spires and ivy-wrapped walls. Somewhere in the hedgerows, a magpie called—a bright, sharp note breaking the stillness.

Two doctoral students, wrapped in scarves and conversation, passed by. You caught fragments—words of admiration, whispered with a careful reverence.

“Did you hear about the seminar yesterday?”
“She co-taught with Harkness. I wonder how long she will last. They never do.”

You kept your gaze forward.

Their words struck like cold wind—They never do. A shiver of uncertainty flickered before you buried it under resolve.

“Lost in the labyrinth of thoughts again?”

You looked up sharply. Rio Vidal stood nearby, her presence as commanding as ever. She was dressed impeccably, every movement smooth and deliberate, her dark eyes glinting with that familiar mix of charm and subtle calculation.

“I heard about the seminar,” Rio continued, stepping closer with that effortless confidence she always carried. “Co-teaching with Harkness… bold of you. But, between us, I’m not sure she knows what she’s doing.“

Her smile was slow, flat but undeniably flattering—a carefully poised invitation wrapped in silk and steel.

“It would be a waste to let such potential go unnoticed,” she said smoothly, lips curling into a small, almost imperceptible smile. “Especially under Professor Harkness’s wing.”

Her gaze was steady, appraising—part challenge, part invitation. Rio’s presence was magnetic and unsettling all at once, the kind of woman who made you aware of every detail about yourself, as if you were both prey and prize.

You met her gaze steadily, your voice steady and firm. “Thank you, but I’m quite content where I am.”

Her gaze locked onto yours, unwavering. “If you ask me, you deserve better guidance than someone so wrapped up in her own ambitions.”

You offered a small, calm smile, signaling that your position was firm.

Rio’s eyes narrowed for a heartbeat, then softened, a flicker of genuine amusement crossing her features. “Very well, then. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Unseen by you, Agatha stood at the seminar hall window, fingers tightening on the ledge. For a fleeting moment, her calm composure faltered, a flash of surprise crossing her face—an emotion she rarely allowed herself to show.

Agatha’s eyes never left you from her vantage point by the window, sharp and watchful. She didn’t like to see anyone so close to you, especially not Rio Vidal.

Agatha blinked, caught off guard by the rawness of these feelings, and for a moment, she simply stood there, watching, trying to make sense of what she was beginning to want—and fear.

*

You navigated the familiar corridors with purpose, the stone walls seeming to close in as anticipation coiled in your chest. Approaching Agatha’s door, you paused, feeling the faint scent of lavender and something darker—incense? Or something more elusive?

A soft knock, then the door swung open, revealing Agatha in her usual commanding presence, heels clicking softly on the floor. Her eyes glinted with unreadable amusement.

“You came,” she observed, voice cool but not unkind.

“I did. You wanted to see me?” you asked, stepping inside, the weight of her gaze pressing in.

She held out a parchment, delicate but heavy with secrets. “Look what I found,” she said, a faint challenge in her tone. “An ancient dialect that’s been troubling scholars for decades. I thought you might enjoy untangling its mysteries.”

You reached for it, fingers brushing hers—brief, electric. “Is this a test?” you asked, arching a brow.

Agatha smiled, slow and deliberate, eyes narrowing slightly. “Perhaps. Or an invitation. Unless you’d rather be elsewhere.”

You settled into the chair opposite her, confident but alert. As you examined the cryptic symbols, she reclined gracefully, the picture of control. Then, with a sudden ease, she leaned forward, resting her chin on her knuckles, her gaze locked on you like a cat watching a mouse.

*

Hours slipped by unnoticed. The parchment lay sprawled between you, symbols and fragments of forgotten words filling the margins, illuminated by the soft glow of a single desk lamp. Outside, the campus had settled into twilight, the world hushed as the two of you remained locked in this shared orbit.

Agatha leaned close, her breath warm against your ear as she murmured a correction, fingers brushing your wrist—light, but deliberate. You swallowed, heart quickening beneath the steady calm of her gaze.

“See here,” she said, tracing an arcane curve with a slender finger, “this phrase isn’t merely descriptive. It binds intent. It demands a precise cadence.”

You nodded, eyes flickering to meet hers. “A language not just spoken, but felt. Like a spell woven from sound.”

She smiled, slow and enigmatic, the corners of her lips twitching as if she held back something dangerous.

The room seemed to shrink, charged with the heat of proximity. Your knees brushed under the table, her scent—lavender, old parchment, something darker—filling your senses.

Agatha’s fingers found your hand, a fleeting, electric contact that lingered just long enough to ignite a spark. “You surprise me,” she breathed, voice low, eyes dark with a secret thrill. “I could watch you decipher these mysteries all night.”

She leaned back just enough to reveal the graceful curve of her neck, the subtle dip of her cleavage catching the soft light. Your breath hitched—small, electric—and you could feel the heat pulsing just beneath her skin.

Her eyes found yours, sharp and unyielding, but there was something softer there now—something that made your pulse quicken in ways you hadn’t expected.

A slow smile curled on her lips, and with a flick of her wrist, she motioned toward the small sideboard. “Would you care for a glass of wine? It’s late, and I think we’ve earned it.”

You nodded, heart thrumming as you moved to pour the wine, glancing back at her.

Her hand brushed yours as she took the glass, cool fingers wrapping around yours just long enough to send a spark shooting up your arm.

Your eyes locked again, the space between you collapsing into a charged silence. You could feel her breath, warm and steady, just a whisper away from your lips.

For a suspended moment, the world narrowed until it was only the two of you — the faint pulse of desire, the unspoken promise in the air.

Then, with a soft exhale, she pulled back just enough to break the spell, the faintest trace of a smile lingering on her lips. “To discoveries… and what’s yet to come,” she murmured, voice low and thick with something unspoken.

You swallowed hard, heart hammering, knowing that this—whatever it was—had only just begun.

*

The clink of your glass against the table was soft, muted by the spread of parchment, vellum, and layered photocopies of 15th-century manuscripts. You reached for the annotated translation Agatha had passed to you earlier, fingers still tingling from where they’d brushed hers.

She sipped her wine with the poised grace of someone who never rushed—her eyes, however, were anything but relaxed. Watching. Measuring. Waiting.

“There,” Agatha said suddenly, pointing to the curling ink at the margin of one of the older scans. “That root—see it? It’s derivational, not a proper suffix. That’s where the incantatory break lies.”

You tilted your head, wine warming your chest as you peered at the faded script. “No,” you said, steady and sure. “That’s a misread. The crossbar was added later—see the difference in pigment? The original phrase would’ve read ‘mel’taher et varda’ not ‘mel’taher et varel.’ It changes the entire context from cleansing to binding.”

Agatha froze—not overtly, but in that way she sometimes did, like a predator scenting something unexpected. Her glass lowered, her lips parted just slightly, and then—rather than refute or praise—you saw something flicker behind her eyes.

Amusement. Delight. Hunger.

“That’s… inconveniently brilliant,” she said, leaning back in her chair. The phrase was light, even playful—but the way she looked at you wasn’t. “I had that theory locked for years.”

You swallowed, the pride and heat rising in your throat not entirely from the wine. “Sorry?”

“I didn’t say I minded,” she replied. Her lips curved slowly, tongue barely touching the inside of her cheek. “You’ve just rewritten three pages of my monograph, is all.”

A beat passed. You both stared at each other in the low lamplight, parchment rustling in the slight breeze from the cracked window.

Agatha’s voice dropped low, silk wrapped around steel.
“You may call me Agatha. When it’s just the two of us.”

You froze — not from fear, but from the sudden charge humming between you, sharper than any glyph or fragment on the table.

Your eyes met hers. Steady. Testing.

“…Agatha,” you said.

You hadn’t meant to say it like that — soft, sure, threaded with breath — but the syllables curled off your tongue like something older, more intimate. Her name tasted different spoken aloud. Like something you shouldn’t have, but wanted anyway.

Agatha didn’t move. Not at first. She only looked at you — truly looked — with something almost hungry flickering just beneath the surface. Her lashes lowered slowly, then lifted again, and the corner of her mouth twitched as if fighting off a full-blown smirk.

“Hm,” she murmured, the sound dangerously close to a purr. “Say it again.”

You swallowed, pulse fluttering. “Agatha.”

That time, her exhale was barely audible — a breath dragged too long, like she was holding back more than words.

She stood — slowly — and reached across you, under the guise of adjusting a candle on the desk. Her hand passed near your shoulder, fingers grazing the curve of your arm, featherlight but electric. Her wrist brushed the line where your collar opened. A whisper of heat followed in its wake.

The room felt smaller. Warmer. Like it had pulled tight around just the two of you.

Agatha leaned in close — not touching, not yet — and let her lips linger just beside your ear.

“Careful,” she said, voice dark and close. “You make it sound like a secret.”

You turned toward her without thinking, your cheek nearly grazing hers.

And for a moment, neither of you moved. Not even to breathe.

But then her gaze flicked downward — to your lips. And yours, inescapably, to hers.

Agatha straightened with a fluid grace, fingers brushing the edge of the parchment beside you.

“Come,” she said, all composure again — almost. “Let’s finish the translation.”

But her voice lingered low, as if finish meant something far more than words.

*

The silence stretched comfortably now—thick with things unspoken, but no longer unsure. Every rustle of paper, every shift of breath felt loaded. You traced a passage slowly with your fingertip, mind half on the glyphs… half on the scent of her skin still clinging to the air.

Then: a soft buzz against the table.

Your phone. The screen lit with the faint glow of a new email notification.

Agatha’s eyes flicked toward it. Just once.

You reached for it instinctively, angling the screen.

From: Professor Rio Vidal
Subject: A Note of Interest

Y/N,

Word of your contributions in Agatha’s seminar has reached farther than you might expect. Impressive work.

If you have time this week, I’d appreciate your input on something I’ve been developing. It’s subtle work—quiet, layered—and I suspect you’d understand its rhythms.

No pressure, of course. But I’d like to talk.

Best,

R.V

You stared at it, heart hitching slightly—not because it was improper. It wasn’t. Not technically. But it was familiar. A little too familiar, maybe.

You sensed more than saw the shift beside you. The subtle tension that moved through Agatha’s posture like a ripple in still water.

She didn’t speak. Not at first.

Her fingers turned a page too crisply. Her voice, when it came, was smooth. Almost amused.

“Rio Vidal,” she said, as though tasting the syllables. “Still recruiting in the shadows of other people’s work.”

You glanced up. “You saw the name?”

She didn’t look at you—she didn’t need to.

“She’s always had an eye for rising talent,” Agatha continued, flipping to the next page. “Though she rarely puts in the labor to cultivate it herself.”

There was a pause. The fire cracked in the hearth. Somewhere in the stacks, a book slid subtly out of alignment.

“And what does she want from you, I wonder?” Agatha mused.

You hesitated. “She said she heard about my work in your seminar. Asked if I’d consult on something.”

That earned you a glance. Not sharp. But deep.

Agatha leaned back, folding one leg over the other with a slow, practiced elegance. Her fingers tapped once against the edge of the page.

“She’s clever,” she said, gaze never leaving yours. “She never makes a grab outright. Just leaves the door ajar and waits to see if you’ll walk through.”

“She didn’t say anything inappropriate,” you offered, feeling strangely compelled to clarify.

“No,” Agatha said softly. “She wouldn’t need to.”

A beat.

Then, quieter: “People rarely try to take what they think already belongs to someone else.”

You blinked. “Do I?”

The air tightened.

Agatha smiled—small, deliberate. It didn’t reach her eyes.

“I wonder,” she said. “Would you be asking that if you didn’t want an answer?”

Her gaze dipped again. Not by accident.

Then, without another word, she stood. “We should leave it here for tonight.”

You nodded, though your fingers still trembled slightly against the manuscript.

Her back to you. Head tilted just so.

“If you decide to meet with her,” she said, voice velvet-wrapped steel, “do let me know. I don’t like surprises.”

Agatha turned slowly, her eyes locking onto yours with a piercing intensity that made the room feel smaller.

“How are you getting home?” she asked, voice calm but edged with something unreadable.

You hesitated for only a moment before answering, “I’ll walk.”

Her brow quirked slightly—an expression that was almost amusement, but beneath it, sharp as a blade.

“You’re not walking home alone,” she said firmly, stepping closer, her presence pressing in. “I’ll order a taxi for you.”

She paused, gaze steady, then her voice softened just a fraction—almost imperceptibly.

“And… I expect a text when you get home.”

For a heartbeat, her eyes flickered, a trace of something more vulnerable—nervousness, perhaps?—before she composed herself again.

You opened your mouth to reply, but before you could speak, Agatha’s hand was already reaching for your phone.

Her fingers brushed yours briefly as she took it from your grasp, moving with calm certainty.

 

After a moment, she handed the phone back to you.

“Now you do,” she said softly.

The weight behind her words settled deep in your chest—a silent possession, undeniable and unyielding.

*

The moment you stepped out into the chill evening air, the weight of Agatha’s gaze still pressed against your skin, a quiet insistence that clung like a second shadow. The streets were slick with recent rain, the dim glow of streetlamps reflecting off the cobblestones in golden pools.

You hardly noticed the taxi until it pulled smoothly to the curb beside you, the driver already watching with a polite nod. The car door opened before you even reached for it, and the warm rush of heated air welcomed you like a secret promise.

Sliding into the back seat, you exhaled softly, the door clicking shut behind you. The quiet hum of the engine filled the space as you glanced down at your phone again. No messages yet. No sign of the ordinary life you’d been so sure you’d walk home to alone.

The driver’s eyes flicked to you in the rearview mirror, polite but curious.

“Where to, miss?”

You recited your address, and the car pulled away from the curb.

The ride was silent but for the low murmur of the city outside and the steady rhythm of the tires on wet pavement.

You found your fingers tracing the outline of your phone, fingers brushing the name saved in your contacts: Agatha.

A small shiver ran through you—not from the cold, but from the realization settling deep inside.

The taxi driver handed you a printed receipt as you stepped out in front of your building. You folded it open, just as the driver offered a polite smile.

“Already paid, miss. From the sender.”

Your breath caught.

You looked up, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.

The message on the receipt was unmistakable.

You slid the paper into your pocket, your heartbeat echoing in your ears.

No words were needed.

Agatha’s quiet, possessive care had followed you home, unseen but undeniable.

*

The door clicked shut behind you, muffling the hum of the city. You leaned back against it for a moment, the cool wood grounding you, though your pulse was anything but calm.

You slipped off your coat with absent hands, the weight of the evening still clinging to your skin. Agatha’s presence hadn’t left you—it hung in the air like incense, in the memory of her hand brushing yours, in the quiet authority of her voice.

You moved through your apartment on autopilot, tossing your keys into the bowl by the door, setting your phone down on the kitchen counter. But you didn’t walk away.

Instead, you turned the screen back on.

Her name sat there at the top of your messages: Agatha Harkness.

You stared at it for a moment longer than necessary, thumb hovering.

Then you typed:

Hi. I’m home.
Thank you for the taxi.
And for… everything tonight.

You hit send before you could overthink it. The little “delivered” mark appeared almost instantly.

 

*

Agatha wasn’t restless.

She told herself that, at least—not as she shifted in her chair for the third time, not as her eyes scanned the same weathered sentence for what must’ve been the fifth.

It wasn’t restlessness. It was focus. Methodical. Contained.

She had spent her life mastering discipline—of thought, of power, of desire. Whatever pulled at her now, low in her chest, tightening across her shoulders, had to be something else.

You were supposed to be another clever mind she sharpened, another star to pass beneath her orbit for a term or two—someone to challenge, maybe admire. Enjoy, briefly, from a distance.

She’d chosen you for your mind. That’s what she told herself.

But lately, her thoughts drifted toward how you used it. The confidence behind your questions. The refusal to shrink beneath her sharpest remarks. The way you spoke her name like you knew exactly what it did to her.

It was just intrigue. Professional interest. Curiosity.

That was all.

…Except she’d read the same sentence three times now, and couldn’t recall a word of it.

Her office was quiet, lit only by the low hum of lamplight and the faint, dust-heavy glow of the city beyond the windows. A grimoire sat open before her, untouched. She was still in her heels—legs crossed, spine poised—but her fingers had stopped skimming the pages.

Her eyes were elsewhere.

She shouldn’t have asked you to stay.
She shouldn’t have poured the wine.
She shouldn’t have let it get that close.

But she had. And for a moment—for several long, still-burning moments—she hadn’t wanted to stop.

Her phone buzzed, shattering the silence like a spell breaking.

The screen lit up.

Hi. I’m home.
Thank you for the taxi.
And for… everything tonight.

Agatha stilled.

A soft breath left her mouth, barely audible. Her thumb hovered above the phone, unmoving.

That should’ve been the end of it. Polite gratitude. Simple closure.

But the words settled beneath her ribs and refused to leave.

Her lips curved, barely—a flicker of a smile not born from smugness or victory, but something deeper. Something that warmed and ached and didn’t belong to the rules she’d written for herself.

She typed slowly.

Paused.

Deleted.

Then typed again, each word chosen like an incantation.

Good.
You were never walking home alone.
Sleep well, darling.

She didn’t sign it.

She didn’t have to.

Across the city, you stood barefoot in the quiet of your apartment, the message casting a soft glow against your skin.

Your chest tightened—tight like a secret you weren’t ready to name. Like the hum of magic in the air when something old and inevitable is just beginning.

You turned off the lights.

Agatha’s message still glowing faintly in your hand. You should’ve felt reassured. Grateful, even. But beneath the comfort of her words was a knot you couldn’t quite loosen—the echo of Vidal’s offer, the murmured doubts from your peers. They never last. You weren’t sure if they meant the position… or the attention. You closed your eyes, her name pressing against the inside of your ribs like a word you weren’t ready to speak aloud. Still, you didn’t put your phone away.

Not just yet.

Chapter Text

Wednesday, 9:47 a.m.

You’d barely slept, thoughts tangled in wine-stained parchment, the feel of her breath near your cheek, and that last parting look — the one that made your lungs tighten in your chest. The one that made her feel less like your supervisor and more like—

You pressed your fingers to your temples, tried to shake it off. Today wasn’t about that. Today, you were standing beside her again. Co-teaching. With students watching.

And they were already talking.

“Did you hear the seminar yesterday?”

“She co-taught with Harkness. I wonder how long she’ll last. They never do.”

Their voices floated past as you crossed the courtyard. Two doctoral students—you recognized them by face if not name—stood by the carved stone railing with their coffee cups and too-easy smirks. You didn’t pause, but their words stayed with you.

So did Professor Vidal’s.

Her voice, smooth and cutting:

“Agatha doesn’t know what she’s doing with you.”
“Would be a waste to see your potential drowned in someone else’s shadow.”

You shook the memory off. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered now.

 

You reached for your wardrobe more deliberately than usual—selecting a soft, high-necked blouse in deep burgundy and pairing it with a black midi skirt that hugged your waist with just enough suggestion. Not overt. But enough to feel composed, put-together. Poised. The finishing touch: a sweep of mascara and your low-heeled boots that clicked sharply against stone.

You told yourself it was professionalism.

You told yourself it had nothing to do with the fact that you’d be standing at the head of the lecture table today—not just as a student, but as someone Agatha had asked to lead.

*

The breeze tugged at the hem of your coat and rustled the notes inside your folder, but you didn’t move. You’d arrived early—too early, honestly. Probably because you hadn’t slept. Probably because you were still replaying the night before in a hundred slow-burning fragments.

Agatha’s voice.
The glint of her eyes in candlelight.
You can call me Agatha when it’s just the two of us.

And then that message—You were never walking home alone.

It should’ve made you feel powerful. Chosen. It did, in a way. Tattooed in your memory.

But so had the sneering glances on the walk through campus.

You inhaled slowly, deeply. Straightened your shoulders. Smoothed the line of your blouse where it met your skirt, brushed a smudge from your coat sleeve. A low beat of nerves trembled somewhere near your ribs, but you ignored it.

This wasn’t about Vidal. It wasn’t about whispered judgments or academic egos.

It was about the work.
The script.
The way Agatha had looked at you like the puzzle pieces in your head were exactly what she’d been missing.

You reached for the door and stepped inside.

*

 

The murmur of conversation hit you first—low and buzzing, the way a room gets when too many brilliant people are trying to sound more brilliant than each other.

The lecture room was full. Not just with the standard graduate group, either—this was standing-room full. Faculty, visiting doctoral candidates, a few wide-eyed undergraduates who’d snuck in because they’d heard the rumors. About her.

You didn’t look for her at first. You didn’t need to.

You felt her.

Agatha Harkness stood at the far end of the room, the tall windows behind her casting her in silhouette. But as your eyes adjusted, detail flooded in: she was all structure and silhouette, a tailored black blazer worn like armor, cinched at the waist and buttoned just once over a deep indigo blouse. The color was rich, jewel-toned, catching the faintest shimmer as she turned her head to respond to a question. She wore slim dark trousers, heels that added height to her already imposing presence.

Her hair was down. Not messy, never messy. Controlled chaos. A curtain of soft waves swept to one side, tucked deliberately behind one ear to show off the delicate silver glint of an antique earring.

She was the kind of beautiful that made people shut up. Not conventionally soft, not passive. Magnetic. Electric. And somehow even more striking in the light of day, where every subtle line—each wry crease at the corner of her mouth, the elegant etch of her forehead when she frowned—only made her more difficult to ignore.

She hadn’t seen you yet. Or maybe she had, and was pretending not to.

That thought sent a subtle thrill up your spine.

Someone brushed past you—one of the postdocs from language studies, shooting you a sidelong glance. You caught a whispered, “That’s her,” before the voice melted back into the crowd.

And then Agatha turned. Full on. Her gaze hit you like a thrown blade—sharp, precise, knowing.

She didn’t smile, not exactly. Just the faintest lift of one brow. Her head tilted, a quiet acknowledgment.

You didn’t know whether to feel nervous or seen.

Probably both

You didn’t rush. Why would you? She was already watching you like you were the only thing in the room worth seeing. Every step you took echoed just enough to draw attention—but it was her attention you were after, and she gave it freely, hungrily. So you let her have a show. A slow, poised walk down the center aisle, your notes held neatly to your chest, the fabric of your skirt catching just enough light to suggest movement.

From where she stood at the head of the room, Agatha lifted one hand—not in greeting, but in command. A flick of her wrist, subtle but unmistakable, directed your attention forward. Not to the empty seat. To the lectern.

Your stomach did a slow turn.
She wasn’t easing you in.

She was testing you. Again.

That lectern—solid walnut, old as the university itself—had been the domain of tenured professors, guest lecturers with international acclaim, and once, infamously, the department chair who misquoted a foundational glyph and never quite recovered from the humiliation. It wasn’t just a place to speak. It was a place to prove.

You lifted your chin, pulse quickening. If she wanted to see how you’d handle the heat, fine. You’d bring the fire.

Agatha had already stepped aside. Not toward the wall or her own desk, but to the edge of the wide window behind the lectern—just far enough to watch you work. The way her arms folded across her chest, the slight cant of her head, it was clear: she wasn’t giving you the floor. She was lending it.

The murmur of the room dimmed to a hush as you approached, each step steady despite the buzz in your ears. You could feel the weight of every eye, but none of them mattered—she did.

As you reached the lectern, you glanced her way. Her gaze was unreadable, but the heat behind it was impossible to mistake. There was challenge there… and something else. Something darker. Fonder.

Clearing her throat softly, she began, “Today, I have the distinct pleasure of introducing someone whose work has already begun to shape our understanding of arcane linguistics. Miss Y/L/N’s meticulous research into the philological aspects of ancient spell scripts has proven invaluable—not just for her own master’s thesis, but for this entire lecture’s exploration of the Arcane Tongue.”

She allowed a slight, knowing smile to touch her lips. “It is not often we encounter such a sharp mind willing to navigate the complexities of magical etymology and phonosemantics with both rigor and grace. I trust you will all find her insights as illuminating as I have.”

Agatha’s eyes glinted with a hint of challenge as she nodded toward the lectern. Her posture relaxed but carried an undeniable command, as if the room—and you—were hers to orchestrate.

“Go on, Miss Y/L/N,” she said, voice calm but edged with expectation. “Show us what you’ve got.”

She lingered just a moment longer, as if savoring the anticipation before turning slightly away, giving you the stage—but never truly letting you forget she was watching.

You stepped confidently toward the lectern, the weight of all eyes settling on you. Clearing your throat softly, you glanced back at Agatha, who gave a barely perceptible nod—her gaze sharp, expectant, but with that faint trace of approval only you could notice.

“Thank you, Professor Harkness,” you began, voice steady and clear, “for entrusting me with the translation of this manuscript. The research I’m about to present is based on that work, and I’m honored to share the insights I’ve uncovered.”

You paused, letting the room settle. “While the text itself is ancient, its use of the Arcane Tongue reveals layers of spellcraft embedded within the language—enchantments that influence the very meaning and intent of the words.”

The students leaned in as you continued, passion threading through your voice. “Deciphering these layers requires more than just translation; it demands an understanding of the spellwork and cultural context behind the script. Through this lens, we can see how the manuscript was designed to command, protect, or even manipulate those who engaged with it.”

From the corner of your eye, you caught Agatha sliding into her seat, removing her glasses and slowly chewing on the temple tip, eyes fixed intently on you. A faint, approving smile curved her lips—a quiet recognition of your skill and insight.

*

Hands began to rise across the room. The students, clearly intrigued, peppered you with questions—some curious, others skeptical.

“Miss Y/L/N,” a student from the back asked, “how do you interpret the usage of the Arcane Tongue in this context compared to the older dialects?”

You answered smoothly, citing specific examples from the manuscript, your voice steady and sure. You could feel eyes on you—not just the students, but Agatha’s gaze, sharp and calculating from her seat.

Another student, more challenging this time, queried, “But don’t you think that relying on such archaic spell language risks misinterpretation? Couldn’t it be dangerous in practical application?”

You met the question head-on. “True, the risk exists, which is why precise scholarship and training are essential. The manuscript itself seems to acknowledge this with its layered enchantments.”

A murmur of approval spread, but Agatha’s eyes narrowed slightly. When a few boys in the front row exchanged lingering glances your way, she shifted slightly, the subtle tension in her posture unmistakable.

Professor Vidal spoke up next, her tone professional but with an edge. “Impressive analysis, Miss Y/L/N. Your mastery over such a complex subject at this stage is rare.”

Agatha’s lips twitched—pride or possessiveness, it was hard to tell—and she gave a slight nod, signaling she would handle any further scrutiny.

As the questions tapered off, Agatha rose gracefully, her eyes meeting yours with a flicker of warmth mixed with something deeper. “Thank you, everyone. Let’s conclude here for today.”

You caught the subtle glance she cast around the room, and it wasn’t lost on you—Agatha was watching, even in this formal setting.

You’d just gathered your notes, still flushed with the afterglow of answering those final questions, when Agatha appeared at your side—silent, swift.

“Walk with me,” she murmured, her hand ghosting just behind your lower back. Not touching, but close enough that your skin ached for contact.

You barely had time to register her words before she was already striding toward the hallway.

But just as you stepped into the corridor, the unmistakable voice of Professor Rio Vidal curled into the air behind you. “Miss Y/L/N—one moment, if I may.”

You paused, blinking, turning halfway. Her sharp jaw was tilted with casual confidence, arms folded across a tailored jacket. “I wanted a word about your presentation. It’s rare to see such promise so early.”

You opened your mouth to respond—polite, if a little unsure—when Agatha cut cleanly between you both.

“I’m afraid she has another commitment,” she said, tone silken but cold enough to frost over marble. “With me.”

Rio’s eyes flicked between you and Agatha. “I’m sure it can wait.”

Agatha smiled—sharp, thin, not kind. “It can’t.”

Without waiting for rebuttal, she resumed walking, hand now firmly at the small of your back. Her grip was light, but it held no room for refusal.

You followed.

⸻

The door to her office clicked shut behind you with a sound that was almost indecent. Agatha didn’t bother with the lights—just the honey-gold spill from her desk lamp and the low hum of the city filtering in from the window.

She didn’t speak right away.

She walked—slowly, deliberately—around you. Circled, studied. And when she came to a stop before you, it was like standing in the eye of a storm.

“You were remarkable,” she said, voice low. “Precise. Commanding. Better than half the fools in that room—including some who claim tenure.”

You swallowed, chest rising with the weight of her gaze. “Thank you, Professor—”

Her head tilted, dark eyes sharp with meaning.

“Agatha,” she corrected, stepping closer.

You tried to say it, but the word caught in your throat—less out of nerves and more out of awareness. Of her scent. Of her nearness. Of the unmistakable heat between you.

“Agatha,” you managed, breath catching.

Something shifted.

She stepped in, close enough that your knees brushed. Close enough that the silk of her blouse, open just slightly more than appropriate, gave you a sliver view down to the soft curve of her cleavage. Her voice was a whisper now, intoxicating.

“You handled yourself brilliantly,” Agatha murmured, her voice low and rich, “though I suppose I should’ve expected nothing less. You read the room. You commanded it. You reminded them why this work matters.”

You tried to thank her—really, you did—but the words tangled in your throat the moment she leaned in slightly, one hand ghosting at your elbow.

“I’ve spent years surrounded by minds who only half care to understand what they study. But you…” She smiled then, slow and devastating. “You don’t just translate language. You understand the pulse beneath the words.”

Your breath hitched.

“And that,” she whispered, “is rare.”

The air thickened, your heart hammering against your ribs. Her gaze dropped briefly—to your mouth, then the curve of your neck exposed by the collar of your blouse, now slightly loosened from the hours of work. Her eyes lingered there, and when they rose again, her voice was lower, rougher around the edges.

“You know,” she said, gaze slipping down to where her hand hovered, “I thought I understood what I was getting when I gave you that manuscript.”

You swallowed. “And now?”

Her eyes snapped back to yours.

“Now I find myself… reevaluating.”

There was heat behind the words. Weight.

Her fingers finally met your skin—light, skimming your forearm. A touch that didn’t ask, only lingered. Her thumb brushed the inside of your wrist, slow and almost thoughtful.

Your breath caught.

She didn’t move further. But her hand stayed on you, the air thrumming between your bodies like a live current. Her gaze dipped—to your lips, to the exposed hollow of your collarbone—and her jaw clenched, just slightly.

Whatever she was holding back, it was fraying at the edges.

You felt the slow drag of her thumb against your pulse point, deliberate now. Testing. Tempting. She hadn’t moved any closer, but you could feel her in every inch of air between you. The space didn’t breathe—it tightened.

“Extraordinary,” her voice lower, rougher.

Your breath hitched.

She was watching your reaction like it was something precious—memorizing it, filing it away. And when your eyes met hers, the charge behind her gaze cracked like a match drawn across dry stone.

The edge of her blazer brushed your arm. Her hand trailed up from your wrist, fingertips barely grazing the inside of your forearm, then your elbow, then settling—dangerously light—just above it. Anchoring you. Daring you.

You didn’t move.

“You should know,” she said, and her voice—God, her voice—had gone velvet-smooth and dark with restraint, “I don’t say things I don’t mean. And I don’t… touch what I don’t intend to keep.”

Your heart kicked hard.

She was close enough now that you could see the softest curve of her lower lip, parted just slightly. Her breath ghosted warm over your cheek. The smell of her—leather, wine, and that faint electricity like a storm banked low behind her ribs—swallowed your senses whole.

You swallowed hard. “And do you intend to keep me?”

Her hand moved again—up, this time. Skimming higher, sliding to your shoulder, slow and proprietary.

Her mouth curved—not quite a smile. Something darker. A promise.

“Hmmm,” she purred, almost into your skin. “I’m thinking about it… far more than I should.”

You felt her knuckles graze the side of your throat, fingers brushing beneath the edge of your jaw. Her thumb followed, light as a whisper along the line of your cheek. Not possessive—no. Reverent.

Your knees nearly buckled.

She was looking at you like she wanted to ruin you—gently. Thoroughly. Worshipfully. And when her thumb swept just beneath your bottom lip, her gaze flickered down to your mouth, then back up—hot, unreadable.

“Say something,” she said, but it wasn’t a command.

And you, held fast beneath her hand, whispered: “Please.”

She inhaled like it scorched.

There was no mistaking the way her grip tightened slightly on your shoulder, the flash of hunger that overtook restraint in her eyes.

But still—still—she didn’t close the distance.

Not yet.

Her mouth hovered a breath from yours. Her fingers slid back down, over the open neckline of your shirt, tracing just along the edge where skin met fabric. She could’ve kissed you. She didn’t.

Instead, she smiled.

Slow. Wanting.

“This was meant to be simple,” she murmured, and you knew she wasn’t talking about the manuscript.

You barely managed a breath. “And now?”

Her hand curled around your waist, and she finally—finally—pressed in, just enough to feel the shape of her body line up against yours. Not claiming. Not yet.

But her lips brushed your ear as she answered:

“Now, I can’t stop thinking about how good you’d sound saying it again.”

She moved before you could speak.

No warning. No prelude. Her breath stirring against your neck as she dipped her head and let her mouth hover—just hover—over the skin there. You froze, every nerve pulled taut as thread.

Her nose skimmed the line of your throat, slow and deliberate, like she was mapping it—memorizing heat and pulse and the scent of your skin.

“You always smell like ink and something… addictive,” she murmured, almost to herself. “Like someone I shouldn’t touch.”

Her lips didn’t quite make contact, but the drag of her breath was hot and unbearable. She lingered there, mouthing the air just above your pulse point, close enough to feel, not enough to satisfy. It was maddening. Intentional.

“Do you have any idea,” she whispered, voice like honey spilled over coals, “how impossible it’s becoming to stay professional with you?”

Your stomach twisted, heat spiking.

Her hand slid along your side, not possessive but anchoring—like she was holding herself still, like she didn’t trust what might happen if she gave in all the way. She tilted her head, lips brushing now—not kissing, just ghosting—beneath your jaw, where your skin throbbed with heat.

“You stand in my space,” she said, “correct my translation… leave me rethinking entire passages. You burn under my fingers, and then look at me like you have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

She finally pulled back enough to look at you, her eyes dark, half-lidded, a flush rising high on her cheekbones.

And still she didn’t kiss you.

Just smiled—aching with restraint.

“Tell me to stop,” Agatha said, her voice barely more than breath.

But you didn’t.

Your breath caught, suspended between the charged air of her demand and the inferno rising beneath your skin.

You didn’t tell her to stop.

You tilted your chin instead—instinctively—offering your throat just that much more, and her lips curved into something like reverence and sin all at once.

Agatha exhaled, low and shaking. The heat of it fanned down your collarbone.

“Dangerous,” she murmured, her nose brushing once more along the soft curve where your neck met shoulder. “Do you know how many lines we’ve already crossed?”

The press of her hand at your waist tightened—not enough to bruise, just enough to claim. Through the thin barrier of your blouse, her thumb moved in maddening, lazy circles, anchoring you there like you were hers.

Like you had always been.

She nosed lower, following the edge of your collar, her lips barely grazing skin now, the faintest, softest drag along the slope of your chest until her breath pooled at the dip between your collarbones. She paused there, and when she finally spoke again, her voice was a whisper turned to velvet and wildfire.

“I told myself you were just a bright student,” she said. “Something to watch. Something to challenge.”

Her teeth scraped the very edge of your clavicle, and your knees almost gave.

“But the truth is—” her tongue darted out, wet heat against flushed skin “—you’ve been unraveling me since the first time you opened your mouth in that one seminar. And that was years ago.”

Your fingers clenched reflexively in the fabric of your own shirt, as if that tension could hold you upright. But she felt it—of course she did—and her free hand rose to catch your wrist, guiding your fingers to the desk behind you, anchoring you there as her mouth moved higher again.

Your other hand slid up to cradle the back of her neck, fingers threading through the dark waves of her hair, pulling her just a fraction closer. The heat of her skin pressed against your palm sent a shock through you, raw and electric. You could feel the steady thrum of her pulse beneath your touch, matching the frantic rhythm pounding in your own chest.

Her breath hitched as your fingers tightened, just a little, and she leaned in deeper, lips grazing the sensitive skin just below your ear. The scent of her—spiced and intoxicating—wrapped around you, pulling you further under her spell.

She whispered against your skin, “Hold me.”

Your hand found her waist before you even realized it—fingers curling into the fabric of her blouse, clinging like you needed something, anything, to anchor you in the spiraling gravity of her. Agatha’s body was all heat and power beneath your touch, impossibly close, and still not close enough.

She felt it. The way your grip tightened, the way your chest rose faster with every breath.

