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Chapter Text

The Nevermore grounds were at their most theatrical at night, bathed in indigo shadows and lanternlight. Isadora had just finished her class for the day, the last notes of a piano tile still bouncing in Isadora’s fingers. She had packed the instrument— closed the lid, add a cover, slid the tiny chair (idk what it's called) under, and was following the path toward the gates where Rachael usually met her. Her shoes clicked against the stone walkway, her curls frizzed from the humidity, her heart still thrumming with music.

Then—so faint she thought at first it was the echo of a string out of tune—a whimper. Thin, high, insistent.

Isadora stopped. Turned her head. It came again, sharper this time, fragile as broken glass.

“Rachael,” she called, already moving off the path, skirts brushing smooth cement. “Did you hear that?”

Rachael appeared from the shadows, coat pulled close, expression lined with fatigue from a long shift. “Hear what?”

“That.” Isa gestured wildly, her pulse racing. She didn’t wait for permission; her body already knew. Her senses narrowed in on the sound, and then—like a knife of recognition through her chest—the scent hit her. Wolf. Not grown, not dangerous. Fragile. New.

She stumbled toward the lupin cages, where the ground sloped unevenly. A small bundle lay nestled against the stone, a basket swaddled in worn blankets. The whimper turned into a full-throated cry as Isa dropped her auburn satchel and fell to her knees.

“Oh,” she gasped, scooping up the bundle with shaking hands. The blanket shifted, revealing a face flushed from crying, fists balled up like tiny stars about to explode. A baby.

Her chest tore open. Instinct surged, clawing at her ribs. “You poor little thing. There, there, I’ve got you now.” She pressed the bundle against her chest, swaying without even realizing, heart pounding hard enough to bruise.

Rachael was beside her in seconds, steady, practical. She crouched, peeled back the blanket with clinical hands, checking skin temperature, breathing, pulse. Her calm tone clashed with Isadora’s wildness: “He’s cold but stable. A few more hours out here and—” She cut herself off, jaw tightening.

The baby’s cry quieted just enough to hiccup, his tiny fingers latching around Rachael’s. That softness cracked her professional mask for a second. Her shoulders loosened, lips parting with something that wasn’t quite a smile but wasn’t detachment either.

Isadora’s throat ached. “Castor,” she blurted, voice breaking into breathless certainty.

Rachael flicked her eyes up. “What?”

“His name. Castor. He smells of wolf, Rachael. A werewolf cub abandoned on Nevermore’s doorstep… Castor, like the mortal twin. He’ll need strength.”

Rachael exhaled, slow, steady, but the lines around her eyes deepened. “You and your mythology.” Her thumb brushed the baby’s hand almost unconsciously. “Yes, darling, I was listening when you ranted about Castor and Pollux.”

Isa rocked the child against her chest, tears pricking hotly but not falling. “We can’t just leave him. Look at him. He was meant to be here. Meant for us.”

Rachael’s shoulders stiffened. The softness vanished under steel. “No. We can’t keep him. He needs a guardian, a system, stability. You know that.”

Isadora’s grip tightened, her voice trembling into fury. “He needs love. And no one ever gives that part.”

The silence between them rang louder than any song sheet Isadora had ever played on her piano, broken only by the baby’s soft, sleepy sigh.

__________

The car heater hummed softly, filling the silence that stretched thick as velvet. Isadora sat in the passenger seat with Castor cradled against her, her shawl wrapped around him for extra warmth. His small breaths brushed against her collarbone, but every so often he stirred, fussing with weak whimpers that made Isadora’s chest constrict all over again.

Rachael kept both hands firm on the wheel, her gaze cutting between the dark road and the rearview mirror. Her knuckles were white. She’d already called ahead to the hospital’s supply desk to ask—calmly, clinically—for emergency infant formula, but she hadn’t said the word keep. She never said ours.

“Where would he sleep?” Rachael asked at last, her voice a scalpel slicing through the dark. “Your quarter? My house? He can’t live out of a satchel and your instinct.”

Isadora glanced down at the child in her arms, then back at Rachael. “We’ll make space. We’ll—”

“Who watches him when you’re teaching? When I’m on back-to-back shifts? He needs more than lullabies.”

Isadora bristled, rocking Castor gently as he began to whimper again. “Don’t reduce me to lullabies. I can care for him.”

“He needs feeding every few hours, Isa.” Rachael’s tone was sharp, but beneath it lay exhaustion. “You don’t even know when he last ate. If we hadn’t found him tonight—”

“Don’t.” Isadora cut her off, throat tight. The idea that he might have starved out there alone was unbearable. She pressed a kiss into the 4-month-old infant’s damp hair. “We did find him. That’s what matters.”

The baby’s cries escalated into hungry wails, small fists flailing. Isa rocked harder, frantic. “He’s hungry, Rach—he’s hungry and he trusts me—”

“I know.” Rachael signaled sharply, pulling the car toward a side road that led to town. Her jaw clenched. “We’ll get formula. Warm him properly. He won’t make it through the night otherwise.”

Isadora blinked at her. “You—you thought of that?”

“Of course I did.” Rachael’s voice cracked just slightly, betraying the sliver of tenderness she tried to hide. “But don’t confuse my competence for commitment. We’re saving his life tonight, not rewriting ours.”

Isadora’s breath caught. The child quieted for a moment, as if soothed by Rachael’s steady voice, and Isa clung to that flicker of connection. “Don’t you see? He already responds to us. To you. He was meant to.”

Rachael didn’t answer right away. The car rolled into the glow of a 24-hour pharmacy. She killed the engine and turned to Isadora, her eyes hard but her voice low. “I can’t just throw a baby into the chaos of our lives because your instincts are howling. I need answers, love. How do we feed him? Where do we keep him safe? What about his future? I mean no offense but that child's a werewolf for heaven's sake! It'll be twice as harder to take care of him. I know you think this is your responsibility especially because you're of the same kind. But please, just this once. Think out of rationality.”

Isadora’s lips parted, her chest rising and falling fast. She looked down at Castor, who had calmed slightly, eyes fluttering open, latching onto her face as if it were the only thing that mattered.

Her voice steadied, soft but fierce. “I don’t know all the answers. But I know this—we’ll learn. You don’t have to have faith in mythology or instincts. Just… have faith in me. In us.”

Rachael’s exhale fogged the window. She reached for the door handle, not trusting herself to reply.

Inside, Castor gave a soft, contented sigh.
____________

The automatic doors swished open, spilling harsh fluorescent light over the quiet aisle. Isa carried Castor carefully, tucking him closer to her chest as though he might vanish if not held just so. Rachael trailed beside her, surveying the shelves with a clinical precision even the pharmacists avoid her.

“Formula,” Rachael said, voice flat but firm. “Standard, hypoallergenic. No cow’s milk substitutions unless we have to. He’s four months old—needs proper nutrients. Fast.”

Isadora nodded, lips pressed against the baby’s soft hair. “Yes, yes, I know, Rach. You don’t need to run through everything like a lecture.”

“I am running through everything like a lecture because you’re not experienced enough and this is a serious matter.” Rachael’s hands swept over the options, scanning labels, reading nutritional info aloud. “Feeding schedule—every three to four hours. Sleep—he needs flat, firm surfaces with no loose blankets. Temperature—between thirty-five and thirty-six Celsius. And don’t tell me mythology will substitute for warmth.”

Isadora smiled faintly, tilting her head down so her curls brushed Castor’s cheek. “It doesn’t need to substitute. It just… comforts. He’ll grow to understand stories, just like you once did.”

Rachael raised an eyebrow. “Stories aren’t exactly a substitute for formula, love.”

“He’ll have both,” Isadora murmured. “Both and us. He’s safe— He’s already safe.”

The baby hiccuped, tiny fists flailing, and Isadora adjusted him against her shoulder, whispering nonsense syllables. Rachael stepped closer, hands still hovering over bottles, then finally reached out to steady Isadora. “Breathe, love. You’re trembling.”

Isa’s lips twitched. “Not trembling. Just… alive. And worried. And exhilarated. And tired.”

Rachael’s lips quirked. “That’s a lot of adjectives for one human body.”

Isadora’s laugh was soft, half a sigh. “He’s not human.”

“Technically he's both. But we need to treat him like a baby if we want him alive past midnight.” Rachael pinched the corner of a boxed formula, scanning the instructions again. “Sterilize bottles. Water temperature—must not exceed forty degrees Celsius. Feed slowly. Observe reactions. Got it?”

Isadora nodded, scribbling notes in her mind. “Got it. I… I can do this.”

“You will do this, because I’m not doing it for you,” Rachael said sharply, but her tone softened at the end. “I’ll supervise. Correct, intervene. But you are the primary caregiver tonight.”

Isadora’s chest tightened, not with fear but with something warmer, fiercer, protective. “I understand. I’ll protect him. Always.”

Rachael’s glance flicked from Isadora to Castor, whose tiny eyes blinked sleepily. “And you can’t do this alone. You never could. That’s why I’m here. But don’t mistake me being here for approval of adoption.”

Isadora’s lips curved in a ghost of a smile. “I don’t need your approval to do what’s right.”

Rachael’s hand hovered over the infant carrier, almost involuntarily. “Fine. But I will ask the hard questions, Isa. Like how we clean him, feed him, bathe him, and—” She cut herself off, voice lighter now. “…Who changes his diapers first. That one’s non-negotiable.”

Isadora laughed quietly, pressing her cheek against Castor’s. “Then we’ll negotiate tomorrow. Tonight… let him sleep. Let us breathe.”

Rachael’s exhale fogged the plastic divider of the aisle. She shook her head but didn’t stop her fingers from brushing against Isadora’s. “Fine. But don’t think I’m letting you romanticize this. I’m running a hospital, not a nursery.”

“Then let me,” Isa whispered, eyes soft. “Just for tonight.”

The pharmacy lights hummed overhead as they settled into a fragile, tender rhythm: Rachael planning logistics, Isadora surrendering to instinct, and Castor, blissfully unaware, curling against them both.

Chapter Text

Rachael’s house smelled faintly of bergamot and book dust, the kind of scent that clung to long hours and overworked evenings. She tossed her coat across the back of an armchair the second they stepped inside, her shoulders slumping with visible relief. Her king-sized bed upstairs was already calling her name, and not even the weight of a surprise infant seemed to cut through her exhaustion fully.

She scrubbed a hand down her face, half to keep her eyes open, half to reset her brain. “Alright,” she said, voice hoarse from hours of back-to-back sessions at the hospital. “Crash course, since apparently you’re on night duty, Professor.”

Isadora stood near the sofa, Castor bundled against her chest like he was the crown jewel of some ancient kingdom. Her curls were messy, her dress creased from rushing through the night. She looked like she might burst into tears and laughter at the same time, and Rachael didn’t dare let that unnerve her.

“Formula’s in the bag,” Rachael said, tugging her boots off with little grace. “Bottles need to be sterilized first. Don’t argue—boil the kettle, pour into a pan, submerge the bottles. Then mix the formula with water that’s cooled to about forty degrees Celsius.”

Isadora blinked, her lips parting. “Celsius?”

“Yes, Celsius. The metric system. Welcome to the modern world.” Rachael’s voice was flat, but there was a hint of a smirk tugging at her mouth. “If it’s hotter than that, you’ll burn his mouth. Colder, and it won’t dissolve properly. Shake gently, not like you’re whipping cream. Burp him after. Hold him upright—don’t lie him down with a bottle or he’ll choke.”

Isadora nodded frantically, trying to catch every word like a student desperate trying not to fail an exam.

Rachael’s gaze softened just slightly as she watched her. “You’ll be fine,” she said, quieter now. “If he screams, you’ll manage. If you panic, I’ll be down the hall. But, Isadora…” She hesitated, thumb tapping her thigh, eyes suddenly sharp again. “Don’t let your instincts override common sense. You’ve got heart, but he needs competence.”

Isadora’s throat tightened. “I’ll do it right, bae. I promise.”

“Good.” Rachael exhaled, already tugging her hair loose and heading for the stairs. “I’ve got a board meeting at eight. I need at least four hours of sleep or I’ll snap at someone and it’ll be the wrong someone.”

At the base of the stairs, she glanced back. The sight of Isadora—cradling Castor, swaying slightly in her heels like she was made for this—hit her harder than she wanted to admit. She cleared her throat, shoved the softness away, and muttered, “Night, love. Don’t wake me unless he’s on fire.”

Then she disappeared upstairs, leaving Isadora alone in the dim living room with a four-month-old bundle of wolf-scent and her own rattling heart.

The kitchen felt like a stage set for some cruel comedy: kettle hissing like an impatient conductor, fluorescent light humming overhead, and Castor wailing in her arms like a violin string stretched too tight. Isadora swayed, bouncing him lightly, but her gaze locked on the counter where Rachael had left the formula tin, bottles, and—her doom—written instructions.

“Forty degrees Celsius,” she muttered, glaring at the words as if sheer force of will might translate them. “Forty degrees—what even is that? Am I supposed to be a thermometer now?”

Castor’s cry hit a sharper note, and Isadora startled like she’d missed an entrance. “Shh, shh, darling, I know, I know.” Her curls stuck to her damp forehead. “Your auntie Rachael insists on torturing us with metric. Damn Europeans.”

She set him in the crook of one arm and grabbed the kettle. Steam rose like an overture’s opening chords, dramatic and terrifying. She sloshed water into a pan, dunked the bottles, and then—stalled.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Forty Celsius. Right. Fahrenheit… Fahrenheit is…” She scrambled for a pen and paper, scribbling wildly on the back of a takeaway menu. Numbers scattered like broken notes on a staff. “Multiply by nine, divide by five, add thirty-two—why is this math? Who designed this system?”

Castor’s wails climbed. Isadora squeezed her eyes shut, pressing the pen to her temple. “Focus, Isadora. You’ve mastered Bach fugues. You can handle this.”

Her heart raced in syncopation, a rhythm too fast. She dropped the pen, hugged Castor closer, and began humming scales under her breath—do re mi, fa so la—her voice trembling but steadying with each pass. It didn’t soothe the baby, not really, but it slowed her own spiraling.

She rocked on her heels, counting time in six-eight, tapping the counter like it was an ivory keyboard. “One-two-three, four-five-six… one-two-three…” Her nerves began to loosen, her breathing settling into the rhythm. Castor still shrieked, fists flailing, but she was calmer, her chaos reorganized into something almost musical.

Finally, she forced herself back to the pan. She stuck her finger into the cooling water, yelped, then stuck it again, wincing. “Too hot. Still too hot. Is this science or sadism?” Her muttering grew frantic, half-performative, like she was reciting a monologue only the walls would remember. “Rachael’s upstairs, probably sleeping like a hedgehog during autumn, and here I am, burning my finger for maternal glory.”

At last, she convinced herself the water was “probably right” and mixed the formula with shaking hands. Castor wailed louder. She shook the bottle carefully, praying the powder dissolved. Then, terrified, she tested a drop on her wrist like she’d seen in films. Warm, not scalding. Achingly ordinary.

“Oh, Castor,” she whispered, almost laughing. “Your first meal courtesy of my questionable mathematics. May you never inherit it.”

She tucked him into the crook of her arm, pressed the bottle to his lips, and held her breath. He latched instantly, sucking greedily, and the sound of his swallowing hit her chest like a chord resolving. Relief surged so violently she thought she might collapse.

“There we go,” she crooned, tears pricking though she forced them back. “There’s my little wolf. See? Auntie Rachael’s formulas can’t stop us.”

The kitchen quieted, save for the soft rhythm of Castor drinking. The fluorescent light buzzed, the kettle clicked as it cooled, and Isadora swayed, her humming now just a lullaby to herself. For the first time since finding him, her hands stilled. Her heart still hammered, but it no longer hurt.

She glanced toward the dark stairwell, where Rachael slept beyond reach. “We’ll prove her wrong,” she whispered fiercely to the baby. “I’ll prove us right.”

And in that messy kitchen, with a half-empty bottle and ink-stained fingers, Isadora felt like she’d just conducted the most important performance of her life.
____________

Rachael’s bedroom was exactly as Isadora had always pictured it: spacious, tidy in the “tries-to-be-an-adult-but-forgets-to-fold-laundry” kind of way, with a wide king bed in the center that felt more like a marshmallow than an actual mattress. Of course Rachael would insist on something oversized. “I fancy a lil space of my own,” she’d once said over tea, like she doesn't crawl into people’s personal bubbles for a living.

Now, that marshmallow bed was about to swallow Isadora whole.

Castor had finally stopped fussing—more from sheer exhaustion than any milk-related triumph. Isadora sat cross-legged in the middle of the duvet, her curls sticking up from stress-scratching her scalp during her meltdown in the kitchen. The bottle, lukewarm and very much not at the scientifically correct baby-approved temperature, sat abandoned on the nightstand. Castor was tucked against her chest in a little blanket burrito, his tiny breaths warm against her collarbone.

“Look at us,” she whispered down at him, voice hoarse. “Two disasters masquerading as functional beings.”

He gurgled in his sleep. Isadora took that as agreement.

She stretched her legs out and sank into the bed with a sigh that came from somewhere deep in her soul. She was bone-tired, the kind of tired that gnawed at her temples and made her eyelids heavy, but she couldn’t quite give herself permission to sleep yet. She tilted her head toward the baby, brushing a kiss against his forehead, and found herself whispering again.

“Your auntie Rachael’s going to be horrified in the morning,” she said softly. “Proper formulas, proper temperatures, proper… everything. And I’m going to have to confess I basically winged it like a criminal.”

Her laugh was quiet, self-mocking. “She’s never going to let me live this down.”

She adjusted Castor slightly, mindful of his fragile neck, then tucked the blanket tighter around him. The baby stirred, whined faintly, then settled again. Isadora exhaled. She was ridiculous—every nerve in her body was tense, not because of him, but because of herself. She’d been spiraling since the kitchen, convinced she’d ruin everything, that she’d fail Rachael, fail the baby, fail the universe. And yet here he was, small and warm and alive, trusting her without question.

Her chest ached at the thought.

“Fine,” she muttered, blinking fast. “You win. I’ll calm down. For you.”

Of course, she didn’t calm him. She calmed herself. Her old tricks—an instinctive, desperate attempt to wrestle down the panic—came out in soft hums, little snatches of melody she used to play on cello years ago. A lullaby for herself as much as for him. Her fingers tapped against his back in gentle rhythm, like she was keeping time.

The world narrowed to that rhythm.

Breath in. Breath out.

Hum. Tap. Hum.

Before she realized it, her head had lolled back onto Rachael’s pillow, curls spreading over the case like a tangled halo. She groaned at how good it felt—the mattress giving beneath her, the faint smell of Rachael’s shampoo lingering in the linens, that subtle lavender laundry powder she always used. It was grounding, anchoring. And dangerous. Because once she let herself notice it, her body gave up entirely.

Her arm tightened protectively around Castor as if by instinct. Her breathing slowed. The last thought she registered, half-delirious, was: I’ll just rest my eyes for one second.

The next moment, the room was still—Isadora and Castor both asleep, curled together in the center of Rachael Fairburn’s vast king bed, the untouched bottle cooling on the nightstand like a quiet confession waiting for morning.

Chapter Text

The morning light leaked through the curtains, pale and cold, the kind of reluctant sun that made everything look half-awake. Isadora stirred first with a groan, blinking at the vast, unfamiliar ceiling above her. For a second she had no idea where she was. Then the faint memory of formula packets, her panic, and a baby’s tiny fists all came rushing back.

The bed beside her was empty.

Her heart jumped—irrational panic, the kind that struck before her brain caught up. Castor wasn’t in her arms anymore. She shoved herself upright, curls sticking in every direction, and scanned the room. No bundle of blankets. No baby. No Rachael.

Then she heard it. The low, steady murmur of a voice downstairs. A whimper, then a hiccuping cry, followed by the faint clink of glass against porcelain.

She scrambled out of bed, half tripping on the edge of the duvet, and padded barefoot down the hall. The wooden stairs creaked beneath her weight, each step bringing the sounds sharper into focus—tiny hungry noises, and beneath them, Rachael’s calm instructions in a voice softer than Isadora had ever heard her use.

At the bottom of the stairs she paused, gripping the railing like she needed permission to cross into the scene.

Rachael sat in the armchair, legs curled beneath her, hair loose around her shoulders, a cardigan slipping off one side. In her arms, Castor drank from a bottle with single-minded determination, his little fists waving weakly in the air. Rachael held him with the kind of competence that made Isadora’s chest ache—steady hand under his head, bottle tilted at just the right angle, eyes watching him like she’d done this all her life.

“There we are,” Rachael whispered, voice low, rhythmic. “Slow and steady. That’s it, little lad.”

Isadora stood frozen in the doorway. Something about the sight punched all the air from her lungs. She was supposed to say something—thank you, good morning, anything—but the words tangled in her throat.

“You slept through a war,” Rachael said without looking up. Her tone was dry, but her lips twitched faintly. “I thought musicians had sharp ears.”

“I—” Isadora faltered, pushing her curls out of her face. “He didn’t even—why didn’t you wake me?”

“Because you looked half-dead,” Rachael replied evenly. “And because he doesn’t wait for anyone. Hungry babies don’t take attendance.” She tilted the bottle slightly, coaxing Castor to keep drinking. “He cried every three hours. You didn’t stir once.”

Shame prickled through Isadora’s chest. She crossed the room slowly, sinking onto the sofa beside the armchair. Her voice came out smaller than she meant. “You should’ve woken me.”

Rachael finally glanced at her, one brow raised. “And what? Watch you fall apart over Celsius conversions again? No thanks, love. One meltdown per night is my limit.”

Isadora flushed, folding her hands in her lap. “You’re cruel.”

“Efficient,” Rachael corrected, turning her gaze back to Castor. The baby’s eyes were half-closed now, content and drowsy as he suckled. Rachael’s voice softened again, almost unconsciously. “There we go. Nearly done.”

Silence stretched, but it wasn’t sharp this time. Isadora leaned sideways, close enough to watch the baby’s tiny mouth working, his little chest rising and falling. Her shoulder brushed Rachael’s cardigan, and she didn’t move away.

“He likes you,” Isadora said quietly, surprising herself.

Rachael snorted, but the sound was gentle. “He likes food. I’m just the delivery system.”

“No,” Isadora insisted, eyes fixed on Castor. “It’s… more than that. You’re steady. He feels it.”

For a moment, Rachael didn’t answer. Her gaze stayed on the baby, but her jaw softened. When she finally spoke, it was with a gruffness that didn’t match the warmth in her eyes.

“Don’t go getting sentimental on me before breakfast, Professor.”

Isadora smiled faintly, tilting her head to rest against the sofa back. “Too late.”

They sat like that until Castor finished, the morning light slowly warming the room, the house settling into a fragile, newfound rhythm.

Rachael shifted Castor upright against her shoulder, rubbing his tiny back in practiced little circles. A muffled burp escaped him, followed by a sigh so dramatic it could’ve belonged to Isadora.

“There,” Rachael muttered. “One less crisis.”

Isadora leaned her chin on the sofa back, eyes still fixed on them. “You make it look so… ordinary.”

“That’s because it is ordinary,” Rachael said briskly, standing to carry the baby toward the kitchen. “What’s extraordinary is the fact I’ve not had coffee yet.”

Isadora trailed after her like a guilty shadow, barefoot curls wild. She opened her mouth to say something sweet—too sweet—but the sharp beep-beep of Rachael’s phone on the counter cut her off.

Rachael glanced at the screen, swore under her breath, and all but dropped Castor into Isadora’s arms. “Shit. My board meeting’s in forty minutes. I’m supposed to be across town already.”

Isadora clutched the baby like someone had just handed her a live grenade. “What do you mean forty—oh no—wait, wait, I’ve got a lecture at nine!”

“Then lecture with him.” Rachael was already moving, grabbing her bag and shoving her hair up with one hand. “Strap him in a blanket, tell your students he’s an emotional support baby, I don’t care. I can’t take him to a bloody board meeting, Isadora.”

Isadora blinked down at Castor, who blinked back with wide, innocent eyes. “I—take him to class? To MUSIC class?? It'll be LOUD. He’s four months old!”

“Exactly,” Rachael shot back, halfway into her coat. “He won’t remember the trauma.”

“This isn’t trauma!” Isadora’s voice pitched higher. “It’s—oh, oh, Rachael—he’s smiling at me. He thinks this is fine. This isn’t fine!”

Rachael paused at the door, exhaling through her nose in that way that meant she was both exasperated and secretly amused. “You’ll manage. You’re dramatic, not incompetent. Key difference.”

Isadora wanted to argue, but Castor chose that exact moment to sneeze and snuggle into her curls like she was his personal blanket. Her heart just… gave up.

“Fine,” she whispered, bouncing him gently. “But if he cries during my Bach lecture, I’m holding you personally responsible.”

“Deal,” Rachael said, already halfway out the door. She leaned back just long enough to press a quick kiss to Isadora’s temple—absent-minded, hurried, but grounding. “You’ll be brilliant, love.”

And then she was gone, leaving Isadora barefoot in the kitchen with a baby, a blanket, and an entirely new level of panic to add to her morning.

Chapter Text

Isadora had never felt more like a criminal in her life. Not during curfew-breaking as a student, not during the time she once snuck an entire cello out of the practice hall because the acoustics in the greenhouse were “better”—no, this was worse.

Because at least cellos didn’t grunt.

She strode through Nevermore’s front gates with her curls wild and a suspiciously lumpy grey blanket clutched against her chest. Every step she took, the bundle shifted, emitting the occasional soft grunt or snuffle. Each noise was a knife in her composure.

Please, for the love of God, stay asleep, she thought desperately.

Of course, the students noticed. They always noticed.

Bianca Barclay was the first to corner her, leaning lazily against the banister of the main staircase. “Professor Capri,” she drawled, eyes narrowing at the shifting bundle. “That’s a… bold new look.”

Isadora stiffened, clutching the blanket tighter like it was state secrets. “It’s a—shawl. Very vintage.”

The blanket grunted.

Bianca’s brow shot up. “Your shawl just made a noise.”

“Wool,” Isadora said too quickly, already power-walking past her. “It settles. Sometimes.”

She barely escaped the foyer before Eugene Ottinger appeared, buzzing with curiosity. “Professor Capri, is that… is that a hedgehog? Because I know people who’d pay to see that.”

“It’s not a hedgehog,” Isadora snapped, clutching the bundle so tightly she feared she’d wake Castor. She pasted on her most imperious glare. “It’s… private. Very private.”

“Like… emotional support ferret private?”

Isadora hissed like a kettle, sweeping down the corridor before she betrayed herself further.

By the time she reached her classroom, her heart was in her throat. She darted inside, slammed the door, and pressed her back against it. For one glorious second, she thought she’d made it. She’d survived.

Then Castor snuffled again, louder this time.

“Bollocks,” she muttered, «now she's cursing like Rachael. Maybe soulmates do copy each other» peeling back the blanket just enough to see Castor's tiny face. Fast asleep. Blissfully unaware of the chaos he trailed behind him.

Her students filed in moments later, carrying their instruments. Isadora hastily set Castor in a nest of blankets inside her open cello case and perched the lid halfway up, trying to make it look intentional. “Today,” she announced far too shrilly, “we will be exploring Bach’s Brandenburg Concertos—”

A grunt interrupted her.

Isadora coughed theatrically, waving her hand. “—that was… the floorboards. Very old.”

Another grunt. Louder.

Ajax raised his hand, eyes wide. “Professor… is your cello alive?”

“No!” Isadora said, voice cracking. “It’s—wood. Dead wood. The dead-iest wood.”

As if on cue, Castor gave a tiny sneeze, muffled but unmistakable.

A ripple of laughter went through the class.

Isadora’s face burned scarlet. She banged her baton on the stand with unnecessary force. “Silence! Do you lot think Bach sneezed in the middle of a fugue? No, he did not! Focus!”

For the next forty minutes, she played the most dramatic game of misdirection in her life—launching into furious explanations of counterpoint whenever Castor stirred, waving her hands wildly whenever a grunt threatened to escape the cello case. By the end, she was sweating, frazzled, and certain she’d aged a decade.

The final bell rang. Students filed out, still snickering. Ajax whispered something about “Professor Capri’s mystery pet.”

Only when the last one had gone did she collapse into her chair, yanking open the cello case. Castor blinked up at her, perfectly content, cheeks rosy.

“You,” she whispered, utterly undone, “are going to be the death of me.”

He yawned, then grunted softly, burrowing deeper into her blanket.

And Isadora, against her better judgment, smiled.
She sat cross-legged on the edge of her bed, Castor tucked safely against her chest in his soft grey blanket. Enid perched on a chair across from her, legs swinging, eyes bright and curious.

“Okay,” Isadora began, voice firmer than she felt, “you’re going to help me today. While I—attend to a meeting, I need you to take care of him.” She tapped the side of the bundle lightly. “He’s four months old, eats every few hours, and sleeps sporadically. Do not wake him unnecessarily. Got it?”

Enid nodded eagerly, leaning forward. “Got it. Totally. Feed him, burp him, cuddle him, all the above.”

“Yes, but… he’s fragile. Don’t overstimulate him. And whatever you do, do not drop him,” Isadora added, a little too quickly, her curls falling into her eyes. She adjusted the blanket, tucking Castor more snugly against her chest. “I trust you. But… not too much trust.”

Enid laughed, the sound like sunlight bouncing off a dark wall. “Understood, Professor. Don’t worry—I’ll treat him like my little brother.”

Isadora froze at that. Her eyebrows shot up. “Brother? I appreciate the enthusiasm but— you know what?” She exhaled, letting her hands relax slightly on the blanket. “Fine. Think of him as a tiny sibling. But the responsibility is real. If he cries, feed him. If he grunts, reassure him. And—most importantly—he’s a werewolf, like us. So subtle smells, calm energy, no claws, steady hands. Don’t panic.”

Enid tilted her head, absorbing all of it with the intensity of a student who just discovered a secret passage in the library. “I can do that. You’ve trained me well in chaos management.”

Isadora allowed herself a small, relieved smile. “Good. Because I… won’t be around for a bit. I have a meeting. And I need to trust that he’s safe in your hands.” She handed over the bundle carefully, like passing a precious manuscript. Castor stirred, grunting softly, and Enid rocked him gently, murmuring, “There we go… easy, little guy.”

For the first time since the early morning chaos, Isadora felt a flicker of peace. She straightened, smoothing her curls, and met Enid’s eyes. “He’s tiny, but he’s not to be underestimated. Remember that.”

Enid grinned. “Got it. Tiny werewolf, handled.”

Isadora exhaled, finally allowing herself a moment to step back. “Thank you. Really. Keep him alive. That’s my only rule.”

___________

Enid padded down Ophelia Hall, holding Castor against her chest in the soft grey blanket Isadora had meticulously wrapped him in. The baby made small, contented grunts, like tiny punctuation marks in the quiet of the early afternoon. Enid felt like she was carrying something fragile and precious—because she was.

She ducked into her room, shutting the door softly behind her. Posters of some band within her wolf pack, colourful decorations covered the walls, the plushies consuming half her space, and the scent of lavender and old books mingled in the air. The dorm was cozy, a bit old but full of personality, and perfect for her and Castor for the short while Isadora would be in her meeting.

“Alright, little buddy,” Enid whispered, laying him gently on the armchair piled with extra pillows. “You’re safe here. Professor Capri trusts me, so that makes me basically invincible, right?” Castor let out a tiny grunt in response. Enid laughed softly. “See? He knows.”

She propped him upright carefully, adjusting the blanket so he was snug, and studied him like a puzzle she was determined to solve. Tiny fists, soft wisps of hair, delicate little ears that twitched ever so slightly—he was a miracle in miniature form.

“Don’t worry,” she murmured to him. “I’ll keep you alive. Feed you, burp you, rock you… all the things Professor Capri drilled into me.” She leaned back in her chair, glancing at the small digital clock on her desk. “Okay, so nap first. Quietest dorm ever. Don’t wake the others.”

The baby shifted, snuggling into the pillows, and Enid grinned. “Good. Sleepy little werewolf. We’ll be fine. Just don’t start howling until Professor Capri comes back, alright?”

She stayed a moment longer, watching him breathe, letting the room hum with the kind of domestic calm that only lasted as long as the adults weren’t looking. Then she got up to fetch a small blanket for extra warmth, humming softly to herself. Castor’s faint little grunts were the perfect accompaniment—like punctuation to her new, temporary responsibility.

Enid had never held a baby before, not really. But somehow, in this tiny, baby slash werewolf-shaped bundle, she already felt like she could rise to the challenge.

No sooner had Enid settled into a rhythm of quiet cooing than it happened. Castor let out a high-pitched wail that could shatter glass—or at least make every student in Ophelia Hall peek through their door. Enid froze, eyes wide.

“Uh… that’s… normal?” she murmured, clutching him tighter.

“Definitely normal,” a cheerful voice said from the doorway. Agnes DeMille, hair a bit mussed, peered in, eyebrows raised. “Need a hand?”

“Yes!” Enid breathed, relief washing over her. “Please! I… I don’t know what I’m doing!”

Agnes stepped in, crouching beside the armchair. “Okay, okay, let’s try—” She reached for Castor, and he immediately flailed, tiny fists batting wildly. Enid squeaked and tried to shift him back.

“Careful!” Enid hissed, panicking. “He’s… he’s a werewolf baby, you know! Fragile!”

Agnes froze mid-motion, eyes darting to Castor, who had just let out an even louder, more dramatic wail. “Right…fragile… got it.”

The two of them swayed and shuffled like a poorly synchronized dance, both attempting to rock him gently while whispering nonsense syllables. Castor responded with another ear-piercing squeal, followed by frantic little fists, and then a hiccuping cry that somehow sounded like a warning.

“Maybe he doesn’t like us,” Enid whispered, voice tight.

“No, no, we just… need more… grace?” Agnes offered weakly.

“More grace!” Enid repeated, sounding less confident than she’d hoped.

Five minutes of this later, both girls were red-faced, breathing hard, and still no closer to calming him. The baby’s wails echoed against the walls, a chaotic percussion track for their rookie babysitting fiasco. Finally, Castor’s cries peaked and then—just as suddenly—he stopped, blinking sleepily, leaving Enid and Agnes staring at each other like they’d just survived a minor natural disaster.

“Maybe… we should’ve left him with Professor Capri?” Agnes suggested softly.

Enid let out a long sigh, clutching Castor to her chest as if to absorb the panic himself. “Yeah. Definitely.”

The door to Enid’s dorm flew open with a bang, and Isadora stormed in like a woman possessed. Her curls were frizzing from stress, her blouse half untucked, and her auburn satchel swung dangerously from one hand.

“What,” she demanded, voice already breaking, “is happening in here?”

Enid and Agnes froze mid-rock, both standing over Castor like guilty culprits in a crime scene. The baby was in Enid’s arms, flushed and hiccupping after his crying fit, the blanket slipping dangerously down one side.

“He—he started crying!” Enid blurted. “Like, screaming crying! I swear I did everything you said—rocked him, patted him, fed him—”

“We tried harmonising!” Agnes added desperately. “Like… lullaby style! Didn’t work!”

Isadora slapped a hand to her forehead, groaning like she’d aged ten years in thirty minutes. She set her satchel down with a thunk and swooped in, scooping Castor into her arms in one fluid, furious motion.

“Give him here,” she muttered, clutching him against her chest with practiced desperation. She swayed automatically, muttering under her breath, half lullaby, half self-soothing mantra. “Shhh, darling, mama’s here, ignore the chaos gremlins—shhh, breathe, breathe…”

Castor hiccupped once, then, like magic, stilled. His cries faded into tiny grunts, his fists unclenched, and he nuzzled into the curve of Isadora’s collarbone.

Enid and Agnes stared at him, then at her, then at each other.

“No way,” Agnes whispered. “He just… shut up.”

Enid looked stricken, half relieved, half betrayed. “But—why does he calm for you and not for us? I followed every instruction! Every single one!”

Isadora glared at her over Castor’s head, curls wild, dark circles under her eyes. “Because, Miss Sinclair, babies are not equations. You don’t just plug in a formula and wait for Mozart. They’re chaos in a blanket. And chaos—” she adjusted Castor’s blanket with dramatic precision, voice sharp as a bow on strings—“is my domain.”

Enid blinked. Agnes mouthed woah.

Isadora exhaled, finally sitting on the bed with Castor nestled like he belonged there. Her hands were still trembling faintly, but her eyes softened as she looked down at him. “There. Crisis averted. Again. Honestly, I leave for one meeting and the world collapses.”

Enid shifted guiltily, twisting her hands. “…He likes you better.”

Isadora smirked faintly, one curl falling over her cheek. “Obviously.”

Castor gave a tiny grunt of agreement.

Chapter Text

Isadora arrived at Rachael’s semi detached house in Jericho like a whirlwind in boots. Her curls were escaping their pins, her blouse carried the faintest smear of spit-up, and her auburn satchel dangled dangerously from one hand. Castor, swaddled and strapped awkwardly against her chest, was the only part of the ensemble that looked composed—though he, too, was making disgruntled little noises that betrayed how close he was to another meltdown.

By the time Rachael opened the door, Isadora was halfway through a rant to no one in particular.

“—and then Enid swore she had it all under control, and of course she didn’t, and then Agnes of all people decided that harmonising would be the cure, as though a crying infant cares about counterpoint—” She broke off when she saw Rachael standing there, mug of tea in hand, eyebrows arched.

“Hi, love,” Rachael said calmly, as though she were greeting a neighbour instead of a frantic woman holding a baby like he was a live grenade. “Rough day?”

“Rough doesn’t cover it.” Isadora all but stumbled inside, depositing her satchel in the hallway like she was shedding the dead weight of academia. Castor grunted unhappily at the sudden movement, and she immediately clutched him closer, whispering: “Shh, darling, don’t worry, Mama’s losing her mind but you’re fine.”

Rachael closed the door with her hip, sipping her tea. “Let me guess—baby cried, Enid panicked, Agnes made it worse, and you stormed in like a banshee?”

Isadora stopped dead in the middle of the sitting room, blinking. “How did you know?”

“Because that’s the only way this story was ever going to end.” Rachael smirked faintly. “Sit down before you keel over.”

With the reluctance of someone surrendering her dignity, Isadora sank onto the sofa. She held Castor with one arm and began gesturing wildly with the other. “I swear, Rach, it was carnage. He was red in the face, hiccupping, screaming like he’d been abandoned in a forest—no offence—and Enid was practically in tears herself. And Agnes—Agnes!—she looked like she was auditioning for a haunted musical number. It was—”

Rachael set her tea down and sat beside her, placing a steadying hand on Isa’s knee. “Isa. Breathe.”

Isadora sucked in a dramatic breath, then exhaled through her nose like an angry bull. Castor squirmed but made no sound, his tiny face tucked against her collarbone.

“See? Even he knows you’re overreacting,” Rachael teased softly.

Isadora tilted her head back against the sofa with a groan. “Why does he calm for me and no one else? It’s like he’s programmed—Enid tried everything, I left detailed instructions, but no, apparently I’m the only functioning adult in this entire town.”

“Darling, you’re not exactly functioning.” Rachael’s voice was gentler now, her hand rubbing circles over Isa’s knee. “You’re spiralling. Again.”

Isadora peeked at her, eyes tired but defiant. “I’m allowed to spiral. I’ve just survived the longest day of my life with a baby who is not even mine, yet somehow is entirely my responsibility.” She glanced down at Castor, softening in spite of herself. “And of course, I can’t just… let him cry. I had to go tearing across campus like a lunatic because the thought of him suffering—” She broke off, chewing her lip.

Rachael’s expression softened, the teasing gone. She shifted closer, her voice warm. “Because you care. You care more than you want to admit.”

Silence stretched. Castor gave a little grunt, as though punctuating the truth.

Isadora stared at him, then muttered, “I was supposed to be a composer, not a mother.”

“And yet here you are, keeping time with lullabies instead of symphonies,” Rachael murmured.

That earned her a glare, but it lacked any real heat. Isa finally sagged sideways, letting her head rest on Rachael’s shoulder, Castor a warm weight between them. “I’m a disaster,” she whispered.

Rachael kissed her hair, smiling into the curls. “No, love. You’re just tired. And maybe a little bit in love with a baby you swore wasn’t yours.”

Isadora didn’t answer, but she didn’t pull away either.

Rachael pulled her closer, eye glimmering with mischief, “Also, did I hear you call yourself ‘mamaʼ?”

Isadora's whole face is flushed, sje buries her face deeper on Rachael's shoulder, “I-I deserve the title!”

___________

The next morning, the semi-detached in Jericho was quieter than it had any right to be. The kettle hissed softly in the kitchen, sunlight filtered through thin curtains, and for once, Isadora was not pacing the length of the sitting room with a baby strapped to her chest.

Because Rachael had staged a coup.

“Right, hand him over,” she’d said at breakfast, when Isadora tried to juggle feeding Castor with buttering toast and ranting about Bach’s misuse in modern television adverts. “You’ve done enough. Go. Sit.”

Isadora, frazzled and running on two hours of sleep, had opened her mouth to argue, but Rachael’s look brooked no debate. With a dramatic sigh—because conceding gracefully was never in her nature—Isa surrendered the bundle.

Now, Castor was nestled snug in a brand-new stroller Rachael had produced out of nowhere, a faintly smug smile tugging at her lips as she clipped a tiny plush wolf to the handle.

“Where did that come from?” Isadora demanded, hovering in the doorway, arms folded.

“A baby shop down the street,” Rachael replied matter-of-factly, crouching to tuck the blanket tighter around Castor’s kicking legs. “Picked it up yesterday after work. Thought it might come in handy, seeing as someone has been lugging him around campus like contraband.”