It made her smile against your throat—a knowing thing—and she leaned in further, lips pressing to your pulse point, slow and deliberate. Her tongue followed, tasting the sharp edge of your want.

“Still not stopping me,” she breathed, voice thick, velvet-rough with restraint.

With a shaky breath, you lifted your hand higher, cradling her cheek with gentle uncertainty. Your thumb brushed over the smooth curve, hesitating just a moment before daring to trace slow, tentative circles. Your eyes searched hers, hoping to find some encouragement in that intense, unreadable gaze.

Then, gathering what courage you had left, you brushed your nose lightly against her cheek—a soft, hesitant touch that sent a jolt through your chest. It was a delicate, almost shy gesture.

Her eyes fluttered closed as you nuzzled closer, the soft curve of her jaw beneath your lips begging for more. The heat between you thickened, your breath mingling with hers, heartbeats syncing in the close silence. Agatha’s usual controlled composure gave way just enough—her pupils darkened, a flicker of desire sparking in their depths.

She lingered at your neck, inhaling slowly like she was trying to memorize the scent of you, her nose brushing the line of your jaw. You felt her smirk against your skin—starving.

Then her tongue touched you.

She started low, right above the hollow of your collarbone, and dragged her tongue all the way up to just below your ear in one long, slow stroke. It was wet, deliberate—filthy. Her tongue pressed flat as she licked, savoring you like she had every right. The sound you made, soft and aching, slipped out without permission.

That sound wrecked her.

“Fuck,” she breathed, and this time it was less a curse and more a confession. Her hands tightened on your hips, grounding herself—or maybe staking a claim. And then her mouth was on you again. She bit into your neck, sharp and possessive, and soothed the sting with her tongue, lips dragging over the mark like it belonged to her now.

Her voice dropped to a growl at your ear. “One more sound like that,” she murmured, breath heavy, “and I’m going to forget exactly where we are.”

And when her hips rolled forward—pressing against yours, slow and hot—you felt it: the way her body wanted yours. The hard line of her need, nestled against you with intent. No pretense left. No control, not really.

Her low, husky inhale mingled with yours, stirring the air between you. Her fingers tangled fiercely in your hair, pulling you closer with a possessive urgency that sent electric shivers down your spine. The heat of her body pressed against yours, fierce and tender, anchoring you completely in the moment.

Then, just as suddenly, she eased her grip, guiding you back just enough so your eyes could meet hers. In that smoldering gaze—dark and intense—you felt a storm of raw emotion pulse between you: desire, something deeper, something almost sacred. Her eyes searched yours, daring and unyielding, making your breath hitch.

Slowly, deliberately, she leaned in, closing the space between you. Her lips brushed softly over the center of your forehead—a kiss so gentle, so intimate, it felt like a silent vow, a tether binding you both.

She lingered a moment longer, her warmth imprinting on your skin as if to claim you. Her hand rested lightly on your cheek, fingers tracing a soothing path, grounding you even as the fire between you threatened to consume.

“Not here,” she whispered, voice low but tender, her breath a ghost across your flushed skin. Her fingers stroked your cheek with reverent care, as though you were something precious she couldn’t bear to break. “The walls listen… and you deserve more than stolen moments behind a locked door.”

Then she pressed her lips to your forehead again, slower this time, a kiss full of restraint and aching promise. The kind of kiss that made your knees weaken and your chest bloom with warmth. She lingered there, just for a second longer—long enough to leave you breathless, dizzy with the weight of her restraint and the promise of what could come next.

Her gaze swept over you—down your lips, your collar, the curve of your hands still clenched into the fabric of your own sleeves. She looked like she wanted to reach for you again. And she didn’t.

“You know…” her voice was lower now, not teasing, but thoughtful, almost distracted. “There’s a bottle waiting for me at home. Something dark. A little old. I hadn’t planned on sharing.”

Her paused.

“But I could change my mind.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t, really. The silence between you pressed at your ribs like a hand. Want thickened in your throat, but so did something else—something like uncertainty.

Agatha tilted her head as if reading you, then smiled—but it didn’t reach her eyes. “It’s all right,” she said gently, almost too gently. “You don’t have to decide now.”

She stepped back finally, slow and careful, like she didn’t want to jar you loose. Like she wanted you to remember exactly where she’d been.

Then, quieter: “But don’t pretend you don’t feel it too.”

She didn’t wait for your reply. Just turned and walked away, not fast, not cold—just distant enough to leave you standing there, spine still tingling, breath caught between ache and want, wondering which was louder: the heat in your chest… or the pull in your gut that begged you to follow.

Chapter Text

You barely registered the soft click of the office door as it shut behind her. Your pulse still thundered in your ears, blood warm where her lips had pressed to your forehead. You couldn’t let her leave like that—not after everything that passed between you in the silence, in the look she gave you, in the feel of her breath against your skin.

You moved quickly.

“Agatha—wait—”

But just as you stepped into the hallway, the air shifted.

“Running after Professor Harkness?” came a cool, wry voice, smooth as ever, cutting into the quiet like a knife wrapped in silk.

You froze mid-step.

Rio Vidal stood there, tall and composed as ever, leaning against the wall like she’d been waiting. Her arms were folded, her shirt sleeves rolled up with deliberate ease, exposing forearms marked faintly with ink and confidence. She looked you over—not unkindly, but with that too-knowing glint that made something in your gut twist.

“Interesting day,” she said, pushing off the wall. “That lecture was… illuminating. You were good.”

“…Thank you,” you said cautiously, posture still tense. You glanced over her shoulder—Agatha was long gone.

“I mean it.” Rio’s smile curved. “Sharp mind. Commanding presence. Harkness must be delighted. She always did have an eye for promise.”

You didn’t like the implication, and from the way her tone dipped—like she’d bitten into something slightly bitter—you wondered just how deep her history with Agatha ran.

Rio stepped a little closer. Not too close, but enough that it made your shoulders stiffen. “If you ever feel like broadening your perspective,” she said casually, “I’d be more than happy to look over your research. It would be a shame for all that potential to go unnoticed… or unchallenged.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“That’s all,” she said smoothly, hands raised in mock surrender. “An offer. One brilliant woman to another.”

But something in her expression faltered for the briefest moment. Because you weren’t leaning in. You weren’t flattered.

You were looking past her. Not just physically, but entirely.

“I appreciate the offer,” you said evenly. “But I already have someone I trust with my work.”

Rio’s smile went flat. She dipped her head in something like acknowledgment, but her eyes narrowed just slightly.

“I don’t give compliments lightly,” she added, tone drier than before. “And I certainly don’t extend invitations lightly either. There’s a conference in Marseille in three weeks. Dense, serious crowd. Codices, fragment recovery, medieval heretical frameworks—the works. And your translation? The committee would eat it up.”

Your stomach twisted.

International. Prestigious. Career-defining.

Agatha wouldn’t be there. And she knew it.

You hesitated for just a second too long, and Rio saw it.

“I’ve already put your name forward,” she added. “It’s a formality, really. You’d present under my session.”

“Why?” you asked, your voice quieter now.

She smiled, slow and subtle. “Because you’re wasted here. Because you’re clever. Because, if we’re honest, I don’t like watching potential get buried under old ghosts.” Her tone sharpened just enough. “Agatha Harkness has a way of… burning too bright. Doesn’t she?”

Your hands clenched.

“I appreciate the offer,” you said, your voice tight but steady, “but I’m not interested.”

Rio’s expression didn’t change, but something in her jaw ticked. “Not even a little?”

*

She didn’t make it far.

Agatha had barely turned the corner before something clenched tight in her chest—sharp and immediate. She exhaled through her nose, frustrated.

She hadn’t meant to leave like that. Not really. That kiss on your forehead, the heat lingering in her fingertips—it had been too much, too soon. But the way you’d looked at her, the way your breath had hitched when she whispered against your skin…

It wasn’t fair to walk away from that without a word. Without even looking back.

She slowed her steps, then stopped altogether—an uncharacteristic indecision blooming in her throat. Her fingers twitched. She turned on her heel.

“I should’ve stayed,” she muttered under her breath, already retracing her steps toward the office. “Just one more moment.”

But the corridor outside her door wasn’t empty.

From the far end, she caught the unmistakable figure of Rio Vidal.

Too close.

And you.

Agatha’s nails bit crescents into her palm as she watched.

You weren’t pushing Rio away.

Not exactly.

You weren’t smiling either, but you weren’t storming off. You were listening. Tilting your head, biting your lip. There was a crease between your brows like you were thinking. Considering.

Agatha’s stomach twisted.

She didn’t hear your rejection. She only saw you linger.

Rio leaned in a little closer, said something with that smile she always wore when she thought she was winning.

And you—you didn’t move.

Agatha’s mouth tightened into a hard line.

Whatever warmth had pulled her back down the corridor—whatever reckless, fragile softness had made her think she could come back and just say something—curdled.

Because maybe… maybe you were just playing her.

Charming her to get what you wanted. The PhD, the papers, the connections. Maybe you never felt anything more than convenience or ambition.

She hated the thought of it.

But she hated even more how much that possibility stung.

She turned sharply on her heel.

She didn’t care if her heels echoed down the corridor like gunshots.

She didn’t care if she looked like a woman running.

Except she was.

Running from how much that moment had just hurt.

Because she wasn’t meant to feel anything. You were just a project. Just someone clever to indulge in. To teach. To touch once, maybe twice. Not someone she should ache over. Not someone she should feel jealous over.

But gods, she hated the idea of you wanting someone else. Especially her.

Especially Rio.

She made it to the end of the corridor before she heard it.

“Agatha—wait!”

Her name hit the stone walls like thunder. Sharp. Real.

You caught her just beyond the courtyard, where shadows thickened beneath the overhanging branches, and the distant noise of the seminar room faded into silence. Agatha stood with her back against the cold stone wall, her profile sharp in the low light.

“Agatha,” you called softly, stepping closer. “I’ll take your offer. Let’s do this.”

Her head whipped around, eyes blazing with a wild fire that made your pulse race.

“You think I’m stupid? You think I can’t see what you really are?” Her words strike like knives, slicing into your chest before you can even breathe.

You swallow hard, voice trembling, “Agatha, I don’t—”

She cuts you off with a bitter laugh, hollow and venomous. “Don’t lie to me. Don’t pretend you didn’t want it. Vidal touched you, whispered in your ear, and you didn’t push her away. You let her. Because you wanted something. You’re not here for me—you’re here for your ambitions.”

Your heart collapses in on itself. “That’s not true.”

Her eyes flash with a mixture of rage and disgust. “No? Then why did you allow it? Why did you stand there like a prize on display, waiting for her to wrap you up in her pretty little promises?”

You shake your head, fighting tears you can’t stop. “You’re wrong. You don’t know me.”

“I know you better than you think.” Her voice drops, sharp as broken glass. “I know the way you use people—how you wrap yourself around them, acting like the sweet, eager girl who just wants to learn. But it’s all a mask. You’re a slut, playing at affection and care, selling yourself to whoever can give you what you want.”

The word hangs in the air—poisonous, cutting deeper than anything you’ve heard before. Your vision blurs; breath catches in your throat. The cold night air feels suffocating.

“Why are you saying this to me?” Your voice cracks, barely a whisper.

She laughs—a sound so cruel, so empty it echoes in your bones. “Because I thought you were different. Someone I could share my passion with. But now? Now I see you for what you really are. Just another player. And I’m nothing more than a stepping stone.”

You stagger back, the weight of her words crushing your chest. “I don’t understand… I never—”

She steps closer, eyes blazing with fury and pain. “You never cared, did you? You only cared about what I could give you. And I let you. I let myself believe in you.”

Her voice breaks, a tremor of hurt beneath the rage. But she hardens again, voice cold and cutting. “I’m done pretending. You’re not worth my time, my patience, or my trust.”

Her words still echoed like shrapnel in your chest—slut, not worth it—but even as your vision blurred, you couldn’t let it end like this. Not with everything unspoken between you.

You caught up to her just as she turned down a side corridor, quiet and half-lit, the hum of the university dimming behind you.

“Agatha—Agatha, please wait—”

She didn’t stop walking. If anything, she moved faster.

You pressed on, your voice cracking through the silence. “I said no.”

That made her hesitate. Just slightly. Barely a hitch in her step.

You took the risk and kept going. “Vidal offered to take me to Marseille. She said it’d be good for visibility—said it would ‘open doors.’ And I said no.”

Now Agatha stilled.

You swallowed hard, fighting to breathe evenly. “I told her I didn’t want to be there without you. That the work I care about—the reason I’m here—is you. I didn’t even think twice.”

She turned slowly, her expression unreadable in the shadows. But her voice—her voice was like ice under pressure, tight and shaking. “Why should I believe that?”

You took a small step closer, your voice softer now. “Because I could’ve said yes. I could’ve used that moment. But I didn’t. I didn’t want her to be around me. I wanted you.”

Agatha’s jaw clenched, her eyes narrowing, uncertain. Hurt. “You think a refusal makes up for what I saw? You let her get close. You didn’t stop her. You looked at her like—”

“I didn’t look at her. I backed away, Agatha.” The hurt in your voice cracked wide open. “I told her no, and I meant it.”

She flinched like your honesty cut deeper than anything else could.

Her hand caught your wrist, then your shoulder, and before you could even breathe, your back hit the wall with a muted thud. The air left your lungs, but not from pain—from the sheer proximity of her, the way her body moved with purpose, all tension and heat and something barely leashed.

Her other hand cradled the side of your face, not rough, but firm—possessive. Her chest rose and fell unevenly, breath shaky, like she was holding herself back with every inch of discipline she still had left.

“Don’t say that,” she said through clenched teeth. “Don’t say things like that to me.”

Your voice was small, but steady. “Why? Because it’s true?”

Her expression twisted—pain, fury, longing, all warring in the space between you. “Because I almost believe you,” she bit out, her thumb brushing your cheek. “And I can’t afford to.”

You didn’t think. You just surged forward.

Your lips crashed into hers—desperate, unthinking, shaking with everything she’d just said and everything she hadn’t. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t polite. It was the kind of kiss that left no room for air, for hesitation, for anything but truth.

And she kissed you back like something inside her snapped.

Agatha groaned into your mouth, the sound ragged and low, and her grip on you tightened like she couldn’t bear the space between your bodies. Her fingers tangled in your hair, the other still holding your face as if anchoring herself. She tasted like fury and longing and heat. You felt her teeth catch your bottom lip—just enough to make you gasp—and she used that moment to deepen it, claiming, consuming.

Your hands found her waist, pulled her in until there was nothing left between you but heat and friction and the way your hearts hammered against each other’s chests. Her thigh slid between yours again, deliberate now, pressing, rocking, dragging a whimper from you that only made her kiss you harder.

It was messy. It was overwhelming. It was everything.

Her hands slid under your blouse—fingertips teasing at the skin of your back, anchoring you to her body, to this moment. You could feel the tension in her, the restraint, the sharp tremor in her fingers as if every nerve was fraying. Her mouth trailed across your jaw, down your neck, nipping, kissing, tasting, until you were clinging to her blouse like it might tear if you gripped any harder.

And still, you offered her something softer beneath all the heat—one hand threading into her hair, the other brushing lightly along her cheek. A wordless reassurance. You’re not a game. I’m still here.

That made her falter.

She stilled, lips hovering just over your throat, her breath ragged and uneven against your skin. You felt it—her conflict. The storm pulling her under, and the fleeting moment where she let herself need.

Then, like a sudden drop in temperature, she pulled back.

Not far. Just enough.

Her palm pressed to your chest gently, not pushing, just… stopping.

Her gaze searched yours, pupils still blown wide, chest still rising and falling too fast. Her lips were red, swollen from your kiss, and she looked like she hated every inch of space she’d just created between you.

“This isn’t—” she whispered, voice frayed. “We’re still on university grounds.”

Her fingers lingered at the hem of your blouse like they didn’t want to let go. Her jaw clenched. “If someone sees…”

You exhaled shakily, your hand still resting on her hip. “Right.”

But she didn’t move.

Neither did you.

You could still feel her against you, the ghost of her kiss on your neck, her breath warming your cheek.

Her forehead lingered against yours, her breath ghosting across your lips. But the tremble in her hand gave her away.

You barely whispered, “Agatha…”

That made her flinch.

She pulled back—just slightly—but enough to leave cold air where her warmth had been.

“You don’t even know me,” she said, low and rough, like it scraped her throat to admit it. Her fingers dropped from your cheek. “You think you do because I let you get close. Because I wanted you to see… something. But whatever you’ve built up in your head about me—some fantasy, some version that fits neatly into your world—it isn’t real.”

You stared at her, heart thudding. “That’s not what this is.”

“Isn’t it?” Her laugh was bitter, hollow. “You don’t know what I’ve done. What I’m capable of. You saw a glimpse, and you still want to play pretend. You don’t even realize what you’re trying to hold onto.”

Your throat tightened. “So show me.”

That made her go still.

“If you’re so sure I don’t know you, then show me. Don’t push me away and call it protection or punishment.” You swallowed hard. “Let me decide if I can handle the real you.”

Her eyes searched yours with something like fury—and underneath it, unmistakable fear.

She exhaled sharply, her composure barely holding.

“You should run,” she said, voice barely audible, “before you hate me like I hate myself.”

The two of you stood beneath the low canopy of ivy-streaked stone, tucked behind the lecture halls where the air was cool and still. Somewhere far off, the murmur of university life continued—footsteps, laughter, a slamming door—but here, it was just the sound of your breathing. Uneven. Tentative.

Your palm still cupped her cheek. You didn’t dare pull away.

“I’m still here,” you repeated, quieter this time. Like a spell spoken gently instead of broken.

Agatha’s eyes opened slowly. And there it was—that flicker. The one you weren’t sure you’d ever see again.

Hurt still lingered in the lines of her face, and in the wary way she looked at you—like you were light and danger all at once. But the heat had drained from her anger. What was left behind was raw and wounded and real.

You offered her the smallest smile, barely a curve of your lips. “And… I would still like that glass of red you mentioned.”

Something shifted.

Not dramatic. Not immediate. Just the quiet exhale of someone who didn’t trust herself to believe in soft things—but who wanted to.

“You’re either braver than you look,” Agatha murmured, her voice low, rough, “or incredibly stupid.”

You raised an eyebrow, breath catching in your chest. “Can’t it be both?”

That almost pulled a smile from her. Almost. Her gaze dropped to your mouth, then your hands, then somewhere just over your shoulder—anywhere but your eyes. And still… she didn’t step back.

Agatha didn’t move.

She just stood there beneath the ivy-shadowed arch, arms stiff at her sides, jaw tight. Her eyes wouldn’t stay on you—not fully. They kept flicking to the ground, the sky, your shoulder… anywhere but your face.

Your hand, still warm from her skin, hovered awkwardly at your side now. You didn’t speak. You let the moment breathe, even though it stung to do it.

Finally, she broke the silence.

“I’m not good at this.”

The words were flat. Blunt. But something in them pulled at you—a strain beneath the steel.

You didn’t flinch. Just said, gently, “I figured.”

Agatha huffed, but it wasn’t quite amusement. “Of course you did.”

“I meant it doesn’t scare me.”

That made her pause. Her gaze lifted to yours then—sharp, skeptical, almost unreadable.

“I didn’t come back for a second round of emotional masochism,” she said, dry and quiet, but not cruel. Just tired.

You shook your head. “I didn’t chase you for fun, either.”

She didn’t answer. Just looked at you a second longer, then away—toward the creeping vines along the wall, the pale sprawl of light across stone.

When she finally spoke again, her voice was quieter. Less sure.

“I wasn’t going to ask again.”

You blinked. “Ask what?”

“If you still wanted the wine.”

You tilted your head slightly. “You weren’t?”

“No,” she muttered, almost to herself. “I was going to walk away again and pretend I meant it.”

That silenced you. Not because you didn’t know what to say—but because something in you ached at the thought that she would.

Agatha shifted her weight, exhaled through her nose. Then, reluctantly—like she hated giving ground—she met your eyes again.

“I still have it. The wine.”

She didn’t elaborate. Didn’t dress it up with promises or softened edges. But her voice was rougher now. Rawer.

You nodded once. “Okay.”

A pause. Then, quieter: “I’d like that.”

Agatha stared at you another beat longer—eyes still searching, still guarded—but eventually, she gave the smallest nod and turned on her heel.

She didn’t look back.

But when she walked, it wasn’t as rigid. Not this time.

You followed.

*

The car ride was silent.

Not the comfortable kind of silence, either. It was thick—weighted, suspended in the space between glances that didn’t quite meet, in the way her hands tightened around the steering wheel at every red light.

You sat rigid in the passenger seat, blouse still wrinkled from how she’d held you. The ghost of her kiss still clung to your lips, and every now and then you swore you could feel the heat of her thigh between yours, phantom-like. Memory-laced.

It made the distance between you now feel even colder.

You looked out the window. Streetlights dragged golden streaks across the darkened glass. Her scent still clung to you—amber and something deeper. The wine hadn’t even touched your nerves yet. Not enough to smooth the jagged edge inside you that whispered what is this now?

She hadn’t said a word since unlocking the car. Just opened the door, waited for you to slide in, and started the engine. That was it.

Her jaw was tense.

You could see it from the corner of your eye, the way it flexed slightly when she made a sharp turn. Her eyes stayed on the road like it owed her something. You wondered what she was thinking. If she regretted it. If she was already pulling away again.

You didn’t dare ask. Not yet.

The silence wasn’t safe enough for questions.

So you sat there, hands folded too neatly in your lap, heartbeat counting every second she didn’t speak, every street that passed like a mile between your bodies.

She didn’t look at you once. But she hadn’t let you walk away, either.

And that had to mean something.

Didn’t it?

*

The tires whispered against the gravel as she pulled into the driveway, headlights cutting a path through the misty dark. The house emerged like a secret half-remembered—set back from the road, shadowed by a canopy of twisting trees whose branches curled like fingers around the roofline. Old, elegant, and strangely alive, it looked like it had been grown rather than built.

Stone and dark wood, ivy climbing up its sides like veins. The windows glowed faintly gold from within, soft and warm against the night, like a hearth that hadn’t been meant to be shared but might—just might—make an exception.

She killed the engine, and for a moment, neither of you moved.

The quiet pressed in again.

It was heavier here, under the weight of her world. The air smelled like rain-soaked earth and cedar, and something else—older, humming beneath your skin. The kind of silence that didn’t ask for words, but made you feel like you owed them anyway.

Agatha opened her door first, the slam of it too loud in the stillness.

You followed—tentative, hesitant. The gravel crunched underfoot, your blouse still clinging slightly where her hands had once gripped. You felt undone. And yet, somehow, not unwanted.

She walked ahead without looking back. Keys jangling softly in her hand, shoulders stiff beneath her coat. As if she’d brought you here out of instinct and now wasn’t sure what to do with the choice.

The house loomed closer.

It wasn’t just beautiful—it was ancient. A place with memory. The kind of home that carried secrets in its walls and pressed them into the floorboards. Lantern-style lights flanked the doorway, their flickering glow casting long, restless shadows.

Agatha paused at the door.

Not for long. Just long enough to breathe in deep. As if she were bracing herself—for the space she was about to share, for you, for the question of what the hell this even was.

Then the lock clicked open.

The door swung inward, and the warmth from inside poured out. Rich, spiced air. Candlelight. A faint echo of piano music, somewhere deep inside, as if the house had been waiting too.

She stepped in without a word.

And after a heartbeat, so did you.

The door shut behind you with a quiet click, and for a second, you just stood there—your back to the world outside, your eyes adjusting to the low, golden light.

It was… beautiful.

Warm wooden floors stretched beneath thick rugs woven with deep colors. Books lined every available wall, crooked in their shelves, stacked in piles along windowsills and side tables like they’d grown there. The fireplace was lit, casting slow-moving shadows that danced across the room like memories. The whole house smelled of aged wood, clove, and something distinctly Agatha—sharp, heady, a little dangerous.

She moved past you, shrugging off her coat in a way that felt strangely human. A little tired. A little too careful not to look at you for too long.

“This way,” she said simply, her voice quieter now. Less clipped. But still not soft.

You followed her down a narrow hallway, into what must have once been a study. Dark wood, velvet armchairs, more books—of course—but also shelves of glass bottles, curios, and carved objects that felt too intricate, too ancient to name. A decanter of red wine sat waiting on the sideboard, like she’d half-expected this moment and then decided not to.

She poured without asking. Two glasses. Not looking up once.

You took yours when she offered it—fingers brushing, a flash of warmth—and for a moment, you thought she might say something. But she didn’t.

Instead, she crossed to the armchair and lowered herself into it, her body folding with the kind of precision that suggested she needed the motion to have a beginning and an end. As if control was the only thing keeping her steady.

You stood a moment longer, unsure what to do with your hands, your drink, your presence in a house that felt more like her than anywhere else ever could. Then, slowly, you sank into the other chair—across from her, not too close.

Not yet.

For a while, there was only the quiet crackle of the fire and the soft clink of glass as you took your first sip.

She didn’t look at you—not directly. Her gaze stayed fixed somewhere near the flames, eyes distant, like she was trying to make sense of something she couldn’t quite name. You didn’t speak either. It felt like if you did, something might snap—something fragile and delicate that neither of you had admitted existed.

It was strange.

You should’ve felt awkward. You did, a little. But it was layered with something deeper. A mirrored confusion. Like she was feeling the same things in real time but didn’t have the language—or the willingness—to reach for them.

Eventually, she set her glass down. Fingers tapping against the rim once. Then again.

Her voice, when it came, was barely above a murmur. “You don’t know what this is.”

Not a question. Not angry.

Just… a truth.

You swallowed. “Neither do you.”

That made her glance at you—briefly. A flash of something raw and unreadable in her expression. She didn’t argue.

Instead, she leaned back, head tilting slightly to one side, like she was studying you through a lens she didn’t quite trust.

But she didn’t pull away. Didn’t wall herself off. Not completely.

She just… sat there. With you.

Not quite letting her guard down, but not lifting it higher either.

And for now, that was enough.

The silence stretched—not empty, but full. Full of what neither of you had the vocabulary for. You could feel the weight of her gaze now and then, sharp around the edges, then gone again when you dared meet it. She shifted in her chair like the wine glass was heavier than it should be, like the warmth of her own house was too revealing.

The fire snapped softly, casting gold over her profile. You followed the curve of her throat with your eyes, the tension in her jaw. Her fingers tapped the stem of her glass once more before she stilled them deliberately.

“You didn’t have to come,” she said at last. Not cruel. Just… unsure. Cautious, in a way you’d never seen from her before.

“I wanted to.”

The words slipped out too quickly. Too honest. You took another sip to chase them back down.

Agatha didn’t answer. But she looked at you then. Really looked.

Something in her face flickered. Not quite pain. Not quite softness. Like she was weighing the distance between who she wanted to be and who she knew she was. And wondering which of those you were seeing now.

“You should know,” she said after a long moment, almost as if to herself, “I’m not easy.”

You didn’t know what she meant exactly—emotionally, professionally, intimately—but maybe that was the point. Maybe she didn’t know how to define the boundaries between those things anymore. Not with you.

Still, you didn’t flinch. You didn’t run.

Instead, you said quietly, “I never asked you to be.”

Her lips parted like she might respond—but no words came. Her expression pulled tight, unreadable. You saw her fingers twitch slightly on the armrest, like she wanted to reach for something and didn’t know how.

A beat passed.

Then another.

And slowly, Agatha stood.

Your heart tripped over itself, unsure what that meant. She didn’t look angry. But she didn’t look calm either. Her movements were fluid, composed—but laced with something uneasy. Like she wasn’t sure whether to ask you to leave or tell you to stay.

She turned away, setting her untouched glass on the sideboard, spine rigid as the shadows clung to her frame. Her voice, when it came, was quiet. Unsteady in the barest way.

“I don’t usually bring people here.”

You sat perfectly still.

“I didn’t mean to.” She gave a faint, humorless scoff. “And yet.”

You rose slowly from your chair, the warmth of the fire now behind you, casting long shadows across the floor as you stepped forward. Not too close. Just enough that she’d know you hadn’t left.

“I can go,” you offered gently. “If you want me to.”

Her shoulders tensed—but she didn’t turn around.

And then—

“No.” Just that. Barely more than a breath. “No… I don’t want you to.”

Silence again. But something in the air had shifted.

She was still facing away from you, guarded in the way someone is when they’ve already said too much and can’t take it back. But she didn’t move. And neither did you.

There were still no rules here. No clear line between what was right and what was reckless. But in this room, with her shadow against the firelight and your heart beating in your throat—

You sat beside her, not close enough to touch, but not far either. The cushions between you dipped slightly with the shared weight, and the silence stretched out—not uncomfortable, exactly. Just full. Unspoken.

Agatha’s posture was straight, almost stiff, one arm resting along the back of the couch like she wasn’t quite sure how to settle into the moment. Her eyes weren’t on you, but on some middle distance, unfocused. Thinking. Or trying not to.

You stole a glance at her, trying to read something—anything—in the curve of her mouth or the crease between her brows.

Was she regretting this?

Were you?

You folded your hands in your lap, then unfolded them again. The wine still sat untouched on the coffee table, two glasses poured but ignored, catching the soft gleam of the light overhead.

Your fingers inched forward. Not to grab the glass. Just to reach—not dramatically, not insistently. Just… near her.

Your pinky brushed hers on the cushion between you.

She didn’t look at you, didn’t move.

But she didn’t pull away either.

That was something.

Agatha exhaled, not quite a sigh—more like a release of tension she didn’t want you to notice. Her fingers twitched again, almost like she might take your hand. Almost.

She didn’t.

But her knuckles shifted closer. Barely. A breath’s distance.

Agatha’s fingers brushed yours once more, then drew back slowly, like she was weighing the moment against something heavier than just want.

When she finally spoke, her voice was low. Rough around the edges.

“You’re my student.”

“I’m also grown,” you said, your voice steady but not defensive. Just… sure. “Capable of making choices. This is one of them.”

A pause.

Something in Agatha’s jaw flexed. Her eyes searched yours, not with suspicion, but restraint—like she was looking for a reason to stop herself.

You didn’t move. You didn’t push. You just held her gaze and let the quiet between you speak for what your hands and breath and glances already had.

And then she leaned in.

It wasn’t slow.

Agatha surged forward and kissed you like she’d run out of excuses—like your certainty had tipped her past the point of return.

Her hand curled around your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone, and her lips found yours in a kiss that was deep and fierce and molten at the center. You gasped into it—more from the rush of it than surprise—and she swallowed that sound like a secret, like something she wasn’t supposed to want but couldn’t stop claiming.

Her other hand slipped to your waist, not pulling, not demanding—just anchoring. You melted into it without hesitation, your own hand rising to her shoulder, threading into the soft fabric of her coat.

There was no room for doubt. Not in this. Not when her kiss grew rougher, slower, and then softer again—like she didn’t know which version of want was safest to show you.

You kissed her back through all of it.

You didn’t break the kiss when your hand slipped to her thigh—barely brushing, barely asking. But the way Agatha’s breath hitched against your mouth, the way her fingers flexed against your waist, was permission enough.

You shifted.

One knee first, then the other. Slow, cautious. Not shy, but reverent—like you knew exactly how precarious the moment was, how fragile the barrier still between you might be.

Agatha leaned back just slightly, her hands following the curve of your body as you settled into her lap—straddling her, legs bracketing hers on the plush leather seat.

The silence between you burned hotter now. Every breath shared. Every heartbeat felt.

She looked up at you like she wasn’t sure if this was punishment or reward—if she’d conjured you from guilt, or if you were really here, warm and solid and watching her with something that wasn’t pity. Something too close to reverence.

Your hands settled on either side of her jaw, thumbs sweeping the line of her cheekbones.

Still, she didn’t speak.

Maybe couldn’t.

And so you leaned down, slow and certain, pressing your lips to hers again—not like the kiss that had stolen your breath earlier, but something deeper. A little softer. A little more dangerous in its tenderness.

She made a sound against your mouth—half a groan, half a surrender. Her hands gripped your thighs now, grounding herself as your body fit against hers, close in a way that didn’t ask for forgiveness, only presence.

Your forehead touched hers when you pulled back, barely an inch of space left between your lips. Her breath ghosted across your skin.

This close, you could see it—how unraveled she was. The way want warred with something older in her. Fear, maybe. Or doubt. Or the ache of a heart that didn’t know how to be wanted without being used.

But you didn’t say anything.

You just stayed. Anchored in her lap, your fingertips brushing down her neck as if you could soothe the storm inside her with touch alone.

And Agatha—slowly, finally—let her hands roam. One slid up your back, the other rested at your hip, fingers curling in the hem of your blouse.

You shifted in her lap, the press of your thighs firm around hers, the curve of your body molded to the shape of a woman who’d only ever allowed herself to be distant. Untouchable. And yet now—she was all breath and tension beneath you, hands splayed against your hips like she needed to relearn what softness meant through the language of your skin.

The silence between you wasn’t awkward anymore. It pulsed—charged, reverent. A hush carved out of something too sacred to name.

Your lips brushed her cheek first, a featherlight promise. Then her jaw. The slope of her neck. Every kiss you placed was deliberate, like laying down a vow in pieces. Not hurried. Not demanding. Just the truth—told in touches.

Agatha exhaled sharply, head tilting back, throat exposed like an invitation and a warning all at once. Her fingers twitched against your waist, digging in slightly, grounding herself.

You whispered nothing—just pressed your mouth lower, open, languid, until you tasted the warmth of her pulse. Her breath hitched. You felt it beneath your palms—her body strung tight like a wire, every nerve alight beneath your kiss.

She smelled like something dark and expensive, like wine left to breathe, like smoke clinging to silk. And you wanted to drown in it. In her. In this.

Her hand slid up your back, fingers dragging beneath the hem of your blouse, until her palm met bare skin. Warm. Possessive. And trembling just enough to make your stomach clench.

“You’re playing with fire,” she murmured, voice low and ruined—half threat, half plea.

You leaned in, lips ghosting over hers again. Not kissing. Just hovering. Breathing her in.

“Then burn me.”

That undid her.

Agatha surged up to meet you, mouth crashing into yours with bruising heat—nothing tentative now, nothing held back. Her kiss was hungry, devouring, as if she could consume the ache she’d spent too long ignoring. Her tongue slid against yours, slow and claiming, and you moaned into her mouth, helpless to do anything but fall.

Her hands cupped your thighs, dragging you closer, until your hips aligned in a rhythm that made your breath stutter. The seam of your blouse tugged against your ribs as she gripped the fabric like she wanted to tear it, but didn’t. Not yet.

You felt her start to pull away—not fully, not all at once, but in the way her hands faltered against your skin. The kiss that had been fire and hunger just moments ago softened, lost its rhythm. Her lips lingered on yours like they were trying to remember why they ever touched at all.

Then she stilled beneath you.

You didn’t move. You stayed right there, seated in her lap, your hands at the collar of her blouse and your forehead resting against hers, breath catching in the fragile space between you.

“Agatha…” you whispered.

She closed her eyes tightly.

The silence stretched long, painful. The warmth of her skin still clung to yours, but she was retreating in the way only someone truly wounded could—slowly, quietly, like pulling a curtain over something that had almost bloomed.

“This is a mistake,” she murmured, more to herself than to you.

You didn’t recoil. You didn’t flinch. You reached up instead, brushing her temple with your fingertips like the touch alone might ground her.

“It doesn’t feel like one,” you said gently.

Her jaw clenched. “You don’t know what this is.”

You leaned back just enough to look at her. Really look. The moonlight pooled across her cheekbones, catching the faintest tremble in her lips, the faintest flicker of doubt in her eyes.

“I know what it isn’t,” you said. “It’s not manipulation. It’s not ambition. It’s not pretend.”

Her throat worked as she swallowed, hard. You saw it then, the crack behind the steel—where fear lived, dressed in the memory of something long past.

“You remind me of someone,” she said softly. And then, bitter: “She said the same things. Soft words. Eager hands. Eyes full of stars and promise.” She paused. “And when she got what she needed, she left. She published.”

You felt like the breath had been knocked from your lungs—not from guilt, but from the weight of her hurt.

“Agatha… I’m not her.”

Her eyes snapped to yours—sharp, searching, hungry for proof she couldn’t ask for aloud.

“I’m not her,” you repeated, steadier now. “I don’t want your name on my thesis. I don’t want access. I want you.”

She laughed—but it wasn’t cruel. It was small. Hollow. “You say that now.”

“I’ll say it tomorrow,” you said, quieter. “And the day after. And whenever you forget.”

You didn’t kiss her again. You didn’t move closer. You just let your hand rest over hers, warm and still. Waiting.