Isadora sputtered, curls bouncing with indignation. “You literally said—verbatim, I might add—‘we are not adopting him, Isadora.’”

“We’re not and my accent doesn't sound like that.” Rachael straightened, brushing her hands together. “But until he’s back with his proper carers, he still needs things. Comfort. Stability. You know—basic human necessities.” She plucked a small rattle out of a paper bag and waved it in demonstration. Castor blinked at the sound, grunted, and promptly shoved his fist into his mouth.

Isadora groaned, sinking into the armchair opposite. “You’re undermining me.”

“Darling, I’m keeping him alive.” Rachael smirked, shaking the rattle again. “And you, for that matter.”

Isadora glared, but it lacked heat. Her body sagged against the cushions, exhaustion finally dragging her into stillness. Without Castor against her chest, she felt both alarmingly light and horribly incomplete. She curled her fingers into her lap, trying not to fidget.

Rachael noticed. Of course she did. She wheeled the stroller closer and sat beside Isadora, voice softer now. “You can breathe, you know. I’ve got him. For an hour, at least. That’s your assignment: rest.”

Isadora sniffed, looking anywhere but at her. “I don’t… rest.”

“You do when I say so.” Rachael nudged her knee. “Go nap. Or have a bath. Or sit there glaring at me while I show Castor his new toy collection. Whatever feels least like admitting you’re human.”

Isadora huffed, pressing her lips together. But when Rachael leaned over the stroller, murmuring nonsense to Castor and making the rattle dance, Isa felt her chest unclench just a fraction. Castor’s tiny hand stretched out, not quite grabbing, but fascinated all the same.

Isadora’s heart did something traitorous.

“You’re ridiculous,” she muttered, flopping sideways in the chair, one arm draped over her eyes. “You don’t even like children.”

Rachael chuckled, not taking her eyes off the baby. “Didn’t like red heads once, either. Look how that turned out.”

Isadora peeked at her through her fingers, torn between outrage and fondness. “That’s hardly comparable. And you didn't like red heads?”

“Mm,” Rachael hummed, slipping the rattle into Castor’s hand. “We’ll see.”

The room settled into a new rhythm: Rachael softly narrating nonsense about toys, Castor gurgling in response, Isadora pretending she wasn’t listening while every line of tension in her body slowly melted away. For the first time in days, she wasn’t on edge, wasn’t the only one carrying the weight.

And as she drifted half-asleep to the sound of Castor’s faint grunts and Rachael’s steady voice, she thought—not for the first time—that maybe chaos shared didn’t feel like chaos at all.
________

It has been hours since she has woken up from her nap, Isadora still hadn’t let go of it. Not for a second.

She sat cross-legged on Rachael’s sofa, arms folded, eyes narrowed like she was sight-reading a sheet of impossible music. “What do you mean, you didn’t like redheads once? What kind of confession is that?”

Rachael, of course, was unbothered. She adjusted the stroller she’d just set up in the corner, Castor happily gnawing on the teething ring she’d bought five minutes after swearing they weren’t “going overboard.” Her calm was infuriating.

“I said what I said,” Rachael replied, tone maddeningly breezy. She crouched down to tickle Castor’s belly through his blanket, smiling when he wriggled.

“That’s not an answer.” Isadora leaned forward, curls bouncing with every indignant nod. “Did you mean you didn’t like me once? Or—what—was it some other redhead you’ve sworn off in your mysterious past? Do tell, Rachael, before I implode.”

Rachael hummed thoughtfully, standing and brushing invisible dust from her jeans. “Funny thing about preferences—they change.”

“Rachael.”

The name came out more like a plea than a threat. Isadora bit her lip, trying not to look as wounded as she felt. Rachael finally met her gaze, and for just a heartbeat, something softened—like she knew she’d pushed Isa far enough.

“I didn’t like redheads once,” she said simply, “until you.”

Isadora’s cheeks heated, satisfaction warring with disbelief. “That’s…that’s criminally vague. But I suppose I’ll allow it.”

“Good,” Rachael teased, settling beside her on the sofa. She nudged Isadora’s shoulder gently before nodding toward the stroller. “Because we’ve got something a bit more important to figure out, don’t we?”

Isadora followed her gaze. Castor had fallen asleep again, one fist clutching the toy as if it were treasure. His tiny breaths were steady, peaceful, completely unaware of the chaos of two women orbiting around him.

The weight of it pressed on her. “I shouldn’t have brought him into Nevermore yesterday,” she admitted quietly. “I just—I panicked. I didn’t want to leave him alone.”

“You did what you had to,” Rachael said firmly. “And Enid adored him, didn’t she?”

Isadora let out a weak laugh. “She thinks I had one of those hidden pregnancies. I didn’t even know how to correct her. She looked so…happy.”

“That’s Enid for you.” Rachael’s smile was fond, but her tone shifted—gentler now, more deliberate. “Isa…he’s not just some stray we’re keeping for a few nights. You know that, don’t you?”

Isadora looked down at her hands, twisting her rings nervously. “I’ve tried not to think about it. If I think about it, then I’ll want it. And if I want it, then—then it’s real.”

“Maybe it should be real.”

The words landed heavier than Rachael intended, but she didn’t take them back. She reached over, covering Isadora’s restless hands with her steady ones. “You’ve been the one up at night with him. You brought him to class because you couldn’t bear to let him out of sight. You’re already acting like his mother.”

Isadora blinked hard, throat tight. “And you bought him toys. A stroller. You—you don’t get to play the practical one if you’re spoiling him already.”

Rachael chuckled softly. “Maybe I’m not as practical as I thought.” Her thumb traced soothing circles over Isadora’s knuckles. “So, let’s stop pretending this is temporary. We both care for him. More than we meant to. Maybe adoption isn’t some terrifying leap, Isa. Maybe it’s just the next step.”

Isadora’s eyes drifted back to Castor, her chest tightening with something terrifyingly close to hope. The thought still scared her—but with Rachael’s hand wrapped firmly around hers, the fear didn’t feel quite so impossible.

Chapter Text

The morning sun caught the edges of the curtains, painting Rachael’s living room in gold. Castor lay sprawled across her chest, tiny fists waving as he tested the limits of gravity, his soft coos and snuffles punctuating the quiet. Rachael sat cross-legged on the sofa, back straight, one hand gently cradling his head, the other rubbing circles across his back. She moved with the precision of someone balancing something precious—because she was.

“Look at you,” she murmured, voice low and warm. “The tiniest king on the softest throne. I hope your majesty is satisfied and comfy.”

Castor let out a happy squeak, eyes bright, and Rachael adjusted him with a tilt that made his little body settle more comfortably. Isadora hovered nearby, curls fraying at the edges, lips pressed together in a silent mix of awe and panic. “He’s… he’s too perfect,” she whispered, almost tearful. “I can’t even.”

Bottle time was another symphony of chaos, albeit gentler. Castor fussed intermittently, sometimes spits of formula landing on Rachael’s sleeve, sometimes on Isadora’s hair. Rachael remained a portrait of calm, adjusting the angle, murmuring, and shushing while Isadora fretted over every hiccup. “He’s fine! It’s fine! Just… breathe, Isa!”

Later, tummy time became a showcase of tiny victories. Rachael lay on the mat, gently encouraging Castor’s flails. “Look at you! My strong baby! I-are you rolling?! Yeah, that’s it!” His delighted squeals filled the room, and Isadora, seated beside the mat, wiped a tear she didn’t notice falling. “I can’t handle this level of cuteness,” she whispered, laughing through sniffles.

Bath time followed, a miniature performance of exaggerated gentle splashes. Rachael hummed nonsense tunes, letting water drip over tiny toes, guiding Castor’s fingers through a game of miniature splashes. Isadora watched, smiling softly, finally letting herself relax into the rhythm.

Even the simplest routines—burping, rocking, humming lullabies—became threads of connection. Each coo, each flail, each sleepy sigh against Rachael’s chest was a little anchor tying them together. Soft chaos, warm and manageable, a new kind of music neither woman had realized they’d been waiting for.

By afternoon, Rachael leaned back on the sofa, Castor nestled against her, and Isadora perched beside them, curls brushing his tiny arm. They were exhausted, yes, but the room hummed with quiet joy—the kind that didn’t need grand gestures, only steady hands, warm hearts, and soft, cooing chaos.

Chapter Text

Isadora’s key rattled in the door, and she swung it open to find Rachael leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Castor wasn’t in her arms. Not yet.

“Rach?” Isa’s voice wavered, the exhaustion from the last few days weighing on her. “Where’s he—?”

Rachael held up a hand, stopping her mid-step. “I called CPS.”

The words hit like a cymbal crash.

“You—what?!” Isadora’s curls bounced as she backed up, disbelief mixing with rising panic. “You didn’t even wait for me to get home? He’s four months old, Rach! Four months! And you just—called?”

Rachael’s calm didn’t waver. She folded her arms, voice steady. “Yes. I called. Look, I know you’ve been surviving on adrenaline and panic and somehow managing him, but the baby needed a legally responsible adult to cover his safety while we locate his parents. You weren’t here, and I couldn’t risk another night like yesterday.”

“I—You didn’t even ask me! How could you make a decision like that without me?” Her hands flew in the air, frustration and fear blending.

Rachael softened slightly, but her tone remained firm. “Because waiting wasn’t an option. You’re a brilliant woman, Isadora, but you’re sleep-deprived, scattered, and emotionally attached. I’m not saying you’re incapable—I’m saying I can’t gamble on anyone’s judgment when it comes to a four-month-old’s welfare. And yes, I decided.”

Isadora’s lips pressed together, the fury in her chest clashing with the creeping guilt at how true Rach sounded. “But… but he’s—he’s mine for the moment! I’m responsible!”

“You are,” Rachael said, stepping closer. “But legally? No. Practically? No one else could have stepped in immediately. I did. I made the call to protect him. That’s all.”

Isadora sank onto the nearest chair, curls falling into her face. “You—You just made me feel useless without even trying.”

Rachael placed a steady hand on Isa’s shoulder. “You’re not useless. You’re just human. And right now, that’s not enough on paper. I’m sorry, Isa. But it had to be done.”

The kitchen hung quiet, the weight of reality pressing down. Isa’s chest tightened as she realized: the baby she’d spent sleepless nights with, the tiny chaos she adored—it was no longer in her arms.

The front doorbell rang sharply, echoing through Rachael’s semi-detached house. Isadora jumped, hair escaping its pins, curls bouncing like springs.

“They’re here,” Rachael said quietly, already moving toward the door.

Isadora froze. “Here? Already? But—he’s—he’s sleeping! He just—he—” Her protests crumpled as the realization hit: there was nothing she could do to stop what was coming.

The CPS worker stepped in, a tall woman in a navy coat, clipboard in hand, exuding calm authority. She gave Rachael a polite nod. “Ms. Fairburn?”

“Yes,” Rachael said, her tone firm but soft. “We’re ready.” She glanced over her shoulder at Isadora, who was gripping the back of the sofa, lips trembling. “Isa…”

The worker knelt carefully beside the stroller. “We need to take the baby to a temporary foster placement until we locate the parents. Everything will be documented and safe. I promise, we’ll handle him carefully.”

Isa’s knees went weak. She staggered forward instinctively. “No. You can’t! He—he just fell asleep! He’s—he’s fine!”

Rachael’s hand found hers, gripping gently. “Isa, please. I’ve already explained. There’s no other way right now.”

The CPS worker’s calm demeanor didn’t help. Castor stirred, little fists waving, soft coos escalating into sharp, wailing protests as the reality of the strangers reaching for him set in. His cry pierced the room, small but utterly uncompromising, like he was announcing the injustice to the world.

Isadora froze, helpless, watching her tiny charge squirm. “He’s… he’s panicking!”

“He knows,” Rachael murmured, her voice a tether. “He knows this isn’t normal, but he’s safe. We just have to let them do their job.”

Castor’s wails rose, little grunts and hiccups breaking through like tiny storms. He threw his bottle, small stream of milk splattered over the CPS worker’s sleeve. She barely flinched, gently wiping him and continuing to lift him into her arms.

Isadora’s chest tightened painfully. “He doesn’t understand! He’s only four months old! He doesn’t get why—”

“Shh,” Rachael whispered, soft but commanding, pressing a hand to Isa’s arm. “I know. I know. I’m right here.”

The CPS worker carried Castor carefully toward the door, the stroller abandoned behind him. Every step they took seemed to echo in Isadora’s mind. She stumbled after them, voice breaking. “Please… please take care of him!”

Rachael caught her, holding her back. “They will. And we’ll track him. He’s not gone forever.”

Castor’s cries followed them out the front door, bouncing off the walls and into Isadora’s chest, where they lodged like tiny knives. She sank onto the sofa, hands pressed against her mouth to stifle a sob.

Rachael sat beside her, silent at first, letting the anguish settle. Then she murmured, almost to herself, “It’s okay to feel like this. You’ve been everything for him, Isa. Every moment. He knows that.”

Isadora shook her head, curls falling into her eyes. “But he… he’s gone. I can’t… I can’t just—he’s mine, Rach! He’s mine!”

Rachael pulled her close, careful not to smother her, voice low and steady. “I know. I know, love. And I promise—we’ll do everything to make sure he’s safe. I’ll call as soon as I know anything. I swear.”

Minutes stretched into silence, broken only by the memory of his cries echoing in the hallway. Isadora buried her face in her hands, the tiny phantom weight of Castor in her arms making her chest ache. She had never felt this powerless before—not in performance halls, not in classrooms, not in life.

For the first time, she understood how fragile love could feel when you couldn’t protect it with your own hands.

Chapter Text

Rachael sat at the cramped CPS office desk, her hands folded neatly over the file she’d been asked to review. Castor wasn’t with her—he was already in temporary foster placement, a fact that gnawed at her like a constant pulse. The sterile room smelled faintly of coffee and disinfectant, the buzz of a fluorescent light filling the silences between words.

The caseworker adjusted her glasses, voice clipped but not unkind. “Dr. Fairburn, I understand your concerns. But as of now, Castor is in foster care. That will not change until we locate his biological parents or secure a permanent placement.”

Rachael exhaled slowly through her nose, keeping her tone even. “I’m not disputing procedure. What I am requesting is recognition of my position as a medical professional. I am a licensed psychiatrist specializing in outcasts. I’ve spent years managing children in crisis, and I am fully capable of maintaining his developmental stability during this interim.”

The caseworker scribbled a note, unimpressed. “We can’t hand a child over simply because someone has professional experience.”

Rachael leaned forward slightly, clasping her hands. “Then don’t hand him over. Grant visitation. Exclusive visitation, with the authority for me to provide care and assessment while he remains in your system. That way, he isn’t shuffled from unfamiliar face to unfamiliar face. He’ll know stability, even while his future is uncertain.”

The worker hesitated, pen stilled. “You’re suggesting we allow you direct care under the framework of visitation—without granting legal custody?”

“Exactly,” Rachael said, her voice clipped but calm. “You maintain legal control. I provide stability and professional oversight. Four months is a critical age—disruption now risks developmental harm.” Her gaze softened slightly, betraying what she hadn’t admitted aloud. “He’s already formed bonds. Tearing them away completely is not only unnecessary—it’s cruel.”

There was silence, the worker weighing, scribbling, tapping her pen against the edge of the desk. Finally, she sighed. “We can allow visitation rights. On the condition that you provide daily updates, documented thoroughly. No one else may access him without approval. You’ll be observed, and any concerns reported immediately.”

Rachael nodded once, sharply. “Understood.”

The caseworker slid the papers across the desk, forms stark against the cheap laminate surface. “It’s not custody, Dr. Fairburn. But it will let you maintain contact.”

Rachael accepted the papers, her fingers steady even as her chest tightened. Not custody. Not security. But it was something—enough to keep Castor from being swallowed by anonymity. Enough to keep her tethered to him.

She signed where indicated, neat block letters, then rose, smoothing her jacket. “Thank you,” she said, voice low but edged with finality.

As she left the office, the late afternoon sun cutting sharp lines across the pavement, she allowed herself a single breath of relief. Castor wasn’t hers—not yet, not in any way the law would recognize—but he was still within reach. And that, for now, was everything.
________________

The third night without Castor was the worse.

Isadora sat curled on the edge of Rachael’s sofa, a blanket wrapped tightly around her shoulders though she wasn’t cold. She hadn’t played piano, hadn’t picked up her pen, hadn’t even touched her tea that had long since gone tepid on the coffee table. Everything was muted, hollow. Castor’s absence echoed in every corner of the house—like she could still hear his tiny grunts in the night, only to wake and find silence.

Rachael tried, as she always did. She moved quietly around the kitchen, brought Isa food, spoke softly, patiently. But patience only stretched so far before it became unbearable.

“Eat something,” Rachael said gently, setting down a plate of toast and scrambled eggs.

“I’m not hungry.” Isadora’s voice was flat, clipped.

“You’ve said that for three days.”

“I’m not hungry, Rachael.”

The air tightened between them. Rachael leaned back against the counter, exhaling, her arms folded across her chest. She didn’t push, but that—infuriatingly—made Isa feel worse. Like she was being handled. Like she was breakable.

And maybe she was.

“I can’t do this,” Isadora muttered, eyes fixed on the blanket.

Rachael’s brow furrowed. “Do what?”

“This.” Isa threw her hands up, curls wild, voice breaking in ways she hated. “Pretend like everything is fine. Pretend like—like he’s not gone, like I should just carry on as if my child wasn’t ripped out of my arms!”

Rachael’s face softened. “He isn’t gone, Isa. You know I—”

“No. Don’t.” Isa shot up, pacing the length of the room, frantic like a wolf trapped in a cage. Her rings clinked against each other as she twisted them violently. “You’re so calm. So reasonable. And I—I can’t—” She choked on the words, throat tight. “Maybe this isn’t going to work. Maybe I can’t be with someone who doesn’t feel it like I do.”

The silence after was deafening.

Rachael didn’t flinch. Not outwardly. She stood steady, eyes locked on Isadora, her breath caught but her expression maddeningly composed. “You want to break up with me.” It wasn’t a question.

“I—” Isa’s lip trembled. “Yes. No. I don’t know.” Her fists clenched against her chest, voice rising to a ragged cry. “I just know I can’t keep suffocating like this while you stand there like you’ve already made peace with losing him!”

That landed. Rachael’s jaw tightened, something fierce flickering under her calm. “Isadora. Don’t mistake silence for indifference.”

Isa blinked at her, startled.

Rachael stepped forward, slow but sure. “You think I don’t feel it? You think I sleep at night knowing he’s somewhere strange, without us? That I don’t see your face every time I close my eyes, clutching him like your life depended on it? Don’t you dare tell me I don’t feel it.”

Isadora’s breath caught, a tear slipping free despite her attempt to hold it back.

Rachael’s voice lowered, steady, unshakable. “The difference between us is that I don’t collapse when I hurt. I fight. And you don’t even know what I’ve already done for him—what I’m still doing.”

“What do you mean?” Isa’s voice was small, raw.

Rachael hesitated, the truth burning on her tongue. But she swallowed it. Not yet. Not until it was secure. “It means I’m not giving up. Not on him. Not on us.”

Isadora covered her mouth, shoulders shaking. Her fury deflated into exhaustion, into grief. “I can’t lose you too,” she whispered.

“You won’t.”

Rachael crossed the final step, pulling Isa into her chest, wrapping her tight as if to anchor her. For once, Isa didn’t resist. She broke, openly and without shame, sobbing into Rachael’s shirt, while Rachael stood firm—quiet, steady, and carrying the weight for both of them.

Isadora stayed curled against Rachael, sobs slowly subsiding, trembling in the safety of the hug. Rachael’s hands rubbed soothing circles over her back, slow and deliberate, letting Isa anchor herself in the quiet warmth.

After a long beat, Rachael pulled back just enough to look Isadora in the eyes, her expression soft but unreadable. “I may or may not have secured visitation rights,” she said, deliberately casual, though her eyes twinkled with barely-contained relief.

Isadora’s head snapped up. “What—what do you mean?”

“I mean,” Rachael continued, tilting her head, “I can update you about him. Maybe a few pictures, or short video calls. Keep you in the loop without—you know—being completely destroyed by distance.”

Isadora blinked, caught somewhere between disbelief, relief, and lingering fury. “You—did that… without telling me?”

Rachael shrugged, impossibly calm. “I didn’t want to spring it on you mid-meltdown. You needed to cry into my chest first. Consider this a post-therapy bonus.”

Isadoea buried her face back into Rachael’s shoulder, muttering muffled, incredulous sounds. “You—how did you even—?”

Rachael pressed a gentle kiss to the top of her curls. “I know what he means to you. And I know what you need, even when you refuse to admit it. So yeah. A few rules bent, a few calls scheduled. You’ll see him soon enough. Just… not in person yet.”

Isadora exhaled shakily, a mix of gratitude and guilt twisting in her chest. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” Rachael murmured, nuzzling her forehead against Isa’s, “I’m the only one who’s keeping you from completely falling apart.”

The hug lingered, heavier and warmer this time, both of them silently acknowledging that even though the chaos wasn’t gone, it was shared—and that made it, somehow, manageable.

Chapter Text

The CPS office smelled faintly of disinfectant and paper, a combination that screamed “bureaucracy” and “mild panic.” Rachael carried herself like a professional on autopilot, clipboard tucked under one arm, but her eyes were soft, bright, and trained on the small bundle in the carrier across her chest.

Castor immediately registered her presence. Tiny fists waved, little grunts and coos spilling out like punctuation, eyes wide, focused. Mama Rachael was here. He squirmed and wriggled, a delighted squeak erupting when her hand brushed his chest.

“Hello, little one,” she murmured, voice soft, coaxing. Castor’s tiny arms flailed as if to say finally, the world makes sense again.

The caseworker cleared her throat. “Dr. Fairburn, we’ll need to—”

Rachael held up a finger, tilting the carrier just enough so Castor could see her face. He cooed, head bobbing in rhythm with her gentle sway. The bureaucratic voice faltered as the baby’s obvious excitement collided with Rachael’s calm. It was… disarming.

“Yes, yes, I know,” Rachael said smoothly, as though in conversation with an old friend. She produced a bottle from her bag. “Time for a routine checkup, little one.”

The caseworker raised an eyebrow. “A… checkup?”

Rachael ignored the doubt, slipping the nipple into Castor’s mouth. He latched immediately, sighing contentedly against her chest. She hummed a soft, nonsense tune, one hand cradling his head, the other supporting his tiny back.

“How d- he doesn't cry with you?” the caseworker asked, a mix of awe and suspicion in her tone.

“Of course,” Rachael said breezily, keeping her eyes on Castor. “Doctor-patient rapport. Extremely important at four months.”

The rest of the “examination” consisted of Rachael gently swaddling him, burping him, and tickling his tiny toes, all under the guise of developmental checks. Castor cooed, kicked, and waved his little arms, entirely absorbed in his mama.

By the time the checkup ended, the caseworker had given up pretending to be unconcerned, scribbling notes with a faint smile. Rachael left the office, stroller folded beside her, carrying Castor in her arms, both of them glowing in the mutual, quiet joy of being together.

______________________

Halfway home, Rachael’s phone buzzed. Isadora’s name lit the screen, saved in her contacts as Isadorable (Is adorable, get it? Like Isadora + Adorable) She smirked at the intentional ambiguity.

“Rach! Tell me everything. Is he… is he okay? Did he cry? Did anyone annoy him?” Isadora’s voice was a mixture of panic and awe, like a storm barely held at bay.

Rachael laughed softly into the phone. “Isa… he’s been absolutely perfect. Thrilled to see me, cooing like the tiny monarch he is, completely ignoring everyone else. And yes, of course, he calmed immediately. You’d be proud.”

“Of course he calmed for you!” Isadora muttered, half-laughing, half-sighing. “I can’t believe it. You’re ridiculous. I mean—ugh, you’re both ridiculous and cute. I hate it.”

Rachael smirked. “Glad to see your emotional range hasn’t changed. Anyway, you’ll get updates. Pictures, maybe a short video. You can coo at him virtually, if that helps.”

Isadora huffed. “Virtual cooing. Fabulous. I feel very included.”

“Included and alive,” Rachael corrected softly. “And tomorrow, I can try talk with the CPS to let you get visitation rights. Just… call ahead.”

Isa’s muffled sigh was somewhere between relief and longing. “Fine. But I swear, Rach… you better not spoil him more than I already have.”

“Impossible,” Rachael said, laughing. “We’re professionals. Now, try to breathe. You’ve survived the hardest part: not holding him yourself, while he’s clearly thriving with me.”

______________

Rachael had barely stepped through the front door before Isadora was there, circling her like a wolf who’d just scented prey—or more accurately, like an overexcited dog whose favourite human had come home after years away.

“You saw him!” Isa blurted as if they didn't just talk through the phone, eyes wide, curls springing out of their pins. “Tell me everything. Everything. Did he smile? Did he cry? Did he—oh stars—did he look for me? Rach, did he ask about me? No, of course not, he’s four months, he can’t talk—what am I saying—”

Rachael shut the door with her hip, juggling her satchel and a paper bag. Even though she had already told Isadora about the visit, she seemed to have forgotten.. Typical. “Isa—”

“Don’t Isa me!” Isadora nearly tripped over her own boots in her frantic orbit. She reached for the bag, then thought better of it, then clutched her own hands to stop herself from grabbing Rachael by the collar. “You promised pictures, videos—where are they? Rach, if you don’t hand them over this instant I will—”

“Sit,” Rachael said firmly, dropping her satchel onto the hallway table. “Or you’ll combust.”

Isadora froze mid-fidget, then flopped onto the sofa in one graceless motion, bouncing like she had springs in her knees. Her eyes never left Rachael, gleaming with wild hope.

Rachael couldn’t help smiling. Isa in this state—desperate, dramatic, soft beneath all her sharp edges—was a sight she secretly adored. She crossed the room slowly, deliberately, just to watch Isa nearly vibrate out of her seat.

“Well?” Isa demanded, leaning forward until she was practically hanging off the edge of the sofa. “Report! Full debrief! Spare not a single detail!”

Rachael perched beside her, producing her phone. “He’s healthy. Fed, changed, babbled at me like I was the second coming of Mozart. Calm, happy. No drama.”

Isa gasped like she’d been given oxygen after drowning. “Oh, thank heavens. I was convinced—no, I knew—they’d never be able to soothe him! That he’d be wailing and thrashing, that he’d hate the sterile little cots and soulless lighting—”

“Isa.” Rachael touched her arm gently. “He was fine. More than fine. He lit up when I walked in. Practically wriggled out of his blanket.”

Isa’s lip wobbled, equal parts jealousy and relief. “He lit up for you.”

“Of course he did.” Rachael softened, scrolling through her phone. “Here.”

She handed it over. Onscreen was a video: Castor squirming happily in Rachael’s arms, cooing between sips from his bottle. Isa’s hand flew to her mouth, eyes glassy within seconds.

“He’s perfect,” she whispered, voice breaking. “Absolutely perfect. Look at his little hands! And his hair—Rach, his hair’s grown—oh, and that noise! Did you hear that noise? That’s his I’m content but secretly plotting noise, I know it!”

Rachael chuckled, watching Isa swipe through photo after photo with reverence. Every new picture brought a gasp, a dramatic commentary, a tear hastily brushed away. She was like a child unwrapping gifts, except each gift was the same baby from slightly different angles.

By the third replay of the video, Isa had curled into Rachael’s side, still scrolling. “You’re sure he’s okay? Really, truly okay?”

Rachael kissed the top of her curls. “Really, truly. And he’ll be even better once this mess is sorted.”

Isa sniffed, clutching the phone like it was life itself. “I hate you. You’re cruel. You get to hold him, and I—” she cut herself off, swallowing thickly. “But thank you.”

“Anytime,” Rachael murmured. And she meant it.

Chapter Text

Isadora Capri returned to Nevermore with the kind of energy that made students whisper behind her back as she walked the corridors. Three days off had apparently worked wonders for their usually anxious, soft-spoken music professor. She wasn’t dragging her satchel like a storm cloud today; she was practically gliding, curls bouncing, steps a little too light for someone who claimed she’d been “under the weather.”

Her classroom, usually a sanctuary of mellow music notes and quiet reverberations, now radiated warmth. Isadora had already taped a sketch of a clumsy cartoon wolf to the side of the piano, humming some melody under her breath that nobody recognized. She wore a leopard-print scarf—an old favorite that had been gathering dust for months—and kept catching herself smiling at nothing.

Students noticed. They always noticed.

“Professor Capri?” a timid first-year asked, clutching her sheet music. “Are you… okay?”

Isadora blinked, realizing she’d been rocking slightly on her feet, as though some invisible lullaby had caught her body in its rhythm. She quickly rearranged her expression into the composed smile she’d perfected over years of masking nerves.

“Of course, dear,” she said softly. “Better than okay. Let’s see your progress.”

But as she leaned over the piano, adjusting the girl’s hand placement, her eyes shone in a way that betrayed more than ordinary happiness. She wasn’t merely in a good mood—she was radiating it, spilling joy like she couldn’t contain it.

The truth was simple: Castor lingered in everything she touched. Even now, in the middle of class, she found herself remembering the way his tiny fingers curled around hers, the soft cooing noises when Rachael held him, the impossible weight of wanting to keep him safe.

Her voice, when she demonstrated a passage of Brahms, carried a new tenderness. Her instructions were clear but almost affectionate, as if she were coaxing her students instead of correcting them. When a boy groaned after missing a note, she chuckled instead of frowning.

“You’ll get it,” she assured, sounding dangerously close to maternal. “Try again.”

By lunchtime, the whispers were undeniable.

“She’s smiling. Like—constantly.”

“Yeah, and did you see her humming in the hall?”

“Something’s wrong. Or… very right.”

Even the faculty noticed. Principal Barry Dort raised a brow when she passed by the music room, murmuring to another teacher, “Capri’s practically glowing. Did she get a boyfriend or something?”

The irony of it made Isadora’s chest flutter. If only they knew: her ‘boyfriendʼ already existed, but her heart had been hijacked by someone far smaller. She barely touched her sandwich at lunch, too busy scribbling half-legible notes in her planner, doodling little stars in the corners like a lovesick teenager.

Enid Sinclair, ever perceptive to shifts in adult behavior, watched her professor closely. Miss Capri had always been warm, but never like this. Not this bubbly, not this scattered. She’d forgotten to collect one student’s homework, laughed at her own mistakes during scales, and even muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like “Mama time” before catching herself.

By the end of the day, Isadora sat at her desk, staring at the window as the autumn sun painted the Quad in shades of orange. She should have been exhausted—three straight hours of rehearsal usually drained her. Instead, she was humming again, some lullaby she didn’t remember consciously learning.

Her phone buzzed. Just a text from Rachael: Visited him today. He’s doing fine.

Isadora’s breath caught. She smiled so brightly her cheeks hurt. For the rest of the evening rehearsal, her students played like they were basking in sunlight, because their teacher’s joy was impossible to ignore.

And yet, to the few who knew her best, that joy seemed almost… too much.

_____________

Enid Sinclair had been around Professor Capri long enough to know her moods. The nervous fidgeting before a lesson, the soft half-smiles when someone nailed a passage, the way she would wring her hands when too many eyes were on her. She was a good teacher—kind, patient, always humming under her breath—but she was never… bouncy.

And that was the problem.

For the last week, Professor Capri had been radiating a kind of sunshine that made no sense. Sunshine was Enid's default, sure, but not Isadora Capri’s. Now she floated through the halls like she had her own soundtrack, curls bobbing, eyes sparkling, humming melodies that didn’t even sound classical half the time. It was—well, unsettling.

So naturally, Enid went to the only people who would understand.

She plopped onto the stone bench outside the library where Wednesday and Bianca were already seated, one flipping through some old niche book and the other scrolling her phone. Enid didn’t even bother with hello.

“Okay, something’s up with Professor Capri.”

Wednesday didn’t look up. “You’re wasting my time with gossip.”

“It’s not gossip, it’s fact!” Enid threw up her hands. “She’s acting like—like me, but on espresso shots. She’s smiling, she’s humming, she said something about ‘Mama time’ in class today when she mentioned lunch. Who even does that?”

Bianca raised a brow, finally interested. “Wait. Mama time?”

“Yes!” Enid leaned forward, practically vibrating with urgency. “She’s so… happy. Too happy. Like, suspiciously happy. And this is Capri we’re talking about—the woman who once had a five-minute panic attack over a squeaky chair.”

Wednesday finally turned a page, slow and deliberate. “Excessive joy in an adult usually indicates either denial, mania, or a secret.”

“Exactly!” Enid said, pointing dramatically. “She’s hiding something. And I, for one, think it’s… adorable, but also terrifying, because what if she’s secretly possessed or something?”

Bianca smirked, shaking her head. “Capri’s not possessed. She’s not exactly hard to read—her emotions are basically printed across her face in 12-point Times New Roman. If she’s happy, it’s probably because she’s in love.”

Enid’s jaw dropped. “No way. She already has Dr. Fairburn. They’re like—domestic chaos wives. I’ve seen them! I mean, they literally share Tupperware.”

“Then it’s not Fairburn,” Bianca countered smoothly. “It’s something else. Something bigger.”

Wednesday closed her book with a quiet snap, which always meant she was about to make an uncomfortably sharp point. “If Capri is distracted to the extent you describe, Enid, then it’s more than a romantic high. Distraction that compromises professional performance—forgetting homework, humming lullabies, smiling at thin air—is usually tied to responsibility. Something… fragile. Your replacement.”

Enid blinked, brain whirring. “Responsibility? Like—like a kid? And what do you mean replacement?”

“Don’t sound so shocked.” Wednesday’s tone was flat, but her eyes gleamed. “Capri has always exuded latent maternal tendencies. The signs were there.”

“But a kid?!” Enid squeaked, voice pitching up. “She didn’t even look pregnant! I mean—ohmygosh. Wait. That’s it. Hidden pregnancy! Slim, subtle, she carried it so well no one noticed, and now she’s just… so happy to have her baby.”

Bianca burst out laughing. “Oh, Sinclair. That’s the wildest leap I’ve ever heard.”

“It’s not wild!” Enid protested, cheeks flushed. “She’s literally glowing. Like, actually glowing. And don’t you dare tell me she’s not—I can feel it. Capri has a baby. I’m calling it. Wait. Is it that baby she told me to babysit?”

Wednesday leaned back, her voice dry as dust. “If she does, Sinclair, then it’s only a matter of time before you corner her and demand the truth. And I look forward to the inevitable embarrassment when you’re proven wrong.”

Enid crossed her arms but grinned anyway. “Fine. Then I will confront her. Because something’s going on, and I’m not letting Professor Capri pretend nothing’s different.”

Bianca smirked, amused. “Fun.. Anyway when did Capri told you to babysit a baby— was that not the first red flag?! And she's dating someone?!”

Enid gulped, stealing a glimpse at Wednesday as if the answers were written on her face before she sighs, “We have a lot to catch up on”

______________

Enid didn’t wait. She’d spent the whole walk back from the Quad rehearsing how she was going to approach it, how she’d ease into the conversation without scaring Professor Capri off. But subtlety had never really been her strong suit, and the moment she stepped into the music room, all her plans flew out the window.

“Professor Capri,” Enid blurted, dropping her bag with a thud, “are you hiding a baby from us?”

The words echoed across the empty classroom like a cymbal crash. Isadora froze mid-gesture, chalk still hovering above the blackboard where she’d been scribbling scales for her afternoon class. Her curls trembled as she slowly turned to face Enid, eyes wide, mouth caught somewhere between shock and a laugh she couldn’t release.

“Excuse me?” Isadora asked, her voice a pitch higher than usual.

Enid folded her arms, cheeks flushed but resolve iron-strong. “Don’t play innocent. You’ve been glowing. Smiling like, all the time. Forgetting things. You hummed in class—hummed! And don’t even think I didn’t hear you mutter something about ‘mama time’ yesterday. Plus, you—” she broke off, lowering her voice, “—you literally had me babysit him that one afternoon.”

Isadora nearly dropped the chalk. “That was—Enid, that was—” She faltered, wringing her hands the way she did when words tangled. “He’s not mine.”

Enid raised a brow, unconvinced. “Then whose is he? And why are you walking around like you just swallowed the sun? Something’s up, Professor Capri. And you’re not exactly a good liar.”

For a moment, the room filled with Isadora’s fidgeting—the clink of rings against one another, the shuffle of her shoes on the wooden floor. Finally, she sank onto the piano bench, her posture curling in as though she were trying to hide inside herself.

“He’s… not my child,” she repeated softly, but there was no denying the emotion lacing her tone. “He’s a baby who—who needed somewhere safe. And I couldn’t walk away.”

Enid’s breath caught. She stepped closer, her expression softening. “So you are looking after him.”

Isadora nodded once, a jerky movement, eyes fixed on her lap. “Not the way you think. It’s complicated. Rachael and I—we’re… working with the right people. But it’s temporary.” The word cracked, like it hurt her to say it.

Enid’s chest squeezed. She thought about the way Castor had grunted happily in her arms that afternoon, how Professor Capri had hovered like a storm cloud waiting to break. Temporary didn’t feel right for either of them.

“But you love him,” Enid said gently. “Anyone with eyes can see it.”

Isadora pressed a trembling hand to her mouth, as if that could stop the confession from spilling out. But Enid’s words had already cracked something open.

“Yes,” she whispered, almost inaudible. “Yes, I love him. More than I should. More than I’m allowed.” Her shoulders shook once. “And if I let myself hope—if I believe he could stay—then I’ll shatter when he doesn’t.”

Enid sat on the bench beside her without asking, her usual bright energy softened into something fierce but tender. “You’re not alone in this, you know. You’ve got Dr.Fairburn. And you’ve got me. And if it helps… I think you’d make the best mom. Honestly.”

Isadora let out a watery laugh, brushing at her eyes. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”

“Why not? It’s true.” Enid bumped her shoulder gently against hers. “You can keep pretending it’s temporary, but I see you. We all do. And I think Castor does too.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy. It was warm, threaded through with something like fragile hope. And for once, Isadora didn’t try to fill it with nervous chatter. She just breathed, her heart aching, and let herself believe—just for a heartbeat—that Enid might be right.

Isadora broke the silence as she stepped closer, leaning slightly to Enid's ear as she whispered, “Like when you called me mom on the phone?”

Enid's composure falters and she starts rambling like crazy, face red “I- No! T-that's from a prank! I don't think of you as my mom! Not. At. All! Never!”

Her hands are flying around, gesturing as she overshares, “I mean of course my mom is very strict and pushy and is the worst but that doesn't mean I see you as a mother figure!”

Isadora’s teasing smile soften into something almost motherly. “It's okay, Enid. I'm sorry your mother's that way but I will gladly take you in if you ever want to run away...—Not that I suggest that, I mean, who would be so stupid to try..”

Enid looks at Isadora like she had just opened something inside her.

“Enid, dear, why are you looking at me like that- don't. Don't tell me. No.”

Enid went to hug Isadora, so tightly she might throw up all her lunch. “I'll live with you, professor!”

“Oh God..” Isadora muttered under her breath. Not that she doesn't like the idea just that it wasn't exactly rational and she had just talked it out to Enid. God, Rachael is going to kill her! But she can't help but soften at Enid's victory smile.

Enid's mom, Esther, had always been the overachiever type that never truly care for other's feelings when it comes to reaching her goal. To think she let her own daughter suffer from her obsession is inhumane. If anything, Isadora is glad she can help Enid break away from Esther.

Chapter Text

Enid Sinclair could barely sit still. She perched on the edge of her dorm bed, knees bouncing like a drumroll, sweater sleeves halfway chewed through. Every creak of the radiator, every distant footstep in the hall made her pulse spike. Even the soft whir of the old ceiling fan sounded accusatory. Wednesday was at her desk, the rhythmic clack-clack-clack of her typewriter echoing sharply through the room, each key struck with surgical precision. She ignored Enid’s restlessness, as if it were just background noise, a static hum that didn’t belong in her world of mechanical order. Even the flicker of the old desk lamp casting long, leaning shadows didn’t seem to distract her.

Finally, Enid couldn’t hold it in any longer. She clutched a pillow to her chest like it might absorb the weight of her secret. “I told her,” she whispered, voice quivering. “I… I told her everything.”

Wednesday didn’t look up, her fingers flying over the keys, the carriage humming with controlled rhythm. “Told whom what?”

Enid hesitated, biting her lip, feeling as though she’d stepped naked into a courtroom. “Professor Capri. I told her I can’t… I can’t stay at home anymore. Not with my mom acting like I’m broken. So—I’m running away. To her. I’m gonna live with Capri.”

For a heartbeat, the room seemed to hold its breath. The typewriter clacks slowed slightly, the mechanical hum of the platen filling the pause like a judge’s gavel waiting to fall.

Wednesday’s dark eyes lifted, pinning Enid like a specimen under glass. “You’ve already informed her of this plan?”

“Yes!” Enid almost shouted, then immediately cringed at the volume. “Yes! I—I told her. And she didn’t freak out! She didn’t yell or call me stupid—she just… she listened. Like she actually cared.”

Silence stretched, stretching thin as nerves. Enid chewed at her knuckles, mind spinning with doubt. What if she’d misjudged? What if Capri laughed at her, or worse, called her ridiculous? But then—unexpectedly—Wednesday’s lips curved into the faintest, almost imperceptible twitch of approval.

“You’ve defied parental authority,” Wednesday said at last, her voice even, unflinching. “An irrational decision, undoubtedly—impulsive, emotional. But at least it’s a rebellion executed with conviction. That’s rare.”

Enid blinked. “Wait—you’re not mad? You’re… proud?”