Agatha stared down at your fingers, the quiet interlacing of palms and skin. For a long moment, she didn’t say anything.

And then finally, in a voice so fragile it barely felt like hers:

“I don’t know how to do this anymore.”

You squeezed her hand gently. “That’s okay. We’re not doing anything yet. We’re just… here.”

For once, she didn’t argue.

She leaned into your touch again. Not with passion this time. With trust.

With exhaustion.

With a quiet kind of wanting that felt more honest than anything she’d said.

You stayed there, in the silence, forehead to forehead, as the world outside drifted further away.

No roles. No performances.

The silence thickened again, but it wasn’t brittle now—it was warm, suspended, held gently between you like breath on a mirror. Her free hand rose, not with hunger this time, but with care. Fingertips brushed the side of your jaw, lingered there, tracing the faint curve of your cheek.

Her touch was featherlight. Almost reverent.

And then—finally—her gaze met yours again.

Not sharp. Not unreadable. Just tired. And exposed. And so, so human.

You leaned in first.

Not to kiss her.

Just to press your forehead to hers again, barely touching, close enough to feel the heat of her skin and the tremble in her breath. One of your hands curled instinctively at her waist, grounding both of you as her fingers tangled—gently this time—in the hem of your blouse.

It wasn’t desire.

Not right now.

It was something far more dangerous. Far more real.

After a long pause, your voice came—soft, barely more than a whisper. “I don’t… I don’t really know how to do this either.”

You swallowed hard, eyes searching hers for a flicker of understanding. “Being open. Letting someone in. It feels like standing on the edge of something I can’t control.”

Her hands tightened just slightly on your waist, a quiet anchor. No words, but the gesture said she knew.

You bit your lip, unsure if you should say more. “Sometimes I think I’m better off keeping everything locked away. It’s safer that way.”

The truth trembled on your tongue, fragile and raw. “But then… I think about what it might be like if I didn’t.”

You exhaled slowly, meeting her gaze steadily. “If I let someone see me—not just the parts that are easy, but all of it.”

Her eyes softened, vulnerability flickering behind their usual guarded edge.

Before you could say anything, Agatha’s fingers curled around your jaw, tilting your face up. Her lips brushed yours—soft at first, almost hesitant, like she was afraid of what she might find on the other side.

But then, the hesitation shattered.

Her kiss deepened, firm and demanding, pulling you closer until the world outside the room vanished. Your body responded on instinct, pressing into hers, your hands threading into the dark strands of her hair as if to anchor yourself.

It wasn’t loud or messy—just a slow burn of shared breath and quiet promises neither of you dared speak aloud.

Her breath was warm against your lips when the kiss broke, but she didn’t pull away. Not completely. Her hand lingered at the nape of your neck, as if holding you there—like letting go might undo whatever fragile thread had just woven between you.

You leaned into her palm, heart hammering in your chest, not from desire but from something far more dangerous: hope.

Her eyes opened slowly. Searching. Quiet. And then—

A sharp knock at the door.

You both froze.

Not a sound from either of you, not even breath.

Another knock. Louder this time.

Agatha’s fingers slipped from your skin like a spell unraveling. Her jaw tightened.

“Stay here,” she said under her breath, already rising.

But the look she gave you over her shoulder as she crossed the room—unreadable, shadowed—felt like the beginning of something, or the edge of an ending.

And you had no idea which it would be.

Chapter Text

Agatha had disappeared into the hallway without a word.

The soft click of her shoes echoed briefly on the old hardwood, swallowed by the silence that followed. You were still on the couch, heartbeat pressing sharp against your ribs, blouse half-buttoned and lips tingling from the last kiss she’d given you.

You rose on instinct, your feet moving before you could stop them. Past the fireplace, past the shelf lined with antique texts and oddly shaped glass vials. Her home—so curated, so closed off—had suddenly become a stranger’s space. You kept to the edge of the wall, careful not to step into sight. Just far enough that you could hear.

“…should’ve known you’d come uninvited,” Agatha’s voice snapped, tighter than you’d ever heard it. “That’s always been your style.”

The responding voice was female. Familiar, somehow. Smooth like polished stone, but with that same brittle undercurrent you’d heard in Agatha before she broke.

“You’re not exactly easy to reach. I was starting to wonder if you’d changed your name again.”

Silence. Then:

“What do you want, Rio?”

Rio.

Even whispered, the name landed in your chest like ice water. The same one Agatha had mentioned in passing weeks ago. You remembered the strange change in her face when she said it—like the name alone curdled the air.

You pressed yourself against the wall, heart hammering, every instinct screaming at you to stay quiet and hidden. The air felt thick, suffocating—as if the weight of what was said, and unsaid, was settling into the very stones.

Agatha’s voice cracked then, a sharp edge of anger bleeding into her tone. “Don’t play coy with me. I know exactly what you’re doing.”

There was a long pause. Then a sigh, slow and almost tired, followed by a voice that seemed to challenge, “You still think you can control the narrative?”

The reply was cold, a hiss barely contained: “I’m not interested in your version of the story anymore. Not tonight. Not with you.”

There was a beat. Rio’s laugh, soft and venomous, slipped past the threshold.

The door opened just a sliver wider, and the tension between them pressed in the narrow space, thick and almost suffocating. Agatha’s eyes were fierce, storm-dark and unyielding, fixed like twin daggers on Rio.
“Leave. Now.”

Rio’s lips curved into a slow, deliberate smile—one that didn’t reach her eyes, but that carried a dangerous promise all the same.
“Do you really think it’s that simple?” she said, voice smooth, deliberately slow, as if savoring the moment. “You lock the door and pretend you’re in control. But Agatha, I know the corridors you’ve wandered. The things you’ve buried deep inside.”

She stepped closer, the scent of her perfume sharp and invasive, and lowered her voice into a chilling whisper.
“You think you can erase the past? Rewrite the story? I’m not just some shadow you can sweep away. I’m part of the foundation you built yourself. And foundations, no matter how old or cracked, can crumble.”

Agatha’s breath hitched, but her expression remained composed, hard as iron forged in a tempest. The muscles in her neck twitched, but she said nothing.

Rio’s eyes glinted, calculating, as she pressed on with a quiet menace.
“You want to keep pretending you’re the one who controls the narrative? Fine. Climb higher if you must. But the higher you rise, the farther the fall. And when that day comes…”

Her voice dropped to a bare murmur, thick with threat.
“I’ll be waiting.”

Agatha’s hand slammed the door shut with a sharp crack, the sound echoing down the empty hallway. Her back hit the wood, shoulders tense as if bracing against an invisible weight.

The silence that followed was absolute—no footsteps, no breath, just the low hum of the university night seeping through the walls. But inside, the storm raged. Quiet, dangerous, a pulse beneath her skin that refused to calm.

*

The soft scrape of footsteps drew closer, and you braced yourself. Agatha appeared in the doorway, her face unreadable, sharp-edged. The exhaustion had hardened into something colder now — a barrier firmly raised.

Her eyes flicked over you once, cool and detached, as if you were just another piece on a chessboard. She said nothing at first, and the silence between you grew heavier with each second.

Then, without meeting your gaze, she settled onto the arm of the sofa. Her posture was rigid, defensive — arms folded, shoulders tense. She didn’t reach out. Didn’t soften. The warmth that had lingered earlier was gone, replaced by a hard, brittle distance.

Agatha’s gaze flicked up, sharp and unreadable. Her voice dropped, flat and clipped, the warmth from moments ago completely gone.

“I’ve ordered a taxi for you,” she said, not bothering to meet your eyes. “It’ll be here soon.”

No softness. No hesitation. Just the stark finality of someone who’s already put the distance between you both.

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift. The warmth you’d felt moments ago was gone, replaced by a wall of cold distance that slammed into you like a gust of winter wind.

“A taxi?” you whispered, voice barely steady. You hadn’t expected this. Not after everything. Not after how close you’d been.

She didn’t bother to explain. Instead, she glanced briefly toward the door, then back at you, her eyes cold and unreadable. “It’s best if you leave.”

Your chest tightened, but you didn’t speak.

Agatha paced a slow circle, hands clenched at her sides, jaw tight. When she finally faced you again, her voice was low, almost brittle. “I don’t want this here. Not tonight. Not like this.”

You opened your mouth, searching for words, but she cut you off with a harsh wave.

“Don’t misunderstand. I’m not here to make this easier for you. Or for myself.”

Her gaze sharpened, cutting through the silence like a blade. “You came here willingly. But now it’s time to go.”

The words landed with weight, final and unyielding. The space between you felt cavernous.

A tightness clenched your chest — a bitter knot of confusion and hurt. After all that had passed between you, the quiet moments and the closeness, this sharp dismissal cut deeper than you expected. It wasn’t just the coldness; it was the feeling, creeping and unwelcome, that maybe you’d been nothing more than a distraction. A fleeting impulse Agatha regretted.

Your hands trembled slightly as you smoothed down your blouse, trying to steady the swell of emotions rising in your throat. The air between you thickened with everything left unsaid.

You glanced up at her, voice sharper than you intended but raw and honest anyway. “So that’s it? After everything, I’m just… supposed to leave? Like I’m some mistake you want to erase?”

Agatha’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t look away. “I’m not here to explain myself.”

“Is that what this is?” you snapped, stepping closer despite the chill in her gaze. “Some kind of punishment? You don’t want me here, so you push me out?”

Her eyes flickered with something unspoken—frustration, regret, maybe even fear. “You don’t get to decide what I want.”

“I’m not the one deciding anything,” you said, voice trembling but fierce.

For a moment, neither of you moved. The tension hung heavy, a fragile thread stretched to its breaking point.

You turned back toward her, eyes burning. “That’s it then? You get to kiss me like that and then pretend none of it happened? Just… shove me out the door like I imagined it?”

Agatha’s arms stayed folded, but her jaw tensed. “You don’t get to speak to me that way.”

“Oh?” Your voice sharpened. “Why not? Because you’re my professor?”

Something in her posture shifted—shoulders tight, spine stiff.

You pushed forward, voice lowering. “Funny how that didn’t seem to matter half an hour ago.”

Her mouth opened, then shut again. She looked away, like she could will the moment into silence. But the fire was already lit.

You took another step, not backing down. “Or does that only apply when I’m sitting in your seminar and keeping my distance? When I’m quiet and obedient and useful.”

“That’s enough,” she said—sharp, but not loud.

A hollow carved out in your chest, deep and sudden, like falling through a floor you didn’t know was rotten.

“Unbelievable,” you said under your breath, shaking your head. “You make me feel like I was… like I mattered. And now—”

“I didn’t ask for this,” she snapped.

“No, but you took it,” you replied, your voice finally breaking. “You let it happen. You kissed me.”

Something flickered in her eyes again. But she said nothing. Her silence screamed.

Your chest ached, throat closing in around words you didn’t dare speak. If you stayed any longer, you’d say something that would shatter both of you.

So you turned.

The room blurred around the edges as you grabbed your coat—too quickly, hands shaking, breath uneven.

“Don’t,” came her voice.

You didn’t stop.

You reached for the handle—but before your fingers could curl around it, the door slammed shut with a solid thud.

Agatha’s palm was flat against the wood, barring it from opening.

You froze.

“Where are you going?” she asked, voice low. Rough. Unsteady in a way you’d never heard before.

You didn’t turn to face her. “Away from you,” you muttered, the words bitter on your tongue. “What else is there to do?”

She didn’t move. “I wasn’t finished talking.”

“Well, I am,” you snapped, trying to pull the door again—but her hand didn’t budge. “What do you want from me, Agatha? You push me away, then stop me from leaving?”

“Because I didn’t mean—” Her breath hitched. She paused. “Not like that.”

Finally, you turned to face her. And the look on your face made her flinch.

“I don’t care how you meant it,” you said, quieter now, but no less fierce. “You don’t get to kiss me and make me feel seen—really seen—and then turn around and act like I’m just some mistake. I’m not some… fucking moment of weakness you get to sweep under the rug.”

Your voice broke again, thick with heat and shame and something far more dangerous: hope. Hope you had let yourself believe in, even for a second.

She stared at you. Jaw tight. Eyes dark. But there was no coldness in them now—only something twisted and afraid. She opened her mouth, but you beat her to it.

“You don’t get to make me feel used and then pretend like I’m the one who misunderstood.”

The words echoed between you like something sacred and broken.

“I didn’t use you,” she said at last, softly. Fiercely.

You laughed—small, sharp, disbelieving. “Then what would you call it?”

Agatha’s hand slipped from the door.

But you didn’t move.

And neither did she.

The space between you was thin now—crowded with breath and pain and all the things you hadn’t dared say out loud. Not yet.

“I came here because I wanted to,” you said. “Not because I wanted something from you. Not power. Not grades. Not reputation. Just you.”

She swallowed hard.

“And now…” You looked at her—really looked. “Now I don’t even know if I was ever anything more than convenient.”

Her gaze swept over you, slow and searching, like she was memorizing you—like if she looked long enough, she might rewrite whatever this was into something simpler. Something safer.

Then she stepped closer.

Not in a rush. Not like a woman hungry or sure of herself. But like she was walking across thin ice and didn’t know how deep the water ran beneath it.

She stopped just in front of you.

The air changed.

You felt the warmth of her body before her hands ever found your skin. Felt the storm in her stillness.

Her fingers came up—hesitating in the space between your chin and your collar, as if asking permission without speaking it aloud. And when they finally touched your jaw, they did so like they were cradling something breakable.

Her thumb dragged faintly along your cheek. Slow. Testing. Reverent. She was trembling, just barely—but enough to make you still.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she murmured.
“Like what?” you whispered.

Her eyes flicked to yours, and for the first time all night, the mask she wore truly slipped.

“Like you see me,” she said.

And then she leaned in.

Her breath ghosted over your lips, not quite touching. Her eyes never left yours. She was so close you could smell the faint smoke on her skin, the hint of perfume that clung to the collar of her blouse—something heady and dark, like dried rose petals and ash.

Her mouth tilted toward yours—slow, uncertain, aching.

And that’s when you turned your face.

Just enough.

Not to hurt.

Just to stop.

Just to ask: What are you really doing, Agatha?

She froze—like the shift in your breath had cut through her.

Her breath caught. It wasn’t a gasp, but something sharper. Like the recoil of someone burned not by flame, but by something that looked like warmth until it wasn’t.

You kept your voice steady, but it was an effort. “This kiss isn’t going to fix anything.”

The space between you filled with stillness.

“I’m leaving,” you said, quietly. “Like you asked.”

Her brow knit, just slightly. The first crack in the mask. “The taxi’s not here yet.”

You stepped back.

“I can find my own way home.”

She stiffened—not visibly, but in a way you felt, like the magic in the room shifted temperature. Like something in her was bracing for an impact she hadn’t prepared for.

Agatha Harkness didn’t do panic.

But she did silence. And this silence? It screamed.

She looked at you like she wanted to reach out. Her fingers twitched at her sides, curled and uncertain. You’d seen those hands command storms, split spells like ribbon. But now, they didn’t move.

“Wait,” she said, too fast. Her voice tripped slightly on the word like it wasn’t something she’d planned to say. “You shouldn’t just—”

“You don’t get to do that,” you cut in, your own voice rising without warning. “You don’t get to shut me out and then change your mind when I’m halfway out the door.”

Her lips parted like she meant to respond. But nothing came.

You swallowed. The ache in your throat was thick, rising.

“You don’t want me here, remember? That’s what you said.”

She closed her eyes. Just for a second. As if your words were knives she’d let hit her without trying to deflect.

Your hands fumbled slightly with your scarf. You hated that you were trembling. That she could still make you shake even now.

You opened the door. Cool air filtered in, brushing past your ankles.

Her voice came softer this time, behind you. “You shouldn’t walk alone. Let me—”

“I’m fine,” you said, not cruelly, just done.

And then you stepped out into the night.

Not slamming the door. Just… closing it.

Leaving her in the hallway, hands half-lifted like she’d meant to stop you and forgot how.

Not a goodbye.

Just an end to the moment.

For now.

*

Down the steps. Across the garden path. Past the streetlamp with its flickering halo. No drama, no final glance over your shoulder. Just the sound of your own footsteps, clipped and steady, echoing into the quiet dark.

The cold bit at your fingertips. Your coat wasn’t enough—not really. But it felt too late to care about that now. You kept walking.

Your breath fanned out in pale ribbons ahead of you. The street stretched long and empty, houses dim behind heavy curtains, the occasional window glowing golden with someone else’s simpler life. You wondered, briefly, how they’d gotten it so right. Or if they had.

A car passed in the distance. Somewhere, a dog barked once, then stopped. The air smelled of chimney smoke and wet stone. Every house you passed looked asleep. Curtains drawn. Porches unlit. The world had closed in on itself, but you were still moving through it, alone.

Your jaw ached from holding it too tight.

Somewhere behind your ribs, the hurt simmered. Not sharp. Not even fresh anymore. Just… low and lingering, like the aftermath of something you didn’t want to name. Like something pulled out of you too early, left exposed.

You walked faster.

Your shoulder brushed against the occasional bush or fence post, and you didn’t bother correcting your stride. It didn’t matter. None of it did.

Your eyes burned, but no tears came.

Not here.

Not out where anyone could see.

Then—

Footsteps.

You heard them before you felt them. Soft, deliberate. The hush of soles on damp pavement. They matched your pace at first. Then slowed.

You didn’t turn.

Didn’t break stride.

The rhythm of the steps changed—closer now. Not hurried, but insistent. Like the person behind you already knew you’d try to outrun whatever this was.

A car passed again, headlights flashing briefly across the pavement ahead, catching the sheen of damp concrete. You caught a glimpse of your own shadow and… another.

Slender. Tall.

Still, you didn’t look.

But your pulse did.

It climbed higher in your throat, thudding against your ribs with every measured step.

You turned the corner sharply, hoping—stupidly—that it would shake her.

But the click of her heels followed, echoing off narrow brick walls and shuttered windows.

And then, just as the street opened wider and the wind cut harsher through your coat—

The footsteps stopped.

You paused, not because you wanted to, but because your legs did. Because something about the sudden stillness behind you made your whole body listen.

Another breath. Two.

Then:

“Walking home in the dark?” came her voice at last, low and unmistakable. “That’s your plan?”

The voice wasn’t loud, but it didn’t need to be.

Low. Smooth. Edged with something she hadn’t meant to show.

It wasn’t a plea.

It wasn’t an apology.

But it wasn’t nothing, either.

You stayed facing forward. The night pressed close against your cheeks. Somewhere nearby, a windchime rattled gently—thin and hollow.

She didn’t move.

Didn’t speak again.

And maybe it was that restraint—so unlike her usual sharpness—that cracked something deeper.

But still, you didn’t turn.

You only whispered, “Go home, Agatha.”

A beat.

Then: “No.”

The word barely reached you—soft as it was—but it landed with weight.

You closed your eyes for a moment. Your breath ghosted in the cold, uneven.

The street was empty, still.

A shutter clattered somewhere above you, nudged by wind. You didn’t move. Neither did she.

Then, behind you, the sound of her coat shifting. A step—just one. Careful. As though even now she wasn’t sure how close she was allowed to come.

“You shouldn’t be out here alone,” she said finally, and the restraint in her voice made your throat tighten.

You let out a hollow breath. “I’ve been alone for a long time.”

Agatha didn’t respond—not right away. The quiet stretched between you again. But it wasn’t the kind that felt peaceful. It was the kind that pried.

When she spoke, it was quieter than before. “You weren’t meant to leave like that.”

That broke something.

You turned—slow, deliberate—until her face came into view, half-lit by a streetlamp. Her hair was undone from earlier, strands catching the breeze. Her expression was unreadable, but not cold. Not now. Just… taut. Like every word she didn’t say was sitting behind her teeth.

“Then how was I meant to leave?” you asked, voice hoarse. “Because the last thing I remember is you making it very clear that I wasn’t wanted.”

Agatha flinched, barely—but you saw it.

And still, she stepped forward. Just enough to be near. Not touching.

Her voice came low, controlled. “That’s not what I meant.”

You shook your head, bitter at how much the ache swelled again. “Then maybe you should’ve said anything else. Because that was the moment I stopped trying to believe there was more to this than just… whatever it was to you.”

A breath. Agatha looked away, jaw working. “I didn’t know what to say.”

“That’s convenient,” you muttered.

Her eyes snapped back to yours. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Put words in my mouth just because I couldn’t find them fast enough.”

You stared at her. The tiredness in her voice. The anger. The fear, maybe—though she’d never call it that.

Then, quieter, almost an afterthought:
“I was afraid.”

That stopped you.

Not because it was unexpected—no, some part of you knew. But hearing her say it… that was different.

Agatha stepped closer. Her voice was rough now, stripped of precision. “You’re not a mistake. You’re not a distraction. But if you need to walk away, then do it. Just don’t pretend it’s because I didn’t care.”

You blinked once. Twice.

The wind tugged at your coat. At her sleeve. The space between you narrowed to a breath.

You looked at her and saw the exhaustion behind her sharpness. The weight of something unspoken pressing down from years ago, not just tonight.

You stepped away, your heels clicking sharply against the empty street. The cold wrapped around you, tightening like a cage, but you kept moving—away from the weight of her words, away from everything tangled between you.

The night air bit at your cheeks, the quiet pressing in with every step. Your breath came shallow, uneven, as if you were holding something back, something too fragile to let go just yet.

Slowly, your pace faltered. The space ahead seemed uncertain, the street twisting unfamiliar and endless. You stopped, heart thudding too loudly, and the stillness around you became unbearable.

Without fully realizing it, you turned.

There she was—still standing where you’d left her, under the dim glow of the streetlamp. Not moving. Not calling out. Just waiting, quiet and steady.

The silence stretched between you, thick and unyielding. The street around you seemed to hold its breath, as if waiting for something neither of you was ready to say.

Slowly, Agatha took a step forward, then another. Her movements were tentative, cautious—like she was testing the distance, unsure if you’d let her close. She didn’t want to push. Not yet.

Agatha stood there, just a few feet away now, her posture guarded but her eyes soft. She didn’t say anything at first. Instead, she folded her hands loosely in front of her, as if gathering strength.

Then, finally, her voice broke the silence—low, careful. “I’m sorry.”

No excuses. No defenses. Just those two words, plain and bare, hanging in the cold air between you.

You didn’t answer right away. The ache inside you twisted—part relief, part frustration.

Agatha took another small step, slowly closing the gap, but still keeping enough space that you could turn and walk away if you needed to.

“I don’t expect you to forgive me,” she said quietly. “Not yet. But I couldn’t let you go without saying that.”

After a moment, she exhaled, barely a whisper.
“I’m just not good at this.”

The admission hung in the air, fragile and real. It wasn’t a plea, or a justification. It was something much more honest—an acknowledgment of her own flaws, of the walls she built, and the distance she kept.

You looked at her, serious, the weight of everything you’d seen and felt in her presence pressing gently on your chest.
“I can tell.”

There was no mockery in your voice, no bitterness. Just truth.

And then, despite everything, despite the ache and the uncertainty, the barest hint of a smile cracked through your expression—a small, quiet thing.

Agatha caught it, the corner of your mouth lifting, and you could see the tension in her shoulders ease, just a little. Relief flickered in her eyes, subtle but unmistakable, as if for the first time in a while, she was allowed to just be imperfect in front of you.

You just stood there beneath the buzz of the streetlamp, coats rustling faintly in the breeze, the night folding in around the edges of your silhouettes.

Agatha glanced down at her hands, then back up, and there was something almost tentative in her voice when she asked, “Do you want me to walk you back?”

It wasn’t a question laced with intent. Not a trick. Just… unsure. Like she didn’t expect you to say yes.

You didn’t answer right away.

Instead, you studied her—the faint furrow between her brows, the way her fingers twitched like they wanted something to hold but wouldn’t dare reach. You thought about the space between everything she’d said and everything she hadn’t. And then you thought about the silence that might follow if you told her no.

So you tilted your head slightly. “Is that your way of asking me not to leave again?”

Her lips parted, startled—but she didn’t look away.

“Maybe,” she said. “Or maybe I’m just trying to do something right tonight.”

You held her gaze for a beat longer, then stepped back—not far, just enough to let the air move between you again.

“Okay,” you said simply, turning in the direction you came. “Walk with me.”

Agatha blinked. Then followed.

A few steps into the silence, as your footsteps fell into an uneven but shared rhythm, you felt her presence shift—closer, not pressing. Her hand brushed yours, barely a whisper of contact. Not accidental.

You glanced sideways. She was looking ahead, not at you, her jaw tight like the offer cost something to make.

And then—slowly, like she was bracing for you to pull away—her fingers opened just enough to show the shape of a question.

She didn’t say anything.

She didn’t have to.

Your hand hovered for a second, heart in your throat. Then you let your fingers slip between hers. No pressure. No claim. Just… there.

Agatha exhaled like she hadn’t meant to hold her breath, like your answer steadied something in her. Her thumb shifted slightly against your knuckle, tentative, warm.

Neither of you said a word.

Chapter Text

The silence between you wasn’t heavy.

It lingered like the mist curling around the streetlamps—soft, watchful, not quite gone.

You didn’t speak as you walked beside her, your hand still resting in hers. It wasn’t tight, that grip. Just steady. Anchoring. Like she was trying not to startle what little trust had returned.

And yet, every so often, you felt her thumb brush against your knuckles—absently, maybe. Or deliberately. You weren’t sure.

You kept your eyes forward for the most part, watching the way the fog clung to the gutters, how the light from the high windows hit the pavement in uneven slants. But now and then, you glanced at her.

Each time you did, she wasn’t looking at you.

But you could tell she had been, just before.

You wondered what she saw.
If the crack in your voice from earlier still echoed in her ears.
If the slight smile—unwilling and quiet—had stayed with her like it stayed with you.

She hadn’t said much since then. Just your name, once.
Soft. Almost reverent.
Like she was still tasting the shape of it after losing the right to speak it aloud.

Her house appeared at the end of the street—dark brick, iron gate, windows that blinked dimly with the passing clouds.

She slowed.

So did you.

By the time the door stood before you, she let your hand slip free—not abrupt, just cautious—and turned the key.

You caught the faintest twitch in her jaw. A tension she hadn’t quite managed to bury.
And for a breath, she just… held the door open. Looking at you like she didn’t know if you’d actually come inside.

You stepped past her.

She followed.

The air inside was warm, familiar, laced with bergamot and something herbal and woodsmoke-deep. The light was low—nothing harsh. Just the dim flicker from a shaded lamp near the hallway mirror.

Your coat joined hers on the hook by the door. The soft thud of boots on the rug beneath you.

Then, quiet again.

Until—

“I put the kettle on before I left.”

She said it lightly, but you heard the thread of nerves beneath it. Not quite shame. Not quite hope. Something stranger.

Maybe she didn’t expect you to say yes.

Maybe part of her still didn’t expect you to be here at all.

The lights were low, just the glow of two amber sconces along the wall and the faint hum of the kettle beginning to warm. Her kitchen was timeless, somehow. Dark wood, a stone counter worn soft at the edges. A few books stacked under a windowsill, a mug still drying by the sink.

“Take a seat,” she murmured, nodding toward the armchair by the hearth. She didn’t wait for you to answer—just opened a cupboard, pulled down two mismatched mugs with the ease of ritual.

You hesitated, then sat—tension still coiled beneath your ribs.

The shared warmth and quiet intimacy of the evening now wove itself together with an undercurrent you hadn’t felt before—a touch of awkwardness, a delicate shadow of unhealed hurt. As Agatha’s eyes flickered up to meet yours after your tender, sincere confession, you detected an uncertainty that went beyond the playful banter you’d just shared. In that moment, the gentle glow of the candlelight seemed to reveal more than just her immediate softness. There was something transient and raw beneath it—a mingling of hope and regret, and the faint echo of last time when things had gone awry.

A sudden heaviness, almost imperceptible, settled between you. With every silent beat, you remembered that previous parting—the time when her guarded distance had shifted abruptly into a betrayal of the trust you’d begun to rebuild. It wasn’t as if she had meant to hurt you, but the carelessness of her gesture left a lingering ache. The recollection was sharp: a careless glance, a hasty retreat, the kind of gentle dismissal that had left your heart in a precarious state, unsure if it could ever fully let its guard down again.

The fire had long since gone out, but the lingering heat in the brickwork made the room feel lived-in, close. You glanced down at your hands, unsure what to do with them. You were still wearing your coat, damp at the hem from brushing against hedges on your way out.

A quiet rustle behind you, and then:

“You’ll catch cold.”

You looked up. Agatha stood just behind the chair now, her expression unreadable—but her arms were full of something soft. One of her jumpers. The navy one, worn loose and long in the sleeves. She held it out—not insistently. Just… open.

You blinked.

And took it.

The wool was warm from her hands. Faintly scented like her too—firewood and something more distant, harder to name. You pulled it on slowly. The jumper swallowed you a little at the wrists. You didn’t fix it.

Agatha said nothing. Just watched you a moment longer, then turned back to pour the tea.

For a stretch of heartbeats, the only sound was the quiet clink of ceramic, the hiss of water, and your own breathing—slowing, steadying, but still not quite calm.

When she handed you the mug, your fingers brushed. Light. Barely.

There was something quiet in the way she watched you—like she was seeing you anew, tracing a line of thought she wasn’t ready to voice. A small, almost imperceptible tightening at the corner of her mouth. The slightest lift in her eyebrows, like a question you weren’t meant to answer just yet.

You felt a flicker of heat beneath her gaze. Not the bold kind—something more fragile. Like this moment was as much about holding onto you as it was about letting you go.

“I like it,” she said softly, voice low enough to almost disappear into the hum of the kettle. “On you.”

You shifted, the wool pulling against your skin. You met her eyes then, steady and unguarded.

“I can tell,” you said, a small smile breaking free despite yourself.

She looked away first, cheeks flushing faintly in the dim light, but the relief in her stance was unmistakable. That little crack in her armor you hadn’t seen before.

You both sat at the small kitchen table, the steaming cups of tea warming your hands in the quiet space between you. The dim light from the single overhead bulb softened the edges of the room, making everything feel a little less sharp, a little less real—like you were suspended in some fragile moment outside time.

Agatha’s gaze kept flickering toward you, hesitant and searching, but she never quite met your eyes for long. Instead, she traced the rim of her cup with a finger, as if the motion could steady her nerves.

You took a slow sip, letting the warmth spread through you before finally breaking the silence. “You don’t have to keep up that guard all the time.”

Her shoulders twitched, almost imperceptibly, as if that simple sentence had caught her off guard. “I’m not good at this,” she admitted, voice low.

“I can tell,” you said again, a small smile tugging at your lips.

She looked away, cheeks dusted with a faint flush. “It’s… easier to keep things at a distance.”

You met her gaze then, steady and soft. “But sometimes distance just feels like loneliness dressed up as strength.”

Her eyes darkened, reflecting the weight of years you could only guess at. For a moment, the vulnerability you’d glimpsed before cracked open wider, and she let out a breath you didn’t know she’d been holding.

The room was quiet again, save for the faint whistle of the kettle cooling on the stove.

You reached out, lightly brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear, the gesture careful and gentle, like you were testing the waters.

She didn’t pull away.

Instead, she blinked, a small, almost imperceptible smile breaking through her usual guarded expression.

You let the silence stretch between you, the warmth of the tea grounding you both. Your fingers traced absent patterns on the rim of your cup, stealing a glance at Agatha. Her eyes were soft now, the earlier tension melting into something quieter, more tender.

She cleared her throat, a small hesitation in her voice. “Are you hungry?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “I—maybe a little,” you admitted, the sudden normalcy of the question surprising after everything that had passed.

Agatha shook her head, a faint smile playing on her lips. “Okay, I’ll order something. I’m terrible at cooking anyway.”

You glanced at her, a spark in your eyes. “Do you have any ingredients at least? Maybe I can whip something up.”

She hesitated, then nodded slowly. “A few things. Not much.”

You stood, stretching your arms. “Good. I’ll cook then. It’s been a while since I’ve had a reason to.”

Agatha’s gaze lingered on you—quiet, sharp, maybe even a little amused. There was something in the way you took charge, that calm confidence, that she found… unexpectedly attractive. But she said nothing, just watched you move, the warmth in the room shifting ever so slightly.

You moved to the small kitchen with easy confidence, pulling open the fridge and cupboards. Agatha settled back at the table, her eyes quietly following your every move like a spell that wouldn’t break.

You started with something simple—fresh vegetables, some herbs. Nothing fancy, but carefully chosen, something wholesome. You washed the leaves of spinach, chopped tomatoes and garlic with swift, practiced hands. The knife tapped softly against the cutting board, a rhythm that somehow filled the quiet space between you.

Agatha watched, her gaze darkening ever so slightly. The way your fingers deftly worked the knife, the way your brow furrowed in concentration, the subtle curve of your lips as you tasted the sauce—each little detail made something stir inside her. It wasn’t just admiration; it was something warmer, sharper, more magnetic.

You hummed softly as you cooked with a casual grace that spoke of familiarity with the kitchen—maybe a memory, or a habit born from necessity. Agatha’s breath hitched the first time your hand brushed the counter close to where she sat, the contact electric even though it was just a ghost of a touch.

She cleared her throat, trying to sound indifferent but failing. “You’re… very good at this.”

You glanced back, catching her watching you, and gave a small, knowing smile. “I’m full of surprises.”

She shifted in her seat, the candlelight casting flickering shadows on her face, highlighting the way her eyes darkened as she watched you move, so alive and sure.

There was a tension now in the room, quiet but unmistakable. A heat that didn’t come from the stove or the tea cups on the table.

Agatha rose from her chair, the movement smooth but deliberate. She approached the small counter where you’d just finished plating, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully as she studied the food.

“What kind of wine do you think would go with this?” she asked, voice low and careful, as if testing the waters between you.

You looked up, meeting her gaze. “Something light. A crisp white, maybe. Sauvignon Blanc or a dry Riesling.”

Agatha moved toward the small wine rack tucked beside the fridge, her fingers tracing the spines of bottles as if weighing each one silently. She pulled out a slender bottle of crisp white, its label worn but elegant, and carried it back to the counter.

With a practiced twist, she popped the cork, the soft pop breaking the quiet. The scent of citrus and green apple spilled out, filling the kitchen with a fresh, inviting aroma. She poured slowly, the wine catching the flicker of candlelight as it swirled in the glass.

You watched her—the way her brows knit in concentration, the faint curve of her lips as she savored the scent before taking a tentative sip. Agatha’s gaze met yours again, the usual sharpness softened, shadows and warmth pooling in her dark eyes.

Holding out the glass, she offers it to you with a small, almost shy smile. “For you,” she says softly, her voice low and careful, like she’s navigating something fragile between you.

You take the glass, fingers brushing briefly against hers. The contact sends a small pulse of warmth through your skin.

Agatha lingers there for a moment, watching you as if waiting for permission to stay, or maybe to say more. The flickering candlelight plays over her face, casting her features in a soft, inviting glow.

You take a slow sip of the wine, letting its crispness wash over your tongue, before setting the glass gently on the counter. The warmth in Agatha’s presence lingers as you turn back to the stove, your hands moving to finish plating the meal.

From just behind you, a soft movement—Agatha steps closer, her breath light against your neck. You feel her shadow fall over your shoulder before you hear her voice, low and curious.

“What are you making?”

The question is simple, but the tone—there’s something in it that makes your skin prick with awareness. You don’t need to turn around to know her eyes are on you, studying you. The heat in her gaze sends an unexpected shiver down your spine, part anticipation, part something deeper, darker.

You swallow, voice catching slightly, and glance back over your shoulder. “Just a little something—spinach sautéed with garlic, roasted tomatoes, and pasta. Healthy enough, but with a bit of flavour.”

Her eyes flicker with something unreadable—appreciation, maybe even something like admiration. The way she leans in just enough to catch the scent of the herbs and warm food makes your heart stutter. You feel the heat pooling low in your belly, a quiet fire sparked by her nearness, her attention.

You turn your head just enough, catching her eyes flickering to your lips. The space between you hums—like a wire strung tight, thrumming with something unspoken. Her breath is warm where it brushes your neck, and for a second, neither of you moves. You can feel her, fully, behind you—close but not touching, like she’s holding herself back with the thinnest thread of restraint.

A small, teasing smile tugs at your mouth.

“Would you like a taste?”

Your voice is low, measured, but the invitation beneath it is impossible to miss. You’re not just offering her a bite—you’re offering a crack in the silence, a place to step into something that’s been simmering between you both.

Agatha doesn’t answer immediately.