Wednesday turned back to her typewriter, eyes flicking back to the page like she was already bored. “Pride implies an investment in your outcome. I have none. But I respect that you’ve chosen defiance over servitude. Even if the choice is impractical, it is… yours. My mother has spent her entire life attempting to mold me into her shadow. I would admire anyone with the audacity to sever such chains.”

Enid’s chest swelled with a strange relief mixing with lingering fear. “So… you think it’s okay? That I want to live with Capri?”

“Okay is irrelevant,” Wednesday said, leaning back in her chair, eyes sharp. “It is inevitable. You’ve found a mentor who treats you as an equal, not a defective project. That bond will always eclipse biology.”

Enid hugged the pillow tighter, fingers digging into the fabric like it contained some small kernel of courage. “Capri’s different. She doesn’t make me feel like I have to be the perfect student all the time. She… she just lets me be.”

Wednesday finally set down her quill, the typewriter’s carriage clattering softly as it came to rest, leaving a faint metallic echo in the room. “Then you’ve already made your choice. The rest is performance.”

Enid laughed weakly, a mix of nerves and relief. “Performance… yeah. Like pretending to be the obedient daughter when I’m really—”

“A wolf who refuses to be domesticated,” Wednesday finished for her, her voice crisp but not unkind.

For once, Enid didn’t correct her with a quip or a sunshiney smile. She just nodded, eyes glassy but fierce, the quiet thrill of rebellion bubbling inside her. Her chest felt lighter, her mind buzzing with possibility. Finally, she could imagine waking up without fear, living somewhere that didn’t demand perfection, learning that sometimes courage was as simple as saying no and following a heart.

Wednesday’s eyes returned to her typewriter, but she didn’t resume typing immediately. She watched Enid like she might shatter—or like she might soar—and allowed the silence to stretch, letting it sink in that this, whatever it was, was irreversible.

Enid exhaled, a long, trembling breath, feeling the gravity of her choice, and yet—somehow—she had never felt more free.

________________

Isadora sat curled on her office chair, claws absently tapping against the wood as she scrolled through her phone. Her thumb hovered over a dozen names, but her eyes landed—like they always did—on the one contact saved as “ShrinkRay”. She grimaced, cheeks warming, before whispering under her breath, “Pathetic. Truly pathetic.” And then, of course, she clicked it. (This is just a filler)

_________________

Rachael’s office was too quiet. Usually she liked the lull between appointments — a chance to sip her tea, review notes, maybe lean back and close her eyes for a moment. But today the stillness pressed against her temples like a headache. The blinds were half-drawn, afternoon light striping her desk. A stack of intake forms lay untouched by her elbow.

Her phone buzzed.

Isadorable: Fairbear.., don’t freak out.

Rachael’s stomach dipped instantly. Nothing good ever came after those three words. She set down her pen and stared at the screen, thumb hovering over the keyboard.

ShrinkRay: What did you do now?

The reply came fast — too fast. Isa had clearly been typing and deleting for a while.

Isadorable: Enid might… um… be living with me. She told me she wants to leave home. I didn’t say no. I didn’t exactly say yes either. Just… she looked at me like she needed me.

Rachael exhaled slowly, setting her phone on the blotter as if that would keep her pulse from spiking. It didn’t. She pushed her chair back and stood, pacing once across the small carpet, tea forgotten.

ShrinkRay: You took in a student? Without telling me?

Isadorable: Not “took in,” exactly! She’s just… serious about it. And I didn’t want to crush her. You should’ve seen her, Rach. She called me mom by accident. She’s… she’s hurting.

Rachael’s chest softened at that, but only slightly. She leaned against the window frame, arms folded. She could picture Isa perfectly — big eyes full of guilt, curls bouncing as she tried to justify herself.

ShrinkRay: I understand she’s hurting. I do. But Isa, you can’t just agree to something like this. It’s reckless. She’s your student. You’re not her guardian. You can’t play house with every stray who tugs at your heart.

The typing dots flickered, disappeared, flickered again.

Isadorable: You make it sound so cold. I wasn’t “playing house.” She asked for help, Rach. She asked ME. And I can’t—God, I can’t just turn away. I know it’s irrational but—

Rachael blew out a breath, forcing herself to count to five. Anger wasn’t the right word; it was exasperation laced with affection. She typed slowly.

ShrinkRay: It’s not that I don’t get it. It’s that you didn’t tell me first. You go barrelling in with your heart, Isa, and then expect me to cobble the logic after. I love that about you — but really, it does my head in.

Isadorable: You love me?

Rachael closed her eyes and let her head bump lightly against the blinds. “Unbelievable.”

ShrinkRay: Yes. Unfortunately for me. Which is why I’m not storming into your quarters right now.

Isadorable: So you’re not mad?

Rachael: Oh, I’m furious. Don’t mistake restraint for approval. But I’ll save the yelling for when I can see your face. You’re hiding, aren’t you?

Isadora: …Maybe.

Rachael huffed a laugh despite herself. She could almost hear Isa’s guilty little lilt in that text. She typed one final message.

ShrinkRay: I'm going to need a few hours before I can trust myself not to strangle you with that leopard scarf you’ve resurrected.

A tiny heart popped up on the last bubble. Rachael set the phone down on the file she was supposed to be reading and muttered, “She’s going to be the death of me.”

Isadora shut the door to her quarters with a soft click, leaning her back against it like she needed the wood to hold her upright. The walls felt quieter than usual, too quiet, as though they knew she’d made a mess of things again. Normally, she would’ve gone straight to Rachael’s house after class, ready to spill her thoughts and soak in her steady warmth. But not today.

Her phone lay face down on the desk, the last message from Rachael glowing in her mind even without the screen. Isa picked it up, thumb hovering, then tossed it back down like it burned. Yes. Unfortunately for me. She could still hear Rachael’s voice in it, clipped, restrained, furious in that cool, professional way that stung worse than actual yelling.

Isadora let out a groan, burying her face into her hands. “You absolute muppet,” she muttered to herself. “What possessed you to say that to Enid? Of course she’d latch onto it. Of course she would.”

She paced the length of the room, skirts swishing. She wanted desperately to run to Rachael’s door, knock, and babble an apology until her lips gave out. But the thought of seeing that sharp disappointment in Rach’s eyes—no, she couldn’t. Not tonight. Not when she was already cracking open under her own guilt.

Her gaze flicked to the cello in the corner, but even that felt too loud, too vulnerable. Instead, she curled into the armchair, tugging a blanket up around her shoulders like armour. She scrolled back through her texts with Rachael, rereading their silly exchanges — “ShrinkRay” lighting up her screen, Isa’s stupid heart nicknames like Fairbear littered between work reminders. The sweetness made her chest ache.

“She’s going to kill me,” Isa whispered into the quiet, though her lips curved faintly. Because the truth was, she’d survive the lecture, the scolding, the exasperation. What terrified her was the silence.

And tonight, silence was all she had.
____________

Morning arrived like an intruder. Isa hadn’t truly slept; she’d drifted in and out of shallow dozes, her head heavy against the armchair cushion, blanket pulled over her like armour against a war that wasn’t even being fought in her quarters. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Rachael’s words flash across the inside of her skull, crisp and merciless: You make these decisions with your heart, Isa, and then expect me to patch together the logic.

She woke for real when the weak winter light pushed its way past the curtains. Her phone was still clutched in her hand, the battery low from a night of compulsive checking. With a shaky breath, Isa unlocked it.

No notifications.

Her pulse stuttered. She refreshed. Nothing. Swiped down again. Still nothing. Maybe it’s lagging. Maybe she’s just busy. She always wakes early, doesn’t she? Isa waited, watching the screen as though sheer willpower could summon a message.

Silence.

The absence was louder than any fight they’d ever had. Rachael always answered her — even when furious, even when Isa had done something unthinkably reckless. She’d get a lecture, a clipped Isa, or a sigh typed into punctuation. But never this. Never nothing.

Isa dropped the phone onto her lap and pressed her hands into her eyes until stars burst behind the lids. Her chest tightened with every passing second. It wasn’t just being ignored — it was the implication that maybe, this time, she’d pushed too far. That maybe Rachael needed distance, not words.

She rose unsteadily, pacing the length of her quarters. The floor creaked under her restless footsteps. “It’s fine,” she muttered aloud, as if talking to herself might stitch her back together. “She’s busy. She’s always busy. She’s probably in session, or with paperwork, or—”

The sentence collapsed. Isa’s throat closed up. Because she knew. She knew Rachael wasn’t buried in files or soothing another patient. Rachael was choosing not to answer her.

Isa sank onto the edge of her bed, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders. Her hair was a mess, her eyes raw from lack of sleep, but it wasn’t vanity that gnawed at her — it was the idea that Rachael’s silence was deliberate. A withdrawal.

“Oh, Fairbear,” she whispered into the hollow quiet, the nickname trembling in the air like a secret she wasn’t supposed to say. “Don’t freeze me out. Yell at me, scold me, call me reckless — just… don’t leave me in this silence.”

The clock on her wall ticked steadily, unbothered, as if marking time in a world where Isadora Capri didn’t matter nearly as much as she wanted to. She stared at her phone one more time, praying the screen would finally light up with Rachael’s name.

It didn’t.

And Isa realised, with a sick twist in her stomach, that being ghosted by the woman she loved was a thousand times worse than being yelled at.

______________

(I don't really consider this part canon bc it's really just for my guilty pleasure)

Isadora stood outside Rachael’s office door for a solid three minutes, clutching her satchel like it might shield her from whatever storm waited inside. Her thumb hovered over the handle, pulling back every time. She’d nearly walked away twice already.

Don’t be a coward, Isa. She hates silence even more than you do.

Finally, she knocked—soft, hesitant. “Rachael? It’s me.”

No answer at first. Just the faint sound of shuffling papers. Isadora’s heart thudded painfully. She swallowed and turned the handle, slipping inside like a guilty student.

Rachael sat at her desk, curls falling in her face, pretending to read a file she clearly wasn’t taking in. Her lips pressed into a line, but her eyes flicked up, sharp and tired. Isadora froze under the weight of that look.

“I…” Isadora began, but her voice cracked. She cleared her throat, twisting her scarf between her hands. “I couldn’t stand not seeing you. I’m sorry. I don’t think before I leap and you know that. But the thought of you freezing me out—I couldn’t breathe, Rach.”

Silence.

Isa’s chest caved. She started rambling. “I know you wanted logic first and I gave you heart instead, but it was Enid, and she—she needed me. And I thought, what if it were Castor in her place? You’d have done the same, wouldn’t you? I—”

“Isa.”

It was just a nickname, but somehow it stopped her from spiralling. Isadora blinked at her, curls falling in her face. “Yes?” she whispered.

Rachael sighed, finally pushing her chair back. “You drive me mad. You make impulsive decisions, you don’t warn me, and then you come in here looking like a kicked puppy.”

Isadora’s lips wobbled. “I’m sorry.”

Rachael rose, and before Isadora could launch into another apology, Rachael pulled her into her arms. Isadora let out a shaky breath, sagging against her chest instantly, clinging like she’d been starved of touch for years instead of just a day.

Rachael buried her face in Isa’s curls, muttering into them, “You ridiculous woman. I can’t even stay cross with you when you’re like this.”

Isadora clutched her tighter, mumbling into her shoulder, “Never ghost me again. Yell at me, call me reckless, call me a pillock if you like, just don’t… don’t go quiet.”

Rachael’s chest softened with a laugh, equal parts exasperated and fond. “Fine. No more silence. But you owe me brunch dates. And who even use pillock anymore...”

Isa sniffled, smiling weakly. “Done. And biscuits. The nice ones. And don't ask. I used Google.”

“Isadora..” Rachael murmured, pressing her lips to Isa’s temple. “You’re lucky I love you.”

Isadora only hugged her tighter, because for once, words weren’t enough.

Chapter Text

The staff lounge was small, underwhelming, and buzzing faintly with the radiator’s hum. Rachael sat at the round table, her files neatly stacked, every page smoothed down. Wednesday lounged with her arms crossed, gaze sharp as glass. Isadora hovered at first, before finally sinking into the chair beside Enid. She carried herself with poise, but her restless fingers betrayed her—turning her rings one by one, over and over.

Rachael began, her voice level. “The procedure’s straightforward. Enid will give her statement, the court will review her background, and then we file for adoption. After that, there will be interviews. Home visits.”

Isadora exhaled through her nose, not quite scoffing but close. “Home visits. As if three decades of keeping myself alive and gainfully employed aren’t proof enough that I can raise a child.” Her tone wasn’t whiny—it was dry, pointed, defensive with a thread of humour.

“Your leopard print sofa is evidence of questionable judgment,” Wednesday murmured.

Enid gave a small laugh and nudged Wednesday. “You’re just jealous she makes it work.”

Isadora arched a brow. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” But her rings twisted again, her composure showing cracks.

Rachael reached across the table, her palm settling lightly over Isadora’s restless hand. “It’s not about your flat. It’s about structure. Stability. They need to know Enid will be safe, supported. They’ll want to meet us, to see how we work as… a family.”

The word landed heavy. Isadora’s throat worked before she nodded. “Then they can see. I’ll prove it.” Her voice steadied, softer. “For her.”

Enid’s cheeks went pink, but she smiled, brighter than the weak overhead light. “See? This is why I want this. She actually believes in me.”

A silence stretched—warm, but fragile. Then Wednesday broke it with her usual scalpel-edged delivery. “On paper, you are a chaotic musician and an overworked shrink attempting to adopt a teenager with an unfortunate addiction to rainbow accessories. The court will not find that reassuring.”

“Wednesday!” Enid groaned, but there was no heat in it.

Wednesday only tilted her head. “If you want approval, Enid, you’ll need to stop wringing your hands and learn to make your rebellion sound noble.”

Enid’s grin flickered into something determined. “Then I’ll tell them. Everything. Because it’s not just rebellion. It’s survival.”

Isadora turned then, sliding her hand fully over Enid’s, steady and protective. “And we’ll stand with you,” she said simply. No dramatics now—just conviction.

Even Wednesday didn’t argue with that.

-----------------

The courtroom air was cool and heavy, carrying the faint hum of fluorescent lights. Enid sat stiffly in the witness stand, her hands clasped so tightly in her lap her knuckles had gone white. For once, there was no bright smile stretching across her face, no playful spark in her eyes. She looked smaller than usual, her rainbow hair muted under the solemn lighting.

Across from her, the opposing counsel rose. He adjusted his tie, papers in hand, voice clipped and confident.

“Your Honour,” he began, “at the previous hearing, Ms. Sinclair alleged that her parents were abusive. However—” he spread his hand toward the file before him, “—there is no evidence to support such claims. No medical records. No visible injuries. No reports filed by teachers or doctors. Without proof, we are left with the word of a child against the presumption of parental rights.”

He paced once, deliberate. “Respectfully, we cannot allow sentiment alone to determine custody.”

The judge, a woman with steel-grey hair pinned neatly at her nape, nodded slightly. “Thank you, counsel.” Her eyes shifted to Enid. “Ms. Sinclair, do you understand the claims being made here?”

Enid’s throat worked as she swallowed. “Yes, Your Honour.”

“Would you like to respond?”

The room seemed to lean toward her, waiting. Rachael and Isadora sat together on the bench near the back, watching. Isadora’s curls trembled with every anxious fidget of her fingers, while Rachael sat very still, hands folded tightly in her lap. Neither spoke. This was Enid’s moment.

Enid lifted her gaze at last. Her voice was soft, almost fragile, but it carried.
“They don’t want me.”

The words struck harder than any raised voice.

“They never wanted me,” she continued, her hands twisting together. “I know you’re all looking for bruises, or reports, or something you can hold up in a file. But that’s not what it was. It was the silence. The coldness. The way they looked at me like I was wrong just for existing.”

She paused, her breath shaky, but pressed on. “You don’t need broken bones to feel unwanted. You don’t need a medical chart to know when your parents wish you weren’t there.”

The opposing counsel shifted but didn’t interrupt.

Enid’s voice cracked, but she held herself steady. “I was obedient. I tried to be good. I tried everything. And it was never enough. It will never be enough for them.”

The judge leaned forward slightly, her expression unreadable. “And if this court were to order you back into their custody?”

Enid didn’t hesitate. Her answer was immediate, firm. “I won’t go.”

A ripple of shock passed through the room. Isadora’s breath caught audibly; Rachael’s jaw tightened.

The judge studied the girl for a long moment. Then she set her pen down, folding her hands. “The law does require evidence,” she said carefully. “But it also requires reason. Forcing a child into a home where she so clearly feels unsafe and unwanted is unreasonable, regardless of whether there are scars upon her skin.”

Her gaze softened almost imperceptibly as she addressed Enid again. “You have been heard, Ms. Sinclair. And this court will not compel you to return to your parents’ custody. You will remain in foster care until adoption proceedings are finalised. Furthermore—” her eyes flickered briefly toward the bench where Rachael and Isadora sat “—should a petition for adoption be brought forward, today’s testimony will weigh heavily in consideration.”

The gavel cracked once. “This session is adjourned.”

For a moment, Enid just sat there, shoulders trembling with the release of breath she hadn’t realised she was holding. She was escorted down from the witness stand, and as soon as she stepped into the aisle, Isadora surged forward, gathering her into an impulsive, fierce hug.

Rachael followed more slowly, resting a steadying hand against Enid’s back. She didn’t say anything—she didn’t need to.

Enid let herself lean into them, into the chaotic warmth of Isadora and the quiet strength of Rachael. For the first time in years, she didn’t feel like evidence that had to be proved. She just felt… wanted.

Chapter Text

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, their steady buzz a quiet counterpoint to the soft coos emanating from the crib. Rachael adjusted the thin blanket over Castor’s shoulders, letting her fingers linger on the warm, tiny curve of his cheek. At
eight months, he was already rolling onto his side with ease, kicking his legs in excitement at the sight of her.

“Hey, little one,” she murmured, voice low, careful not to startle him. His eyes, bright and impossibly alert, followed her every movement. When his tiny hand shot out and grabbed her finger, she allowed herself a small, secret smile, a momentary reprieve from the sterile atmosphere around them.

The foster care room was utilitarian. White walls, a single crib, a changing table in the corner, and a small plastic chair where Rachael had been seated for hours in previous visits. Nothing here belonged to him; nothing here had warmth except the soft, high-pitched gurgles of the boy she had come to care for so fiercely. She knelt by the crib again, brushing her thumb lightly over his knuckles.

Her tablet lay beside the crib, glowing softly. Rachael tapped the screen, opening the latest case updates. Her heart sank slightly at the emptiness of the folder. Months of searches, official channels, social media alerts, outreach to distant relatives, public notices—and still, nothing. No family had come forward. No claimants. No leads.

She exhaled slowly, steadying herself. This was the moment where hope and caution collided. The words on the screen stared back at her: In need of permanent guardianship. Finally. Official. Clear. Legal. The file practically shouted what she had been quietly wishing for months: they could petition to make him theirs.

Her gaze returned to Castor. He babbled excitedly, little fists batting at her sleeve. The way he followed her every movement, the way his tiny toes kicked in rhythm with the gurgles escaping him—this was enough to make her chest ache. There had been nights she had lain awake, staring at the ceiling, imagining him in a home that didn’t care for him, imagining him handed from stranger to stranger. And now… this.

“They’re not coming back,” she whispered to him, brushing a strand of his fine hair from his forehead. “We can give you a home. A safe one. One that actually wants you here.”

He cooed in reply, his little hand brushing her wrist like a fragile seal of agreement. Rachael felt a lump in her throat. Months of waiting, of patient observation, of navigating the bureaucratic tangle of CPS protocols and visitation rights, all of it was coalescing into this single, fragile moment of possibility.

She moved around the crib, checking that his toys were within reach, that the mobile spun smoothly, that the blanket wasn’t too tight or loose. She murmured encouragements as he shifted, tiny sounds she was careful to keep soft and comforting.

Her mind drifted briefly to the adoption process itself. Applications, forms, fingerprints, home inspections. Interviews. Court dates. The endless, painstaking grind that could feel both exhilarating and excruciating. And yet, seeing him smile, hearing his contented coos, the process became secondary. Every form she filled out, every meeting she attended, had been for this moment.

Rachael leaned back, propping herself against the wall, letting her gaze linger on him. Her chest tightened—not with panic, but with a fierce protective instinct. He was too small, too helpless to face the world without someone in his corner. And she and Isadora… they could be that corner. They would be that corner.

The clock on the wall ticked softly, but it felt louder than usual in the quiet room. Rachael’s thumb absentmindedly brushed against the tablet, scanning the CPS updates again. Nothing. The files confirmed what her instincts already knew: no other family, no fallback plan, no one else to contest custody.

A small, sharp sound made her look up. Castor had shifted again, rolling partially onto his back, his tiny head tilting as he watched her. His eyes were wide, curious, trusting. The thought hit her like a jolt: he had no reason to trust anyone. And yet he trusted her. He reached for her again, gripping her finger with surprising strength, as though solidifying a silent agreement.