Instead, her gaze lingers—on your lips, your cheek, the curve of your throat. There’s something shifting in her, subtle but unmistakable, like she’s fighting some internal decision. Her eyes are darker now, and the candlelight flickers across them in a way that makes her look impossibly present. Almost reverent.

You can hear her breath catch, barely audible.

Then, finally, she nods.

“…Yes.”

It’s a single word, but it lands between you like a stone in water—small, but sending ripples in every direction.

She leans in slightly, as if drawn, and for a moment her voice is gone, replaced only by the soft inhale she takes, slow and deliberate. Like she’s trying to memorize this—your warmth, your scent, the quiet confidence in the way you haven’t turned away.

“I would,” she says again, quieter. “Very much.”

You don’t look away—not yet.

Instead, you reach for the wooden spoon resting against the edge of the pot, dipping it gently into the simmering sauce. The kitchen fills with the aroma of garlic and fresh basil, a hint of heat from the crushed pepper you added earlier, the scent of it rich and layered and warm. You lift the spoon carefully, steadying it with your other hand, and turn just enough to offer it to her.

Agatha’s eyes flick to yours again, then to the spoon. She steps in closer—not dramatically, just enough that you feel the fabric of her blouse brush the back of your arm. Her hand reaches out, deliberate, slow, and you watch the way her fingers wrap around yours for a breath longer than necessary before taking the spoon.

She tastes it with a quiet grace, her lips brushing the edge where yours had been moments before. Her eyes flutter shut for the briefest second as the flavor spreads across her tongue, and when they open again, the look she gives you is nothing short of devastating—half impressed, half undone.

“That’s…” she says, pausing to swallow, her voice a touch raspier than before, “…very good.”

You smirk, but your throat is dry.

“I told you. Full of surprises.”

She still hasn’t stepped back. Her presence behind you is like a heat that coils just under your skin, not overwhelming, but pressing. Watching her like this, you feel the weight of something building—less about what either of you is saying and more about what’s hovering underneath it.

You turn your attention back to the stove, trying for composure, but you feel the burn of her gaze, constant and unyielding.

She shifts, then, ever so slightly, and you catch the low sound of her exhale. Her hand brushes your lower back—light, fleeting, intentional in its restraint—and the contact sends a shiver straight through you.

“Need help plating?” she asks, her tone just casual enough to betray the charge running beneath it.

You don’t turn, but your lips tilt into another smile, this one slower. “You want to stay close, don’t you?”

Agatha doesn’t answer. She doesn’t need to. The silence is answer enough.

Then you reach for the plates.

You move with deliberate ease, fingers brushing against hers as you hand one over your shoulder. She takes it wordlessly, her hand grazing yours again, knuckles lingering longer than necessary.

You serve the pasta—simple, silky, flecked with herbs and glistening from the olive oil and sauce. The act is grounding, practical, but nothing about this feels casual anymore. You’re aware of every motion, every pause, every glance she steals when she thinks you aren’t looking.

You set her plate down, finally turning to meet her gaze fully.

Her eyes flick up. And again, they linger.

On your face. On your hands. On the way you move, like you belong here. Like maybe you’ve always belonged here.

She takes the plate, fingers brushing yours again—intentionally now—and sits back down at the table, watching you as you follow with your own.

You turned back to the stove, but your hands didn’t move right away.

The moment no longer felt simple. The rhythm you’d found earlier had slipped, just slightly, like a thread pulled from its weave. And as the quiet settled behind you, your reflection in the darkened window above the sink caught your eye.

The outline of your face, softened by steam and candlelight, stared back—blurred and distant, like someone you used to know.

You stood still.

There was comfort in the motion of cooking, yes, but now that your hands had paused, the silence inside you swelled. And with it came the unease.

Why are you here?

The question surfaced again—not as an accusation, but as a whisper. A quiet doubt. You’d walked through her door, let her put her clothes on you like a second skin, cooked in her kitchen like it was something you were allowed to do. And maybe you were. But that didn’t erase everything else.

Trust, once cracked, never quite healed the same.

You stirred the sauce absently.

Last time, she had turned away from you without warning. One moment had been warm, charged, almost tender—and the next, you’d felt the chill of distance again, like a door closing before you realized it had ever opened. Her words had faltered, her gaze had hardened, and something inside you had curled inward to protect itself. You hadn’t known if she regretted it—or worse, if she hadn’t.

And now…

Now she was watching you with soft eyes and gentle smiles, pouring wine like it meant something, stepping close and not pulling away. Her voice lower, slower. Her touch a little longer than it needed to be.

It was nice.

But nice was dangerous, wasn’t it?

You let out a breath, quiet but audible. Your fingers tightened around the wooden spoon as you stirred again—this time with more force than needed.

Behind you, you could still feel her. Agatha. Sitting quietly, watching. Sensing your pause but not yet naming it. Maybe she knew. Maybe she didn’t.

You didn’t know how to ask her: Do you mean this? Or is it just for tonight?

Because you didn’t think you could take being close again just to feel her pull away.

A flicker of memory stirred behind your eyes—her voice saying your name earlier, soft and reverent, like it hurt to speak it. That had shaken you. It meant something. But still, some wary part of you wouldn’t let go of the fear that all of this—this night, this kitchen, this moment wrapped in borrowed clothes and wine and tentative glances—might vanish again, and leave you standing in the wreckage of another almost.

You exhaled again, steadying yourself.

You could feel your own heart in your ribs now—too loud, too raw. And still, you moved. Quietly plating the food, wiping the edge of the bowl like you always did, even now. Something about that felt grounding. A small act of care, even in the middle of all your uncertainty.

From behind you, Agatha shifted in her seat, but said nothing.

You were glad for that.

Because if she asked what you were thinking, you weren’t sure you could answer without breaking whatever fragile peace you’d managed to rebuild between you both.

There’s a silence between you, but it’s not the heavy, aching kind from before. It’s full now. Electric. Alive.

She takes a bite. Her lashes lower. She hums.

“This is dangerous,” she says after a moment, eyes still on her plate but voice low and amused. “You cook like this, and I’ll start making excuses to ruin my own dinners.”

You laugh softly, breaking a piece of bread between your fingers. “So I should be careful, then.”

Agatha lifts her gaze again, that slight tilt of her head giving her away. “Or I should.”

She takes a sip of wine, and watches you over the rim of the glass. There’s something softer in her now—less guarded, more present. Like whatever barrier she was holding onto outside has loosened its grip.

She takes a sip of wine, her lips still parted faintly, catching a glint of candlelight. There’s no stain of sauce—just a trace of olive oil, maybe, or the glimmer of warmth still clinging to her mouth. And still, you watch her.

There’s something softer in her now—less guarded, more present. Like whatever barrier she was holding onto outside has loosened its grip.

She meets your gaze again. Steady. And then, in a voice that sounds almost too casual, “You do this often?”

You tilt your head. “Cook?”

Agatha nods once, swirling the wine in her glass with slow, thoughtful precision.

You smile, soft and honest. “Only when it feels like it matters.”

The answer shifts something between you. She doesn’t speak right away. She just looks at you—searching, as if she’s trying to understand what it means to be the reason for something done with care.

You don’t look away. Not this time. The quiet hangs between you like breath on glass—delicate, fogging the surface but not quite breaking it.

Then, slowly, Agatha sets her glass down. Her fingers linger on the stem longer than necessary, and when she pulls her hand back, you see it tremble—just slightly, like the stillness costs her something.

“I wasn’t expecting this,” she says at last.

You don’t ask what this means.

You already know.

She’s not talking about the food.

She’s talking about your hands in her kitchen, your coat on her hook, the quiet echo of your laugh in this house that hasn’t known warmth in a long time. She’s talking about the gentleness she wasn’t sure she’d ever earn again. About the fact that you’re still here—even after the way she pulled away last time. Even after the way she left something between you fractured, unspoken, wounded.

And maybe she’s talking about the part of herself that never thought she’d want something like this again. Something soft. Something real.

You shift slightly in your chair, heart tightening, fingers ghosting the edge of your plate. There’s a knot forming in your chest now—tight, quiet, painful in its restraint.

You want to believe her.
You want to.

But the part of you that remembers—sharp and bruised—won’t let go so easily.

“I didn’t think I’d be here again,” you say softly.

Agatha’s expression flickers. “I know.”

There’s no defensiveness in her voice. No excuse. Just quiet acknowledgment.

And that—more than anything—makes your throat tighten.

You glance down, pushing a small piece of tomato across your plate with the edge of your fork. You’re stalling. Trying to hold the silence without shattering it.

“I didn’t come back because I forgot what happened,” you murmur, eyes still fixed on the plate. “I came back because… I couldn’t stop remembering the parts that mattered.”

A beat. Then another.

You don’t look up.

But you feel the shift in her—like the way the air changes right before a storm breaks, or the way heat gathers before a fire catches.

When she speaks again, her voice is barely above a whisper.

“I made a mistake,” she says. “Back then. I got scared. I thought if I kept my distance, I wouldn’t…” She stops. Swallows. “Wouldn’t need to want this so badly.”

You look up then—slowly. Her eyes are on you, dark and steady, and for once, she doesn’t look away.

“I hurt you,” she says plainly.

It shouldn’t feel like enough.
It isn’t enough.

But it’s honest.
And that counts for something.

You nod, just once.

Agatha watches you, her hands folded tightly in her lap now, her fingers pale from the pressure.

“I don’t want to run anymore,” she says, quietly. “Not from you.”

The room feels unbearably still.

You let the silence breathe for a few seconds—then stand, slowly, and carry your plate to the sink. Not to leave. Not to escape. Just to move, to ground yourself, to feel the floor beneath your feet and the warmth of the room wrap around you again like it’s yours to trust.

You rinse your plate. Let the water run.

Behind you, you hear the faint scrape of her chair, but she doesn’t follow. Not yet.

You close your eyes for a moment, just breathing.

Then: “I don’t want to be a moment you regret.”

Agatha’s voice is right behind you now—closer than you expected. You didn’t hear her move. But you feel her there, the heat of her presence folding gently around your spine.

“You’re not,” she says.

And the way she says it—not rushed, not tentative, just true—makes something in you give way.

You turn.

Her face is closer than you meant it to be. Her eyes hold yours without flinching.

“I still don’t know how to do this right,” she says, voice low.

You don’t say anything at first.

Not because you don’t have words. But because the ones you do have—hurt.

She’s standing in front of you, saying the right things now. But hours ago? She couldn’t even look at you. She acted like you were nothing. Like the softness between you was something to be ashamed of. Something to erase.

It wasn’t that you’d built something huge or complicated.

It’s that you’d started to build anything at all.

And she’d torn it down like it hadn’t meant a damn thing.

You stare at her. Not cruelly. Not cold. Just… bruised.

“You didn’t hurt me because you don’t know how to do this,” you say quietly. “You hurt me because you made me feel like I didn’t matter. Like everything between us was just some… lapse you couldn’t get rid of fast enough.”

Her breath hitches. You see it in the way her posture shifts—like she’s trying to hold herself still against the impact of that truth.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” she says. “It wasn’t about you. It was—”
She falters. Shakes her head. “It was me. It was fear.”

Your voice cuts in—flat and raw. “You don’t get to pull me in like that and then act like it was a mistake.”

“I wasn’t trying to—”

“But you did,” you say, sharper now. “You looked at me like I was nothing to you. You didn’t even flinch when I walked away.”

Agatha closes her eyes briefly, like she’s trying to gather herself—but when she opens them again, there’s nothing guarded left.

“I flinched the second the door shut behind you,” she says. “But I thought… maybe that was safer. If I didn’t want it—if I pretended I didn’t want it—then I wouldn’t have to be afraid of losing it.”

You swallow hard. That? That hits something deep.

“I felt stupid,” you admit. “Like I’d imagined it. Like I’d read into something that wasn’t real.”

“It was real,” she says. “Too real. That’s why I panicked.”

You watch her. Her hands are at her sides, not reaching. Waiting.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me tonight,” she says. “I just didn’t want you to leave thinking I felt nothing. Because I did. I do.”

The silence that follows is thick—but not empty.

You look down at her hand. Then back up. There’s distance between you, but not the kind that feels final.

You press your palm flat to the counter. Anchor yourself in the warmth of this kitchen. In the fact that you’re still here.

You don’t walk away.

You don’t close the distance either.

You just stay.

Still, for a long moment.

And Agatha—she doesn’t reach, doesn’t push. Just stands there with her hands loose at her sides and her expression stripped of its usual sharpness.

She looks a little lost.

But not in the way she once did—not in that dangerous, unreachable way. This time it’s different. Like she’s choosing not to hide. Like she’s still learning how to be seen without flinching.

You breathe slowly. Let the tension ebb. Not all the way—but enough that you can feel your heartbeat again without your chest aching.

Then, gently, you speak. “I never asked you to be perfect.”

Agatha blinks.

“I didn’t come here expecting you to know how to handle this,” you continue, voice low. “But I did expect you to mean it. When you let me close.”

“I did,” she says, immediate. Certain. “I still do.”

You nod, looking down.

A moment passes. And then another.

You step to the sink again, rinsing your fingers under the tap without urgency. “Can you pass me the towel?”

There’s a pause—like she’s surprised by the question.

Then: the soft rustle of movement.

You glance over your shoulder and see her reach for it. Hand it to you without a word. Her fingers brush yours, light and hesitant, like she’s afraid of startling you.

You take it.

Dry your hands slowly.

Then: “Do you want to help me put the leftovers away?”

Something flickers across her face. Not joy—something more fragile. Like relief. Like hope, carefully unfolding in her chest.

“I’d like that,” she says quietly.

And just like that, the rhythm shifts. Not into anything easy. But into something possible.

She moves beside you—carefully, giving you space. She hands you a container without comment. Takes the pan. It’s domestic, almost absurdly so, and yet it feels like the bravest thing either of you has done all evening.

*

The food’s packed. The counter’s clear. And yet, she doesn’t move.

Then—quietly—she reaches up.

Not to pull you in. Not to kiss you.
Just to smooth a loose strand of hair away from your face.

Her fingers are warm. Slower than they need to be. They hover near your temple for a breath too long, like she’s asking without asking if this is okay.

You let her.

Your face turns just slightly into the touch. You don’t lean in fully. You don’t step away.

Her hand lingers at your cheek, her thumb barely grazing the skin beneath your eye. Like she wants to memorize something.

And then, as if summoned by the smallest shift in your palm, she steps in—not to take, not to press, but to offer. Her arm brushes yours, close but not claiming. Her hand moves to rest lightly at your back, her fingers hesitant against the fabric of your blouse.

“May I?” she asks, her voice quieter than breath.

You nod.

And that’s all it takes.

She wraps her arms around you—not tightly, not like possession—but with care. Like she’s learning how to hold something without crushing it. Like she knows she might not deserve this yet, but she wants to learn how to.

Your hands find her waist automatically. Warm through the fabric of her blouse. You let your forehead rest against her shoulder, and she holds you like she’s memorizing your shape. Not because she’s afraid to lose you again—but because she wants to remember what it’s like to have you here.

You stay like that for a while.

Not speaking. Not moving.

Just… standing there in her kitchen, wrapped around each other like something that might actually last if you both stop overthinking it.

She breathes in near your hair. Then whispers, not quite in your ear, “You feel good here.”

It’s not a line. It’s not even meant to be said aloud, maybe.

But it lands somewhere soft in your chest.

You nod, still resting against her. “So do you.”

Her arms tighten just a little.

Neither of you moves much—but the space between you shifts. Grows warmer. Closer.

Her nose brushes yours.

Just the faintest touch. Barely there. But it makes your breath catch.

You’re still tucked in her arms, foreheads almost touching, and now she’s hovering. Close enough that you feel her exhale on your lips. Close enough that it would take nothing—nothing—to close the distance.

But she doesn’t.

Not yet.

Instead, she tilts her head, slow, deliberate. Her nose nudges yours again—softer this time. Like a question she’s too afraid to speak aloud. Like she’s asking if she’s allowed to want this much.

You mirror her without thinking. Your lips part slightly, but they don’t meet hers yet. Your noses brush again, and again, and you’re both breathing each other in like you’re trying to memorize the moment before it breaks open.

And then she whispers, right there against your mouth, “Can I kiss you?”

You nod. Barely.

And Agatha leans in—slow, aching.

The kiss is careful at first. Soft and exploratory, more breath than pressure. Her lips ghost over yours once, then again, like she’s still not convinced you’ll let her have this.

But the third time, it lands.

Full. Deep. Wanting.

You answer with your whole body—pressing into her, your hand sliding up her waist, fingers curling into the back of her blouse like you’re anchoring yourself there.

Her breath hitches.

Her mouth opens to you just a little. Her tongue grazes yours—just enough to spark something low and warm in your spine.

You tilt your head and kiss her back harder.

Not rough. Just honest.

And suddenly, she’s pulling you in tighter, one arm wrapping firm around your waist, the other sliding up your back until her palm spreads between your shoulder blades.

Her blouse is wrinkled now from where your hands have been. You’re flushed, both of you, mouths damp, breath caught somewhere between restraint and wanting. Her fingers have slipped under the hem of your shirt again, but they don’t go further. They rest there, warm against your skin.

You’re still kissing—slow, open-mouthed, deliberate. Not rushed. But not innocent, either.

When your noses brush, she laughs softly against your mouth, just a breath. You can feel it. “This wasn’t how I thought tonight would go.”

You smile without pulling back. “How did you think it’d go?”

She presses a kiss to your jaw, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. “I didn’t think I’d get to touch you again. Let alone like this.”

You hum, fingers ghosting up her sides. “You’re doing a lot more than touching.”

“Am I?” she murmurs, voice playful now—faint but genuine.

You nod, letting your mouth brush her ear. “Not that I’m complaining.”

The silence stretches—comfortable, but full of something unspoken.

Then, gently, Agatha asks, “Do you want to… stay a while?”

You blink.

She isn’t trying to seduce you. It’s not a lure. Just a question. Honest.

And something about that—about the softness of it, the quiet want—makes your chest ache.

You look at her. “I don’t need a plan.”

She swallows. “I just want… to be close.”

You press your forehead to hers. “Then let’s stay.”

She threads her fingers through yours, and you let her guide you without hesitation. Not to the bedroom—just back to the couch. The same one you’ve shared before. You both sink into it, shoulder to shoulder, as if you’ve done this a hundred times.

The fireplace across from you is unlit now, but its warmth still lingers in the air, faint and familiar.

Agatha shifts closer. Her thigh presses against yours, and her hand rests on your knee—light, then firmer. She doesn’t speak. Neither do you.

You just breathe. Together.

Then her hand moves—along your thigh, to your wrist. She threads her fingers through yours.

“Are you okay?” she murmurs.

You nod. “Are you?”

She studies you for a moment longer than expected. “More than I thought I would be.”

You lean into her. Your forehead brushes hers. That steady closeness again.

The kiss that follows is deeper. Unhurried. You taste wine and something quieter, something careful. You cup her jaw, and she sighs softly, leaning into you like she’s been waiting to.

She shifts again, tucking one leg beneath her, turning more fully toward you. Her hand slips beneath the hem of your shirt, settling at your waist.

“If we stop now,” she says, “I’ll still want to hold you.”

Your breath catches at how honest it is.

“And if we don’t stop?”

She smiles, small and sincere. “Then I’ll still want to hold you.”

You laugh softly, mouth brushing hers, and kiss her again.

There’s more heat this time. Her touch travels higher beneath your shirt, her body moving closer. You shift to meet her, your hands finding the curve of her hips.

“You’re sure?” you whisper.

She nods. Then kisses the corner of your mouth. Your jaw. Just under your ear.

“Tell me if you want to stop.”

“I will.”

Agatha’s hand slides lower, tracing the curve of your hip with slow certainty. Her fingers press lightly, guiding, inviting.

Before you can react, she shifts, leaning forward just enough to ease you backward onto the couch’s soft cushions. Your back presses into the fabric, warm and familiar.

Her body follows, settling over you with deliberate grace—her weight gentle, but enough to ground you both in the moment.

Her hands find your waist again, firm but tender, as her lips brush a slow trail along your jawline, then down to the sensitive spot just beneath your ear.

“Look at me,” she murmurs softly, voice low and coaxing.

Your eyes meet hers, wide and searching. There’s no rush—only the heat pooling between you, steady and sure.

Her fingers curl around your pullover’s hem, thumbs pressing into your skin as she leans closer, lips barely brushing your temple.

Agatha’s weight settles over you like a warm tide, soft but undeniable. Her hands don’t just explore—they claim, tracing the curve of your jaw, sliding down your neck to pull you closer. Her mouth is fierce and tender all at once, lips parting yours in slow, deliberate kisses that leave no space untouched.

You arch instinctively, her fingers threading through your hair with a possessive grip, tilting your head to deepen the kiss. Her breath mingles with yours, hot and ragged, as her mouth travels down your neck, sucking gentle marks just beneath your ear. You can feel the steady press of her body, every inch of her pressing into you, grounding you in this moment.

Agatha slowly pulls back just enough to sit up, her dark eyes locked on yours, glowing with that quiet, fierce desire. The heat between you thrums like a live wire.

You don’t hesitate. Your body moves instinctively, shifting to straddle her lap. The fabric of your skirt bunches and rides up, inching higher along your thighs, exposing more skin to her hungry gaze.

Her hands immediately find your waist again, steadying you, pulling you flush against her. Your jumper slips a little as you settle, the soft wool warm against her bare arms.

Agatha’s lips brush your collarbone, trailing down with a slow, deliberate tenderness, and you shiver at the contrast—the softness of her mouth against the fire building inside you.

One hand slides up your back, fingers threading through your hair, anchoring you, while the other cups your hip possessively.

Your breaths mingle, shallow and urgent. The room fades away, leaving only the two of you, the gentle creak of the couch beneath you, and the electric tension spiraling between your bodies

Agatha’s fingers trace deliberately along the curve of your thigh, her touch slow and hungry beneath the soft fabric of her jumper. As your skirt rides up with your movement, her hand slides higher—until suddenly, her palm lands squarely on your bare ass.

The smooth, warm skin presses beneath her fingertips, framed by the thin strap of your thong. Her breath hitches, eyes darkening with a fierce hunger that seems to consume her from the inside out.

“Fuck,” she swears, voice low and rough, thick with something feral.

Her grip tightens possessively, fingers digging in just enough to claim you, to remind you that this—right here—is hers.

Without warning, she pulls back her hand and delivers a sharp, commanding smack across your ass. The sound echoes, sharp and primal, and a delicious sting flares where her palm landed.

She leans in, teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your neck as her voice drops to a growl, rough and dangerous. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me, and I’m not sure I want you to.”

Agatha’s palm clenches tighter around your ass, fingers digging in with a hungry kind of reverence—like she’s not just grabbing but claiming, anchoring herself to the feel of you. The sharp smack that follows sends a jolt of sensation straight through your core, the sting blooming warm and immediate. You gasp—then moan, high and helpless, the sound muffled against her neck as your hips instinctively roll against her thigh.

That moan unravels something in her. Her head snaps back just enough to see your face, eyes blown wide, lips parted, breath catching again when her hand returns to palm and squeeze the same aching spot.

“Oh, that’s it,” she hisses, feral. Her voice is low and wrecked and hungry. “You sound like that again, and I swear—”

Her nails drag just lightly enough to raise goosebumps. You can barely breathe.

“Gods, look at you,” she growls. Her other hand moves under your jumper, palm hot against the bare skin of your waist, pulling you even closer into her lap.

Your hips shift instinctively as her hands grip your waist, as her mouth moves hot and open against your jaw. You moan softly—helplessly—as her fingers skate under your skirt again, palm cupping the soft curve of your ass.

But then she stills.

Not completely—her hands don’t let go—but she exhales a long, quiet breath against your neck, and the heat between you pulses into stillness.

“Wait,” she whispers. “We… shouldn’t.”

You blink, breath catching in your throat. You don’t move off her, not yet. “What?”

Her hands are still on you—trembling now. Her head tilts back slightly, forehead resting against your chest, like she’s trying to steady herself.

“Not tonight,” she says, voice low and strained. “Not after the way I treated you earlier. Not when I’m still making up for it.”

You swallow. Hard. The tension between you hums, aching and unresolved. But her words don’t feel like rejection. If anything, they’re soaked in restraint. Desire barely held back.

“I want you,” she says. Her hands tighten on your waist, fingers pressing into your skin through your skirt. “I want you so badly I can hardly think. But if this is just because we’re both full of adrenaline and memory and need, I—” She stops. Looks up at you. “I don’t want it to come from that place.”

You study her in the low light. Her hair is tousled. Her lips kiss-bruised. Her chest rises and falls against yours, steady but tense. And still—there’s such raw gentleness in her expression, like this restraint costs her more than giving in ever would.

Your voice is soft. “You’re not pushing me away?”

She shakes her head immediately. “No. God, no.” Her fingers slip under the hem of her jumper again, smoothing down your spine. “I just… want to be sure. That when I finally have all of you, it’s not tangled in guilt.”

The air catches between you, slow and thick with wanting. You lean down and kiss her—not to reignite it, but just to say I hear you. I feel this too.

“Okay,” you whisper. “We don’t have to do anything.”

She exhales—like she’s been holding that breath for hours—and her grip around you softens, then tightens again in a different way. Less desperate. More protective. Her hands curl over the small of your back, her mouth brushing your cheek, your temple, the tip of your nose, like she’s grounding herself in your presence. Like she needs to relearn the language of restraint, and you’re the only one who speaks it fluently enough to remind her.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, so quietly it’s nearly lost against your skin.

You rest your forehead against hers, breath mingling in the dim light, noses bumping gently. It’s not the feral heat from before—but something slower, deeper. A tension that doesn’t burn out, just shifts shape.

Your skirt is still bunched around your hips. Her jumper still pools warm around your arms, the sleeves too long, the fabric thick with her scent. The edge of her blouse is rumpled between you, but neither of you moves to fix it. Not yet.

Instead, she kisses you again. Slower. Just your lips, once. Then twice. Then a third time, like punctuation. Like she’s telling you something in a language you don’t need to translate.

Her fingers trace idle circles at your waist. You shift slightly in her lap, adjusting, settling closer without reigniting the spark too fully. And she lets you—welcomes you—until you’re curled together on the couch, your thighs warm across hers, your arms looped around her shoulders. Her hand never leaves your back.

Then her voice breaks through, soft but uneven.

“Would you… stay?”
She doesn’t look at you at first. Her cheek brushes yours as she speaks, like it’s easier to say it if she’s not looking directly into your eyes.

You blink. “Stay?”

A slow nod, barely perceptible. “The night, I mean.” Her arms are still around you, but there’s a sudden nervousness in the way she holds you now—like she’s not sure she’s allowed to ask. “I know it’s been a lot, and maybe it’s too soon. Or too much. But I…”
She pauses, breath catching. “I’d like you to. Even if we don’t do anything else. Even if you just sleep.”

You’re quiet. You don’t mean to be, but the ask lands deep—unexpected, raw. She must feel your hesitation because she shifts beneath you slightly, her hand brushing your side.

“There’s a guest bedroom,” she adds quickly, voice softening even more. “It’s down the hall. Warm, quiet. The door locks, if that makes it easier. No expectations.”

Your chest aches a little at how hard she’s trying not to make it a demand. She doesn’t pull away, but you feel her begin to retreat emotionally, just slightly, like she’s already preparing herself for a no.

You nudge your nose gently against hers.

“You want me to stay,” you say, more as a realization than a question.

She exhales, eyes fluttering closed for a beat. “I do. But only if it feels right to you.”

You glance down at her blouse, still half-untucked from where your hands had roamed earlier. The room still smells like her—clove and wine and something softer—and her touch is still warm against your spine.

You press a kiss to the corner of her mouth.

“I’m thinking about it,” you murmur, honest.

And her smile is small, but genuine.

Chapter Text

Her smile lingers only a moment before she glances toward the low table, eyes settling on the forgotten teacup between you. The surface is flat and cold now, a thin film catching the lamplight.

“This won’t do,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “Cold tea is an insult to both leaf and drinker.”

She stands, and the warmth where her leg touched yours fades instantly. You watch her cross the room, blouse still half-untucked, the sway of her steps unhurried but purposeful. In the kitchen, you hear the faint clink of porcelain, the rustle of tins being opened, the sharper crack of something dry—rosemary, maybe—snapping between her fingers.

Steam begins to drift into the air, carrying with it the scent of chamomile, lavender, and something sharper, green and clean. You picture her there, hands steady, movements deliberate, not just remaking a drink but tending to you in the quiet, instinctive way she does everything—without ceremony, without making it feel like a favor.

Your chest tightens unexpectedly. You’ve never been sure what to do with this kind of care, the kind that asks nothing in return.

When she returns, she’s cradling a fresh cup between both hands, as though guarding it from the cool air. She sits back beside you, close enough that her sleeve brushes your arm, and sets the tea down in front of you.

“Careful—it’s hot,” she murmurs, but her voice is warm in a way that makes you think she isn’t just talking about the tea.

You wrap your hands around the cup, the porcelain almost too warm to hold. The steam curls upward, brushing your face with the scent she’s coaxed from the herbs—soft, floral, and threaded with something sharper that makes you think of her.

Agatha doesn’t look away as you lift it to your lips. She watches you taste it, her gaze steady but not invasive, like she’s memorizing the way you react.

The first sip is both calming and startling in its depth—honey rounding out the lavender, rosemary lingering at the edges. You’re not sure if the heat in your chest comes from the tea or from the way her knee presses lightly against yours again, anchoring you there.

“It’s good,” you say quietly, almost self-conscious under her attention, “thank you”.

A small, pleased sound hums in her throat. She leans back, but not away, her arm resting along the back of the sofa, fingers curling near your shoulder as if deciding whether to close that last inch of space.

For a moment, the only sounds are the occasional pop from the cooling pot in the kitchen and the soft clink when you set the cup back down.

Her gaze drops to your hands, still cupped as if you’re reluctant to let go of the warmth. “You’re shivering,” she observes, her voice quieter now.

Her gaze lingers on your hands a moment longer before flicking toward the clock on the wall. You follow it, surprised at how late it’s gotten—the streets outside have settled into that deep, unbroken quiet that belongs only to the very end of night.

“And it’s late,” she murmurs, almost as if reminding herself. Then her eyes meet yours. “You should rest. As I said, you can stay the night.” Her voice is soft but certain, the invitation hanging in the air between you like a delicate spell.

You meet her gaze without flinching, the weight of the moment settling deep in your chest. “I will,” you say, voice low but unwavering.

For a heartbeat, her composure wavers—her cheeks flushing just slightly, a flicker of something vulnerable crossing her features before she masks it with a delicate, almost shy smile.

There’s a pause—a quiet breath shared between you, charged and tender. The subtle brush of silk against skin, the faint scent of her perfume drifting in the air.

Her eyes soften just a fraction, and that smile lingers, warm and hesitant, the invitation in her gaze more alive than ever—silent, magnetic, impossible to deny.

Before you can say anything else, she’s already standing, one hand extended toward you—not insistent, but steady, leaving the choice in your grasp. You take it, and her fingers close around yours, warm and certain.

She leads you toward the staircase, her steps unhurried. The soft lamplight from the living room fades as you climb, shadows stretching long along the walls. You’re close enough to catch the faint scent of her—clove, lavender, the lingering trace of tea—and the occasional creak of the wood beneath your feet feels louder in the quiet.

At the top of the stairs, she turns left and brings you to a door near the end of the hall. She opens it slowly, revealing a guest bedroom that glows with the warm spill of a single lamp. The bed is neatly made, quilt smoothed, the kind of space that feels prepared long before it’s needed.

She steps inside first, crossing to the window to draw the curtains closed, then to the bed to check the quilt, her movements quiet and precise. Only when everything seems in order does she step back toward you.

The room is warm in a way that feels deliberate. The walls are painted a deep, dusty mauve that softens in the lamplight, the glow settling over the quilted bedspread in muted gold. A bookshelf stands against one wall, lined with hardcovers whose spines have been worn by time rather than neglect. The faint scent of cedar lingers—maybe from the polished wood floors, maybe from the quilt itself.

At the center, of course, is the bed—perfectly made, corners sharp, the surface almost too pristine to touch. Your eyes flick toward it before you can stop yourself, and you feel the air shift just slightly, a shared awareness settling between you.

Agatha notices; of course she does. There’s the smallest quirk to her mouth before she steps further in, letting her fingers skim lightly across the back of the armchair in the corner as though giving you a moment to look without feeling watched.

“I’ll find you something comfortable to sleep in,” she says at last, her voice low but steady. She glances toward the hall, one hand brushing the doorway as if ready to go fetch it immediately. “Unless you… prefer what you’re wearing.”

The implication hangs there—half practical, half something else—and she’s suddenly looking anywhere but the bed.

Agatha’s gaze flicks toward the hallway before she finally turns and slips out of the room, the soft click of the door behind her punctuating the sudden quiet. You’re left alone, the muted hum of the house settling in around you.

The room feels both impossibly intimate and surreal. One moment, you were opening an email—something clinical and impersonal about your new PhD supervisor—and the next, you’re standing in her guest bedroom, staring at a bed that looks too pristine to be touched, trying not to blush.

How did this happen? you wonder, biting back a laugh. One minute, you’re a student with a thousand unread academic alerts, and the next, you’re in Agatha Harkness’s house after that kiss, wondering if you’re supposed to make a grand exit or just pretend the bed isn’t a silent, glaring invitation.

The absurdity isn’t lost on you. The whole thing is like some kind of dark academia fever dream: existential dread mixed with clove-scented tea and the crushing realization that yes, this is exactly how the semester is going to go.

You glance at the bedspread again. It’s so neat it almost feels like a test. Like, are you worthy of sleeping here? Or is this some elaborate setup for a plot twist involving hexes or a surprise quiz?

The soft click of the door signals Agatha’s return before you even hear her footsteps. She steps into the room carrying a neatly folded set of silk pajamas—deep midnight blue that catches the light just enough to hint at softness and something quietly luxurious.

She moves with that same effortless grace you’ve come to recognize, but tonight there’s a different kind of calm in her expression, something almost vulnerable beneath the usual guarded composure.

“These should be comfortable,” she says, holding them out to you. The fabric slips from her fingers like water, smooth and light. “Silk. Not too much.”

Her eyes flick up to yours, steady and unreadable, but there’s a hint of a small, almost shy smile tugging at her lips.

You can’t help but notice how the fabric clings to her—just enough to trace the lines of her silhouette without ever feeling like a show.

You take the silk pajamas from her, fingers brushing the fabric, and manage a soft, grateful smile.

“Thank you,” you say quietly.

Agatha’s eyes flicker briefly with something unreadable—something warmer—and she steps closer, lowering her voice just a little.

“You should shower before you sleep. It’ll help.”

You nod, the idea oddly comforting after everything.

“I’ll bring you a towel,” she adds, already turning toward the door. “Just hop in when you’re ready.”

Her footsteps fade down the hall, leaving you alone with the soft glow of the lamp and the smooth silk in your hands.

*

The ensuite is quieter than you expected—a small sanctuary tucked just off the guest bedroom, its soft tiles cool beneath your feet. The door stands slightly ajar, a faint glow spilling in from the hall.

You set the silk pajamas down on the edge of the sink, the fabric pooling like liquid midnight. The room smells faintly of lavender soap and something woodsy, a trace of Agatha’s presence lingering even here.

Starting with your blouse, you carefully undo the buttons, the cool fabric slipping free from your skin. The scent of her still lingers on you—clove and something soft—and you pause, as if reluctant to let the moment go.

Your fingers trail down to the waistband of your skirt, the smooth fabric rustling softly as you ease it down your hips and step out of it. It falls quietly to the floor, folding in gentle waves.

Now in just your undergarments, you run a hand through your hair, shaking loose the tension clinging to your shoulders.

You turn toward the shower, reaching out to slide open the glass door. A warm rush of steam greets you, curling in the air like whispered promises.

The water cascades over you in gentle streams, washing away the day—the emails, the confusion, the small chaos of stolen moments—and leaving behind only the quiet pulse of the night.

You close your eyes, letting the heat seep into your bones, imagining that somehow it might warm more than just your skin.

Agatha’s footsteps are soft as she crosses the threshold of the guest bedroom, the door closing almost silently behind her. In her hands is a thick, plush towel—white, perfectly folded, and almost too ordinary against the quiet intimacy of the room.

She pauses a moment, taking in the soft glow of the bedside lamp, the neat bedspread, the faint scent of clove and something familiar lingering in the air. The room feels like a fragile bubble, holding its breath between what’s been said and what remains unspoken.

Just then, the gentle rush of running water floats in from the open bathroom door nearby.

Her breath catches, subtle and involuntary. You’re in the shower.

A flicker of something unbidden stirs within her—a mix of longing and hesitation that pulls at her chest. She knows the line she mustn’t cross, yet the temptation to glance through the doorway—to see you there, real and unguarded—presses against her restraint like a whisper in the dark.

Her fingers tighten around the towel, the fabric cool and grounding in her grasp. She fights the urge to step forward, to look, to reach out.

Agatha swallows, heart beating a little faster, and closes her eyes briefly. She lets the sound of the water fill the space between them, a quiet reminder that even when she can’t be near, you’re still there—present, alive.

The moment stretches, fragile and tender. Then, with a slow, steady breath, she turns away, resolving to respect the boundary you both need.

The water abruptly stops, and Agatha’s heart jumps.

“I—I brought the towel,” she says, her voice a little breathless, stepping closer to the ajar bathroom door.

You push the glass door open, stepping out with careful grace, droplets tracing silver trails along your skin—whispers of moisture catching the soft light like secrets shared only between you and the night.

As she extends the plush fabric toward you, her eyes drift, catching the reflection in the mirror opposite.

Through the misted mirror, she sees you—skin glistening with droplets, the delicate curve of your neck, the soft swell of your chest framed in the hazy reflection.

Her breath hitches, cheeks flushing deeply, and she quickly turns her gaze away, clutching the towel a little tighter.

“Here,” she murmurs, offering the towel just beyond the doorway.

You reach through the narrow opening, your hand brushing hers briefly as you take it.

Agatha steps back into the guest bedroom, cheeks still flushed from the brief, unexpected reflection she caught in the bathroom mirror. Her fingers nervously twist the edge of the towel as her mind races, caught between admiration and an almost shy longing she’s still learning to recognize.

She paces slowly, the soft rustle of fabric under her fingertips the only sound in the quiet room. Her thoughts swirl—how easily you had slipped into her space, how unexpectedly vulnerable and breathtaking you looked just moments ago, wrapped in nothing but mist and warm skin.

Then, the door creaks softly, and she turns—heart catching.

You step into the room, the soft rustle of silk announcing your presence before you’re fully in view.

Agatha’s breath catches.

You’re wearing her midnight blue silk pajamas—the delicate camisole slipping just enough over your shoulders to hint at the curves beneath, trimmed with black lace that flutters like shadowed lacework against your skin. The matching shorts rest lightly against your thighs, the lace edging adding a subtle, elegant contrast to the deep, rich fabric.

The pajamas are a perfect blend of softness and seduction, familiar yet charged with an intimate newness now that they’re on you.

Agatha’s eyes trace every detail—the way the silk gleams under the low light, the gentle sway of the fabric with your movements, the contrast of black lace against your skin like a whispered promise.

She can’t tear her gaze away, heart pounding as if trying to catch up with the sudden rush of feeling.

“You look… breathtaking,” she murmurs, voice husky, barely above a whisper.

There’s a pause, filled only by the quiet of the room and the unspoken something that stretches taut between you both.

You arch a brow, feigning casualness despite the warmth creeping up your neck.
“Breathtaking?” you repeat, your tone light but edged with curiosity.

Agatha swallows, her gaze refusing to leave you. “That’s… the polite word for it,” she admits, her lips curling into the faintest, guilty smile.

You shift your weight from one foot to the other, letting the silk catch the light again—just to see her reaction. It works. Her eyes darken, her fingers twitch slightly at her sides, as though she’s debating whether to move toward you or keep her distance.

“Are you going to keep staring,” you tease softly, “or say what’s actually on your mind?”

Agatha lets out a low laugh, the sound rich but tight. “If I said what’s on my mind,” she says, her voice dropping to something velvety and dangerous, “I’m not sure either of us would get much sleep tonight.”

Her words hang between you, thick with implication, and though her posture remains composed, you can see the restless energy in the way her eyes roam—drinking you in like she’s trying to memorize every inch.

The air feels heavier now, thick with something unnamed but impossible to ignore. You tilt your head, catching the faintest twitch of her jaw, the way her chest rises just a fraction faster.

“Maybe,” you murmur, “I’m not in the mood for sleep.”

Her lips part—only slightly—but it’s enough to betray the shift beneath her composure. For a heartbeat, Agatha looks like she might close the space between you entirely, fingers threading through the silk at your shoulder, pulling you in until your breath mingles with hers. Instead, she exhales slowly, forcing herself still, though her eyes never waver.

“That,” she says at last, voice low enough to make you lean in, “is a dangerous thing to say in my house.”

You smirk, letting your gaze drop briefly to her mouth before meeting her eyes again. “And yet,” you reply, “you’re the one who keeps looking at me like that.”

Something flares in her expression—heat, restraint, hunger all tangled together—and her hands flex at her sides as though they’re aching for permission.

She takes one step forward. Not enough to touch, but enough to make you feel her presence coil around you like smoke. “You should go to bed,” she says finally, though the command is thin, fraying at the edges. “And so should I.”

You nod, but you don’t move—not right away. “Goodnight, Agatha.”

Her name leaves your lips like a challenge. She smiles faintly, but it’s laced with something darker. “Goodnight… darling.”

You turn toward the bed, and though your back is to her, you can feel her gaze following you until you disappear from sight.

*

The guest room is quiet—too quiet, except for the wind pressing against the old glass panes, rattling them just enough to make the shadows sway on the walls. You lie on your side, the silk of Agatha’s pajamas whispering against your skin, the scent of her clinging faintly to the fabric.

You close your eyes.

You open them again.

The ceiling is a dim blur, but your mind refuses to still. Every time you try to focus on the sound of the wind, it drifts instead to the way she looked at you—like she was holding something back and it was taking every ounce of her will not to let it slip. You can still hear her voice, low and unhurried, telling you that saying what was on her mind would keep you both awake.

She was right.

You shift under the blankets, the air cool enough to make you want to curl in, but your thoughts keep pacing, circling back to her in the next room. Is she asleep? Is she lying there the same way, staring at the ceiling, replaying every glance and word?

Another gust shakes the window, and you turn onto your back, staring at the shifting shadows. Somewhere beyond the wall, you imagine her breathing—steady, maybe. Or maybe not.

It’s almost maddening, the way she’s here and not here all at once.

You toss onto your other side, pulling the blanket up to your chin. The wind doesn’t let up—neither does the ache in your chest. Every time you close your eyes, you see her in the doorway again, her gaze fixed on you, that almost-smile threatening to undo you.

You tell yourself to stop thinking about it, about her. About what it would mean to walk down the hallway, knock on her door, and see if she’d answer half-asleep… or not asleep at all.

The thought takes root before you can stop it.

You glance toward the door, the faint line of moonlight beneath it like an invitation. Your legs feel strangely ready to move, as if you’ve already made the decision, but you grip the edge of the blanket tighter.

No.

You swallow and press your head into the pillow. It’s ridiculous—you’ve known her barely a week, and yet the pull feels older, deeper. Like something you’ve been circling for years without noticing.

You exhale slowly, forcing yourself to stay put. But the image of her—barefoot, hair down, waiting—lingers just long enough to make sleep impossible.

“Gods…” you exhale.

The silence is suddenly broken.

A faint scrape—like the softest breath of cloth against wood—comes from the direction of the door.

You freeze.

The blanket’s edge slips from your fingers as your heart thunders, too loud in the hush of the room. Your ears strain, searching for any sign that it was just the wind again. But no—this is deliberate. Careful.

You swallow hard, wondering if you imagined it, or if she’s really there, beyond that door, moving toward you.

The shadows on the walls seem to lean in closer, and for a moment, the world narrows down to the space between you and the door.

Your breath catches, and despite the chill pressing against your skin, you push the blankets away. The silk slips with a soft rustle as you swing your legs over the edge of the bed, feet touching the cold floor.

Slowly, deliberately, you rise. The wood creaks faintly beneath you, and every sound feels impossibly loud in the stillness.

Step by step, you move toward the door. Your fingers twitch at your sides, and your heart beats a reckless rhythm that drowns out the wind outside.

You pause just short of the doorframe, your hand reaching out, trembling slightly, before brushing the cool surface.

A breath. A moment.

Then you press your palm flat against the wood and peer through the crack beneath the door, searching for any sign of her.

The hallway is swallowed in shadow. Empty.

You press your palm gently against the door, voice barely more than a breath as you whisper,
“Agatha…”

The silence stretches, fragile and thick, until a sudden hitch of breath catches your ear from the other side—soft, shaky, like a plea held just beneath the surface.

The silence hangs for a heartbeat, then your fingers find the edge of the door and you push it open—slowly, carefully.

There she is.

Agatha, framed in the dim hallway light, her silk robe falling softly around her—loosely tied, the fabric slipping just enough to catch the shimmer of moonlight on bare skin beneath.

Her eyes meet yours, wide and searching, caught somewhere between hesitation and relief.

For a moment, you simply stand there—two silhouettes in the quiet glow, the space between you charged with everything neither of you dared say.

Chapter Text

The air between you feels impossibly fragile, as though one wrong movement might shatter it entirely.

You take a step forward, your bare feet whispering over the floorboards. The faint scent of her perfume slips toward you, curling around your senses.

Agatha doesn’t move at first. Her fingers tighten imperceptibly at the sash of her robe, as if she’s bracing herself against the possibility of you turning away. Her gaze flickers down and then up again, meeting yours with a quiet desperation she can’t quite disguise.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you murmur, though the question feels almost foolish in the weight of the moment.

Her lips part, but no words come. Instead, she exhales—slow, deliberate—before stepping just enough into the light that the hollows beneath her eyes are visible, the faint shadows of a night spent awake.

The robe shifts as she moves, revealing the bare curve of her collarbone, pale and sharp against the silk.

“I—” She stops, glances away, and when she looks back at you, her voice is softer. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

You search her face, but the words feel like a poor shield for whatever’s burning in her chest.

The air between you feels impossibly fragile, as though one wrong movement might shatter it entirely.

A soft gust threads through the open doorway, curling around your ankles. The hallway light flickers faintly, and somewhere in that hush, you catch the dry rasp of paper shifting.

Your eyes drop, catching the pale glint of a folded sheet clutched loosely in Agatha’s hand.

She notices your glance.

In an instant, the paper disappears behind her back, the silk sleeve falling forward as though to shield it. Her jaw tightens, and for the briefest moment, something guarded flashes across her face.

The wind brushes past again, stirring the loose strands of her hair, and when she speaks, her voice is steady—too steady.
“I was only… checking whether you were- whether you needed anything.”

You study her, the question forming on your tongue but never quite making it past your lips. Instead, you feel the pull of her gaze—measured, deliberate, keeping you at the edge of something you can’t yet name.

“I can’t sleep,” you say quietly, your voice threading through the wind that still slips between you. “My mind… won’t stop.”

Agatha’s expression shifts—just enough to soften the lines around her eyes—but she doesn’t speak right away.

You keep studying her and you notice the edge of her sleeve, just above her wrist, there’s a faint dusting of something pale—like powder clinging stubbornly to the dark silk. It’s subtle, almost invisible, but in the dim light it catches, a ghostly trace against the fabric.

“I know the feeling,” she finally says, her tone low, almost careful, as if measuring every syllable. “It’s a restless night.”

Her words hang between you, heavy with something unsaid. The wind stirs again, stronger this time, slipping under the hem of your shirt and tracing cool fingers over your skin. You draw in a sharp breath, but it’s not just the chill that sets your pulse racing.

The movement of the air catches the silk of her robe, coaxing it open by the smallest degree. Moonlight spills over the hollow of her throat, down to the shadowed dip between her breasts—pale skin framed by the dark fall of fabric.

Your gaze lingers before you can stop it. The swell of her cleavage rises and falls with each measured breath, the robe shifting as though the wind itself wants to bare more.

Agatha notices.

Her lips curve—slow, deliberate—into something that isn’t quite a smile, but carries the same weight. She tilts her head just enough to catch your eyes again, a silent acknowledgment of where your attention has been.

The hallway feels warmer despite the draft, your skin prickling with awareness.

“Cold?” she asks, her voice velvet-dark, though the way her gaze drags over you suggests she already knows the answer has nothing to do with the wind.

The wind slips through the open doorway again, curling around your bare legs like icy fingers. You shiver before you can stop it, the movement pulling a faint, knowing flicker into Agatha’s eyes.

“Yes,” you murmur, your voice low, almost lost to the draft. “Cold.”

Her gaze holds yours, steady and unreadable.

You swallow, your lips parting. “Warm me up.”

Agatha doesn’t move right away. Instead, she watches you—her head tilting slightly, her expression sharpening. The robe sways gently around her frame, and the faint scent of her slides into your lungs until it’s all you can taste.

She steps forward once, the shift subtle but powerful. The warmth of her presence hits you instantly, even from that small distance.

Her hand rises, fingertips brushing along your jawline in a fleeting, teasing pass. She pauses there, her thumb ghosting over your lower lip, and you swear her eyes darken.

The air feels thick, your chest tight with the weight of her scrutiny. You can’t take it anymore.

“Please,” you whisper.

Something in her fractures. The stillness between you sharpens into a sudden, charged urgency. Her gaze snaps to your mouth, and a soft, involuntary sound escapes her—half a breath, half a growl.

Her hand at your jaw tightens just enough to hold you still, to make you feel the strength behind her touch. She steps into your space fully now, her body brushing yours, heat seeping through the thin barrier of your clothes.

“Careful,” she says, her voice low and frayed at the edges. “You have no idea what that does to me.”

*

The wind slips through the open doorway again, cold and sharp, weaving its way beneath the thin fabric draped over your legs. You shiver involuntarily, a chill threading through your skin that makes your breath hitch. The soft rustle of the silk robe hanging loose from Agatha’s shoulders blends with the faint creak of the wooden floor beneath your bare feet. Her eyes catch yours, steady and intense in the dim hallway light, shadows pooling at the edges of her gaze like ink spilled on parchment. The air between you feels impossibly still and charged, every sound amplified in the quiet—the distant sigh of the night wind, the faint scrape of fabric as she shifts, the quickening rhythm of your own heartbeat.

You draw in a slow, deliberate breath, the cool night air filling your lungs and steadying the rapid beat of your heart. Your eyes meet hers—wide, shimmering, and heavy with unspoken invitation. You let your lashes drop just long enough to blur the sharp edges of the moment, your voice falling to a low, husky whisper.

“Please,” you say again, softer this time, but dripping with a quiet certainty that sends a ripple through the charged space between you. It’s a single word, but it carries the weight of everything you’re feeling—need, longing, and the delicious thrill of daring her to break.

The silence stretches taut, thick with tension, until you feel it—a subtle shift in her. Agatha’s breath catches, uneven and sharp, like the sudden intake of a predator about to pounce. Her eyes darken, pupils widening with something feral and hungry, a rawness beneath her usual composed exterior.

For a heartbeat, she seems to hesitate, then the corner of her mouth quirks into a slow, wicked smile—the kind that promises both danger and desire. Her hands tighten at her sides, fingers curling as if restraining a fierce impulse.

“Oh, hun,” she murmurs, voice low and rough, every syllable a growl. “You know exactly what you do to me, don’t you?”

Before you can answer, she closes the distance between you in a breath, her arms winding around your waist with fierce possessiveness. The heat of her body crashes against you, burning away the last traces of cold.

Her lips claim yours with a ferocity that leaves you breathless—wild, demanding, and utterly consuming. It’s the kind of kiss that speaks of need so deep it’s almost dangerous, a silent confession of the hunger she’s been holding back.

You melt into her, every nerve alive, every doubt erased under the weight of her touch and the fierce promise in her eyes.

Her hands roam your waist, fingers digging in just enough to remind you she’s here, real and urgent. The silk of her robe slips further, a teasing whisper of skin revealed beneath the moonlight’s cool caress. You can feel the quickening of her breath against your mouth, the tremor of desire threading through her every move.

You press closer, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, tasting the sharp sweetness of her lips, the heat that blooms beneath her skin. Your fingers thread through the dark strands of her hair, tugging gently, coaxing her to lean into you more, to lose herself completely in this.

Her body molds against yours, curves aligning, breath mingling with yours in a fevered rhythm. The chill that started the night is long forgotten, replaced by the fire burning between you both—raw, electric, unstoppable.

Agatha pulls back just enough to let out a ragged breath, eyes dark and shimmering, lips parted and flushed. “You don’t know what you’re asking for,” she murmurs, voice thick with need.

But you only smile, eyes bright with challenge and want. “Then teach me,” you whisper, “Professor…” fingers tracing the line of her jaw, your voice may be innocent but it also a promise and a plea all at once.

Her grin deepens, slow and wicked, eyes glinting with a fierce possessiveness that sends a shiver rippling down your spine. Without breaking eye contact, her hand slides up your side—deliberate, measured—until her fingers curl around your neck with a gentle but unyielding heat. The warmth of her touch spreads like wildfire, igniting nerves and skin alike. She pulls you closer, the pressure a clear reminder: here, in this moment, you belong to her.

Her voice drops to a low, husky murmur, thick with desire and sharp as a blade. Her breath fans your cheek as she leans in just enough to brush her lips against your skin, teasing.

“You think you can tease me,” she says, each word slow and deliberate, “and not pay the price?”

There’s a fierce edge to her tone, but also a challenge — and then a sudden flicker of something amused, almost tender, crosses her features.

“But… why are you so quiet now? So… uncharacteristically meek?”

Her fingers tighten their hold on your neck, trailing slowly down as if to mark you, to claim you. The fire burning behind her eyes is unrelenting, a mixture of hunger, ownership, and something rawly vulnerable beneath it all.

Her lips linger against yours, fierce and demanding, but slowly, the intensity shifts, softening like embers glowing after a firestorm. The sharp edges of her kiss dull into something warmer, more intimate—an unspoken reassurance beneath the hunger. Her fingers remain wrapped around your neck, not tightening, but tracing slow, deliberate patterns that soothe and claim at once, sending gentle sparks rippling beneath your skin.

The heat between you pulses steadily, fierce yet gentle, like a storm held at bay. Her breath mingles with yours, slow and measured now, as if she’s savoring the quiet vulnerability beneath the tension. For a moment, the darkness in her eyes softens—revealing something deeper, something raw and real that few ever see.

You pull back just enough to meet her gaze, your chest rising and falling with the aftershocks of the kiss. Your voice is low, steady, though a tremor threads through it—the vulnerability you rarely show, held here in the space between you.

“If I’m yours tonight,” you murmur, your words carrying a quiet strength, “then don’t hold back.”

The slow curve of a smile spreads across her lips—part satisfaction, part something darker, more possessive—as she brushes a stray strand of hair behind your ear with fingers warm and surprisingly gentle. Her touch lingers, a soft promise written in the quiet strength of her hand.

Her eyes narrow just slightly, a teasing glint sparking in their depths. “Oh, I have no intention of holding anything back.”

Her gaze darkens, filled with a feral hunger that sends a thrill rushing through you. “But be warned,” she murmurs, voice low and dangerous, “once I start, there’s no turning back. Ever..”

You feel it too: the weight of the unspoken vow between you, heavy and binding as the night itself. The way her presence wraps around you like a cloak, fierce but protective, demanding and gentle all at once.

The silence that follows isn’t empty—it hums with the promise of more. Agatha’s hand slides down from your neck, resting over your heart for a moment, steady and warm. Her breath brushes against your temple as she murmurs, “This is only the beginning.”

Your fingers find hers, intertwining easily, naturally—as if no other place in the world could feel more right.

Her lips press against yours again, slow and deliberate, as if she’s memorizing every curve and breath. The possessiveness in her touch sharpens—the way her fingers tighten just enough to claim you, the way her body molds to yours, solid and unyielding. You can feel the weight of her desire, fierce and unwavering, wrapping around you like a cloak.

Suddenly, her hand slides beneath your knees, lifting you up effortlessly. The rush of being cradled so completely leaves your breath caught somewhere between surprise and want. Her warmth seeps into your skin, spreading through you like wildfire—intoxicating and fierce.

Then, inexplicably, a sharp thrill prickles along your spine—a subtle electricity, alive and humming beneath your skin, sending heat rushing through your veins. Your eyes widen in surprise, heart hammering, but Agatha only smiles.

“I’m here,” she whispers. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

Her hands roam your back and sides, slow and deliberate, igniting every nerve with tender precision. The fire between you is not just desire—it’s an unspoken claim, fierce and soft all at once, wrapping you in the promise of something deeper.

She carries you further into the room, every movement fluid and sure, her strength grounding you even as your pulse races. Your fingers find her shoulders, steadying yourself against the solid warmth of her body.

There’s no rush—only the sound of your mingled breaths and the electric hum of tension thickening the air between you.

When she lowers you gently onto the bed, her hands cup your face, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones with a tenderness that makes your heart ache.

“This night,” she breathes, “is yours. Mine. Ours.”

Her lips find yours again—soft, claiming, fierce—and in that kiss, you understand that this is just the beginning. Possessed, protected, and loved like never before.

Agatha’s lips finally pull from yours, though the heat of her breath still ghosts over your skin. She shifts her weight, rising so she’s kneeling above you, her silk robe pooling and parting around her thighs.

Your gaze drifts upward with her, caught in the lines of her body, until movement at the edge of your vision pulls you in another direction. She reaches towards the side of the bed—a folded sheet of paper—and without a word, sets it on the nightstand.

Your eyes follow the motion instinctively, curiosity sparking, but before you can focus on the object, her hand is on your jaw.

Firm. Possessive.

Her fingers tilt your face back to hers, her thumb brushing over your cheekbone with deliberate slowness.

“Eyes on me,” she murmurs, the velvet in her voice wrapped tight around steel. “Whatever you’re looking for… it’s not more important than this.”

The way she says it—low, certain, threaded with something that makes your pulse spike—leaves no room for protest.

Her gaze holds yours, deep and unyielding, and in it you see the quiet command that makes your chest tighten: she’s not asking, she’s claiming.

Your breath catches under her touch, the pull of her fingers holding you in place.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, voice instinctively quieter than you mean it to be.

A slow, knowing smile curves her lips. “Sorry who?”

Your pulse kicks. “Agatha.”

Her gaze darkens, and before you can take another breath, her fingers slide into your hair—firm, controlled, guiding your head back just enough so you have to look up at her.

“Mm,” she hums, the sound low and dangerous, a caress and a warning all at once. “Try again, baby girl.”

The pet name sends a hot flush spiraling down your spine, and your thoughts scramble, tripping over themselves until they land exactly where she wants them.

“Professor,” you breathe, the word tasting like surrender on your tongue.

Her smile sharpens, but it’s the warmth in her eyes that makes your chest ache.

“Again,” she murmurs.

“Sorry, Professor,” you whisper, letting the title roll off your tongue like you know exactly what it does to her.

Her grip in your hair tightens just a little—enough to make your breath hitch. Something low and electric stirs deep in your belly, heat blooming and spilling lower until you can feel it pooling between your thighs.

The change in you doesn’t go unnoticed. Her eyes flick down your body and then back up, and the sound she makes—half a moan, half a sigh—is pure, shameless satisfaction.

“God, my smart girl,” she breathes, leaning in until her lips hover a whisper away from yours.

Your body arches involuntarily toward her, the world narrowing to the press of her fingers in your hair, the silk of her robe brushing against your skin, and the promise in her voice.

Before you can answer, her mouth finally claims yours—deep, slow, and searing. She kisses you like she’s been holding back for days, tongue sweeping in to taste you, pulling a soft whimper from your throat. Her hand in your hair keeps you exactly where she wants you, until she finally lets it go, her fingers trailing down the line of your neck, over your collarbone, lingering just above the swell of your chest.

The shift in her touch is maddening—gentle, deliberate, but with an undercurrent of control that makes your thighs press together. She notices, of course. Her lips curve against yours in a slow, wicked smile.

Her hand drifts lower, parting the silk of your sleepwear with a careful slide until her palm brushes warm skin. You shiver under her touch, and she exhales a soft, hungry sound, fingertips grazing the curve of your breast before her thumb sweeps across your nipple—teasing, just enough to make your hips tilt toward her.

“You’re warm here,” she murmurs, her voice rich and low.

Her hand slides lower, fingers splaying across your stomach before she cups you through the thin fabric, her palm pressing firmly enough to make your breath stutter. Heat spikes through you at the contact, and you can’t stop the soft, shaky sound that escapes your lips.

“Mhm…” she hums, her thumb dragging slowly in a way that makes your knees weaken. “But I think I can make you burn.”

The air between you is thick, the tension wrapping tight as her eyes lock on yours—hungry, sure, but laced with something that makes your pulse trip over itself. Her touch doesn’t move away; if anything, the weight of her palm becomes a silent command to stay exactly where you are.

Your breath catches, the world narrowing to nothing but the weight of her hand on your skin. The warmth of her palm seeps in, grounding you and undoing you in the same breath. It’s not just a touch—it’s a claim, a tether, something that steals the air from your lungs and sends a low, restless ache curling deep in your belly.

Your pulse hammers against her fingertips, too fast, too loud, like she must be able to feel the way she’s unraveling you. Every instinct screams to move, to lean into her, but you stay rooted, pinned in place by the unspoken power of her touch.

She leans in just enough for you to catch the faintest trace of her perfume—rich, heady, intoxicating—and it swirls with the heat of her body until it’s all you can breathe.

“Look at you,” she murmurs, voice low enough to crawl under your skin. “You’re already giving yourself away.”

You swallow hard, your fingers curling instinctively into the silk at her waist, feeling the warmth of her body beneath. “I… I can’t think when you’re like this,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. The words feel dangerous, a confession you shouldn’t be giving her, but they spill out anyway.

Her lips twitch, and it’s almost a smirk, but not quite. Instead, her eyes darken as she dips forward until her forehead rests against yours. “Good,” she breathes, her voice thick with possession, “I don’t want you thinking about anything but me.”

The words land heavy between you, a promise and a command all at once. Her hand slips lower, past the edge of your collar, fingertips grazing bare skin in an achingly slow path. Every nerve in your body seems to sharpen under her touch, and you can’t help the small, broken sound that escapes you.

She hears it, and her eyes flutter closed for a beat as if she’s drinking it in. “You like this,” she says—not a question, but a statement wrapped in certainty. Her tone isn’t cruel, but there’s a dark satisfaction there, a subtle triumph that sends heat curling in your stomach.

Your hips shift without conscious thought, leaning into her hand as if pulled there. Her breath catches at the movement, a low, almost feral sound rumbling from her chest—a sound that makes your own breath hitch in response.

“Tell me,” she says, her voice low and devastatingly patient as her touch hovers exactly where you need it most, “tell me you want this.”

Your lips part, but your voice falters, and she tilts her head, eyes glinting like she can feel your hesitation.

“I—” You cut yourself off, swallowing against the lump in your throat. Your gaze locks with hers, pupils blown wide. “Please.”

It’s a single word, but the way you say it—breathless, unguarded, already surrendering—hits her like a spark to dry tinder. Her eyes sharpen, hunger flaring so quickly it’s almost dizzying.

For a heartbeat, she simply stares at you, and you can feel the tension coil tight between you, wound to the point of breaking. And then—

“God, you’re perfect when you beg,” she murmurs, the sound laced with something raw. Her mouth crashes against yours in a kiss that’s all consuming—hard and deep, yet threaded with an almost desperate care, as though she’s terrified you might pull away.

Her hand stays at your throat, warm and steady, not squeezing—just holding you there, as if she’s reminding you exactly who’s in control. You can feel the faint tremor of her breathing against your chest, the subtle shift of the mattress under her knees bracketing your hips. The closeness is unbearable in the best way, the air heavy with her perfume and the faintest trace of her skin’s heat.

Your pulse stutters beneath her fingers.

She tilts her head, studying your face like she’s reading a page she’s already memorized. “Why aren’t you so cocky anymore? I was enjoying the… challenge.” The question is soft, but there’s a dangerous curve to her lips, something that says she already knows the answer.

You swallow hard, the movement caught against her touch. “I… wasn’t teasing you.”

One dark brow lifts. “No?” Her hand slides into your hair, tangling slowly, deliberately, until the faint pull makes you arch your neck. “Then what exactly were you doing, baby girl?”

“I was… I’m asking,” you manage, voice unsteady. Your heart feels like it’s trying to break through your ribs, and you can’t stop the way your thighs shift under her. “Please.”

The word lingers between you like smoke, and you swear you feel something crackle in the air—something you can’t explain—before her breath hitches and her grip in your hair tightens.

Her eyes darken, and she leans in just enough for her lips to brush your jaw. “Careful what you beg for.”

The mattress dips as she adjusts, her body pressing more firmly against yours. One of her hands leaves your hair only to slide along your jaw, fingers guiding your face until you’re looking directly at her.

Something flashes in her eyes—satisfaction, hunger, and a flicker of something softer, all tangled together. And then she’s closing the last inch between you again, her lips dragging over yours, slower this time, deliberate in a way that makes your chest ache and your body burn.

Her palm stays right there, pressing just enough to make your hips twitch against the contact, her gaze still locked on yours like she’s reading every unspoken thought. But then her voice drops lower—serious, steady, almost startling in the middle of the heat.

“If you don’t like something,” she murmurs, her thumb tracing a small, idle circle over you, “you tell me, and we stop. No games.”

It’s not a threat. It’s a promise. Her tone leaves no space for doubt; she would stop. She’s giving you that choice.

Your chest rises and falls in a shaky breath, your mind tumbling through the heat of her words, the grip in your hair, the weight of her on the bed above you. Every nerve feels lit, but there’s something else—something softer, steadier—thrumming beneath it.

Instead of answering right away, you reach up. Your fingers find her cheek, tracing the line of her jaw until your palm cradles her face. Her skin is warm under your touch, the faintest tremor passing through her when you stroke your thumb along her cheekbone.

“I want this,” you whisper, and your voice comes out rougher than you expect. “I want you.”

Her eyes flicker—sharpness and relief tangled together—before her body dips closer, her forehead brushing yours. “Good,” she breathes, and her hips shift forward just enough to make you feel her thigh pressing between yours.

Your fingers drift down, brushing over the smooth silk at her waist until they find the loose knot of her robe. The fabric is warm from her skin, the edges whispering apart under your touch.

Agatha’s eyes narrow in that intoxicating way—part challenge. Her voice is low, velvet-soft but edged with something that makes your pulse trip.

“And what,” she murmurs, leaning just close enough for her lips to almost graze your ear, “would you like now, my sweet?”

Chapter Text

“And what,” she murmurs, leaning just close enough for her lips to almost graze your ear, “would you like now, my sweet?”

The question hangs heavy between you, deliberate, as if she’s giving you the chance to choose your undoing. Her thigh shifts slightly against you, the pressure a silent reminder of the power she has in this moment.

You swallow, your breath unsteady, your fingers still resting on the silk knot.

“Only you.”

Her gaze sharpens instantly, a glint of something primal flashing in the dim light. Her lips curl in the barest smile, but it’s not gentle—it’s the kind that promises you’ve just set something in motion you can’t take back.

“Me?” she echoes, her tone a dangerous purr as her hand slides up your side, slow and deliberate, until her fingers are cradling the line of your jaw. She tilts your face toward hers, her thumb brushing just beneath your lip. “That’s all you want?”

Her fingers tighten just slightly, but she doesn’t stop you as your hand reaches for the knot again. It’s loose, yielding under your touch, and with a soft sigh, she lets it come undone.

The silk slips open between your fingers, and your breath catches—Agatha is wearing nothing underneath. Bare skin gleams in the moonlight, flawless and pale, the gentle curve of her collarbone dipping into the shadowed hollow of her chest.

Your heart stutters, heat rushing up your neck and flooding your cheeks with a flush that feels far too loud in the quiet room. For a split second, your mind blanks—panic fluttering in your stomach like a wild thing caught off guard.

Agatha’s eyes flicker down to your face, amusement sparkling in that dark gaze. “Something wrong?” she teases, voice low and sultry, lips curving with wicked delight.

You swallow hard, cheeks burning hotter as your fingers curl in the now open folds of silk, suddenly feeling very aware of the exposed skin beneath your touch—and the way she’s watching you, utterly unshaken.

Your fingers linger on the edge of the silk, but your eyes stay fixed on her—on the pale curve of her neck, the way the moonlight catches the soft glow of her skin, the delicate line of her collarbone, as if light itself is drawn to her.

“You’re beautiful,” you whisper, voice steady but full of awe. “Like the first quiet moment before dawn. You are ethereal.”

For a moment, Agatha’s breath catches, her usual guarded composure slipping just enough to reveal something softer—surprise, warmth, something tender hiding behind those dark eyes.

She lifts her chin slightly, lips parting as if to speak, but instead her voice comes low and husky, almost a whisper: “My sweet girl.”

Her hand rises slowly, fingers brushing the side of your cheek with a tenderness that contrasts the fierce hold she often wears. That touch, gentle and sure, speaks volumes—possessiveness wrapped in quiet affection.

Though she tries to hide the softness in her gaze, the way her body leans in just a fraction closer betrays her.

Agatha’s fingers linger against your cheek a moment longer, her touch a silent promise. Slowly, deliberately, she lets her hand trail down the curve of your jaw to the delicate line of your neck, her thumb brushing over the pulse there—soft, steady, and utterly captivating.

Her breath is warm against your skin as she leans in, eyes flickering between your lips and your eyes, searching for the same permission in your gaze that burns in her own.

Your heart hammers, every nerve alive. You don’t hesitate. Your fingers find her wrist, a gentle grip that says yes before your lips part in a whisper, “I want you.”

Her lips curve into a slow, dark smile—fierce and tender all at once. She moves with a predator’s grace, closing the space between you until the warmth of her body presses against yours, silk slipping further open, skin meeting skin with a heat that makes your breath hitch.

You arch into her, lips meeting in a slow, hungry kiss that deepens with every second. The room falls away, leaving only the two of you tangled together in a web of heat and whispered promises.

Her voice is rough against your mouth as she breaks the kiss. “If at any moment you want me to stop—”

You shake your head, voice firm but breathless, “Don’t stop.”

Agatha’s hands move with a newfound urgency, her fingers threading through your hair as she pulls you closer.

Her hands roam over you in unhurried paths, fingers gliding like she’s mapping you to memory. She traces the slope of your jaw, drags her knuckles down the column of your throat, and her touch feels almost worshipful—like every inch of you is precious.

“You’re so soft,” Agatha breathes, her voice low and uneven, as though she’s admitting something she’s not meant to say aloud. Her eyes lift to yours, and for a fleeting heartbeat, the hunger there is matched by something warmer… something that threatens to crack the careful walls she keeps around herself.

She leans closer, the silk of her robe brushing against your arm, her breath fanning over the delicate skin just above your collarbone. When she speaks, it’s quieter, almost tentative, like she’s asking for far more than just what the words mean.

“May I… remove your top?”

Your chest tightens, a rush of heat flooding you at both the question and the way she says it—careful, restrained, as though she’d stop at the smallest sign of hesitation. You meet her gaze, letting her see that you’re not only unafraid, but that you want this—want her.

“Yes… please,” you whisper, the plea threading through your voice without shame.

She shifts, silk whispering as she settles over you, her knees bracketing your hips, robe spilling like dark water across the sheets. From this angle she owns the space above you, her shadow swallowing the edges of the bed until it feels like there’s nothing in the world but her, hovering, hungry, and impossibly close.

Her fingers hook the thin straps of your top, tugging them down slow, deliberate, until the silk puddles at your waist. Her eyes never leave you, drinking in every inch of exposed skin with a hunger she doesn’t bother disguising.

Her hands follow, sliding up your sides, calloused fingertips grazing ribs before curving toward the swell of your chest. She stops just shy, pausing as though savoring the tension in your breath. Her lips part, and her voice slips out low, molten:

“Do you know what you’re doing to me right now?” Her thumbs brush teasing circles over bare skin, every movement deliberate torture. “Lying here like this… letting me look at you… it’s maddening.”

She lowers her face, close enough for her breath to mingle with yours, her mouth hovering at your jaw without touching. “So soft,” she whispers, and the way her tone dips makes it sound less like observation, more like a confession.

Her nose skims your cheek, lips grazing your skin as she adds, darker this time, “I could spend hours learning every inch of you… tasting you… hearing how sweet you sound when I push you past words.”

Your back arches slightly as her fingers trail along your sides, teasing the curve of your waist before inching upward, deliberately slow. The heat of her hands presses through your silk top, the friction against your skin making your breath hitch. Every motion, every brush of her fingertips, is deliberate—deliberately torturous.