Rachael felt the heat rise to her cheeks. A smile tugged at her lips despite herself. “Alright,” she whispered, voice tight with emotion. “We can do this. You and me… us together. We’ll make it right.”

She shifted onto her knees, leaning closer to let him pat at her sleeve, her heart swelling with quiet, careful hope. This wasn’t the end of the process. There were still forms to file, courts to attend, approvals to be granted. But in this room, in this moment, with him reaching for her like he knew she belonged, it already felt like a home.

And maybe, just maybe, the waiting and the searching and the careful patience had been worth it.

The faint fluorescent buzz continued overhead, but it no longer grated against her nerves. Instead, it felt like a background rhythm to a small but extraordinary symphony: the soft coos of a baby, the touch of a tiny hand on hers, and the undeniable certainty that finally, for the first time in months, someone she cared for completely could be hers.

------------

The key turned in the lock with a soft click, and Rachael stepped inside, coat half-loosened and hair slightly mussed from the day’s whirlwind. The apartment smelled faintly of chamomile and warm laundry, a homely contrast to the sterile, humming fluorescent lights of the foster care office.

Castor wasn’t with her—he remained under the careful supervision of the CPS staff—but that didn’t make the weight of the news any lighter. Her heart was still racing, buzzing with a mixture of relief and excitement. After months of waiting, of calls, searches, and endless paperwork, the confirmation had finally come.

Isadora was curled on the sofa, legs tucked beneath her, a throw draped over her shoulders, scrolling absently on her phone. She glanced up as Rachael entered, eyes flickering with cautious curiosity.

“Hey,” Rachael said softly, trying to sound casual but failing spectacularly. Her chest was tight; the words wouldn’t come out evenly.

“Hey,” Isadora replied, eyebrow raised. “You look… like a hurricane just swept through your hair. Everything okay?”

Rachael laughed softly, a little strangled. “Better than okay. Isa, sit up.”

Isadora obediently shifted, placing her phone aside, sensing the unusual gravity in Rachael’s tone.

“I’ve got news,” Rachael continued, leaning against the doorframe. Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her, betraying the professional calm she always carried. “Castor’s… he’s officially… we can apply for adoption.”

Isadora blinked, trying to process. “Wait. Apply for adoption? You mean… him? The tiny human we’ve been fussing over?”

“Yes,” Rachael said, voice steadier now, but her eyes glimmered with the emotion she couldn’t hide. “No other relatives, no claims, no leads. He’s ours to petition for. If we want him—if we want him permanently—we finally can.”

For a moment, silence hung in the room. Then Isadora’s jaw dropped slightly, and a soft gasp escaped her lips.

“Oh… oh my god,” she breathed. Her fingers fumbled in the folds of the throw. “That’s… that’s actually… he’s ours?”

“Yes,” Rachael said again, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “We can give him a home. A proper one. Not just visits, not just supervised time. Ours. Fully.”

Isadora’s excitement bubbled over, and she sprang from the sofa, pacing a little as she processed. “We… we get to… we get to keep him?! The little guy? Forever?”

Rachael’s hands dropped to her sides, relaxed now. “If we do this right, yes. Forever.”

Before Isadora could say anything more, Enid appeared in the doorway, drawn by the unusual energy in the house. Her eyes widened as she took in Rachael’s posture, the intensity of her gaze.

“What’s happening?” she asked, stepping inside cautiously.

Isadora’s grin split her face. “Castor! He can be ours! Forever!” She spun around, gesturing dramatically. “Rach can apply to adopt him! Isn’t that amazing? Isn’t it brilliant?”

Enid’s face lit up immediately, and she clapped her hands together. “Wait, really? He doesn’t have to go back to CPS?”

Rachael shook her head. “No, he doesn’t. The files came through today. There’s no family coming forward. We’re the ones who can give him a home—if we want to take responsibility, if we want to commit.”

Enid’s grin widened. “Oh my god. Oh my god!” She grabbed Isadora’s arm and spun her toward Rachael. “We get to keep him? For real?”

“Yes,” Rachael repeated, a faint laugh escaping her lips. Relief softened her usually stern face. “We’ve already been caring for him informally, but now… we can make it permanent. The petition goes through, the judge sees our home, our stability, and… if everything goes as it should, he’ll be ours.”

Isadora sank back onto the sofa, hands over her face for a second before peeking out, eyes glimmering. “This… this is surreal. It feels like a dream.”

Enid flopped onto the armrest beside her, leaning against her legs. “I knew it. I knew you’d get him. You two… you care about him so much. He deserves it.”

Rachael moved closer, placing a hand on Enid’s shoulder, steadying and grounding her. “It won’t be instant. There’s paperwork, evaluations, the judge. But yes. We finally have the chance to do this the right way. He can stay with people who actually want him. People who love him.”

Isadora tilted her head, eyes misty. “We do love him. He’s… he’s part of us now, isn’t he?”

Rachael allowed herself a brief, rare smile. “Yes. He’s part of us. And soon, we’ll be able to make that official.”

The three of them shared a quiet moment, the gravity of what had just been confirmed settling around them. Castor’s absence in the room felt strange, but the knowledge that they had a path forward filled the space with warmth, a quiet sense of triumph.

Isadora leaned back, exhaling slowly, letting herself absorb the magnitude of it. “We finally get to be his family,” she murmured.

“Yes,” Rachael whispered, resting a hand over hers. “Our family. We just have to see it through.”

Enid’s eyes sparkled with excitement. “Our family,” she echoed, repeating it as if saying the words made them real.

And in that moment, for all three of them, it already felt real.

Chapter Text

The next morning, sunlight filtered weakly through the curtains, soft and indifferent. The kind of morning that should’ve been hopeful, but wasn’t.

Rachael sat at the dining table, phone in hand, lips pressed tight. Her coffee had gone cold. The message from the CPS officer blinked on the screen: “Just a heads-up — another family has applied to adopt Castor. Standard procedure, but we’ll keep you updated.”

She reread it three times. The words didn’t soften with repetition.

Across the room, Isadora was humming faintly as she fed the goldfish. It was a tune Rachael didn’t recognise — low, repetitive, almost anxious in rhythm. When she turned, her curls were half-pinned, half-chaos. She froze the instant she caught Rachael’s expression.

“What?” she asked immediately. “What’s wrong?”

Rachael hesitated, placing the phone face down on the table. “There’s… another couple.”

The words came out too steady, too calm. That was how Rachael coped — professionalism like armour. But even she couldn’t hide the faint tremor beneath it.

Isadora blinked, frowning. “Another— what do you mean, another couple?”

“They’ve submitted an application to adopt Castor,” Rachael said, quieter this time. “It’s part of the process. He’s not officially ours yet, so CPS has to consider all potential families before finalising placement.”

Isadora’s expression went still. “So… someone else might get him.”

Rachael nodded once. “Yes. It’s possible.”

For a long moment, neither spoke. The air between them thickened, heavy with the quiet, creeping fear that had no name.

Isadora stepped closer, voice breaking through the silence. “After everything— after all those months, after Enid finally started calling him her little brother— they can just… take him?”

Rachael sighed, rubbing her temples. “It’s not about taking him. It’s about what’s best for him. That’s how the system works, Isa.”

“I know how the system works,” Isadora snapped, sharper than intended. Then, instantly softer, she added, “I just— I don’t understand how anyone else could possibly want him the way we do.”

Rachael looked up, meeting her eyes. “They might be a good family too. Maybe even better on paper.”

“On paper,” Isadora repeated bitterly. “You mean the checklist — the boxes, the background checks, the income brackets. That kind of ‘better.’”

Rachael didn’t reply. There wasn’t much she could say. She worked with this system every day — she knew its rules, its blind spots, its heartbreaks.

Isadora moved to the window, arms crossed tight over her chest. “I don’t care how good they look on paper,” she said quietly. “He’s ours. You said it yourself.”

Rachael rose and crossed the room, her voice gentler now. “I did. And I meant it. But if we want the court to see that, we need to show them stability. Proof. Not panic.”

Isadora laughed — not joyfully, but hollowly. “You’re always so calm when the world is falling apart.”

“That’s my job,” Rachael said, a little too fast.

“Well, it’s not mine!” Isadora turned, eyes glassy but defiant. “I’m not built for calm, Rach. I’m built for feeling. For hoping. For falling apart over things that matter.”

The silence that followed was raw but familiar — the push and pull that had always defined them.

Rachael reached for her, but Isadora stepped back. “What kind of people are they?” she asked, her voice trembling now. “The other couple. Did they say?”

Rachael hesitated. “The couple— Mid-thirties. Stable jobs. They’ve fostered before. No criminal records. They look good, Isa. Really good.”

“Of course they do,” Isadora whispered. “Because they’re the kind of people who always win these things.”

Rachael didn’t have the heart to disagree.

That night feels too still. The clock ticks like it’s mocking her, one second at a time. The room smells faintly of chamomile and rain—the kind of scent that usually makes Isadora melt into sleep. But tonight, her mind refuses to let go.

She lies on her side, staring at the soft outline of Rachael’s back. The dim lamplight glows against the duvet, gentle and warm, but it doesn’t reach the knot in her chest. Every time she blinks, she sees Castor’s small face—his curls sticking up, the sleepy mumble he always made before naps. And now he’s gone again. Not gone gone, just… away. Somewhere sterile. Somewhere she can’t reach.

She tries to count her breathing. One, two, three—
Her throat tightens halfway through four.

“What if they take him?” The whisper slips out before she can stop it.

Rachael, half-asleep, hums softly, the sound muffled by the pillow. “Hmm?”

Isadora swallows. “What if they say some polished stranger’s better than us? Someone with a picture-perfect house and no anxiety meds on their nightstand? What if they think we’re the unstable ones?”

Rachael shifts, turning to face her. The exhaustion on her face is softened by that same calm focus she always saves for Isa—like she’s tuning out the rest of the world. “No one’s better than us,” she says, voice raspy with sleep. “You love him. You feed him, read to him, patch up his tiny jeans. That’s not something they can measure in a file.”

Isa lets out a shaky breath, pressing her forehead against Rach’s shoulder. “But they can measure everything else. Finances. Stability. Our stupid paperwork.” Her voice cracks. “You know how many times I’ve had to explain my—my condition like it’s a liability? They’ll think a werewolf can’t even take care of herself, much less a toddler.”

Rachael reaches up, brushing Isa’s curls back from her damp cheek. “Then we explain it again,” she murmurs. “And again. Until they understand.”

Isa laughs, but it’s the kind that comes out choked. “You make it sound easy.”

“It’s not easy,” Rachael admits. “But it’s worth it.”

There’s a long silence. The air feels heavier now, thick with all the things neither of them can fix tonight. Isa curls closer, her fingers knotting in the hem of Rach’s T-shirt like it’s an anchor.

“What if he forgets us?” Isa says softly. “He’s so little, Rach. What if one day he calls someone else ‘Mama’?”

Rachael exhales slowly, her hand tracing lazy circles between Isa’s shoulder blades. “He won’t,” she whispers. “He’s not gonna forget the woman who howls lullabies when she thinks no one’s listening.”

Isa huffs through a tear. “That was one time.”

“Mm, two,” Rach teases gently. “Once when he had that fever, and once when you thought I was asleep.”

The faintest smile ghosts across Isa’s lips. “You were supposed to be asleep.”

“I was pretending.”

Isa laughs quietly, pressing a hand to her eyes. “You’re such a menace.”

“Mm, occupational hazard,” Rach murmurs, stroking her hair. “I diagnose chaos for a living.”

It earns her a watery snort, but then Isa’s laughter dies out as quickly as it came. “He called me ‘Mama Isa,’ you know? Yesterday, when we said goodbye. I didn’t even correct him. I just froze like an idiot.”

Rachael’s voice drops, careful. “You’re not an idiot. You’re someone who’s scared of losing her heart.”

Isa looks up at her, eyes glassy and red-rimmed. “You’re too poetic for midnight, you know that?”

“Blame the exhaustion,” Rach says, smiling faintly. “Or maybe it’s just you rubbing off on me.”

“Then you’re doomed,” Isa mutters, and hides her face against Rach’s chest.

Rachael laughs softly but doesn’t move. She stays there, breathing slow and steady, the rhythm of her heartbeat syncing with Isa’s uneven one. Every time Isa starts to spiral again—her breathing catching, her fingers twitching—Rach’s hand finds her jaw, grounding her with a quiet touch.

“You’re okay,” she whispers. “He’s okay.”

But Isa’s voice is barely a tremor. “I can’t sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see that room. That cold, blue room with the cheap toys and the squeaky chairs. He looked so small in it.”

Rachael kisses her temple. “We’ll bring him home, love. Just not yet. We’ll do it right.”

Isa’s breathing falters again, but she nods against her chest. Her tears dampen the fabric, and Rach doesn’t say anything about it. She just keeps tracing those same small circles until Isa’s trembling quiets.

Minutes pass. Then an hour. Isa never quite drifts off, not fully—but her voice grows softer, her words slower, slurred at the edges.

“If they take him…” she mumbles. “Promise you’ll still fight for him?”

Rachael’s voice is a whisper now, barely audible. “Always.”

And for the first time that night, Isa lets herself believe it—just a little.

That night feels too still. The clock ticks like it’s mocking her, one second at a time. The room smells faintly of chamomile and rain—the kind of scent that usually makes Isadora melt into sleep. But tonight, her mind refuses to let go.

She lies on her side, staring at the soft outline of Rachael’s back. The dim lamplight glows against the duvet, gentle and warm, but it doesn’t reach the knot in her chest. Every time she blinks, she sees Castor’s small face—the sleepy mumble he always made before naps. And now he’s gone again. Not gone gone, just… away. Somewhere sterile. Somewhere she can’t reach.

She tries to count her breathing. One, two, three—
Her throat tightens halfway through four.

“What if they take him?” The whisper slips out before she can stop it.

Rachael, half-asleep, hums softly, the sound muffled by the pillow. “Hmm?”

Isadora swallows. “What if they say some polished stranger’s better than us? Someone with a picture-perfect house and no anxiety meds on their nightstand? What if they think we’re the unstable ones?”

Rachael shifts, turning to face her. The exhaustion on her face is softened by that same calm focus she always saves for Isadora—like she’s tuning out the rest of the world. “No one’s better than us,” she says, voice raspy with sleep. “You love him. You feed him, read to him, patch up his tiny jeans. That’s not something they can measure in a file.”

Isadora lets out a shaky breath, pressing her forehead against Rachael’s shoulder. “But they can measure everything else. Finances. Stability. Our stupid paperwork.” Her voice cracks. “You know how many times I’ve had to explain my—my condition like it’s a liability? They’ll think a werewolf can’t even take care of herself, much less a toddler.”

Rachael reaches up, brushing Isadora’s curls back from her damp cheek. “Then we explain it again,” she murmurs. “And again. Until they understand.”

Isa laughs, but it’s the kind that comes out choked. “You make it sound easy.”

“It’s not easy,” Rachael admits. “But it’s worth it.”

There’s a long silence. The air feels heavier now, thick with all the things neither of them can fix tonight. Isa curls closer, her fingers knotting in the hem of Rachael’s T-shirt like it’s an anchor.

“What if he forgets us?” Isadora says softly. “He’s so little, Rach. What if one day he calls someone else ‘Mama’?”

Rachael exhales slowly, her hand tracing lazy circles between Isadora’s shoulder blades. “He won’t,” she whispers. “He’s not gonna forget the woman who howls lullabies when she thinks no one’s listening.”

Isadora huffs through a tear. “That was one time.”

“Mm, two,” Rachael teases gently. “Once when he had that fever, and once when you thought I was asleep.”

The faintest smile ghosts across Isadora’s lips. “You were supposed to be asleep.”

“I was pretending.”

Isadora laughs quietly, pressing a hand to her eyes. “You’re such a menace.”

“Mm, occupational hazard,” Rachael murmurs, stroking her hair. “I diagnose chaos for a living.”

It earns her a watery snort, but then Isadora’s laughter dies out as quickly as it came. “He reached for me. Yesterday, when we said goodbye. I didn’t even got close to him. I just froze like an idiot.”

Rachael’s voice drops, careful. “You’re not an idiot. You’re someone who’s scared of losing her heart.”

Isadora looks up at her, eyes glassy and red-rimmed. “You’re too poetic for midnight, you know that?”

“Blame the exhaustion,” Rachael says, smiling faintly. “Or maybe it’s just you rubbing off on me.”

“Then you’re doomed,” Isa mutters, and hides her face against Rachael’s chest.

Rachael laughs softly but doesn’t move. She stays there, breathing slow and steady, the rhythm of her heartbeat syncing with Isadora’s uneven one. Every time Isadora starts to spiral again—her breathing catching, her fingers twitching—Rachael’s hand finds her jaw, grounding her with a quiet touch.

“You’re okay,” she whispers. “He’s okay.”

But Isadora’s voice is barely a tremor. “I can’t sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see that room. That cold, blue room with the cheap toys and the squeaky chairs. He looked so small in it.”

Rachael kisses her temple. “We’ll bring him home, love. Just not yet. We’ll do it right.”

Isadora’s breathing falters again, but she nods against her chest. Her tears dampen the fabric, and Rachael doesn’t say anything about it. She just keeps tracing those same small circles until Isadora’s trembling quiets.

Minutes pass. Then an hour. Isadora never quite drifts off, not fully—but her voice grows softer, her words slower, slurred at the edges.

“If they take him…” she mumbles. “Promise you’ll still fight for him?”

Rachael’s voice is a whisper now, barely audible. “Always.”

And for the first time that night, Isadora lets herself believe it—just a little.

---------

Morning crawls in slow and colourless. The kitchen smells faintly of burnt toast and yesterday’s coffee — the kind of domestic chaos that usually makes Isadora smile. But right now, she just sits at the table, both hands wrapped around a mug that’s long gone cold.

Her hair’s a mess, curls sticking out in strange directions. There are dark half-moons beneath her eyes, the kind that no amount of concealer or caffeine can hide. She hasn’t said a word since Rachael left for work an hour ago. Just silence. Just the hum of the fridge and the faint patter of rain against the window.

The sound of slippered feet breaks it.

Enid pads in, oversized jumper swallowing her frame, eyes still heavy with sleep. She pauses when she sees Isadora— shoulders slumped, gaze fixed on nothing. For a second, she looks like she might back out quietly. But then she sighs and crosses the room anyway, dragging her chair beside Isadora’s.

“Hey,” she says softly, nudging Isa’s shoulder with her own.

Isadora blinks, slow, like she’s waking from somewhere far away. “Hey, pup.” Her voice sounds frayed around the edges.

Enid leans her chin on the table, squinting at Isa’s untouched toast. “You look like you wrestled a thunderstorm.”

Isadora huffs a weak laugh. “Feels about right.”

There’s a beat of silence, filled only by the clink of rain on glass. Enid watches her quietly, picking at the sleeve of her jumper. Then she says, matter-of-factly, “He already chose us. That has to count for something, right?”

The words hang there, soft but solid — like they’re daring Isa to argue.

Isadora stares down at her mug. Her throat tightens again. She wants to say something logical, something adult, but nothing comes out except a breath that trembles too much.

Enid shifts closer, shoulder bumping hers again, gentler this time.

“I mean it,” she murmurs. “He could’ve clung to anyone that day, but he chose you. That doesn’t just... disappear because some clipboard lady has a checklist.”

Isadora’s hand shakes as she sets the mug down. Her voice cracks on the first word. “You sound like Rachael.”

“Yeah, well,” Enid shrugs, smiling faintly, “maybe she’s rubbing off on me.”

Isadora laughs — just barely — and then it catches somewhere in her chest. Before she can stop herself, she reaches out, pulling Enid into a hug. It’s sudden, desperate, and a little too tight. Enid freezes for half a second before melting into it, arms wrapping around Isadora’s waist.

The silence stretches, but it’s different now. Softer.

Isadora breathes against her hair, voice muffled. “You shouldn’t have to keep comforting adults.”

Enid snorts. “Please. Have you met me? I comfort people for sport.”

Isa laughs again, quieter this time. “You’re too good for this world, Enid.”

“Tell that to my GPA,” Enid mumbles, and Isadora actually smiles — the first real one since yesterday.

They stay like that for a while, just the sound of rain and slow breathing filling the space between them. Eventually, Enid pulls back, nudging the mug toward Isadora.

“Drink that before it fossilises,” she says.

Isadora nods, obedient for once, and takes a sip. It’s awful — bitter and cold— but somehow it helps.

Enid grins. “There we go. Step one of recovery: caffeine and emotional repression.”

Isadora arches a brow. “You’ve been spending way too much time with Mama Rachael.”

“Guilty.”

And just like that, the air feels lighter. Not fixed — not even close — but lighter. Isadora’s chest still aches, but it’s not crushing anymore.

When Enid gets up to feed the cats, Isadora watches her for a moment, quietly grateful. Rachael’s steadiness holds her together when she’s breaking apart, but Enid’s warmth… it reminds her she’s still human underneath the fur and fear.