She leans closer, her mouth ghosting over your collarbone, the warm breath sending shivers down your spine. Your heart hammers in your chest, and you can feel the slick pull between your thighs, the rising ache of need. Agatha’s hands pause at your ribs, thumbs brushing lightly, almost as if asking permission, making your pulse stutter in anticipation.

Your chest rises as you gasp softly, and she leans in farther, the heat of her body pressing closer, her lips now brushing against your shoulder, then the slope of your neck, each kiss teasing the soft swell beneath your top. Your stomach twists in delicious tension, your hands clutching the sheets as you struggle to stay still under her deliberate torment.

Her fingers slip under the edge of your top, lightly grazing your skin as if testing, and you arch toward her, desperate and wanting. The soft, hungry hum she releases is almost unbearable, a promise of what’s coming next.

Then her lips finally close around your nipple, slow and reverent at first, lips warm and wet, tongue flicking in tantalizing, maddening circles. You shiver violently, a ragged moan tearing from your throat as the silk pools around her hands and your body trembles under her worshipful, yet possessive, attention.

“Agatha…” The name slips out without thought, torn from you like a plea, like a prayer.

Her teeth catch you, a soft, deliberate bite that makes your breath falter. She pulls back, lips flushed, eyes dark and glinting. A slow smile curves her mouth—dangerous, knowing. “Hmm,” she hums, mock-scolding, “that’s not how you address me.”

The reminder cuts through you like lightning, sharp and hot. Your chest rises and falls too fast, and when you manage to speak, your voice trembles with both need and submission. “Professor…”

The word seems to shatter her composure.

A guttural sound leaves her throat, half moan, half growl. Her grip on your waist tightens; her other hand moves suddenly to your jaw, tilting your face up, forcing your eyes to meet hers. The sheer intensity in her gaze nearly undoes you—fierce, consuming, possessive.

“Say it again,” she demands, low and husky, a command that sends heat racing straight to your core.

“Professor,” you breathe, this time soaked in reverence, in heat, in surrender.

The noise she makes is feral. Her fingers weave into your hair, tugging just hard enough to draw a gasp from your lips. “That’s my good girl,” she murmurs, voice molten against your ear, soft and sinful all at once. “So sweet when you remember who you belong to.”

Then her mouth claims you again—hungrier now. She sucks at your nipple with a force that makes you cry out, tongue flicking, teeth grazing until your hands are clawing at the sheets for something to hold onto. The sounds leaving you only spur her on, and when you writhe helplessly beneath her, her answering moan vibrates through your chest and straight down between your thighs.

Your voice breaks on the next breath, helpless and trembling: “Please, Professor…”

She lifts her head slowly, lips wet, chest heaving. For a moment, she just stares at you, eyes burning with something molten and raw. The weight of it pins you more thoroughly than her hands ever could.

Her fingers trail along your jaw, tilting your face slightly, and you feel the delicious tension build again.

Without warning, she presses her lips to yours, slower this time, savoring the taste, the warmth, the trembling need in your mouth. Her tongue teases yours, probing, demanding, coaxing every shiver from your body. Your hands, still shaky, reach up to cup her face, tracing the line of her jaw, feeling the softness beneath her sharp edges.

Your lips drift lower, brushing across the swell of her neck, and your hands roam tentatively her ribcage. She tenses under your touch, chest rising, then relaxes into the sensation, her eyes never leaving yours.

“Do you…want me to stop?” she asks suddenly, voice husky, checking for your consent even in the middle of the fire between you.

“No,” you whisper, tilting your face into her palm, fingers threading through the silk of her hair. “Please…don’t stop.”

Her reaction is instant—feral, hungry. A low moan escapes her throat as she leans closer, and you can feel the warmth of her body pressing into yours.

“What would you like?” she asks, a soft growl vibrating in her chest, voice a mix of desire and dominance.

“You,” you breathe, heart hammering, body trembling.

Her lips part in a small, approving smile, and she tilts her head down just enough to brush her lips across yours again. “Such a bold girl…” she murmurs, then gives a soft laugh that’s almost a purr. “My bold girl.”

Encouraged, you press your lips against hers again, slowly, reverently, before letting your hands explore, gently teasing the top of her robe. She lets you, guiding just enough to give you the thrill of control, yet keeping her presence and dominance overwhelming.

Your lips find hers again, and this time your hands roam more freely, teasing the curves and planes of her chest. She responds, moaning softly, letting her own hands weave into your hair, tugging just enough to elicit another gasp from you.

Every touch, every kiss, every low, molten sound she makes drives you higher, and when your lips brush over the sensitive peaks of her chest, the shared moan that escapes both of you binds you in a moment of intimate, fierce, and unrestrained connection.

Your lips pull back slightly, eyes glinting with desire, and your hands slide up Agatha’s sides, hesitant at first, then bolder as her warm, taut skin presses against your palms. Your fingers trace the curve of her breasts, feeling the softness and heat beneath, while your lips never leave hers, capturing her moans in the press of your mouth.

A low, urgent sound rumbles from her throat, and her hands tighten in your hair, guiding your movements. You tilt your head, pressing your mouth to the peak of her breast, tongue brushing over the sensitive skin. She shivers, a gasp breaking through the sultry hum that fills the room, chest rising and falling faster against your lips.

Encouraged, your lips travel lower, trailing soft, teasing kisses along the curve, tasting, nipping gently, alternating between slow licks and delicate bites. Agatha’s head falls back slightly, eyes half-lidded, lips parted, a feral moan escaping with every flick of your tongue. Her hands clutch your shoulders, then slide to your back, pulling you flush, guiding you as if choreographing the delicate dance of pleasure.

The moment your lips close around her nipple, she gasps, head tilting back, hair spilling in wild dark waves. “Oh—fuck,” she moans, the sound tearing out of her throat raw and broken as your tongue circles, flicks, then sucks with wet insistence. Her hands clutch at your shoulders, nails biting into your skin, but she doesn’t try to stop you—if anything, she arches harder into your mouth, grinding down desperately against your thigh.

*

Agatha is already trembling in your lap, straddling you with the robe gaping open, her chest rising and falling in frantic rhythm. Your mouth latches onto her nipple again, slow, deliberate, sucking until her cry breaks the quiet like a crack of lightning. She clutches at your hair, arching into you, thighs tightening around your waist.

“Gods—” she moans, voice raw, half a sob, “you’re—ah—” Her words crumble as your tongue swirls over the taut peak, and you feel the faint shiver run all the way through her body.

You pull back just enough to speak, lips brushing over her skin. “You like that, Professor?” you whisper, voice low and reverent, letting the title drip from your tongue like worship.

A strangled moan answers you, her hips twitching down against your thigh instinctively, though she barely moves. She’s too undone, too lost in what you’re giving her or perhaps more accurately, what she is taking.

“Good,” you murmur, kissing the swell of her breast before capturing her nipple again, harder this time, until she cries out. One hand holds her steady at the small of her back, the other sliding up to caress her ribs, feeling the way her whole body quivers in your arms.

Her head drops to your shoulder, hair spilling over your skin as her breathing stutters. You can feel her chest shuddering with every desperate sound that leaves her lips, and it makes your heart pound harder.

She jerks slightly, pulling back just enough to look at you, eyes wide, wild with disbelief at how much she’s feeling. “Fuck…” she breathes, shaky, as though the word has been torn from her. “What are you doing to me?”

You steady her with your hands, one pressed gently at her back, the other resting at her waist. Tilting your face up, you kiss just over her heart before answering, voice low and reverent. “Nothing you don’t want. Just… touching you. Just loving you.”

Her lips part, and for a heartbeat she looks stricken, as if the word love itself rattles her bones. Then you suck at her breast again, tongue swirling, lips tugging, and she’s gone—her head falling back, a broken moan spilling out, hips grinding again without her meaning to.

“Professor…” you whisper against her skin, and that makes her jolt—makes her grip tighten in your hair as though she’ll shatter if you stop.

You push yourself up, slowly, carefully, until you’re sitting with her straddling your lap. Her robe slips further open, her chest bare to your mouth, her body trembling against yours. She’s gasping now, breath uneven, as if she can’t believe how badly she needs this, how much she’s coming apart for you.

“Don’t hold back,” you murmur, your hands stroking soothing circles over her spine. “It’s just me. You can… you can let go.”

Her response is half sob, half moan, muffled against your hair as she clings to you, rocking once more against your thigh. Every small movement drags another helpless sound from her, each one rougher than the last, as though her own desire frightens her with its force.

“Sweet girl,” she gasps, voice breaking now, as if the endearment itself is a lifeline she clings to. “You—ah—you don’t understand what you’re—” She cuts herself off with another sharp moan when your lips close hungrily around her again.

You whisper against her breast, the words trembling out of you: “I understand and I want all of you. Let me have you. Please.”

Her head falls forward, forehead pressing to yours, and her chest rises in ragged, uneven pulls. You can feel her trembling, every little shiver coursing through her where she’s seated on you.

She gasps when your palm slides over her thigh, fingers brushing close—so close—where she aches for you. Her whole body tenses, as if the anticipation alone is too much.

“Please…” she whispers, voice hoarse, caught between begging and denial. Her nails dig into your shoulders, a shaky anchor.

Your hand slides higher, deliberate, parting the silk where her robe has fallen open completely now. The heat of her core pulses against your fingers before you even touch, and when you do—just a soft stroke over her slick folds—she breaks.

A strangled moan tears out of her throat, low and guttural, and she grinds down helplessly into your hand. “Gods—” she pants, head snapping back, hair tumbling wild around her shoulders.

“You’re so wet,” you breathe, half in awe, half in wonder, your lips brushing her neck as your fingers tease her slowly, dragging through her arousal.

she drags her gaze down to you—dark, wild, undone.

“Say my name,” she breathes, desperate and sharp all at once, like the command costs her to admit how much she needs it. Her hips stutter against your hand, seeking more. “Say it!”

You freeze for a heartbeat, struck by how much power lingers in her voice even when she’s falling apart. Then you obey, whispering it into the space between you.

“Agatha…”

Her moan rips through the air, raw and guttural. She grinds harder into your hand, chasing friction, nails biting into your skin.

“Again,” she begs, the word tumbling out rough, nearly frantic. “Say it again—”

You press your lips to her ear, your voice breaking with awe and heat as you give her what she wants. “Agatha…”

The sound of her name from your mouth shatters her. She gasps, body jerking, her moan spilling into your neck. “Fuck—yes—” She clings to you like she might collapse, trembling harder with every syllable you gift her.

Her body shakes against you, but even through the haze of her own need, Agatha’s instinct to command flickers back into place. Her fingers tighten in your hair, tugging your head back just enough to make your breath catch. Her lips ghost over yours, her voice low and hoarse but carrying that sharp edge you know so well.

“Mm… no, no, darling,” she purrs, though her words tremble with the remnants of her moans. “I should have you beneath me… spread out and begging—”

She shifts her weight like she’s about to press you down into the mattress, reclaim the upper hand.

But this time you don’t yield.

Instead, you meet her attempt with a sudden push—hands firm at her waist, rolling your body so her back hits the sheets with a surprised gasp.

“Ah—!” The sound escapes her before she can catch it, equal parts shock and arousal. Her robe falls further open around her, baring more of her flushed skin, her chest heaving as she stares up at you.

For once, Agatha Harkness is the one pinned.

You hover over her, lips swollen, breaths shallow, your hand still pressed dangerously close between her thighs. “No,” you whisper, voice steadier than you thought it could be. “Not this time, Professor.”

Her eyes flash, a storm of pride, desire, and disbelief. She could shove you back, she could flip you in an instant—you both know it. But she doesn’t. She stays there, trembling, robe undone, staring at you like you’ve just set her world on fire.

And when your fingers slip back against her slick heat, her head tips back into the pillow, a broken, guttural moan spilling out of her throat.

“You wicked girl…” she moans.

Your mouth leaves her chest only to wander lower, brushing kisses over the curve of her stomach. Her muscles flutter beneath your lips, betraying the tension she’s trying so hard to hold.

“Careful,” she breathes, but her voice isn’t steady—it’s frayed, rough, betraying just how close she already is to losing control.

You don’t answer with words. You press another kiss lower, just at the edge of her hipbone, then drag your tongue along the delicate skin there. She exhales sharply, her hands twitching at her sides as if she can’t decide whether to pull you closer or push you away.

The robe slips fully from her shoulders, forgotten, leaving her bared and trembling under your touch. The sight alone nearly undoes you, but you hold steady, wanting more of the sounds she’s trying and failing to swallow.

Your lips trail down the inside of her thigh, slow, deliberate, a steady descent that has her shifting in your lap, grinding ever so slightly as if she can’t stop her body from seeking friction.

Her head tips back, hair spilling wild across the pillow, and for the first time she doesn’t mask her expression. Her face is open, undone—eyes dark and unfocused, lips parted, every breath ragged.

You kiss higher on her thigh, one hand sliding to steady her hip. She shudders under the hold, a sound low in her throat that makes heat coil deep inside you.

Her hands clutch your hair, tugging gently but firmly, tilting your head just enough so your lips meet hers. Her eyes—dark, smoldering, and wide with surprise at her own reaction—hold you captive. “You want a taste?” she murmurs, voice low, thick with need, almost a growl. “Beg for it.”

Your breath catches, chest rising and falling too quickly, a heat pooling low in your belly. “Please…please, I need you,” you whisper, trembling, letting your fingers brush against the smooth expanse of her hips as she hovers above you.

A guttural, involuntary moan escapes her throat at your words. Her grip in your hair tightens, pulling you just a fraction closer, giving you permission and control simultaneously. You can feel her weight shift against you, her thighs pressing and teasing, yet she remains on top, straddling your hips with a precarious dominance that trembles beneath the surface of her desire.

Slowly, reverently, you press your lips against her, tasting her, exploring. Your tongue flicks across the sensitive skin, tracing lines that make her shiver, her chest rising and falling erratically. The sound of her moans—half surprised, half feral—fills the room, bouncing off the walls, drowning out everything else. Each soft, wet kiss and flick of your tongue draws a reaction from her, subtle at first, then urgent. She starts to grind lightly against you, testing, searching for friction, and you respond instinctively, encouraging, pressing your hips up, letting her feel how much you want this.

She gasps, arching into you slightly, her hands loosening briefly from your hair to clutch your shoulders, her dark eyes half-lidded, molten with both need and the smallest hint of disbelief at how undone she feels. Her lips part as another moan escapes, long and low, vibrating through you, and you lean closer, pressing kisses down her sternum, tracing the curves of her chest before returning to her heated skin.

The combination of her vulnerability and the slight dominance she still exerts is intoxicating. Even as she tries to regain control, her body betrays her, responding to your touch, your lips, your tongue. She presses a hand into the bed beside you, steadying herself, then tilts her hips just enough to guide you closer, teasing, coaxing, and testing the line between surrender and command.

Every movement, every sound, every subtle grind of her hips against you heightens the tension. Her moans grow wetter, deeper, full of heat and raw desire, and you can feel the pulse of her arousal through every inch of her skin. You let your lips wander lower, every kiss, every gentle suck eliciting a gasp, a shiver, a small cry from her, and she tightens her hold on your hair again, tilting your head, forcing your gaze to meet hers for a brief, intense moment.

“You…you feel so good,” she breathes, voice husky, trembling, barely able to contain herself. Her usual composure is gone—replaced with raw, feral need—and you respond by pressing yourself closer, lips and tongue tracing the heated curves, teasing the most sensitive parts of her, letting her feel how utterly consumed you are by her.

“That’s it…my good girl,” she murmurs, voice husky, half praise, half plea. Her hips shift subtly, pressing down against your mouth, guiding you, teasing you, and your hands move to grip her thighs, steadying her as you focus on her, tasting her, making her tremble.

Her head falls back slightly, lips parting, eyes closing in a mixture of surprise, need, and something tenderly vulnerable. The small noises she makes—moans, gasps, murmured words—spur you on, your tongue circling, sucking, coaxing every shiver from her body.

You suck and flick with more intent, teasing her, coaxing moans from her lips, feeling her hips shift against your mouth. Each shiver, each tremor she lets slip through her body sends an electric thrill racing up your spine, urging you to continue, slower or faster as she responds.

Her breath hitches, chest heaving, eyes fluttering open briefly, dark and molten with need. “Yes…just like that…so good…my sweet girl,” she murmurs, tone soft but edged with want, her hands clutching at your shoulders as though holding onto reality itself.

Her body arches sharply, shivering as the wave of pleasure builds relentlessly. Her hands clutch your hair, pulling you closer, pressing her hips instinctively into your mouth.

A low, ragged moan escapes her throat, broken and trembling as her breath comes in quick, shallow bursts. “Ah…oh…” she gasps, unable to form words, lost entirely to the sensation.

Your lips and tongue trace and circle her, coaxing her higher, drawing out every shudder and gasp. Her body trembles violently, a high, sweet cry escaping as she spills over the edge. Every muscle clenches, every nerve alight, and her hips jerk against your mouth in frantic, beautiful rhythm.

Your head settles against her thigh, just at the curve of her hip, and you let yourself breathe in the warmth, the lingering heat of her body. Agatha leans back slightly, closing her eyes, a small, almost stunned smile curling her lips. Her chest rises and falls.

After a moment, she opens her eyes slowly, dark and shimmering, and looks down at you. Her fingers trace lightly through your hair, gentle but possessive, fingers brushing against your scalp in a slow, deliberate caress.

“Up,” she murmurs suddenly, voice low and commanding, yet still tinged with the softness you’ve just coaxed from her. “Come to me.”

You respond immediately, sliding from your resting position and pressing yourself into her. She pulls you close, lips finding yours in a fierce, hungry kiss, hands threading through your hair, holding you flush against her. Her other hand cups your face, tilting it so her mouth dominates yours completely, and you melt into her, warmth and want colliding in a perfect storm.

She tightens her grip on your hair, tilting your head so your lips can’t escape hers, and her voice drops, low and insistent. “Closer,” she demands, teeth just brushing your bottom lip, eyes dark and burning. “I want all of you against me. No space—now.”

You obey instantly, pressing every inch of your body into hers, feeling the heat of her chest against yours, the weight of her arms holding you in place. Her hands roam possessively, one cupping your face, the other sliding along your back, pulling you flush against her.

Your hands move tentatively at first, then more boldly, tracing the curve of her back, the smooth plane of her shoulders, drinking in every inch of her. Your fingers slide along her sides, memorizing the heat and weight of her body pressed against yours.

You can’t help the soft hum that slips past your lips as you lean closer, eyes tracing the line of her neck, the slope of her collarbone, the way her chest rises and falls with each breath. “You’re… breathtaking,” you murmur, voice low and reverent, letting your hands linger, exploring, admiring, revering.

Agatha shivers beneath your touch, a strangled moan escaping her lips as her eyes flutter closed. She leans into your hands instinctively, letting herself feel—letting herself be seen, adored, and held in this way. Her usual control wavers.

Agatha’s eyes snap open, dark and molten, and she pins you gently but firmly with her hands, tilting your face up to hers. Her breath is ragged, chest rising and falling rapidly, and there’s an urgent fire in her gaze you haven’t seen in a long time.

“I need you,” she rasps, low and husky, almost a growl, the words dripping with raw desire and something more—possessiveness, hunger, and a touch of reverence all tangled together. Her fingers dig lightly into your hips, grounding you to her as she leans closer, letting the weight of her body press into yours.

“I want you—right here, right now,” she continues, voice trembling slightly with the intensity of her need. Her lips capture yours in a searing kiss, insistent and claiming, and the warmth of her body against yours makes your pulse hammer. Her movements are slow at first, teasing, pressing, grinding with deliberate control, a rhythm that both overwhelms and draws you closer to her entirely.

You can feel the heat radiating from her, her breath ghosting over your skin, and the way she trails her hands along your sides, over your chest, down to your thighs—it’s all meticulous, consuming. She breaks the kiss just long enough to murmur against your lips, “So close… stay with me,” before leaning back in slightly, grinding again, her eyes hooded but locked onto yours, demanding, claiming, needing.

You’re… intoxicating,” she murmurs, her voice low and husky, vibrating through you. You feel her press closer, straddling you lightly, every motion both commanding and tender.

You meet her gaze, lips hovering near hers, heart hammering. “Agatha…” you whisper, voice soft, reverent, and full of awe. She shivers at the sound of her name on your lips, dark eyes wide for just a moment before her lips curve into a possessive, yet gentle smile.

Her hands slide along your body, pulling you closer, demanding closeness without words. You arch toward her, pressing your body against hers, feeling the heat and the pull between you. Every brush of skin, every shared breath, leaves you both trembling, caught between restraint and surrender.

She leans down, her forehead resting against yours, and murmurs, “I need you… I need to feel you this close.” The intensity in her voice makes your chest tighten, your heart skip. You nod, hands threading through her hair, urging her nearer.

Agatha leans in closer, her lips brushing your skin with a tantalizing softness, then biting just enough to make your breath hitch. A low, vibrating hum escapes her, thick with desire. Her voice drifts against your ear, dark and teasing, murmuring words that make your heart race and your pulse spike.

Agatha leans closer, her dark eyes half-lidded as she inhales softly, letting the warmth and faint sweetness of your skin wash over her. A slow, shivering exhale escapes her, and you feel the weight of her gaze, heavy and consuming, as if she’s memorizing every curve, every inch of you with her senses.

Her hands trace over your body lightly, lingering on your shoulders, down your arms, teasing the planes of your chest, her touch feather-light but deliberate. You shiver under her, heart hammering as she tilts her head, letting her nose brush against your collarbone, her lips just grazing the skin near your neck.

“You smell… intoxicating,” she murmurs, voice husky and low. Her fingers tighten slightly, gripping your sides, drawing you subtly closer. Every breath she takes seems to pull you into her orbit, your body responding before your mind can even catch up.

Agatha pulls back just enough to look down at you, lips swollen, eyes dark with hunger. Her hand drifts lower, hooking into your shorts again, tugging them slowly down your thighs. The deliberate pace has you squirming, breath catching, until the cool air of the room brushes over your soaked panties.

“Mmm,” she hums, biting her lip as her gaze lingers between your thighs. Her voice is low, wrecked, vibrating with desire. “You’re drenched for me already.”

You can’t even answer—the words won’t come. All you manage is a soft whimper as she leans down, kissing along your hip, down the inside of your thigh, her nails dragging lightly against your skin. Each brush is torture, making you ache for her.

Then she pauses, face hovering just above your core. She inhales, deeply, indulgently, like your scent alone is enough to undo her. A moan slips out of her throat, unrestrained, and her fingers clutch harder at your thighs.

“Sweet girl,” she rasps, the words almost guttural. “I could live between your legs.”

Before you can react, her tongue is on you—broad, slow, devastating. Your back arches instantly, a sharp cry tearing from your lips. She licks you again, firmer this time, savoring every drop, her moans vibrating against you.

“Fuck, you taste—” she breaks off, diving in again, tongue working with ruthless precision. One of her hands pins your hip down, the other sliding up your body to grip your breast, squeezing as her mouth works you over.

Your thighs tremble around her head, but she only presses in closer, devouring you like she’s starved. Her lips close around your clit, sucking hard, and the sound that rips from her throat is almost feral.

“Agatha!” you cry, clutching at her hair, your body writhing helplessly under her skilled mouth.

“Look at you,” she rasps, eyes dark and wild as she glances up briefly. “You taste so good, so needy…just mine.” She hums against you again, sucking harder on your clit, curling her fingers inside in perfect rhythm, and your body folds, trembling against her.

You shiver violently as her words echo in your mind—“You’re mine.” The heat of her gaze, the way her fingers move inside you, the way her mouth devours you, all of it presses against your nerves. Your body trembles, legs quivering under her weight, and you can’t help but gasp, “Y-yes…yours…”

Her eyes snap up at your response, dark and glittering with possessive fire. A feral smile curls her lips as she grips your hips harder, pulling you flush against her. “Say it properly,” she commands, low and husky, the timbre vibrating straight into your chest. “Say it like you mean it—mine, only mine.”

You arch into her, moaning around her name, voice trembling with need and surrender. “I’m yours…only yours, Agatha…”

A guttural sound escapes her throat, part growl, part moan, as if the words themselves have set her on fire. She leans closer, letting her hair brush your face, pressing her forehead to yours while her fingers curl even deeper inside you. “Good…so fucking good,” she breathes, teeth grazing your shoulder lightly, just enough to mark you, to claim you.

Her other hand slides to your jaw, tilting your face up, forcing you to meet her gaze. “Do you feel it?” she asks, voice thick with lust and authority. “Do you feel how much you belong to me?”

“Yes…yes, Agatha…” you whisper, voice breaking, your fingers gripping her hair as if holding her is the only way to keep from floating away.

Her chest rises and falls heavily against yours as she hums, that deep, low sound of satisfaction and ownership. “Mine,” she repeats, more for herself than you, grinding gently against you, her movements slow, deliberate, as if to imprint her possession on every inch of you.

You shiver, moaning softly, overwhelmed by her intensity. Every word, every touch, every claim sends shivers racing through you. “I’m yours,” you gasp again, lips brushing hers, fingers threading into her hair, anchoring her while she claims every part of you.

Her moan vibrates through you, almost reverent, almost feral, and she leans down again, licking, sucking, and tracing a line from your neck to your chest, every motion a declaration of possession. “So wet for me…so ready for me…all mine.”

Chapter Text

Her mouth is relentless, lips and tongue worshiping you with a hunger that borders on desperate. Every flick of her tongue, every firm drag against your clit makes your body jolt, a helpless whimper spilling from you. Her fingers press deeper, curling, claiming, pushing you open in a way that makes you ache with how completely she fills you.

You can barely form words, but when she growls against your soaked skin, you feel it rumble through your whole body:

“You’re mine.”

The words are ragged, half-moan, half-command. Her lips seal around your clit, sucking, pulling, until you cry out. Your hands grab at her hair, not to stop her—never that—but to hold onto something as your body trembles beneath her.

“Say it,” she pants against you, fingers moving harder, her mouth devouring you. “Say who you belong to.”

Your head tips back, mouth falling open, gasping, moaning through the unbearable, perfect waves of pleasure. “You—Agatha—” The sound is a broken plea.

She moans into you, the vibration almost too much, and when you scream her name again, she pulls back just enough to drag in a breath. Her eyes are wild, flushed cheeks gleaming with sweat and lust.

“I’m not letting anyone else touch you. Ever. You hear me?” Her voice is low, guttural, as her fingers drive into you again, harder, curling in that spot that makes your whole body spasm. “Only me. Only me.”

The words hit harder than the thrust of her hand. Your body jerks, your thighs clamping around her shoulders as her tongue finds your clit again, sucking with obscene, wet sounds.

You writhe, cry, plead—each moan a surrender she pulls from you with ruthless precision. Her pace builds, faster, merciless, until she can barely breathe against you, so lost in the taste of you that she’s gasping between licks, drunk on it.

“You’re mine,” she repeats, harsher this time, as if she needs you to feel it as deeply as she does.

And when your release rips through you—shaking, shuddering, breaking—you scream her name into the night, her fingers and tongue coaxing every wave of pleasure until you’re trembling, boneless, spent in her hold.

Agatha doesn’t give you space to recover. The moment your climax leaves you limp and trembling, she’s crawling up your body with that predatory grace, bare, flushed, and glistening, she straddles your hips, her skin hot against yours, her breasts brushing your chest as she leans down.

Her chin is still slick from you, lips parted, eyes burning. “You thought I was finished?” she growls, voice husky and wrecked. Her hand fists in your hair, tugging until your throat arches beautifully for her. She bites down on the tender skin there, hard enough to make you gasp, and laughs darkly against your pulse. “Oh no, sweet girl. I’ve barely begun.”

Her free hand slides down your chest, nails scratching lightly before she seizes your breast, squeezing hard, rolling your nipple between her fingers until your back arches. You whimper, but it only makes her smirk. “So sensitive… so perfect for me,” she moans, leaning down to catch your nipple in her mouth. Her teeth graze, then bite, sharp enough to sting. She sucks hard, tongue flicking, and when your desperate cry slips out, Agatha moans right against your skin.

“You like that?” she pants, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes, lips wet, chin gleaming. “You like me marking what’s mine?”

One hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head back to bare your throat, while the other palms your breast, pinching until your body jerks. She hums at the reaction, then lowers her head to wrap her lips around your nipple, biting and sucking until the sting and wet heat make your voice crack on a moan.

“Gods, listen to you,” she groans, releasing your breast with a final sharp nip. “So desperate when I touch you. So fucking perfect.”

Her hips grind against your thigh, the slick heat of her arousal smearing across your skin. She moans without restraint, head tipping back, lips parted, eyes fluttering as the sensation overtakes her. For a fleeting second, her dominance falters, pleasure unraveling her control—but then her gaze snaps back to you, molten and unyielding.

“Look at me,” she demands, voice sharp as her hips roll again. “Don’t you dare look away.”

Her hand trails down your body, nails scraping lightly, until her fingers press firmly between your thighs. The wetness waiting for her makes her groan, deep and guttural, like the sound surprises even her. “Fuck,” she mutters, half to herself, half to you. “Already dripping for me again.”

Then her fingers thrust inside you in one deliberate, claiming movement—two sinking deep, curling just right. Her thumb circles your clit with ruthless precision, pulling a cry from your lips as your hips buck up against her hand.

She smirks, lips brushing yours but denying you the kiss. “You’ll take it,” she growls, her pace quickening, her dominance returning full-force. “You’ll take everything I give you.”

Her words reverberate through you, striking somewhere deeper than your body, something raw and trembling in your chest. Mine. The syllable alone has you tightening around her fingers, your breath shattering in shallow gasps as her thumb circles mercilessly over your clit.

Your thighs try to clamp around her wrist, but she holds steady, unyielding. The way she moves inside you—firm, purposeful, curling into the spot that makes you cry out every time—feels like she’s mapping you, like she’s learning you with terrifying precision. Every thrust is a demand. Every drag of her thumb is a command.

And you obey, helpless.

The heat inside you is unbearable, a molten pressure that builds with every flick of her wrist, every thrust of her fingers. You can’t stop yourself from whining her name, from begging without words, your body jerking up into her touch as though she controls every nerve ending you have.

She leans down, lips at your ear, her breath hot, voice low and rough:
“Come for me. Right here. On my hand. Show me you belong to me.”

Your entire body arches, breaks, splinters. The orgasm rips through you so violently you almost sob, your voice catching on her name as your hips buck against her hand. White heat spreads from your center to every limb, your pulse a roaring tide in your ears.

You’re aware of nothing but her—her hand moving you through it, her weight holding you down, her voice whispering filth and praise in equal measure. Your thighs shake, your nails dig into her back, and still she doesn’t let up, prolonging every aftershock until you’re gasping, shivering, clinging to her like you might dissolve if she let go.

Only when your body finally begins to still does she ease her pace. Her fingers slip free, wet and glistening, and she brings them slowly to her lips.

You’re too dazed to do more than watch as she sucks them clean, her eyes never leaving yours. Dark. Smoldering. Possessive.

Your hands twitch upward, instinctive—you want to touch her, to ease her, to return the overwhelming pleasure she just gave you. But the moment your fingers brush her waist, her hand snaps around your wrist, pinning it hard into the mattress.

Her eyes burn into yours, molten and commanding.
“No,” she growls, hips rolling with another desperate grind against you. “You stay right there. You don’t move unless I tell you.”

The sharpness of her voice makes your breath catch. Your body still aches from your release, but the sight of her above you—dark hair tumbling wild around her face, lips parted, robe long discarded on the bed, her chest flushed and heaving—pulls a fresh wave of heat into your core.

“Please,” you whisper, though you don’t even know what you’re begging for—permission, freedom, the right to touch her.

Her hips roll harder, dragging her clit against the firm plane of your stomach, her moan breaking through her teeth. She leans down, her other hand bracing the bed by your head, her hair brushing across your face as she pants against your lips.

She catches your fingers first, dragging them to her lips with deliberate intent.

She leans down, brushing her lips against your fingers, teasing each one with a slow, deliberate lick. Warm, wet, deliberate, she tastes you—tracing each digit with her tongue, letting you feel every inch of her mouth. Your chest rises and falls too fast; your breath catches in your throat as shivers run from your spine to your core.

She hums softly around your fingers, pulling them slightly into her mouth, letting the wet pressure swirl against your skin. Her lips wrap around your index finger, sucking it slowly, teasing it with the tip of her tongue. You gasp at the sensation, your fingers trembling, and she hums again, the vibration rolling straight into your chest.

“Do you like that?” she rasps, dragging your middle finger between her lips now, sucking and licking with an almost cruel patience. The heat of her mouth, the wetness, the soft, guttural moans she can’t contain—everything about it makes your knees weak.

She alternates, dragging one finger out, then the other, swirling her tongue over them, biting lightly at the tips, and humming against your palm. The combination of control and hunger makes your core tighten involuntarily, heart hammering, pulse racing.

Her dark eyes meet yours, molten and commanding. “You taste so good,” she breathes, voice rough, dragging your fingers further in as if she can’t get enough. The thought of her claiming you like this, taking every inch of your touch into her mouth, ignites something deep and raw inside you.

Her dark eyes never leave yours as she leans down, hips hovering just above your stomach. Slowly, deliberately, she guides your hand beneath her, pressing those three fingers right against her soaked, trembling entrance.

“Don’t move,” she growls, voice low and dangerous, gripping your wrist to keep you pinned. “Not a single twitch. You stay right here while I take what I want.”

She presses down onto your three fingers, hips rolling deliberately, wet heat wrapping around your digits as she rides you. Each movement makes her gasp softly, tilting her head back, dark hair tumbling over her shoulders.

“Oh… you make me feel so good,” she moans, one hand bracing herself on the bed beside you while the other drifts to cup her own breast, fingers kneading the sensitive peak. Your chest tightens at the sight—her flushed skin, the way she leans into your hand, how utterly alive she looks.

Your fingers tremble beneath her, slick with her heat, and your own thighs ache with the desperate need pooling between them. You want to touch her more, to help her, to feel her fully, but her hand on your wrist keeps you pinned. Every roll of her hips, every shiver of pleasure through her body, makes your own need spike, twisting deep and sharp in your stomach.

“You… you feel so… perfect,” she breathes, voice low and trembling, brushing her fingers across her own slick folds, adding subtle friction as she rides you. Her moans grow louder, rich and warm, vibrating through your chest. You whimper, tilting your head up to meet her gaze, wanting her, needing her, desperate for more of her, and you can’t hide the shiver that runs through you.

She tips her head back again, hair spilling over her shoulders, lips parting in a soft gasp. “So… so good… you make me feel so… good,” she murmurs repeatedly, hand still teasing her breast, hips rolling with quiet insistence.

Pinned beneath her, you feel the pull of her walls around your fingers, the pulsing, the subtle shivers, the intimate warmth radiating from her body. You ache to feel her fully, heat pooling thick between your thighs, heart hammering as you press your lips to her shoulder, nuzzle into her neck, trying to give some of yourself back to her, desperate to be claimed, to be needed.

Your whimpers grow louder, trembling and needy, and suddenly Agatha’s dark eyes snap open, locking onto yours. The intensity of her gaze pins you, and your chest tightens even more under the heat of it.

“Oh, pet.” she breathes, low and ragged, her own arousal spilling freely as her hands move to cup her breasts, teasing, squeezing, fingers kneading the sensitive peaks. Her moans fill the room, rich and intoxicating, vibrating straight into your chest.

You whimper again, desperate, needy, body arching instinctively toward her. “Please… let me…” you murmur, barely audible, voice trembling with want and submission, eyes glued to hers.

Her moans grow louder at your words, feral and raw, and a wicked smile curls her lips. “You want it?” she rasps, voice thick with need. Her fingers brush over her own slick folds, fingertips teasing, as she grinds slightly over your fingers, hips moving in slow, deliberate circles.

“Yes… please…” you gasp again, heat pooling between your thighs, fingers still trapped beneath her as she rides you. The mix of her moans, her pressing warmth, and her hands exploring herself sends a shiver racing through you.

She drags fingers through her wetness again, slick and glistening, before pressing them against your lips. “Suck.” she commands, hips grinding slightly, letting your trapped three fingers feel every tremor of her arousal beneath her.

You take them into your mouth eagerly, lips and tongue sliding over her slick, tasting her fully. She moans immediately, low and feral, pressing down harder on your fingers as she rocks her hips, shivering with need. “Yes… just like that… god, you’re so dirty… so perfect,” she rasps, nails digging into the sheets, chest heaving as she rides your fingers with hungry, deliberate rhythm.