For the first time that morning, Isa allows herself to hope — just a flicker — that maybe, just maybe, Castor will come home.

Chapter Text

The meeting room at Child Protective Services was too bright, too still. The blinds were half-open, letting in a pale wash of afternoon light that made everything feel sharper — the edge of the table, the silver pen Rachael kept rolling between her fingers, the ache behind Isadora’s ribs.

Across from them sat the couple — polite, well-dressed, all soft smiles and folded hands. Mrs. Alden had a calm, honey-sweet voice, and her husband looked like the sort of man who ironed his shirts twice. They weren’t unkind; they just radiated the sort of steadiness that made Isadora feel… messy. Out of place. Too much.

“So,” Mrs. Alden began, smiling across the table, “you’ve both worked closely with Castor, then?”

Rachael nodded. Her tone was professional, smooth, the same voice she used when walking nervous families through complex paperwork. “Yes, I’ve been assigned to his case for about four months now. I oversee his developmental evaluations and monitor his emotional responses during transition sessions.”

The woman’s smile deepened politely. “And you, Miss Capri?”

Isadora startled slightly at the title. “Oh— I’m not, uh—” she cleared her throat, pushing a curl from her face. “I’m not part of CPS. I’m a… family acquaintance. I was the one who found him abandoned.”

Rachael’s glance flickered sideways. “She’s been a strong emotional support for me, and by extension, for Castor. He responds positively when she’s present.”

The Aldens nodded, as if that explained everything. Maybe, to them, it did.

Rachael reached for the folder in front of her, sliding it across the table. “Castor’s progress reports. You’ll find his medical evaluations, developmental milestones, and emotional notes. He’s eight months old, thriving physically, though he shows some attachment-related anxiety during separation trials. It’s improving, slowly.”

Mr. Alden flipped through the papers, nodding thoughtfully. “He sounds resilient.”

“He is,” Rachael said quietly, the faintest hint of pride in her voice. “Very.”

Isadora couldn’t stop herself from leaning forward. “He likes music,” she said, almost too softly. “And movement. When he’s tired, he’ll curl his fingers around yours and hum — not words, just little noises. He’s got this laugh that—” She caught herself, pressing her lips together. “Sorry. You’ll see.”

Mrs. Alden smiled again, kind but distant. “That’s lovely. I suppose children need that sort of stability. A calm home. Predictability.”

The way she said it wasn’t cruel, but it landed anyway — like an invisible judgment. Rachael felt Isadora stiffen beside her.

“We all need stability,” Rachael replied gently, “but it doesn’t always look the same for every child. Castor’s attachment pattern suggests he thrives when he feels safe and stimulated — he bonds through emotional rhythm, not just routine.”

The woman nodded again, though it was clear she didn’t entirely understand. Her husband placed the folder neatly back on the table. “We’ve read his case file,” he said. “Our home is ready — nursery set, schedules aligned. We’re prepared to meet his needs.”

Prepared. It was such a clean word for something so fragile.

Rachael managed a polite smile. “That’s wonderful to hear. He deserves that.”

But she couldn’t stop herself from glancing toward Isadora — the faint way her partner’s hand twitched on her knee, like she was physically holding herself still. They’d talked about this the night before: staying composed, detached. They weren’t his parents. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

And still, the thought of handing him over to strangers made something inside her ache.

Mrs. Alden closed her handbag. “Thank you both for your time. It’s reassuring to know Castor’s had such attentive professionals around him. We’re very eager to meet him— next week, isn’t it?”

Rachael nodded, her smile barely holding. “Yes. The supervised introduction is scheduled for Tuesday morning.”

“Perfect,” the woman said brightly. “We’ll be there.”

They shook hands, said their polite goodbyes. When the door closed behind them, silence settled — the kind that felt heavier than words.

Isadora exhaled first, her shoulders slumping. “They’re… nice.”

“They are,” Rachael said softly.

“Perfect, even.”

Rachael didn’t answer. She stared at the empty folder on the table, fingers tapping against the wood. “Sometimes perfect isn’t what a child needs.”

Isadora looked at her — really looked. The way her lips trembled faintly, the exhaustion under her professionalism. She reached across the table, covering Rachael’s hand with her own.

“He knows you,” she said quietly. “Even if he doesn’t have the words yet — he knows you.”

Rachael smiled then, tired and fond. “Let’s just hope the system agrees.”

They sat there for a long time after that — two women in a too-bright room, hearts already claimed by a boy who wasn’t theirs yet. The world outside moved on: cars, rain, sunlight. But inside, the air stayed still.

Because love, when it came like this — quiet, uninvited, inconvenient — was harder to let go of than anyone ever prepared you for.

--------

By the time Rachael and Isadora got home, the afternoon had turned that kind of pale, washed-out grey that made everything look quieter than it really was. Enid was already in the living room, sprawled on the sofa with a blanket and a bowl of crisps, watching something loud and sparkly on TV.

She muted it the second the front door opened.

“You’re back early,” she said, sitting up. “How’d it go?”

Rachael hung her coat on the hook, methodical as ever, like she was buying herself time before answering. “It was… fine,” she said eventually.

Isadora let out a breathy laugh that sounded more like defeat. “Fine, she says,” she muttered, tossing her bag onto the nearest chair. “More like emotionally traumatising with complimentary biscuits.”

Enid blinked. “That bad?”

Rachael gave a weary smile. “No one threw chairs, if that’s what you mean.”

“Which is impressive,” Isadora added, “because I was this close to telling Mr. Ironed-Twice that ‘predictable’ is not a personality trait.”

Enid snorted. “You didn’t, though?”

“Rach kicked me under the table,” Isadora said flatly.

“I did not kick you,” Rachael countered, exasperated. “I nudged.”

“With the force of divine intervention.”

Enid laughed — properly laughed — and for a second, it eased the tension. She shifted over, patting the space between her and the armrest. “C’mon, Mama Isa. Sit down before you combust.”

Isadora hesitated, then slumped onto the couch beside her, curls still half-frizzed from the rain. Rachael followed more slowly, perching on the edge of the coffee table with that therapist posture she defaulted to when she didn’t know what else to do with her hands.

Enid looked between them, eyes sharp beneath her warmth. “So. Who are they?”

“The Aldens,” Rachael said softly. “They’re… nice. Polite. The kind of people who have scented candles for every season.”

“Sounds boring,” Enid said.

Isadora huffed a faint smile. “Right? I wanted to sneeze just looking at them.”

But the smile didn’t last. Her hands were still fidgeting with the hem of her jumper, restless. “They have a house. A proper one. They’ve probably baby-proofed everything. And they said they’ve already got a nursery ready.”

“Of course they do,” Rachael murmured. “They’ve been preparing for a while.”

Enid frowned. “So what’s the problem? Isn’t that… good?”

Neither woman answered immediately.

Rachael looked down at her hands. “It is good. They seem capable. Kind. Everything you’d want on paper.”

“But?” Enid pressed.

Isadora’s voice dropped. “But it doesn’t feel right.”

There it was — the quiet truth, finally spoken aloud. Rachael’s throat tightened because she felt it too, even if she’d been too disciplined to say it first.

Enid pulled her knees up, hugging them. “Do you think Castor would like them?”

That question hit harder than it should have. Rachael’s eyes flicked toward the window, the grey light catching the corner of her glasses. “I don’t know,” she said honestly. “He’s young. He bonds fast… but not easily.”

Isadora nodded, voice barely a whisper. “He’s already attached to us.”

Enid studied them for a long moment. “Then maybe the system should look at that instead of paperwork.”

“Oh, pup,” Isadora said softly, smiling despite herself. “If only it worked like that.”

Enid leaned back, arms crossed. “Well, it should. You’re the only people I’d trust with a baby.”

Isadora laughed under her breath. “That’s because you live with us. You haven’t seen Rach’s ‘don’t touch anything while I’m cleaning’ face.”

Rachael gave her a look. “It’s called maintaining order.”

“Sure, love. And I call it micro-managing chaos.”

Enid rolled her eyes affectionately. “You two sound like an old married couple.”

That shut them both up for a moment — the word hanging in the air, uninvited but strangely fitting. Rachael cleared her throat first. “We’re… not.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Enid muttered, popping another crisp into her mouth.

Isadora smiled, small and tired. “We’re just very committed to our mutual disaster.”

Rachael shook her head, but she was smiling too now — that soft, barely-there curve of her lips that only appeared when she stopped guarding herself.

The laughter faded into something gentler. The TV flickered silently in the background, painting them all in faint blue light. Enid reached for the bowl of crisps again, offering it across Isadora’s lap.

“Want one?”

Isadora took one, mostly to humour her, and immediately grimaced. “Salt and vinegar. You’re trying to kill me.”

Enid grinned. “Character building.”

Rachael chuckled quietly from her seat. “You’re becoming more like her every day.”

“Tragic,” Isadora said, stealing another crisp anyway.

It wasn’t much, this domestic mess — mismatched mugs on the table, half-folded laundry, the faint hum of rain outside. But it was theirs. And as Enid leaned her head against Isadora’s shoulder, something in the air shifted — small, unspoken, real.

They were a family already. Not official, not signed on paper, but something far sturdier than a file in a cabinet.

Later that night, when Rachael closed her laptop and Isadora was half-asleep on the sofa with Enid snoring beside her, Rachael stood there for a long time, just watching them.

She didn’t say it out loud — she didn’t need to — but the thought pulsed quietly through her chest:

Please, let him come home to this.

Chapter Text

The courtroom was too spacious, too quiet, too polished to hold something as alive as love.

Rachael sat rigid in the second row, fingers laced together so tightly her knuckles looked pale. Beside her, Isadora’s leg bounced uncontrollably, her curls pinned too neatly for how much she wanted to tear them down. They hadn’t spoken in ten minutes. Neither could.

The foster officer entered first, carrying Castor — a soft bundle in a blue blanket. The faintest coo filled the room, so small it made Isadora’s heart ache.

Rachael turned without meaning to, her breath catching. “That’s him.”

Castor was handed to her for the evaluation segment. Her hands shook just slightly as she took him, instinctively tucking him against her chest. He blinked up at her, then sighed, small and sleepy — as if the noise of the world finally dulled.

The judge looked over her notes. “Dr. Fairburn, you’ve been the assigned psychologist for the minor during his foster term, correct?”

“Yes, Your Honour.” Rachael’s voice was steady, professional — the voice she used when she had to hide the trembling under her ribs.

“And would you describe his progress?”

“He’s thriving, developmentally,” she said carefully, “though he remains sensitive to loud noises and unfamiliar contact. He calms faster with steady tone and consistency.”

The Aldens — a couple in their thirties, immaculately pressed and faintly smug — smiled tightly from across the room. Their lawyer whispered something to them.

Rachael handed Castor over gently. “Would you like to try?”

The CPS representative nodded, stepping aside to let Mrs. Alden approach. She reached out her arms, cooing with a sugar-sweet tone.

Castor screamed.

It wasn’t just a cry — it was sharp, shrill, heartbreak condensed into sound. Rachael’s entire body flinched. Isadora stood before she could stop herself, halfway out of her seat.

“Isadora,” Rachael hissed quietly, catching her wrist.

“He’s scared—”

“I know. Sit down.”

But her voice cracked too, betraying the calm she was supposed to wear.

The courtroom watched as CPS took Castor back, murmuring apologies while carrying him out to the hallway. The air thinned after that — no one moved, not even the judge.

Finally, the opposing counsellor cleared his throat. “Your Honour, while emotional attachment is expected in these cases, we should consider objectivity. Dr. Fairburn has developed a bond with the child, clearly—”

Isadora’s nails dug into her palm.

“—but professional proximity does not equate to parental capability,” the counsellor continued. “The Aldens have stable income, a family home, and no record of disciplinary complications. Whereas the Dr.Fairburn and Ms.Capri's household includes a minor of their own, currently under guardianship proceedings, and a demanding dual-career lifestyle.”

It felt like being dissected with a smile.

Rachael’s jaw tensed. “With all do respect, consistency and attachment are essential to early development. Castor isn’t a report, he’s a person. And he—”

“Dr. Fairburn,” the judge interrupted softly, “please remember this is not testimony but observation.”

She nodded quickly, shame biting at her throat. “Apologies, Your Honour.”

Enid had been silent the entire time, seated at the witness stand, her hands fidgeting in her lap. The judge finally turned to her.

“Miss Fairburn, you’ve been under the care of the Fairburn household for over two months, is that correct?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And you’re satisfied with your guardianship arrangement?”

Enid hesitated — just long enough for Isadora to tense. Then, clear and sure: “I don’t feel like I’m under care. I feel like I’m home.”

The room softened. Even the judge’s pen paused mid-scribble.

“And why do you think Castor would fit into that environment?”

Enid glanced over her shoulder, eyes finding Isadora — who looked like she might crumble if Enid didn’t speak fast enough.

“Because they love loud,” Enid said, voice small but fierce. “Even when they try to hide it. They don’t always get it right — Mama Isadora still burns toast, and Mama Rachael falls asleep mid-lecture sometimes — but they’re safe. They don’t give up on you, even when you make it hard to stay.”

The silence after that wasn’t awkward. It was sacred.

The judge looked back down at her file, adjusting her glasses. “Thank you, Miss Fairburn. You may step down.”

Enid stood, glanced once more at them, then walked out. Isadora exhaled shakily, burying her face in her hands.

Rachael reached over, fingers grazing the back of her hand. “Hey,” she whispered, “look at me.”

Isadora did — barely. Her mascara had smudged, her eyes glassy.

“You held it together,” Rachael murmured. “That’s what matters.”

“They won’t choose us.”

“We don’t know that yet.”

“Yes, we do,” Isadora said quietly. “They want a picture-perfect family, and we’re a mixture messy one.”

Rachael didn’t argue. She just squeezed her hand tighter, both staring at the door where Castor had disappeared..

The Aldens shifted again, exchanging a look — the kind of look that said they were calculating, rethinking. Mr. Alden leaned forward, murmuring something to his lawyer. Then, to everyone’s quiet shock, the lawyer stood.

“Your Honour,” he said, composed but clipped, “my clients would like to withdraw their petition to adopt.”

A ripple moved through the courtroom. The judge blinked. “Withdraw? Are you certain?”

Mrs. Alden nodded faintly. “We think perhaps… another family might suit him better. Perhaps the Fairburns.”

Rachael didn’t breathe. Isadora didn’t blink.

The judge simply nodded once. “Very well. The Alden petition is dismissed.”

As the couple left, their footsteps felt smaller, swallowed by the hum of the room. Isadora exhaled shakily, “Th-Rachael, does this mean—?”

The judge adjusted her glasses again, her expression unreadable. “After reviewing the psychological reports, home studies, and testimonies, this court finds sufficient cause to determine the best interest of the child.”

Rachael’s pulse thundered in her ears. Isadora’s hand trembled against hers, their fingers locked in a silent plea.

The judge looked up. “Effective immediately, guardianship and custody of minor Castor Hale are granted to Dr. Rachael Fairburn and Ms. Isadora Capri.”

For a second, nobody moved. Then Isadora gasped — a small, broken sound that cracked through the silence like sunlight splitting a storm.

Rachael blinked hard, lips parting but no sound coming out. She squeezed Isadora’s hand once, grounding them both.

“Congratulations,” the judge added softly. “He’s yours.”

The CPS officer returned, carrying Castor. His tiny head rested against their shoulder, cheeks flushed from his earlier cries.

When Rachael took him again, he went still. No tears, no fuss — just a deep, content sigh as he nestled against her.

Isadora reached out a finger, brushing his hair back, her smile trembling. “Hi, baby,” she whispered. “You’re home now.”

Castor blinked sleepily, eyes finding her face — and for a moment, everything else blurred. The polished floor, the heavy robes, the official stamps — all of it disappeared under the quiet heartbeat of something new, something real.

Chapter Text

It was a quiet afternoon — or at least, as quiet as the Capri-Fairburn household ever got. Rain drizzled against the windowpanes, the soft hum of the washing machine filled the background, and Isadora Capri was convinced she was finally losing her mind.

She’d left Castor in his playpen five minutes ago — five. She was sure of it. He’d been sitting right there, gnawing thoughtfully on his plush fox, looking like the picture of baby serenity. She’d turned away for one moment to grab her notebook from the table, and when she turned back—

“Castor?”

Empty playpen.

Isadora froze mid-step, staring at the vacant space where her son had been.

Her heart jumped straight into her throat. “No, no, no—” She spun around, scanning the living room like it was a crime scene. The blanket was still crumpled, the fox abandoned, and yet—

A soft thump came from behind the sofa.

“...Oh, for heaven’s sake.”

She darted around it, curls bouncing, and found Castor on his tummy — grinning up at her like a cherub who’d just committed tax fraud. His little fists were pressed into the rug, legs kicking in triumph.

“Castor Capri-Fairburn,” she breathed, hands on her hips, “how in the world did you get over here?”

He squealed. Pure delight.

“Don’t you giggle at me,” she said, though her lips twitched. “I turned my back for one second. One! Did you… teleport? Did you shift? You’re not even one years old!”

Castor blew a raspberry, drool glistening on his chin like proof of guilt.

Isadora crouched, inspecting the scene like a detective. “You were there. Now you’re here. I didn’t blink that long, did I? Rachael said memory lapses are a symptom of sleep deprivation, but honestly—” She ran a hand through her hair. “I swear I’m losing the plot.”

Castor cooed and reached out, wrapping his hand around her finger. That smile — all dimples and chaos — was pure mischief.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” she muttered, scooping him up. “You’re plotting something. I can feel it. You’re your mother’s son.”

He babbled nonsense, delighted by the sound of his own voice.

Isadora plopped him onto the sofa and sat beside him, still eyeing the playpen. “Right. You were there. And now…” she squinted at the floor, “you’re here. Meaning either I’m hallucinating, or you’ve developed teleportation before your first birthday. Which, honestly, I wouldn’t put past you.”

Castor smacked her sleeve and let out a high-pitched giggle that almost sounded like a dare.

“Don’t sass me, mister.” She tickled his belly, earning another squeal. “Your Mama Rachael’s going to think I’ve lost every marble I’ve ever owned.”

She leaned back against the sofa, finally laughing at herself. The exhaustion hit all at once — the sleepless nights, the stack of reports still waiting for Rachael, the way her heart never stopped brimming with worry and awe. She tilted her head at him. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

Castor blew another raspberry in agreement.

Just then, Enid’s voice echoed from down the hall. “Mama Isa? What’s going on? I heard— oh.”

She appeared in the doorway, messy bun and hoodie, blinking at the sight before her. “Why’s he on the sofa?”

“Because,” Isadora said dramatically, “The baby appears to have mastered teleportation.”

Enid blinked. “Teleportation?”

“I turned around for five seconds, and he vanished from his playpen.”

Enid padded closer, crouching. “Or…” she said, eyeing the suspiciously smug baby, “hear me out… he crawled?”

Isadora froze. “He what?”

“You know, crawling? The thing babies do before walking? Arms, legs, movement?”

Isadora gaped at Castor, who was currently trying to shove his foot into his mouth. “He can’t crawl. He’s barely one years old.”

Enid gave her a look. “And you’re barely logical before tea, but here we are.”

Isadora gasped. “Enid Fairburn, are you calling me delusional in my own home?”

“Yes,” Enid said cheerfully, plopping down beside them. “With love.”

Isadora threw her hands up, laughing despite herself. “Fine. Fine. Maybe he crawled. Or wriggled. Or… slithered.”

“Definitely crawled.”

Castor gurgled as if confirming it himself, then promptly flopped onto his tummy again — and with great effort, pulled himself forward an inch. Then another.

Enid’s eyes widened. “See! He’s doing it again!”

Isadora gasped like she was witnessing a miracle. “Oh— oh, my stars, he is! Look at him go!”

They both burst out laughing, clapping like proud idiots while Castor inched his way toward his abandoned plush fox, utterly pleased with himself.

Isadora scooped him up, twirling him once. “My little magician! You’re a genius!”

Enid giggled. “Mama Isa, you owe him an apology for accusing him of supernatural activity.”

“I refuse. Genius and chaos are the same thing in this family.”

As Castor squealed and batted at her curls, Isadora could’ve sworn she’d never felt prouder — or more ridiculous.

Because maybe motherhood wasn’t about having it all together. Maybe it was about moments like this — where your baby “teleports,” and your teenage daughter lovingly calls you insane, and somehow, the chaos just… fits.

--------

The house was unusually quiet that evening. Rain still whispered against the windows, the kind of soft drizzle that blurred everything into stillness. Rachael was working late — a stack of files taller than her mug of tea waiting on her desk — and Enid had promised to “keep an eye” on Castor while Isadora reheated soup for dinner.

Which, in theory, was simple enough.

Except Enid’s version of “keeping an eye” involved sitting cross-legged on the rug, narrating a very dramatic soap opera starring Castor’s toys.