Her other hand cups her breast, squeezing, kneading, rolling her nipple between her fingers as she tips her head back, hair falling across her shoulders. “Oh… feel me… taste all of me… every bit… mine, all mine,” she groans, voice thick with lust. Every suck of her fingers from your mouth makes her shiver, grinding harder, hips pressing down with more urgency.

“You’re making me lose control… filthy girl, taking me like this…” she moans, body trembling, lips parted in raw need. She rolls her hips over your trapped fingers, grinding slightly, shivering with every touch, voice breaking between ragged moans.

Your lips are slick around her fingers, trembling, needy, and a thin line of drool drips down your chin, glistening in the dim light. Agatha notices immediately, a low, guttural moan escaping her lips.

Leaning down, she drags her tongue along the side of your face, tasting every trace of your saliva, every bit of her own slick mixed with yours. Her teeth graze your skin lightly as she licks along your jaw and lips, messy, intimate, and hot.

Her hips press harder against your trapped fingers, grinding slowly, deliberately, while one hand kneads her own breast and the other drifts along her slick folds. Each movement, each wet, messy touch sends sparks of heat through you, body trembling beneath her, completely undone.

“Mmm… you taste so good,” she groans, tilting her head back, hair spilling around her shoulders, lips parting in ragged moans. Each lick of her tongue over your face, each press of her hips, makes your heat spike, leaving you quivering, heart hammering, utterly captivated.

Her hips press down harder against your trapped fingers, grinding with more insistence, and your face is almost buried between the swell of her breasts. The warmth and weight of her chest brushes lightly against your cheeks, nipples teasing your lips as she rocks with deliberate rhythm.

“Mmm… can I… can I?” you breath, voice shaky with need, eyes fluttering as you lean closer.

“Yes,” she gasps, voice trembling, heat pooling thick between your thighs. Without hesitation, your lips find her soft, flushed peaks, sucking and teasing, tasting the slick skin. She shivers violently, head tipping back, moans spilling out in ragged bursts.

Her hips roll over your fingers harder, pressing down with deliberate, insistent movements. Each suck and nibble from you draws her closer to the edge, the gasps and moans spilling freely, messy and raw, vibrating straight into your chest.

“Ah… yes… that’s it,” she moans, chest rising and falling rapidly. “Just like that… don’t stop.”

Her movements become frantic, hips bucking, pressing down on your fingers, riding every inch of you with deliberate, consuming force. Every gasp, every tremor, every whimper from her vibrates through your body, making you arch, press closer, desperate to feel more, taste more.

“Ah… yes! Oh—fuck…” her voice shatters into raw, ragged moans, head tipping back, hair spilling across her shoulders. She shivers violently, slick pressing hotly against your face and fingers, and then her walls tighten sharply around you, pulsing, shuddering as she rides her climax through your fingers.

You feel her tremble above you, her moans flooding the room, chest heaving, lips parted, eyes closed, utterly undone. Every press of her hips, every pulse around your fingers, every ragged gasp sends a shock of heat through your own body, leaving you trembling and needy beneath her.

When her climax finally ebbs, she collapses lightly against you, forehead brushing yours, breath heavy, body slick and quivering. Even as she pants, shuddering from the aftershocks, her dark eyes flutter open, glinting with molten heat and feral satisfaction, watching you with something both tender and claiming.

Just as your fingers begin to slide free, Agatha’s dark eyes snap up to yours, sharp and hungry. With a sudden, almost possessive movement, she catches your hand, pressing her lips over your slickened fingers and sucking them into her mouth. Her tongue slides along each digit, tasting herself on you, moaning low and guttural as she revels in the sensation.

Your fingers slip gently from Agatha’s grasp, but instead of pulling away completely, you guide them to your own mouth, tasting the slick she left behind. The heat, the salt, the faint sweetness—it’s intoxicating, sending a shiver through you.

Agatha’s dark eyes widen, pupils dilated, a low moan escaping her throat. “Ah… you’re… gods…” she breathes, voice husky, watching as you slowly, deliberately suck her slick from your fingers. The sight and the taste drive a fresh surge of heat through her, and she tilts her head back slightly, lips parting, chest rising and falling faster.

Unable to resist, you lean forward, pressing your lips to hers, tasting her fully, hands threading into her dark hair. She hums immediately against you, low and needy, tugging lightly at your hair, tipping her head to deepen the kiss. Her moans are soft but insistent, ragged with desire and lingering fire, and you respond in kind, lips moving urgently against hers.

Your bodies press together, warmth radiating, the aftershocks of your shared intensity still lingering between you. Every brush of lips, every gasp, every subtle shiver keeps the connection taut, messy, and deliciously intimate.

Slowly, carefully, she settles onto you, body warm and heavy, pressed against yours. Her head tilts, dark hair brushing across your collarbone, and she nuzzles into the hollow of your neck, letting out a soft, satisfied sigh.

You inhale the faint scent of her, heart hammering as her lips press to your skin, warm and damp from her earlier exertions. Your fingers weave into the strands of her hair, gently stroking, feeling the subtle tremors that still ripple through her body.

“Mmm… you’re so… soft,” she murmurs into your neck, voice low, husky with lingering need. She presses a little closer, letting her chest mold to yours, and you feel the rise and fall of her breathing against your skin.

You run a hand along her back, tracing curves and planes, and she hums again, tilting her head slightly to press a lingering kiss against your shoulder. The warmth, the closeness, the quiet intimacy of it all makes your chest swell with something tender and raw.

“You feel so good like this,” you whisper, voice soft, brushing your lips over the top of her head. Her dark eyes flick open briefly, meeting yours with a small, almost shy smile, before she nuzzles back into your neck, letting herself be held, letting herself come down from the intensity of what you just shared.

Her chest rises and falls against yours, each breath warm, slow, grounding. You nuzzle your face into the top of her head, inhaling the faint scent of her hair, lingering heat, and sweat. “I’ve… never felt anything like this,” you whisper, voice soft, trembling, fingers threading through the strands at the nape of her neck. She presses a little closer, a soft sigh escaping her lips.

Agatha lifts her head slightly to look at you, dark eyes glinting, still hazy with desire. She smiles, small and almost shy, then nuzzles back into your neck. “You’re… sweet,” she murmurs, brushing her nose along your collarbone, letting the closeness linger. “I… I like this… being close to you like this.”

You gently trace circles along her back, fingertips teasing lightly over the sensitive skin behind her ears. She shivers, and a soft moan slips past her lips, low and intimate, vibrating through your chest. You press your lips to her temple, leaving a soft kiss, and she responds by tilting her head slightly, giving you more access, more closeness.

Her hands rest lightly on your sides, tentative at first, then beginning to wander slowly, brushing over your hips, tracing lines down your arms, exploring with quiet curiosity. You feel her heat, her lingering need, and your own body hums in response, a quiet ache of desire mingled with tenderness.

You shift slightly, tugging the soft sheets around the two of you, cocooning your bodies together. The fabric falls in gentle folds over Agatha’s curves, over your own, warm and comforting against the lingering heat of your skin. Her head rests still against your chest, dark hair spilling over your shoulder, and her steady breathing hums against you like a quiet rhythm you could get lost in forever.

You press your lips lightly to the crown of her head, holding her close, and for a moment, the room is utterly silent except for your mingled breaths and the soft rustle of the sheets. The world outside ceases to exist, leaving only the two of you, pressed together, tangled in warmth and quiet intimacy.

As you stroke her back lightly, tracing patterns through the soft curve of her shoulder, your mind wanders, as it often does after moments like this. Amid the heat, the lingering need, and the quiet closeness, a small, fleeting memory surfaces—the paper on the bedside table.

Your eyes flick toward the bedside table again, and there it is—the paper. Only part of it is visible, tucked just behind the lamp, as if Agatha had intentionally left it out of reach, hidden from view. Your heart picks up at the subtle secrecy, a tug of curiosity threading through the warm haze of the afterglow.

You trace it with your eyes, but you don’t move. Agatha isn’t fully asleep yet; her head rests against your chest, dark hair brushing your collarbone, breathing still uneven from the intensity of moments before. The thought of disturbing this quiet intimacy, of reaching for something she had seemingly kept from you, holds you firmly in place.

Instead, your fingers drift along the curve of her back again, brushing over the lingering warmth of her skin, feeling her small shivers and sighs. You wonder briefly why she’d hidden it, what she didn’t want you to see—but the questions swirl gently, unimportant compared to the molten closeness pressing you together.

Her soft, half-conscious murmurs, the weight of her body leaning into yours, the lingering heat—all of it pulls your attention away from the secret paper. It teases your mind, just at the edge of awareness, but you let it stay there, suspended, while your hands and lips remain tethered to her, holding her close.

“Mm,” she hums, pressing a slow kiss to your collarbone before straightening just enough to look down at you. “As tempting as it is to let you keep me wrapped up here…” Her fingers tighten around your hip, firm, reminding you who’s deciding. “…we’re a mess, darling. Get up.”

You blink at her, still half-dreaming in the afterglow, but the way she tilts her head — a quiet authority in the movement — makes your pulse quicken. “But—”

“No buts,” she cuts in smoothly, her lips brushing your ear now, voice husky and low. “You don’t want me to carry you, do you?” There’s no bite in it, but the edge of a promise lingers in her tone, enough to make your body stir.

You swallow, heat blooming again in your chest, and shake your head. “No…?”

“Good girl.” The words are softer than before, almost tender, but the effect is the same — a ripple of heat that makes your breath catch. She smirks faintly, noticing, before sliding off you, her robe pooling further down the bed as she rises. She stretches languidly, like a cat, then reaches back to take your wrist.

“Come on,” she murmurs, tugging you up with her. “I want to see you under the water. Every inch of you.”

She reaches for her robe draped on the bed, doesn’t bother tying it, and slips it around her shoulders like a queen putting on her crown. Then, with a flick of her darkened fingers, she gestures toward the door.

“Shower. My room,” she says, voice low but unyielding. “Don’t dawdle.”

You nod automatically, body already stirring to obey, but as she walks out — bare feet whispering against the floorboards, robe trailing behind — your eyes catch on the bedside table.

Silence folds around you.

And then, inevitably, your gaze drifts.

The paper sits there, unbothered, on the table beside the bed. You can’t help it — the second Agatha’s out of sight, your pulse pulls toward it.

And now, alone, you can’t stop yourself.

You reach for it with a slow hand, almost reverent, as though the act of lifting it is already a trespass. The fold resists, then gives, the edges soft from being opened and closed too many times.

Your hands unfold the paper with careful hesitation, as if it might burn through your fingertips.

The handwriting is dense, slanted, impatient — Agatha’s hand, you’re sure — but interwoven between the sigils are words you can barely recognize. Not Latin exactly, not Greek, but fragments that almost resemble both, twisted into something other. The letters pull and warp as you stare, forming sounds in your head that vanish the moment you try to hold them.

You mouth one silently. It tastes wrong in your throat.

And the sigils — they dominate the page, black ink scored deep as if she had pressed the nib too hard. Some curl like vines around the text, some sharp as broken glass. You can’t look at them for long without a faint pressure building behind your eyes. Yet you know instinctively: these matter more than the words. The words frame them, but the sigils are the heart.

One symbol, especially — a spiral cut through with jagged lines — seems almost to quiver when your gaze lingers. The air feels denser.

Your thumb hovers above it, drawn despite yourself. The paper is warmer there, as though it remembers a hand more powerful than yours.

Your eyes trace the spiral again, and an odd pulse hums at the back of your skull. You’ve never seen anything like this before. And yet… there’s something. A tug, faint and stubborn, like a thread brushing against a part of yourself you don’t know exists.

A flicker of sensation drifts through you — warmth pressed against warmth, a laugh that feels almost familiar, a hand on yours that could have belonged to a stranger, or someone you never met. Shapes curl and twist under your gaze, and a shiver travels down your spine, like a memory refusing to settle.

It’s fleeting, impossible to grasp, slipping before you can hold it. A face, a voice, a glance — gone. All that remains is a pulse of recognition, a quiet ache, as though something ancient is brushing past your mind and leaving a trace.

You clutch the paper tighter, fingers trembling, unsure if your chest races from the remnants of Agatha’s touch or from whatever this is — this uncanny, half-remembered sensation that feels like it belongs to another life.

A low, teasing drawl curls from the hallway.

“Don’t make me wait, darling,” Agatha murmurs, her voice soft but commanding, curling around every nerve.

“Yes… coming,” you reply, voice steady but breath slightly uneven. At the same time, your fingers slide the paper into the drawer, pressing it beneath other items so it’s out of sight, hidden from view.

Heart still racing, you rise from the bed, shaking off the lingering warmth of the sheets.

You pause outside her master bedroom, hesitant. The door is slightly ajar, and through the gap, you catch a glimpse of her bathroom. Warm light spills from sconces above a large vanity, casting golden reflections across the polished marble floor. Steam curls gently from the open shower, winding around the room in lazy tendrils.

Her bedroom is equally striking, even in the dim glow. Dark wood floors gleam beneath scattered rugs in muted purples and greys, furniture heavy and elegant but softened with worn velvet and throws. A low, wide bed dominates the space, its covers still rumpled from the night before, and the windows are draped in thick curtains that swallow the evening light, leaving only soft shadows and the faintest shimmer of moonlight on the walls.

Through the open door, you see her — waiting. Agatha stands under the warm, amber glow of the bathroom lights, the shower running but paused, steam curling lazily around her. Her naked body is framed by the polished marble of the floor and the deep, clawfoot tub tucked into the corner, and the wide mirrors above the vanity catch the glint of her wet skin.

The bathroom itself is luxurious, intimate — dark wood accents, brass fixtures, and scented candles flickering faintly along the edge of the tub. The tiles are smooth, cool to the eye but softened by the steam, and a plush mat lies ready at her feet, absorbing the water droplets that drip from her hair and shoulders. Every detail feels deliberate, as if the space itself is attuned to her presence.

Agatha’s gaze meets yours, steady and knowing. Her hair is damp, slicked back from her face, and her eyes hold that mixture of heat and command that has left you trembling more than once. She shifts slightly, the water catching along the curve of her shoulders, her hips, the swell of her chest. The pause, the waiting, the sheer confidence in her stance — it draws you in, every step toward her a mix of hesitation and anticipation.

Agatha leans slightly against the edge of the vanity, one hand resting on the smooth marble, the other idly tracing droplets of water along her arm. Her gaze holds yours, sharp and teasing, and she tilts her head just enough to let the faintest smirk curve her lips.

“Well?” she murmurs, voice low and teasing, “You’re staring. Cat got your tongue, darling?”

You take a hesitant step closer, trying to ground yourself, and she catches the flicker of your expression. Her smirk softens, just a fraction, replaced by a keen, almost playful concern.

“Wait,” she says, stepping a little closer, eyes narrowing as she studies you. “You… you look like you’ve seen a ghost. Are you okay?”

Your chest tightens. The warmth of her presence, the sight of her naked, confident, waiting for you, is almost too much. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out immediately. The paper tucked away in the drawer, the strange pull of the sigils — your mind is still half elsewhere, caught between curiosity and desire.

Agatha tilts her head again, that teasing gleam returning to her eyes. “Hm. You’re pale, trembling.” She reaches a hand toward you, letting her fingers brush lightly against your arm. “Come closer. Tell me what you’re thinking… if you can.”

Agatha steps closer, the warmth of her naked body radiating into the space between you. She reaches out, gently tugging you by the shoulders and guiding you toward the edge of the vanity. With deliberate care, she tucks you in closer, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

“You’re shivering,” she murmurs, her lips lingering for a heartbeat longer than necessary.

“I… I’m fine,” you whisper, trying to steady your racing heart. “Just… a little cold.”

Her eyes glint, a mixture of amusement and something softer, and she tilts her head, letting the faintest smirk curve her lips. “Is that so?”

Before you can respond, her hand slides to yours, warm and insistent, and she guides you toward the bathroom. The steam curls around her like a silken veil, the golden glow of the lights catching droplets along her skin.

Without breaking eye contact, she steps into the shower, and you follow. Water cascades over both of you, warm and intimate, and for a moment, everything else — the paper, the sigils, the strange pull of curiosity in your mind — falls away. You’re left with the heat, the closeness, and Agatha’s quiet, commanding presence that holds you steady even as it ignites every nerve.

The water streams down over both of you, warm and heavy, drumming softly against the tiles and cascading across your skin. Steam curls around the edges of the glass, fogging the mirror and swallowing the corners of the bathroom in a soft, hazy glow.

Agatha presses behind you, chest against back, her arms wrapping around your waist, fingers brushing along your stomach and hips. The warmth of her skin, the steady beat of her body against yours, makes you forget the cold you’d mentioned moments before. Instead, every shiver that runs through you feels electric, fueled by her closeness.

“You’re tense,” she murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear. Her voice is low, teasing, but underneath it lies a warmth that makes your knees weaken. “Relax. Let me take care of you.”

You press back against her chest, letting the warm water cascade over both of you, and finally manage to speak, voice low and breathless.

“Well… you took care of me more than enough,” you murmur, tilting your head slightly so your lips brush against the nape of her neck.

Agatha hums softly, a slow, approving sound that vibrates through you. Her hands pause for just a heartbeat, then trail along your sides, lingering along your ribs and hips. “Is that so?” she murmurs, voice teasing but threaded with softness.

Her hands travel slowly, deliberately, gliding along your sides, tracing the curves of your ribs, brushing your shoulders. You lean back into her, eyes closing, letting yourself melt against the warmth of her. The water slicks your skin together, amplifying every touch, every brush of her fingers.

Then she tilts her head down, lips brushing along your shoulder, down the side of your neck. You gasp, leaning into her, and the sound makes her smile against your skin. “Mmm… you’re so soft,” she murmurs. Her hands slide lower, pressing against your hips, nudging you closer, keeping you grounded even as your pulse races.

Your own hands reach up instinctively, tangled in her hair, feeling the damp strands slip through your fingers. You tilt your head, brushing your lips along the nape of her neck, feeling the curve of her jaw, tasting the warmth of her skin. A low, contented hum escapes her throat, vibrating through you.

She leans in closer, chest pressing harder against your back, lips skimming along your shoulder again. “Do you like this?” she asks, voice husky and teasing. “Do you like how close I am?”

“Yes,” you murmur, voice trembling slightly. “So close…”

Agatha chuckles softly, then, almost imperceptibly, her grip tightens, pulling you back just a little, guiding you against the warm tiles. Her hands brush up your sides, over your stomach, lingering along your ribs.

You shiver, warmth coiling through you, and even in the softness of the moment, there’s an unmistakable undercurrent of desire in her touch — deliberate, insistent, but gentle. “I… I like being close to you,” you admit, fingers threading through the damp strands of her hair, tilting your face into her neck.

Agatha smiles against your skin, a slow, knowing curve of her lips, and hums again. “Good girl,” she murmurs, voice soft, yet firm, letting you feel the pull of her presence, the subtle reclaiming of dominance, the intimacy of being fully, wholly hers.

Your mind flutters back to the paper, the strange sigils, the faint sense of familiarity that prickled at the edges of your memory. The curiosity still lingers, whispering in the back of your thoughts, but it’s already starting to be drowned out by the warmth of Agatha behind you, the steady pressure of her hands on your waist, the heat of her chest against yours.

“You’re quiet,” she murmurs, voice low, teasing, but with a softness that makes your pulse race. “Lost in thought?”

“Maybe,” you breathe, tilting your head slightly, letting your lips brush her shoulder. “Just… thinking about something.”

She hums, a sound vibrating against your skin, and her fingers trace the curve of your hips, pressing you just a little closer. “Mm… well, I hope it’s not keeping you from feeling how good this is,” she murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “From feeling me… feeling yourself with me.”

A shiver runs through you. You try to focus on the remnants of the vision, the sigils, the pull of the paper, but her presence is overwhelming — every nerve alive, every inch of your skin alert to her touch, her warmth, the teasing brush of her lips against your shoulder.

“Relax for me,” she murmurs, soft yet firm, thumb brushing along your side. “Just let me hold you… let me make you feel.”

You tilt your head back into her, letting yourself melt against her body, breath catching. Even as a flicker of curiosity about the paper remains, it’s being slowly eclipsed by the heat, the intimacy, and the possessive softness of Agatha holding you. You realize with a gasp that you’re losing yourself to her — to the sensation, to the closeness, to the quiet dominance that keeps you trembling in all the right ways.

Her hands roam deliberately, circling your waist, brushing along your sides, holding you close. Every shiver, every gasp, every soft moan you can’t suppress is met with a low, approving hum from her chest. You try to steady yourself, but the more she touches you, the more your focus slips, the sigils and visions fading under the overwhelming pull of her presence.

“See?” she murmurs, lips brushing along your shoulder again, voice warm and teasing. “You belong right here… right now.”

Chapter Text

The hot water poured down in steady sheets, a cocoon of steam wrapping around you both. Agatha’s hands were firm at your hips as she guided you back against the cool tile, her body pressing flush to yours.

“Still cold?” she murmured against your ear, voice smoky, teasing, but there was something sharper in the way her eyes lingered on you. She didn’t miss much.

You forced a small laugh, tilting your head back, letting the water streak down your face. “No… not anymore.”

Her lips ghosted along your throat, slow, deliberate. “Good. I wouldn’t want my girl shivering.” She let the words drip like honey, but her hands were anything but sweet—one flattening against your stomach, the other trailing higher, until she tilted your chin and caught your mouth with hers.

The kiss was unrelenting, wet, claiming. You melted into it despite the weight of that image still burned in your mind—the strange sigils, the flash of familiarity that had no right to exist. You tried to grasp it, but her tongue pushed into your mouth, stealing the thought away, drowning it under a different kind of heat.

When she finally drew back, you were panting, lips swollen. She smirked, brushing her thumb along your bottom lip. “There you are,” she purred, as if she’d caught you drifting somewhere far away.

The steam curled around you, heavy and fragrant with lavender soap. Agatha’s hands smoothed down your sides as if she could knead the tension right out of you, but her eyes… they lingered, sharp even softened by heat.

“You’re quiet,” she said finally, low against your ear. Not quite accusing, not quite gentle—just Agatha, pressing where you didn’t want to be pressed.

You managed a small smile, leaning back into her chest. “I’m just tired,” you murmured, letting the water run over your face so she wouldn’t see the lie in your eyes.

Her hand stilled at your hip, the weight of her silence louder than any words. You felt her gaze burn into your profile, searching.

“I think I’m just… sleepy,” you added, softer this time, as if saying it twice would make it true.

Agatha’s lips brushed the crown of your head, feather-light but lingering. She hummed low in her throat, unconvinced, though she didn’t push further. Her fingers squeezed gently at your waist instead, anchoring you there with her.

“Mm,” she breathed, a sound that was equal parts skeptical and indulgent. “My sleepy girl.”

The way she said it—like she was humoring you, like she knew there was more but was letting you keep it—sent a ripple through your chest. You exhaled slowly, grounding yourself in her warmth, trying to believe your own excuse.

Agatha kissed your temple, lingering this time, before she pulled you flush against her, arms circling your middle under the streaming water. “Come,” she murmured against your damp hair, “let me take care of you a little longer.”

The shower tapered into silence, the last rivulets of water sliding down your skin. Agatha reached past you and shut it off with a deliberate flick of her wrist. The room felt impossibly still in the absence of rushing water, filled only with steam and the sound of your uneven breaths.

Before you could reach for a towel, she was already holding one open—“Here,” she murmured, guiding you out onto the mat. She didn’t simply hand it to you. Instead, she wrapped it around your shoulders herself, pulling the fabric snug before dragging it slowly down your arms, blotting each droplet from your skin as though you were something precious.

You swallowed, trying not to shiver under the thoroughness of her touch. She noticed, of course she did—her lips curved faintly, as she crouched to sweep the towel along your legs, her hands steady, almost worshipful.

“There,” she said, standing again, fingers combing back damp strands of your hair. “Every drop gone.”

You expected her to dry herself next, but instead, she reached for a glass bottle that sat on the counter. The faintest scent of amber and musk drifted up as she flicked the stopper free.

“Body lotion?” she asked, voice low, rhetorical really, because she was already pouring some into her hands. Warmth pooled between her palms as she rubbed them together, and then she was smoothing it over your shoulders, down your arms in long, languid strokes.

The lotion sank into your skin with her touch, leaving behind a sheen and a scent that felt undeniably hers. You let out a tiny sigh, too small to control, and she leaned in to kiss the corner of your jaw, murmuring, “Relax, my darling.”

Her hands trailed lower, over your ribs, your hips, pausing to knead lightly before moving on. Every pass was slow, deliberate, owning.

When she finally set the bottle aside, she tugged you gently into her, brushing a final kiss across your damp hairline. “Perfect,” she whispered, voice rich and warm.

Agatha finally reached for another towel and began drying herself. Unlike the patience she’d shown with you, her movements were brisk, efficient—wrapping her hair up, dragging the fabric down her body with a kind of practiced ease. You found yourself watching despite yourself, entranced by every long line, every curve she revealed beneath the fading mist.

She caught your gaze in the mirror. A knowing smirk tugged at her mouth, but she didn’t tease—not this time. Instead, she simply let the towel drop to the counter, fluidly slipping into the silk robe she’d left hanging on the door.

“Come,” she said, tone soft but leaving little room for question.

Agatha’s bedroom was warmer somehow, despite the same muted colors—dusty purples and deep grays, the faint glow of a candle left burning on the nightstand casting gold across the space. The bed, large and unmade, carried her scent in the sheets: spice, smoke, and something darker you couldn’t name.

She moved gracefully to a dresser, opening the top drawer and pulling out a folded piece of fabric. Turning, she held it out to you with a quiet smile. “You’ll be more comfortable in this.”

You took it carefully—it was a soft cotton slip, simple but elegant, the kind of thing that would feel almost weightless against your skin.

“Thank you,” you murmured, feeling her gaze linger as you slipped into it. She busied herself with her own attire, shrugging out of her robe and sliding into a thin silk nightgown of her own, plum-colored, almost black in the low light.

When you’d finished pulling the slip into place, Agatha vanished quietly into the bathroom. You heard the faint shuffle of drawers, then the muted sound of something small being picked up. When she returned, she carried a simple hairbrush in her hand.

She paused by the bed, her expression unreadable for a moment before softening into something almost tender. “Sit, darling,” she murmured, nodding to the edge of the mattress.

You obeyed, folding your hands in your lap as the mattress dipped behind you. A breath later, the brush moved gently through your damp hair. Slow strokes, unhurried, each one smoothing strands with a patience that felt almost reverent.

The quiet of the room wrapped around you, broken only by the soft whisper of bristles and the faint rhythm of her breathing. Your eyes fluttered closed without meaning to. You hadn’t realized how much tension you were still carrying until her hands eased it away, stroke by stroke.

Agatha’s fingers followed the brush, combing lightly through the ends, careful not to tug. She didn’t speak at first—just let the silence be something you could rest in.

When she finally did, her voice was low, softer than you were used to hearing. “You’ve had a long night,” she said gently, almost as if she were speaking to herself.

You made a small sound in response, more hum than word, leaning back ever so slightly into her presence.

After a few more strokes, she set the brush aside and let her hand linger in your hair, her fingertips grazing your temple. She leaned in, close enough for you to feel the warmth of her breath, and pressed a fleeting kiss to your crown.

“There,” she whispered, as though tucking you in with the word alone. “My sweet girl.”

Agatha set the brush aside on the nightstand and gave your hair one last smoothing touch, fingertips grazing your shoulder like she was reluctant to let go. “It’s time for bed,” she said softly.

You nodded and rose, almost on autopilot, turning toward the door. But you’d only taken a step before her voice stopped you.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

The words weren’t sharp—more curious, touched with that dry amusement that always seemed to linger at the edges of her tone. You froze, glancing back at her with wide eyes.

“…The guest room?” you offered, uncertain.

Agatha arched a brow, crossing her arms loosely as she leaned back. “After everything I just did to you, you’re really going to abandon me to sleep alone?” Her lips curved, dark eyes glinting. “Rude.”

You blinked, then sputtered a laugh, nerves and relief mixing. “I didn’t think—”

“No, clearly you didn’t,” she cut in, though her smile betrayed her. She patted the mattress beside her, silk sheets whispering under her hand. “Come here before I decide you need a bedtime lesson.”

Her tone was light, teasing, but the warmth in her eyes softened it into something gentler.

You crossed back to her slowly, sheepish, and she shook her head with a small, knowing grin. “That’s better,” she murmured, tugging back the covers for you. “See? You can be taught.”

You settled into the bed, slipping under the soft sheets Agatha had tugged aside for you. She followed immediately, pressing herself behind you, one arm curling possessively around your waist, the other draped lightly over your shoulder. Her body molded to yours with an ease that made your chest rise and fall in rhythm with hers.

“So much better,” she murmured, nuzzling the back of your neck, letting a long, lazy exhale slip into your hair. Her fingers traced delicate patterns along your side, gentle but deliberate, a quiet claim. “Sleep well, my little scholar,” she whispered, and the weight of her presence anchored you more fully than any comfort you could have imagined.

Even as you felt the heat of her body and the soft hum of her breath against your skin, your mind drifted. That piece of paper… the sigils etched across it, strange symbols that seemed at once foreign and familiar. You could almost see them glowing in the back of your mind, faintly, teasing at something you couldn’t quite grasp.

Agatha’s grip tightened imperceptibly at your side, almost as if she could sense the tug of your thoughts. “What are you thinking about?” she murmured, voice low, soft, teasing, but with a possessive edge that made you shiver.

You shook your head lightly, trying to refocus on the warmth behind you. “Nothing,” you whispered, though the paper and the strange familiarity of the sigils refused to be ignored entirely.

She hummed, letting your hand settle under hers, her body a protective weight against yours. “Nothing, hm? Well… if anything bothers you, you know you can tell me,” she murmured, soft and dark all at once, her voice both a promise and a gentle warning.

“I know.” And for a moment, cocooned in her arms, the strange mystery of the sigils mingled with the undeniable, possessive warmth of Agatha. You felt claimed, safe, and yet curiously restless, as if some secret was tugging at the edges of your mind, refusing to let go.

*

The warmth of Agatha’s body beneath you faded as sleep claimed you, but the comfort didn’t last.

Darkness folded around you like a living thing, heavy and wet, pressing against your chest in waves. The room stretched and contracted with every heartbeat, walls bending in impossible angles, folding over themselves as if the world were breathing—or dreaming. Glowing sigils traced along the stone, flickering in patterns that made your stomach twist. They pulsed, faded, then reshaped themselves while your eyes tried—and failed—to follow.

Ahead, a figure emerged. You froze. Familiar—but impossibly wrong. Its face was yours. And yet not yours. Every line, every shadow, every curve seemed mirrored, distorted, as if reflected through a warped glass. Recognition struck like lightning, sharp and hot—but fleeting.

“You…” it whispered, voice soft yet intimate, echoing from everywhere at once. “Do you finally… remember?”

“Remember… what?” you murmured, though your tongue felt foreign, as if your own voice belonged to someone else.

The figure laughed softly, a sound like wind through hollow stone. “No. You must. You always do. But you forget. Always. Why?”

The room once familiar twisted again. You stumbled, and for a moment you were both moving forward and standing still. Shadows bent impossibly around you. The sigils pulsed, their glow burning like fire behind your eyes. Sparks pricked your fingers as you reached toward one, the sensation electric, urgent, and achingly familiar, though you could not place why.

“Why… why does this feel like… me?” you whispered.

The figure tilted its head, shadows curling around it. “Because it is. It always was. And yet you hide it, even from yourself.”

You tried to step closer. The room stretched impossibly; the walls seemed to fold in front of you, then behind, as if you were walking in circles—but circles that led nowhere. “I… I don’t understand… what is this?”

“You will,” it said. Its voice rippled through the air, soft and commanding. “But not yet. Not here. Not fully. Feel it. Only feel it.”

A strange pull tugged at your chest, winding around your ribs like invisible hands. A shiver ran up your spine, your knees trembling. “I… I feel… something. I don’t know what I feel. A dream?”

The figure reached a hand toward you. It hovered just above your chest, and a warmth, an almost electric thrum pressed into you, tugging at something hidden. “Recognition,” it whispered. “It awaits. Even if you do not. Even if you cannot name it.”

Time bent. The walls pulsed faster, the sigils spiraling in dizzying patterns. You stepped, and the floor seemed to ripple beneath your feet. The figure leaned closer. “You cannot hide. Not from this. Not from yourself. Not from me.”

“I… what am I supposed to do?” Your voice trembled, echoing strangely, as if multiple versions of yourself spoke in unison.

“Remember. Or feel. Or both. Perhaps neither. But know—something waits. Something old. Something lost. Something… yours.”

The figure’s form flickered, collapsing into shadows and light. One moment it was in front of you, the next behind, then beside you. And then—it was gone. The room tretched into infinite darkness, silent except for the low hum of the sigils, fading slowly until only emptiness remained.

And you are falling.

*

Your eyes flutter open, and the dim light of the room presses against your vision.

You wake with a start, heart hammering, sheets twisted around you like tangled webs. The room is dark, but the shadows aren’t right—they seem to shift, curling in corners, pooling on the walls, alive in ways that shouldn’t be possible. Moonlight fractures across the floor in sharp, broken lines, revealing shapes that don’t belong, shapes that feel familiar yet impossibly wrong.

The air is thick, heavy, almost metallic. You try to anchor yourself to Agatha’s steady breathing beside you, but even that feels distant, muted, as if something unseen presses between you. Every instinct tells you to stay still, to breathe shallow, to melt into the sheets—but something in the darkness stirs, pressing closer, waiting.

Then it begins.

“…remember… it’s always been here… don’t turn away…”

The whisper is impossibly close, curling around your mind, brushing the shell of your ear with a warmth that makes your skin crawl. It is intimate, invasive, as if it knows your thoughts before you do. A shiver runs down your spine, gooseflesh prickling across your arms.

“…the ink remembers… it stains… it waits for you…”

The words don’t just reach your ears—they settle inside you, tugging at something buried deep, something half-forgotten. Shadows twist and stretch at the edge of your vision, bending unnaturally toward you, as if listening, as if alive.

“…the circle watches… the shadow calls… you are part of it… you’ve always known…”

Your chest tightens. Your pulse races. Shapes drift across your vision, sharp and fleeting, slipping away whenever you try to focus. The whispers overlap, a chorus of insinuation, coaxing, nudging you toward a memory you cannot grasp:

“…you…remember more than you think… it waits…”
“…you carried this before… you carry it still… you feel it, don’t you… remember…?”

A tremor runs through your body. Every nerve feels raw, hyperaware. You want to scream, to shake Agatha awake, to bolt—but your voice is trapped. Your hands clutch the sheets so tightly your knuckles ache.

“…forgotten ink…”
“…the circle unbroken…”
“…the shadow unbound…”

And then—sharp, guttural, right against your ear—

“…it bleeds through you…”

The words seared down your spine, too close, too real. You gasped, the sound torn out of you, harsh in the silence.

Then—warm, grounding, real—Agatha’s hand closes around your wrist. Her lips part, groggy but firm:

“Sweetheart… what is it? You’re trembling.”

The whispers snap like a thread cut by a knife. Silence falls. Shadows retreat to their corners. Your pulse still roars, but the room seems to breathe with you again. And yet, lingering at the edge of your awareness, a final, low, intimate whisper presses right against your ear:

“…you cannot forget… not now… not ever…”

The sound makes your stomach twist and your skin prickle. You shiver, half-relieved, half-frozen, caught between comfort and something unknowable, ancient, insistent, waiting in the dark.

Then a firm, warm hand grips your shoulder.

“Hey,” Agatha murmurs, voice low but sharp enough to cut through the haze. Her fingers dig lightly into your upper arm, nudging you. “Sweetheart… wake up. Look at me.”

You don’t move at first, still trapped in the residue of the whispers, trembling under her touch. Her hand slides down to your other shoulder, giving a gentle shake. Not harsh, but insistent.

“Hey,” she says again, this time her lips brushing your ear. “You’re here. You’re safe. Look at me.”

The weight of her gaze, the heat of her hand on your skin, begins to anchor you. Slowly, you force your eyes open, blinking against the dim moonlight. Agatha leans close, kneeling beside you, dark eyes wide with concern. Her hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing along your temple.

“You’re trembling,” she murmurs, voice softening. “Talk to me, sweetheart. What’s going on?”

Her presence, warm and grounding, pulls you out of the lingering fear. The room is still dark, the shadows still shifting, but you feel her, solid and real beneath your hands. You realize your pulse is slowing slightly, the tight knot in your stomach loosening.

You swallow hard, still trembling slightly, and your voice comes out hoarse, small.

“I… I’m sorry,” you whisper, eyes dropping to the sheets. “It was… just a bad dream. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Agatha tilts her head, dark brows knitting in concern, but her fingers stay gentle on your skin. “A dream?” she asks, voice low, almost teasing but threaded with worry. “Hmm… you look like you’ve seen something far worse than a dream.”

You swallow hard, voice small but steady. “I’m fine, I promise,” you whisper, meeting her gaze for just a moment before dropping your eyes.

Agatha doesn’t move. Her dark eyes linger on you, sharp and unblinking, as if trying to read every tremor, every thought. The weight of her gaze presses gently, insistently, and your chest tightens under it.

Seeing her watch so closely, you can’t help the soft sigh that escapes your lips. Slowly, almost instinctively, you press yourself closer to her, letting your head rest against her shoulder, your body curling into hers.

“Better?” she murmurs, a hint of teasing threading through her worry. Her hand slides to rest on your back, warm and steady, fingertips tracing gentle circles.

You close your eyes, letting the rhythm of her heartbeat soothe you. “Much better,” you murmur against her, your voice muffled but sincere. The lingering shadows of the dream fade slightly as you let yourself melt into the warmth and safety of her presence.

You let out a quiet breath, nuzzling your face against her shoulder, inhaling the faint scent of her—earthy, familiar, grounding. Your limbs relax, curling instinctively into hers, the weight of the world outside the room melting away.

Her fingers trace small, lazy patterns along your back, and a gentle hum vibrates from her lips. You close your eyes, letting the sound, the touch, the closeness wash over you. Every nerve, every thought begins to untangle.

And with that, the last fragments of fear and unease fade. The room grows quieter, the shadows still, and in the cocoon of Agatha’s arms, you let yourself finally drift—into sleep, into warmth, into the slow, steady rhythm of the night.

*

Morning light filters softly through the curtains, brushing against your skin and nudging you awake. You stir, limbs heavy but warm, pressed against Agatha’s side. For a moment, the world feels suspended, the echoes of the night’s dreams still lingering like mist at the edges of your mind.

Your eyes blink open, adjusting to the soft glow of the room. Agatha is there, still half-asleep, her dark hair falling across the pillow, her breathing steady and rhythmic. You take a quiet moment to watch her, the curve of her jaw, the line of her shoulders, the warmth radiating from her body—familiar, grounding, yet intoxicating in its closeness.

Her dark eyes flutter open, locking onto yours. A slow, teasing smile curves her lips. “Ah! You are finally awake, sweet girl,” she murmurs, voice soft but possessive. “I was beginning to think you’d sleep the whole morning without me.”

You let out a quiet laugh, feeling your chest loosen as her gaze pins you, warm and insistent. “I… I’m awake,” you whisper, fingers brushing hers.

“Hmm… it felt like you were asleep for decades…. Centuries.” She murmured against your neck.

That sent shivers down your spine.

“Coffee?” she asks, voice teasing but still gentle, her dark eyes glinting with that familiar smirk.

You nod, smiling despite the lingering grogginess. “Yes, please.”

The two of you move quietly to the kitchen, the morning calm wrapping around you. The rich aroma of coffee fills the space, steam curling from the mugs as Agatha sets one in front of you. You wrap your hands around it, letting the warmth seep into your fingers, while she sips hers, watching you with a quiet, possessive intensity that makes your pulse skip.

After a few moments of shared silence, you set your mug down and realize the time. “I… I should go,” you murmur, a twinge of hesitation in your voice.

Agatha’s gaze sharpens, a teasing edge threading through it. “Go? And leave me just like that?” Her fingers brush yours across the table, warm and grounding. “You’re not sneaking away on me, are you, my little scholar?”

You lift an eyebrow at her, a small mischievous smile playing on your lips. “I have work to do, you know,” you murmur, leaning back slightly. “I have this professor to answer to…”

Agatha’s eyes darken, a slow, amused smirk curling her lips. She leans closer across the table, her hand brushing yours just enough to make you flinch and shiver at the contact. “Ah,” she murmurs, voice low and teasing, “so I’m just your professor now?”

You grin, enjoying the sparkle of mischief in your own voice. “Well…,” letting your tone tease as much as your words.

Her smirk deepens, and a low hum escapes her throat, half-laugh, half-growl. “Hmm… you think you can tease me and still get away with it?” Her fingers tighten slightly on yours, playful but possessive. “I don’t think so.”

You bite your lip, heart fluttering, letting your teasing tone falter just enough to give her the upper hand. “Alright… alright,” you murmur, leaning a little closer, “you got me.”

Agatha’s gaze softens just a fraction, though the teasing glint remains. “Good,” she purrs. “Because I like knowing who I have. And you… you’re not slipping away that easily.”

Then, a sly smile curls her lips, voice lowering just enough to make you shiver. “But… go. Get to work. Show me that clever brain of yours isn’t just for teasing me.” Her fingers linger on yours a beat longer, almost reluctantly, before she lets go, giving you a small, teasing nudge.

You step into the guest room, the door clicking softly behind you. Sunlight filters through the curtains, casting pale stripes across the bed as you set down your bag. Your fingers instinctively reach for the small drawer where you’d hidden the piece of paper—the one with the sigils, the one that had felt so strange and familiar all at once.

But it’s gone.

A sharp flutter rises in your chest. You glance around, eyes scanning the bed, the floor, the drawer again. Nothing. It’s as if the paper had never been there.

A shiver runs down your spine, not from the morning chill but from the unnerving thought that you aren’t meant to see it—at least, not yet. Your hand hovers over the empty drawer, fingers lingering on the smooth wood as your mind drifts back to the strange familiarity of the symbols, the pull they seemed to have at the edge of memory.

You shake your head, trying to push the unease away, reminding yourself that you have work to do. But even as you turn toward the bed to change, a faint echo of the whispers from the night lingers in your mind, almost teasing, almost warning.

Something about remembering, something about not forgetting…

*

You change quickly in the guest room, the lingering tension from the missing paper gnawing at the back of your mind. Still, you shake it off as best you can, smoothing the fabric of your clothes before stepping back toward the kitchen.

“Goodbye… for now,” you murmur teasingly, voice soft but playful, catching Agatha’s gaze.

You take a hesitant step back, about to turn toward the door, but Agatha’s dark eyes flash with mock indignation.

“Leaving without a kiss?” she murmurs, voice low, teasing, as she tilts her head, letting a slow smirk tug at her lips. Her fingers hover near yours, just barely brushing against your hand, as if drawing you closer without touching.

You can’t help the laugh that escapes, heart fluttering at the possessive tease. “Well… I—”

Before you can finish, she closes the space between you, pressing her lips to yours in a soft, lingering kiss, slow and deliberate. Her hands cup your face gently, fingers threading through your hair, pulling you impossibly closer. The warmth of her body, the teasing pressure of her lips, makes it impossible to think about leaving, the missing paper, or anything else.

When you finally pull back, breathless, forehead resting against hers, her smirk has softened into something fond, almost affectionate. “There,” she murmurs, voice velvet-smooth, “much better. Now you can leave… if you really must.”

*

The door closes softly behind you, and the quiet of your apartment settles around you like a thick blanket. You lean against the frame for a moment, letting out a slow breath, your mind still tangled in the morning’s tension, Agatha’s teasing smile, the lingering warmth of her kiss.

You move to the window and stare out, the city below moving in indifferent rhythms while your thoughts spin in endless circles. Every detail from the morning plays on repeat—the way her fingers lingered on yours, the sharp glint of amusement in her eyes, the teasing lilt in her voice.

Your fingers trace absentmindedly over the edge of your bag, remembering the paper you’d tried to hide, the sigils that had seemed so familiar, yet impossibly strange. A shiver runs through you—not from the chill of the room, but from the nagging sense that there’s more there, something you aren’t supposed to fully understand yet.

You bolt toward your desk, fingers fumbling for your notepad and pen. The quiet of the apartment sharpens around you, every tick of the clock echoing in your chest as if urging you to capture the moment before it slips away.

Your hand trembles slightly as you grip the pen, the images from the night still vivid in your mind. You begin scribbling furiously, not just words but sketches—fragmented shapes, the twisting shadows, the figure that seemed both familiar and impossibly distant. Every line echoes the strange sense of déjà vu, the flicker of recognition you can’t place.

You pause, glancing down at the page, and a shiver runs through you. The whispers from the dream seem to linger in the corners of the room, faint but insistent: “Remember… don’t forget… you must…” They curl around the edges of your mind, teasing at memories that feel almost real, almost yours.

Your pencil moves faster, tracing the lines of the figure, the gestures, the angles of the distorted room. You try to capture the feeling—the weight of the shadows, the murmured words that brushed against your ear in the dream, the way it all seemed to reach out to you, demanding attention.

Even as you write, a strange pull gnaws at your chest, a mix of fear and curiosity. The echoes of the voices, the fleeting familiarity of the figure, the strange shapes and symbols—they all feel connected, though you can’t quite place how. And with every stroke of your pencil, the dream, the whispers, and the paper in Agatha’s house blend together into something urgent, almost alive, like they’re calling you to remember something you don’t yet understand.

Frustration drives you to grab your laptop, your hands trembling slightly as you open it. You type in every combination of words, every phrase that might connect to the strange sigils, the shapes, the shadows from the dream. You scour online archives, forums, academic journals, and obscure occult sites, anything that could offer a clue.

But no matter how many searches you run, nothing comes up. The symbols are nowhere to be found—no references, no matches, no explanations. Each fruitless result gnaws at your patience, a quiet panic starting to creep in.

You lean back, running a hand over your face, staring at the screen as if sheer will could make something appear. The sigils you drew, the whispers from the dream, even the unsettling sense of déjà vu—all of it seems to exist only in your mind and on the paper in your hands.

You try to focus on patterns, on similarities to anything you’ve ever seen, but the symbols feel deliberately alien, almost as if they’re resisting recognition. Your pulse quickens. Every line, every curve, every looping shape is familiar and yet completely unknowable at the same time.

A shiver runs down your spine, and you glance around your apartment, the quiet pressing in. The feeling of being watched, of something just beyond comprehension, hums at the edge of your awareness. No matter how hard you try, the laptop, the books, the internet—none of it can give you the answers you’re desperate for.

*

You push your laptop aside, trying desperately to distract yourself. Maybe a shower. Maybe tidying up. Anything to keep your mind off the insistent pull of the sigils, the dream, the whispers. You pace around your apartment, trying to force normalcy, trying to convince yourself that the morning, the paper, and the strange unease can wait.

Then your phone buzzes on the counter. You glance down, heart skipping a beat. Agatha’s name lights up the screen.

“The evening seems quieter than it should. Almost as if someone’s absence is making itself too obvious.”

You smirk at the message, unable to resist the impulse. Typing quickly, you reply:

“Is that so? Well, maybe you just need someone to keep you entertained then.”

Almost instantly, another buzz. Agatha’s words appear on your screen:

“Perhaps… I have plans tomorrow, a little seminar I intend to run. I think it would be far more interesting if you were present. Shall we say… join me?”

Your chest tightens at the suggestion, a thrill running through you. The teasing spark in her words matches the one in your own reply, and you can almost hear her smirk as you read it.

“I suppose I could make an appearance,” you type back, letting your tone carry the same playfulness.

*

The next morning arrives quietly, sunlight slanting through the tall, narrow windows. You dress in a soft, charcoal turtleneck tucked into a high-waisted plaid wool skirt that falls just below your knees. Dark tights and polished lace-up boots complete the look. Your hair falls freely over your shoulders, slightly tousled from sleep, and a delicate vintage watch rests on your wrist. The outfit feels grounded and scholarly, a quiet armor for the day ahead, even as thoughts of Agatha, the seminar, and last night’s message linger in your mind.

Before leaving, you grab your notepad, hoping to find a quiet corner in the library later to revisit the strange paper and the dream, maybe even try to trace the sigils you’ve seen.

You make your way across campus, the crisp morning air brushing against your cheeks, leaves rustling underfoot. The familiar stone paths, shadowed archways, and ivy-clad walls feel almost cinematic, grounding you.

Just as you reach the seminar building, your phone buzzes. It’s a message from Agatha:

“The seminar begins in the East Wing today, room three. Don’t keep me waiting.”

A small smile tugs at your lips. Her words are brief, almost clipped, but the undertone—the subtle possessiveness, the quiet expectation—is unmistakable.

You push open the heavy wooden doors to the seminar room, and the quiet hum of conversation dims almost instantly. Every eye turns toward you, the movement slow, as if time itself has paused for a heartbeat. The scent of old books and waxed wood sharpens, filling your lungs with a familiar, grounding weight, and your heart flutters despite your best efforts to remain composed.

And then—there she is. Agatha. Standing near the front, clipboard in hand, posture impeccable, every inch the professor in control. Her dark eyes sweep over you, and for a fraction of a second, her composure falters, lips parting slightly as she studies you. The acknowledgment is subtle, almost imperceptible, but you feel it like a spark in your chest.

Taking a deep breath, you move forward, each step measured but confident. The soft click of your shoes on the polished wooden floor echoes through the room, and you feel the curious, almost magnetic weight of her gaze tracing your movements. Students glance from you to her, sensing the shift, but you only have eyes for her.

“Good morning, Professor,” you murmur, tilting your head slightly, a teasing curve of your lips accompanying the greeting.

“Good morning,” she replies, her voice low, smooth, the kind of tone that makes your pulse quicken. Her gaze lingers longer than strictly necessary, scanning every detail as though memorizing you—your posture, the way your hair catches the morning light, even the small notepad tucked under your arm. “I trust you found your way here without losing your… focus?”

“Easily enough,” you answer, a small smirk playing on your lips. “Though I can’t say the campus didn’t try to distract me a little along the way.”

Agatha’s eyebrows lift just enough to betray mild amusement. “Distracted, hmm? By what, I wonder?”

You lean in slightly, lowering your voice so only she can hear. “Let’s just say there are things far more interesting than the buildings themselves.” You let your gaze meet hers, steady, daring, teasing, feeling the pull between you tighten like an invisible thread.

She tilts her head, a small hum of approval vibrating in her chest, though there’s something sharper behind her eyes—possession, command, the subtle heat of desire barely restrained. “Very well… just make sure all that attention doesn’t interfere with today’s seminar, Miss Y/L/N.”

“Of course, Professor,” you whisper, letting your tone soften, letting the playful lilt lace with something warmer, “I wouldn’t dream of it, Professor Harkness.”

For a heartbeat, you both linger there, the room fading around you. Her dark eyes hold yours, commanding yet almost gentle in the way they claim your attention. You can feel the energy vibrating between you—unspoken, potent, the quiet spark of something far more intense than mere curiosity.

The seminar room falls silent as Agatha steps to the front, clipboard in hand, her posture commanding and flawless. Her dark eyes sweep over the students, letting them feel the weight of her authority, before they briefly land on you.

“This,” she said, voice precise and commanding, “is Miss Y/L/N, my doctoral candidate, currently specialising in magical oaths and binding language. She will be assisting me today, and I trust her insight will illuminate aspects of our study you may not have considered.”

You step forward, heart quickening, but your voice is steady. “Good morning.”

Agatha begins the seminar, her voice smooth and deliberate, each word precise, drawing the students in effortlessly. She moves along the front of the room, chalk in hand, outlining the framework of magical oaths and the nuances of binding language. Every gesture is confident, every pause measured, commanding attention without effort.

“And when crafting a binding,” she explains, “one must consider not only the explicit terms but the subtle intent woven into the language itself.” She glances at you, eyes briefly softening. “Miss Y/L/N, perhaps you could offer the class an example of this principle in practice?”

You nod, stepping closer to the board. “Certainly,” you say, your voice steady despite the subtle heat of her gaze. You draw a simple diagram, tracing the intricate flow of magical words and symbols. “For instance, a poorly constructed oath might leave loopholes in intent, allowing the binding to falter or even reverse.”

A few students murmur in interest, jotting down notes as Agatha watches, her lips curling in that faint, almost imperceptible smile that makes your chest tighten. She leans slightly, whispering just enough for you to catch, “Exactly. Well said.”

She continues teaching, occasionally pausing to ask for your insight, each time giving you a brief, charged glance that sends a shiver through you. “And how might one reinforce a protective clause without altering the original oath?” she asks, letting her gaze linger on you.

You step forward again, offering your explanation, aware of the subtle tension as her presence presses against you even in this formal setting. The students are engaged, but the unspoken current between you and Agatha makes every word, every movement, feel electric—like a private conversation hidden in plain sight.

The seminar gradually winds down, the steady murmur of students gathering their things filling the room. Most depart quickly, their chatter fading into the hallway, but a small cluster hesitates, lingering by your desk.

“Miss Y/L/N,” one of them ventures, voice tentative but curious, “I was fascinated by the example you gave on reinforcing protective clauses. Could you elaborate a bit more?”

Another adds, “And your diagram—how did you decide which symbols to pair with certain words? I’ve never seen it laid out like that before.”

You offer a small, reassuring smile, gathering your notes. “Absolutely,” you say, adjusting your posture to face them. “The key is aligning the intent of the language with the corresponding sigils so the magic flows smoothly, without contradictions. Here—let me show you…”

As you walk them through the finer points, your voice steady and confident, you feel Agatha’s presence like a quiet heat pressing in behind you. She watches from the side of the room, clipboard under her arm, her gaze sharp and unwavering. There’s a subtle possessiveness in the way her eyes track your every move, a silent claim in the tilt of her chin and the small tightening of her posture whenever another student reaches for your attention. She doesn’t interfere, letting you lead, but the quiet assertion of her presence is unmistakable.

As the other students begin to leave, one boy lingers, leaning slightly against a desk. His tone carries a hint of playful curiosity. “You know, Miss Y/L/N, I could listen to explanations like that all day… and I don’t just mean the linguistics,” he says, a faint, teasing smile tugging at his lips.

You blink, momentarily flustered but keep your tone professional. “I’m glad you’re engaged in the topic,” you reply lightly, keeping your focus on the diagrams in front of you.

He laughs softly, leaning in just enough to lower his voice. “Engaged… right. Well, I suppose you make learning very… compelling.”

You give a small, polite smile, gathering your notes. “Thank you. I’m happy the material resonates with you.”

Agatha’s eyes flick toward the lingering students and especially to the boy. “I think that will be all for today,” she says, her voice smooth but leaving no room for argument. The students nod quickly, gathering their things and leaving with murmured thanks. As the door closes behind them, the room feels suddenly smaller, charged with an unspoken intensity.

She turns to you, her gaze locking onto yours. There’s that familiar weight in her look—possessive, deliberate, claiming. “Come with me,” she says softly, a hand brushing lightly against your arm as she guides you toward her office. Her touch is brief, but the message is clear: this space, this moment, is hers.

The hallways are quiet, echoing slightly under your footsteps. You follow her without hesitation, heart quickening at the closeness, the subtle tension that hums in the space between you.

Once the door clicks shut behind you, the air in Agatha’s office thickens, heavy with unspoken intent. She steps closer, eyes dark and deliberate, letting her gaze roam over you like she’s savoring every detail.

“You’ve been far too charming for your own good today,” she murmurs, voice low and velvety, fingers brushing your arm in a way that sends shivers straight to your core. “All that attention on others… when I could have it all myself.”

Before you can respond, her hand slides to your hip, firm and possessive, guiding you backward until your back presses against one of the bookshelves. The surface supports you as her presence looms close, heat radiating from her. The thrill of being caught, completely at her mercy, coils tight in your stomach.

You tilt your head, letting a sly, playful smile curl on your lips. “Excuse me, but I’m not sure what you are talking about, Professor.” you murmur softly, letting the words hang in the charged air between you.

Her dark eyes flash with both amusement and something more dangerous. “Is that so?” she replies, voice husky, almost growling. Her hand tightens subtly, pressing you more firmly to the desk. “No… I think you know exactly what I’m talking about, sweet girl.”

Agatha’s body presses against yours, pinning you gently. The heat of her chest radiates into you, and her dark eyes gleam with a mix of desire and confusion. “Stay still,” she murmurs, voice low and commanding, her hand resting on your hip.

You tilt your head, a sly smile tugging at your lips. Slowly, deliberately, you lean just slightly forward as if trying to kiss her. Instead, you get out of her grasp and start to walk away.

Her brows knit together, a flicker of frustration—and something darker—crossing her features. “What are you doing?” she asks, voice husky, breath catching slightly.

You glance up at her over your shoulder, feigning innocence. “Me? Nothing,” you murmur, letting your fingers trail along the edge of the bookshelf, letting your touch linger just enough to provoke. “I’m just… stretching.”

Agatha swallows, eyes following every teasing tilt, every subtle press of your body. “Stretching?” she repeats, voice thick with disbelief and rising desire. “Do you know what you’re doing to me?”

You let out a soft laugh, tilting your head to brush a strand of hair from your face, lingering close just long enough for her to feel it. “Maybe I am,” you whisper, letting your gaze flicker toward hers, eyes sparkling with mischief.

You slide onto the edge of the desk with a soft thud, crossing your legs just so, tilting your head slightly as if nothing is happening. Your fingers idly trace the edge of a stack of papers, your expression innocent, eyes wide and bright. “What?” you murmur softly, voice light, playful. “I’m just… admiring the view.”

Agatha’s dark gaze snaps to you, a mix of disbelief and simmering desire. “Admiring…?” she repeats, her voice low, almost growling, as her hand hovers near your hip, unsure whether to claim or restrain. “What is your plan?”

You shrug, a small, mischievous smile curling your lips. “Honestly? No idea what you mean by that,” you murmur, batting your eyelashes in mock innocence. But every subtle movement—the way your leg brushes the desk, the tilt of your shoulder—sends a shiver of awareness down Agatha’s spine.

Her breath catches, lips parting slightly. “Impossible,” she mutters under her breath, stepping closer, the heat from her body pressing against yours as she leans over the desk. “Absolutely impossible.”

You lean back just a fraction, letting your fingers dangle over the edge, gaze lifting to meet hers. “I’m just… a good student, really,” you whisper, soft, teasing. “Trying to… learn from my professor. Trying to be good for you.”

Agatha’s hand twitches again, brushing against the small of your back, her dark eyes narrowing slightly as she tries to suppress the heat building in her chest. “Good student, huh?” she murmurs, voice thick, rough around the edges. “You’re very… convincing. But I see right through you.”

You giggle softly, tilting your head, the desk beneath you a throne of playful power. “Do you now?” you murmur, letting your tone drip with false innocence, “I thought I was being subtle.”

Her chest rises and falls faster, and a low, husky sound escapes her throat. “Subtle?” she breathes. “No… nothing about you is subtle.” Her fingers inch closer to your waist, brushing lightly, teasing herself with the restraint she’s forcing.

Her mouth parted, her breath warm against your skin—

“Agatha.”

The voice came muffled but unmistakable, slipping through the wood of the closed door like smoke.

Both you and Agatha froze.

A beat of silence pressed in. You glanced toward the door, your pulse skipping, but Agatha’s eyes stayed locked there, dark and unreadable.

The voice came again, slower this time. “We should talk.”

It was Rio.

You’d never seen Agatha still like this, not even in her most calculated silences. Her hand, once firm on you, faltered slightly. For the first time, the tension in the room wasn’t charged with desire—it was something heavier, sharper, like a knife suspended in the air, waiting to drop.

Chapter Text

The silence thickens once the footsteps stop. The door feels too thin, every grain of wood suddenly fragile. You can almost feel her standing there, close enough that if she leaned forward, her breath might seep through the cracks.

Agatha is utterly still, pressed near enough that you can sense the way her chest tightens against yours. Her fingers flex once against the edge of the desk before going rigid again. You realize she’s holding herself in check—frozen, as though any shift might draw Rio closer.

Seconds drag into a cruel eternity. The only sound is the faint hum of the building and the uneven thud of your heartbeat. You dare a glance at Agatha’s face and nearly falter: her eyes are fixed on the door, dark and sharp, but beneath the steel there’s something else. Something she’s trying to bury.

Then comes it—the faintest brush of fabric outside. A weight shifting, a pause that’s almost intimate in its slowness. She hasn’t left. She’s waiting. Listening.

You bite your lip, trying not to breathe too loud.

Agatha tilts her head just slightly toward you, her voice a thread of breath, almost inaudible:
“Don’t… move.”

The words root you in place, though every nerve in your body screams to shatter the silence.

And still—no knock. No voice. Just the unbearable knowledge that Rio Vidal is right there, lingering like a shadow, unseen but undeniable.

The silence stretched until even the air felt tight. Then, with a clipped step, she moved toward it, heels clicking softly against the floor. She didn’t open the door—just stood there, her presence a wall between what was inside and what lingered beyond.

“Rio,” she said at last, her voice low and sharp. “You should know better than to linger where you’re not wanted.”

A soft laugh seeped through the wood. Smooth. Mocking. “Wanted? Oh, Agatha. I’ve always been wanted. Even when you swore I wasn’t.”

Agatha’s jaw clenched, her fingers curling against the doorframe.

“You haven’t changed,” Rio went on, tone deceptively light. “Still drawing your little circles. Still pretending the edges will hold.”

“Enough,” she snapped, her voice brittle, almost panicked. “This ends now. Leave.”

“Leave?” Rio’s laugh was low, teasing, carrying through the crack of the door like smoke curling into a room. “You think you can command me from behind a door, Agatha? You’ve always known better than that.”

“I’m only curious,” Rio said, tone almost playful, yet with an edge that made the hairs on Agatha’s arms rise. “Curious how far you’ll go to keep certain… matters hidden. How careful you’ve been… and how some things slip through anyway.”

Agatha’s fingers trembled as she tried to close the door. “Enough. Just… go.”

The sound of Rio’s footsteps faded, leaving a quiet hum of tension.

Agatha slammed into the door so hard the hinges groaned. The echo rang through the office, but the silence that followed was worse. She stayed there, one hand braced against the wood, shoulders heaving once, twice, before she forced them still.

You felt the chill of it deep in your chest. “What… what was she talking about?”

Agatha turned, and for the first time since you’d met her, she looked cornered. Not fragile, not breakable—just caught in a place she couldn’t talk her way out of.

“Nothing,” she said too quickly, too sharp. “Rio feeds on games. She knows which strings to pull, and she tugs them because she enjoys the sound they make.”

You frowned, taking a step closer. “That didn’t sound like a game. That sounded like a warning.”

Her eyes flashed, something between anger and fear. “Then she’s succeeded, hasn’t she? She’s gotten under somebody’s skin.” Agatha raked a hand through her hair, pacing once across the room. “Exactly what she wanted.”

You hesitated, the unease in your chest twisting tighter. “But you—” you swallowed. “You looked… shaken. She said something that mattered, didn’t she?”

Agatha stopped pacing. Her gaze snapped to yours, dark and unreadable, but there was an edge there—panic sharpened into steel. “Don’t,” she said, voice low, clipped. “Don’t ask me to explain her riddles. Not today.”

Finally, you broke it. “It’s just… weird, Agatha.” Your voice was softer than you meant, uneasy. “What she said—I’ve heard something similar. Not that long ago.”

Agatha froze. Her head jerked slightly, eyes narrowing, every muscle gone still. “What are you talking about?” The words weren’t curious; they were edged, dangerous.

You swallowed, forcing yourself to meet her gaze. “When I stayed over at yours.”

Her face drained of color, though her mask didn’t quite slip. Not entirely. But you caught it—a flicker of fear, sharp and unguarded, before she caged it behind steel.

“What did you hear?” she demanded, low and cutting.

The memory of the whispers came flooding back—their echo against your skin, the words inked behind your eyelids.

Your mouth went dry. “Just… voices. Right by my ear. They said things. Things that felt like—like they didn’t belong to me.”

Agatha’s breath hitched, and for the briefest moment, she wasn’t your professor, wasn’t the composed, brilliant, sharp-tongued woman you’d known. She was something else—haunted, terrified, cornered.

And then, just as quickly, she blinked, shutters slamming down in her eyes. Her voice turned cold, decisive. “You dreamed it. That’s all.”

“Agatha,” you snapped, your voice suddenly firm, the tremor gone. “It was not a dream!”

The words ripped out of you louder than you meant, echoing through the walls of her office. The silence afterward was deafening. Agatha stood frozen in front of you, shoulders taut, lips parted like she’d been caught in the middle of a spell she couldn’t finish.

You stepped forward, pulse racing. “Don’t look at me like I’m making this up. I know what I heard. Whispers—right there, right by my ear. The same kind of thing Rio just said.” Your voice cracked. “It wasn’t a dream, Agatha.”

Her chest rose and fell, shallow and uneven, as if the room itself had turned against her lungs. She turned her face away, pacing a short line toward the window and back, dark skirts whispering around her legs.

“Careful, little scholar,” she murmured finally, but the edge of her voice betrayed her. Not playful this time. Almost pleading. “You don’t know what ground you’re walking on.”

You blinked at her, heat flooding your chest. “Then tell me. For once—stop shutting me out and tell me.”

Her gaze snapped to yours, eyes glinting with something between fire and fear. She opened her mouth, then shut it again, swallowing hard. For a moment, you thought she might actually speak—might finally let the truth slip. But instead she pressed her hands flat against the desk, bowing her head as though to steady herself.

“It wasn’t a dream,” she repeated under her breath, so quietly you almost missed it.

Your breath caught.

Agatha lifted her head slowly, and for a fleeting second, you saw her mask falter—the sharp, proud professor gone, leaving something raw and haunted in her eyes. Then, just as quickly, the mask returned, snapping into place with a practiced cruelty.

“You should go,” she said, her voice low, steady. “Before you ask questions you’re not ready to hear the answers to.”

Your hands clenched at your sides. Every instinct screamed at you to obey, to leave before she forced you to. But your feet wouldn’t move.

“No,” you said, your voice steady despite the chaos thrumming in your chest. “I don’t want to go.”

Agatha’s head snapped up, her eyes narrowing. For a heartbeat, her expression was unreadable—anger, fear, and something else flickering there like stormlight behind glass.

“Don’t be foolish,” she hissed softly, but there was no real venom in it. Her fingers tightened against the desk, nails digging into the polished wood. “You don’t understand what you’re asking for.”

“Then make me understand,” you pushed, stepping closer. “I’m not going to walk away just because you decide it’s safer for me to be in the dark. You keep saying things, Agatha—half-answers, riddles—and then expect me not to notice when they don’t add up. And Rio—whatever she meant out there—you can’t tell me that doesn’t mean something.”

Her jaw worked as she fought for composure. For the first time, her eyes betrayed panic. Not the polished calm of a professor, not the sharp wit of the woman who could cut anyone to pieces with a single look. Just… panic.

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” she muttered, voice low, like she was talking to herself as much as to you. “You don’t know what you’re inviting.”

“Then show me,” you whispered. “Because I’m not leaving. Not now.”

The tension snapped taut between you like a bowstring pulled to breaking. Agatha’s breath hitched, her whole body straining with the weight of everything she wasn’t saying. She stepped closer, slow and deliberate, her shadow falling over you. Her hand lifted as if to touch your face, then stopped inches away, trembling.

“You should hate me for even letting you this close,” she said, her voice cracking in a way that made your stomach twist.

Agatha’s hands fell to your shoulders, firm but trembling slightly, her gaze fixed somewhere beyond you, distant yet burning. “I’ve done things,” she murmured, voice low, almost broken. “And I’m tired. I just wish… you remembered.”

You froze, the weight of her words pressing against your chest. Her eyes softened for a fraction, betraying a vulnerability she rarely allowed anyone to see. Your heartbeat stuttered, torn between curiosity and the magnetic pull of her presence.

“I… I don’t understand,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, yet it hung in the charged air between you.

“But that’s the problem,” Agatha murmured, her voice tight, laced with a weariness that made your chest ache. “I wish… you did remember.”

You froze, confusion rippling through you. “Remember what?” you asked softly, stepping closer, your fingers twitching uncertainly at your sides.

Agatha let out a long, shuddering sigh and slumped back into her armchair, the weight of exhaustion—and something unspoken—pulling at her. Her hand twitched slightly as if reaching for reassurance, though she didn’t meet your gaze.

Without thinking, you crossed the room, kneeling beside her chair. Your hand brushed against hers, tentative, seeking some connection. “Hey… it’s okay. I’m here,” you murmured, trying to anchor her to the present.

Her eyes finally met yours, dark and stormy, yet softened by the vulnerability she rarely allowed to surface. “I just… I don’t know how to make you see,” she admitted, voice breaking, almost a whisper.

The room is heavy with silence, broken only by the low, ragged hum of Agatha’s voice. She slumps back in her chair, fingers brushing at her face as if trying to scrub away the weight pressing down on her.

“It’s… agony,” she says, the word dragging out like a physical ache. Her dark eyes are fixed somewhere beyond the room, distant, yet burning with intensity. “Every day, every moment… living with what I’ve done, and knowing you… not remembering. Not knowing.”

You kneel beside her, heart tightening at the raw edge in her tone. “Agatha… I don’t understand,” you whisper. “What is agony? What haven’t I remembered?”

Her hands tremble slightly as she folds them over her lap, voice quieting to a hoarse murmur. “It’s… everything. The waiting. The losing. The… trying to hold on to pieces you no longer see.”

Your chest tightens, confusion and unease twisting together. “I… I want to understand, I just… can’t.”

Agatha’s shoulders tremble as silent sobs shake her body. The office feels impossibly heavy, the air thick with the weight of all she’s held in for so long. You hesitate, unsure, the sight of her unraveling like this tugging painfully at your chest.

Without thinking, you move closer, kneeling beside her. Slowly, gently, you lift her into your lap, feeling the small, trembling weight of her against your chest. Her head buries into the crook of your neck, and you can feel her warm tears soaking your shirt.

“I… I don’t know what to do,” you murmur softly, your hands brushing through her hair, trying to anchor her, trying to make some of the ache in her chest ease.

Her arms wrap weakly around you, holding on like she’s afraid of being lost. “It’s… it’s unbearable,” she whispers against your skin, voice breaking. “Watching… you live… as if…”

*

The next morning dawns gray, clouds heavy against the skyline. You wake in your own apartment this time, the silence pressing in too thickly after the night before. Agatha’s words still echo in your mind, fractured and unfinished, leaving you restless.

You try to ground yourself in routine: coffee steaming in the kitchen, your notepad open on the table, pen tapping against the margin. But instead of notes, the page fills with fragments—half-remembered whispers, broken sigils sketched in shaky lines, words like remember and again scrawled over and over.

By the time you look up, the coffee’s gone cold, your hand aching from the scribbles. And still, none of it makes sense.

The image won’t leave you. She’d seemed so… human in that moment. Not the enigmatic professor with her cool, biting wit. Not the commanding presence who filled lecture halls and silenced rooms with nothing more than a glance. For once, she had looked tired. Old. Like someone who had been carrying something far too heavy for far too long.

And then she had gathered herself again, as if ashamed of having shown you even a glimpse of that weight. Her mask slipping back into place, leaving you with more questions than answers.

Your pen slips from your fingers. You rub your temples, fighting the restless pulse of confusion, worry, and something sharper you can’t quite name.

Agatha Harkness, crying in your arms. The thought still doesn’t fit, doesn’t belong, but you can’t stop replaying it.

The sharp ping of your laptop cuts through the quiet. You glance over, half-expecting another newsletter or a reminder, but your chest tightens when you see the sender: Doctoral Office.

You click it open.

Subject: Schedule Adjustment – Seminar Coverage

Dear Miss Y/L/N,
Please be advised that Professor Harkness is currently unwell and unable to deliver her scheduled seminar tomorrow. We request that you step in to lead the session in her absence, given your current research alignment with the course content. The materials are attached. Thank you for your cooperation.

You blink, reading the message twice, three times, the words blurring slightly. Unwell. The word doesn’t sit right—it’s too neat, too simple, far too ordinary for someone like Agatha.

Your fingers hover above your phone, hesitating. The email sits open on your laptop screen, its neat, sterile words a strange counterpoint to the turmoil tightening in your chest.

You type quickly.

You: Are you okay? I just got an email saying you’re unwell.

You stare at the message, thumb poised to hit send. It feels too blunt, too revealing of the knot of worry curling in your stomach. But you press it anyway.

The “delivered” checkmark appears. You wait.

The screen stays blank. No dots, no reply.

You try again.

You: If you don’t want to talk, that’s fine… I just want to know you’re alright.

Another long pause. The silence stretches. Each second without a response seems to press down heavier, until you can hear the rush of your own pulse in your ears.

Finally, your phone buzzes. One short message.

Agatha: Focus on the seminar. I’ll manage.