“Mr. Bunny, how could you? Miss Fox trusted you!” she gasped, holding up two plush animals in mock betrayal. “After everything she— oh no, Mama Isa, he’s doing the face.”

Isadora glanced up from the kitchen counter. “What face?”

“The cute one,” Enid said flatly. “The ‘I’m about to cause chaos and you can’t stop me’ face.”

Sure enough, Castor Capri-Fairburn was beaming from his spot on the mat, cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling. He had that same gleam he got right before throwing something valuable.

“Castor,” Isadora warned gently, wiping her hands on a towel, “don’t even think about—”

Too late.

He leaned forward on his hands and knees — and moved.

Once. Twice. Three times.

Enid froze mid-scene, Mr. Bunny dangling in one hand. “Wait. Did he just—”

Isadora blinked, completely still. “No, that’s— he’s just— oh my God.”

Castor giggled, wobbled forward again, and collapsed onto his tummy, utterly thrilled with himself.

“Mama Isa!” Enid squealed, nearly knocking over her chair. “He’s crawling! He’s actually crawling!”

Isadora covered her mouth, eyes wide with disbelief and awe. “You’re joking— no, no, you are! Look at him! He’s crawling! Our baby’s crawling!”

She darted across the room, kneeling beside him, hands half-raised like she didn’t want to scare him out of it. Castor looked up, grinned toothlessly, and smacked the floor with his palm in pure joy.

“Oh, Castor,” she breathed, eyes bright. “You little miracle.”

Enid was already recording on her phone, commentary running wild. “Mama Rachael is going to lose her mind! Wait—wait, get closer, he’s doing the wobbly thing again!”

Castor tried another attempt, this time managing a full, unsteady crawl before collapsing against Isadora’s knee. He let out a tiny, triumphant squeal, cheeks flushed pink.

Isadora gathered him up instantly, laughing breathlessly. “You clever, clever boy! You did it!” She pressed a kiss to his forehead, curls falling into her eyes. “Mama Rachael’s never going to believe me.”

“She’ll believe the video,” Enid said, proudly turning the phone to show the clip. “I even got your shocked face in HD.”

“Brilliant,” Isadora groaned, but she was smiling so wide it hurt.

She glanced at the clock — 8:47 PM. Rachael wouldn’t be home until late. A soft pang settled beneath her ribs. “I wish she was here,” she murmured, brushing her thumb along Castor’s cheek.

Enid caught the shift in her tone. “Hey, she’ll see it,” she said quietly. “Maybe not in real time, but she’ll still see him. It counts.”

Isadora nodded, though the ache stayed. “I know. She’s doing good work. It’s just… moments like these, you want the whole family there, you know?”

Enid leaned against her shoulder. “Yeah. But Mama Rachael will be proud anyway.”

That made Isadora smile again — small, tired, full of love. “She always is.”

Castor yawned then, his tiny mouth opening wide, his fist clutching at her shirt. His eyelids fluttered like he was trying to fight sleep, as if afraid he’d miss another great milestone.

“Oh, no you don’t,” Enid whispered, gently taking him. “Bedtime, little superstar. Save the crawling chaos for tomorrow.”

Isadora laughed softly as Enid carried him to his cot, humming under her breath — the same lullaby Isadora used to play on her cello years ago.

When she finally sat back down on the rug, the quiet crept in again. But it was a good quiet. The kind that hummed with warmth, full of the kind of life that made every worry worth it.

Rachael would come home to a sleepy baby, a proud Enid, and a grinning Isadora with video proof that their son had taken his first crawl.

And when she did, she’d find the mug Enid had left on the counter, with a note scribbled across the napkin in blue ink:

“He crawled tonight. You missed it — but don’t worry. He waited for you to come home to brag about it.”

Chapter Text

It’s been three weeks since the adoption papers were signed. The house still smells faintly like the flowers Isadora insisted on bringing home from the courthouse—soft lavender, slightly wilted now but stubbornly alive. Enid hasn’t been back since that day. Nevermore’s midterms had her buried in essays, so when the weekend finally opens up, she decides to surprise her mums with an unannounced visit.

The door creaks like always when she steps in, but something feels different. Warmer. Lived-in. There’s a new doormat that says “Please wipe your paws”—definitely Isadora’s doing.

“Mama Rachael?” Enid calls, setting her duffel by the wall. “I’m home!”

From the kitchen comes the faint clink of cups, a hum that’s too musical to be Rachael. Enid blinks. It’s a melody she recognises—something Isadora always hums when she’s trying not to overthink.

When she peeks in, she finds Rachael at the counter in her usual half-scrubbed, half-chaotic mode—hair up, sleeves rolled, laughing softly as she tries to keep Castor from chewing on a wooden spoon. On the counter beside her sits a familiar ceramic teapot, the dark blue one with the faint crack along the lid. Isadora’s teapot.

“Mum?” Enid leans against the doorway, grinning. “You know she’s gonna panic if he slobbers on that spoon.”

“She already panicked,” Rachael says, dryly affectionate, glancing over her shoulder. “Then she realised spoons can be washed and went back to reorganising the spice cabinet. She’s upstairs—oh, and welcome home, sweetheart.”

Enid crosses the room to press a quick kiss to Rachael’s cheek, peeking down at Castor. He’s drooling, grinning, and waving his spoon like it’s a trophy. “Hey, baby brother,” she murmurs, brushing his little curls.

And then she sees it—the baby’s bib. Tiny letters stitched in gold thread: Capri–Fairburn.

The name hits her like sunlight breaking through clouds.

She doesn’t even realise she’s tearing up until Rachael gently nudges her shoulder. “You okay there, pup?”

Enid nods, blinking fast. “Yeah, I just—” Her voice cracks into a laugh. “You actually stitched the name?”

“Your mum’s idea,” Rachael says, smiling. “Said it’d make things feel real.”

Enid looks around again, properly now. The spice rack’s double-stocked with herbs that Rachael’s too practical to ever buy. A floral cardigan drapes over the chair Rachael always sits in when she reads her case notes. And tucked in the corner near the living room bookshelf is a cello stand—empty, but unmistakably hers.

It hits Enid in slow waves.

Isadora didn’t just visit. She moved in.

She runs a hand through her hair, half laughing, half stunned. “So, uh… when were you planning on telling me?”

Rachael smirks, pouring tea into a cup with mock innocence. “We thought it might be fun to let you figure it out.”

From upstairs, a familiar voice floats down—soft, a little sing-song. “Rachael, where did you hide the peppermint blend? I swear it’s like living with a coffee cult!”

Enid bites her lip to keep from grinning too wide. “You’re doomed, Mama Rach.”

“Tell me something I don't know,” Rachael mutters, though her eyes are warm.

A moment later, Isadora appears at the top of the stairs in one of Rachael’s oversized button-downs, sleeves rolled past her elbows. Her hair’s a sleepy halo, and she’s clutching two tea tins like she’s holding priceless treasure.

“Enid!” she gasps, brightening instantly. “Darling, I didn’t know you were coming home!”

“Surprise,” Enid says, throwing her arms open.

Isadora practically bounds down the stairs and wraps her in a hug that smells like honey and chamomile. “Oh, my sweet girl,” she murmurs, squeezing tight. “You look exhausted. Are they overworking you again?”

“Only emotionally,” Enid jokes, muffled into her shoulder.

Isadora laughs, then pulls back to study her face. “Well, you’ll stay the weekend, yes? I’ll make scones—Rachael claims they’re inedible, but Castor approves of the crumbs.”

Enid rolls her eyes. “You really moved in, huh?”

Isadora freezes mid-pour, realising the jig is up. “Ah,” she says lightly, setting the tins down. “Well. Technically, yes. Though I prefer to think of it as… colonising that brits which is your mom.”

Rachael snorts. “She’s taken over half the cupboards.”

Isadora waves her off, pretending to look offended. “Half is generous. I’ve been restrained.”

Enid laughs—loud, real, and slightly teary again. “You’re both hopeless.”

“Perhaps,” Isadora says softly, wrapping her arm around Rachael's, her voice gentling, “but hopelessly happy.”

The room goes quiet for a beat—just the soft clink of tea cups and Castor’s tiny babbles.

Enid leans against the counter, watching them, her chest warm in that way she still hasn’t fully learned how to name.

This—this is what home looks like now. Not perfect. Not planned. Just warm, cluttered, alive.

She exhales a shaky laugh and says, “So… are we unpacking her entire closet or just starting small? Which I expect is something small compared to the other things she brought.”

Rachael groans. Isadora giggles. And Castor, as if perfectly in sync, slaps his spoon on the table like applause.

The house feels whole.

Chapter Text

The evening settled gently over the house, the kind of quiet that only came after Castor had finally gone down for the night. His baby monitor hummed faintly on the coffee table, picking up the occasional sigh or soft rustle from his crib upstairs. The lights were low, and the smell of chamomile tea lingered in the air.

Rachael sat on the sofa, glasses perched on the end of her nose, flicking through a few last pages of patient notes she hadn’t managed to finish at work. She was halfway through rereading the same sentence for the third time when the peace shattered —

“Mama Rachael,” Enid’s voice sang from the hallway, “you will not believe the news!”

Rachael didn’t even look up. “If it’s about another teenagers TikTok challenge, I can, in fact, believe it.”

Enid appeared dramatically in the doorway, arms wide. “No, no, no. Bigger than that.” She flopped down onto the sofa beside her with enough force to make the tea slosh. “Mama Isa said she'll stay here for like forever.”

Rachael finally looked up, brow arched. “You make it sound like she bought the place.”

“She basically has!” Enid said, kicking off her slippers. “I saw her haul in that cello she never plays and like, six boxes labelled ‘emotional support sweaters.’ That’s nesting behaviour, Mama Rach. That’s commitment.”

Rachael tried not to laugh. “You make it sound like a wildlife documentary.”

Enid clasped her hands dramatically. “Observe, in her natural habitat — the anxious domestic werewolf, hauling twenty years of unresolved feelings and tea sets into her mate’s den—”

Rachael groaned, setting down her papers. “Enid Fairburn, you have way too much free time at that school.”

“Boarding school gives me perspective,” Enid countered with mock seriousness. “And perspective tells me this is huge. Mama Isa is officially moving in. That’s, like, peak relationship stage. Mum-level serious.”

Rachael gave a small hum, half distracted as she reached for her tea. “Feels serious.”

Enid tilted her head, studying her. “You don’t sound thrilled.”

“I am thrilled,” Rachael replied quickly. “I just— we’ve both been through a lot. I want it to feel right, not rushed.”

Enid grinned knowingly. “That’s exactly what someone who’s secretly planning to propose would say.”

Rachael sputtered mid-sip. “Enid!”

“What?!” Enid leaned forward, wide-eyed innocence barely hiding her grin. “I’m just saying, you two are the most married-not-married people I know. You bicker about whose turn it is to do laundry, you share a calendar, and I literally caught you both arguing about how to fold baby socks last week. That’s peak domestic partnership!”

Rachael rubbed her temples, laughing despite herself. “You are way too observant for your own good.”

Enid beamed. “I learned from the best.”

“Mm. Flattery. The last refuge of the nosy,” Rachael muttered, pretending to return to her notes.

But Enid wasn’t done. “So, like—be honest. Do you ever think about it? You know…” She lowered her voice dramatically. “Marriage?”

Rachael froze. The question hung there, awkward and heavy, and for once Enid seemed to realise she might’ve gone too far.

“Sorry,” Enid blurted, twisting a strand of hair. “That was— personal.”

Rachael set her notes aside with a sigh, softening. “It’s fine, love. It’s just… marriage isn’t something I rush into conversations about. Not after everything I’ve seen.”

Enid leaned against the arm of the sofa, frowning slightly. “You mean work stuff?”

Rachael nodded. “I’ve sat across too many couples who loved each other and still tore each other apart. Paper rings don’t fix the things people refuse to talk about.”

Enid went quiet, processing. “That’s… kind of sad.”

“It’s also real,” Rachael said gently. “But what I have with Isadora—it’s not about proving anything. It’s about choosing her. Every day. Even when she leaves teabags in the sink.”

Enid snorted. “That’s love, all right.”

Rachael smiled faintly. “It is.”

They sat in a companionable silence for a moment. Enid reached down and plucked a rainbow scrunchie off the rug, where Castor had abandoned it earlier. She twirled it absently around her wrist. “Y’know,” she said softly, “I think she’s choosing you too. She just shows it by panicking and buying decorative mugs.”

Rachael laughed quietly. “That does sound like her.”

Enid grinned. “Told you. I’m basically a relationship expert now.”

“Oh, please.” Rachael gave her a look. “You’re sixteen.”

“Seventeen next week,” Enid corrected smugly.

“Ah yes, of course. Vastly more experienced.”

Enid huffed in mock offence, then smiled again—this one smaller, more sincere. “I just like seeing you both happy, that’s all. It makes everything else feel less… temporary, y’know?”

Rachael looked at her for a long moment before answering. “You’ve got a big heart, pup.”

“I know,” Enid said lightly, leaning back into the sofa. “It’s exhausting sometimes.”

Rachael reached over, brushing a bit of hair from Enid’s face. “Remind me to tell you to stop growing up so fast.”

Enid grinned. “Can’t. It’s kind of my thing.”

They fell into an easy quiet after that. The rain had started again outside, tapping rhythmically against the windows. Somewhere upstairs, Castor murmured in his sleep, the baby monitor flashing softly.

Rachael leaned back and sighed, a small smile tugging at her lips. Enid, sprawled comfortably beside her, nudged her foot against hers.

“So,” Enid murmured. “Still not making a Pinterest board?”

Rachael gave her a sidelong glance. “Go to bed, Enid.”

“Yup,” Enid said, stretching lazily. “That’s a yes if I’ve ever heard one.”

Rachael threw a cushion at her as she ran upstairs, laughing all the way.

Left alone in the soft lamplight, Rachael shook her head, still smiling. She didn’t need a ring or a label to know what they had. Isadora was home now — and somehow, that was enough.

------

It had been three days since Enid’s little “wedding ambush,” and Rachael still hadn’t stopped thinking about it. Not because of the teasing — she was used to Enid’s chaos by now — but because of the look that flickered across Isadora’s face when she’d laughed it off. A quick, quiet drop in her expression. Like she’d heard something she wanted to believe but didn’t dare to.

Now, the house was calm again. Castor was asleep in the nursery, the soft whirr of the baby monitor humming in the background. The rain had returned — a steady curtain tapping against the windows, painting the world in cool, reflective gray.

Rachael sat cross-legged on the sofa, laptop open but untouched, her mind elsewhere. Isadora appeared from the kitchen, barefoot, wearing one of Rachael’s old jumpers that fits her perfectly. She carried two mugs, steam curling from them like ghosts.

“You didn’t finish your report,” Isadora said gently, setting one mug on the coffee table.

Rachael smiled faintly. “Observant, Professor Capri.”

Isadora sank beside her, curling one leg under the other. “It’s a professional hazard,” she said, trying to keep the mood light — but there was something in her eyes. Thoughtful. Hesitant.

They sat in silence for a while. The house was warm but quiet — the kind of quiet that felt loaded. Rachael took a sip of her tea and noticed Isa fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve.

“You’re spiralling about something,” Rachael said softly.

Isadora hesitated. “You’re not wrong.”

Rachael tilted her head. “You wanna talk about it or keep pretending it’s just about the weather?”

A weak laugh. Then Isadora’s eyes met hers. “Do you not want to marry me?”

The words came so suddenly that Rachael actually blinked. For a second, the world felt painfully still — like her heart skipped a beat and was trying to catch up.

“Isa—”

“I’m not asking to rush it,” she interrupted, words tumbling out nervously. “It’s just… Enid mentioned it, and you froze. You always freeze when she brings it up. You joke, or you change the subject, or you look like someone just asked you to walk barefoot across broken glass.” She swallowed, fingers twisting around the mug. “And I don’t know if it’s because you don’t want that, or because it’s me.”

Rachael exhaled through her nose, rubbing the bridge of her nose like she could buy herself time. “You really don’t pull your punches, huh?”

“I’ve been overthinking it for three days straight,” Isadora admitted with a helpless shrug. “I thought maybe if I said it out loud, it’d stop sounding like rejection in my head.”

Rachael set her mug down. “It’s not rejection.”

“Then what is it?”

Rachael was quiet. The kind of quiet that stretched too long, filled with things she wasn’t ready to say but couldn’t keep inside either. “I’ve seen how marriage ended,” she said at last. “It would last years, and still end… badly. They loved eachother, They really did, but in the end, they were both ghosts in the same house. And ever since, the word ‘marriage’ doesn’t sound like commitment. It sounds like a countdown.”

Isadora’s face softened. “Rach…”

Rachael shook her head, eyes fixed on the rain. “It’s not you. It’s that I don’t trust the concept anymore. People promise forever, and then real life shows up with bills, exhaustion, grief — and forever starts to rot from the inside. I don’t want that for us. I don’t want to ruin what’s already good because of a title.”

Isadora didn’t respond right away. She just reached out and took Rachael’s hand. Her thumb brushed over her knuckles, slow and grounding.

“I get that,” she said quietly. “I do. But you should know something.”

Rachael looked up.

“When Enid calls you ‘Mama Rachael,’ or when Castor reaches for you first — that’s forever to me,” Isadora said. “Not rings or ceremonies. Just… the day-to-day, the boring parts. That’s what I want.”

Rachael’s eyes softened. “That’s all I want, too.”

“But it’s okay if you’re not ready,” Isadora continued, her tone gentler now. “I just needed to know it wasn’t because you’d already decided you didn’t want me like that.”

“Isa,” Rachael murmured, pulling her closer. “There isn’t a single version of me, in any universe that won't choose you first.”

That earned her a watery smile. “You always know how to say the exact right thing after terrifying me.”

“Comes with the job,” Rachael teased weakly.

They fell into silence again — not heavy this time, but soft. The kind that hummed between two people who’d just peeled back another layer of each other.

Isadora leaned into Rachael’s shoulder, resting her head there. “Do you ever think about it, though?”

“Marriage?”

“Yeah. What it’d be like if you weren’t afraid.”

Rachael thought for a long moment. “I think about walking into a courthouse, holding your hand. I think about Enid crying too loud during the vows. I think about Castor chewing on the ring box. And I think about you, looking like you do now — messy, honest, perfect.”

Isadora let out a shaky laugh. “You shouldn’t say things like that if you don’t want me to start crying again.”

“I guess it's too late,” Rachael said softly, brushing a thumb beneath her eye.

Then Isa smiled — real, small, but full of warmth. “I can wait,” she whispered. “I don’t need papers or ceremonies. Just you, here, now.”

Rachael cupped her cheek, eyes crinkling. “And you’ll have me. I just… need time to stop expecting forever to mean goodbye.”

Isadora nodded slowly, pressing a kiss to her palm. “Then we’ll take forever one day at a time.”

Rachael laughed quietly, the sound muffled against Isa’s curls. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, you love me,” Isa replied, voice muffled against her shoulder.

“Hopelessly.”

They sat there until the rain slowed to a drizzle, mugs long cold, Castor’s soft breathing faint through the monitor. Rachael leaned back, exhaustion finally settling into her bones, and Isadora shifted closer, fitting perfectly against her.

It wasn’t a proposal, or a resolution. Just a quiet promise — that love could be slow, safe, and still entirely theirs.

Chapter Text

The house was quiet, save for the slow hum of the fridge and the faint ticking of the clock on the wall. It was late — late enough that even the rain outside had grown tired, falling softer now, lazy against the glass.

Rachael stood at the kitchen counter in her pyjamas, hair tied up messily, hands wrapped around a mug of tea she’d already forgotten to drink. Isadora was leaning against the doorway, curls falling loose around her face, still wearing her pajamas and her eye mask.

Neither of them said anything at first. The kind of silence that wasn’t awkward — just full.

“You’re brooding,” Isadora murmured finally, voice husky from exhaustion.

Rachael blinked, looking up. “I’m thinking.”

“Same thing.”

Isadora padded over, barefoot and unhurried, stopping just close enough that Rachael could smell the faint traces of lavender and something smoky — that candle she always burned before bed.

They’d been together two years. Two whole years. And still, somehow, every time Isadora stood this close, Rachael’s pulse forgot what it was doing.

“You should be asleep,” Rachael said softly.

“So should you,” Isadora countered, smiling just a little. Then her expression softened. “You were working again?”

“Mm. Couldn’t switch my head off.”

Isadora hummed in understanding. “Occupational hazard.” She hesitated, then reached out — fingers brushing Rachael’s wrist lightly, almost testing the contact.

Rachael didn’t pull away. She never did.

“Do you ever think about it?” Isadora asked quietly.

“About what?”

“This.” She gestured between them. “Us. How we… got here.”

Rachael’s lips quirked. “You mean how you bullied me into tea every afternoon until I gave in and fell for you?”

Isadora gasped theatrically. “Bully? Excuse you — it was mutual emotional coercion.”

That made Rachael laugh — properly laugh, the sound low and warm in the stillness. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet you love me.”

“I do,” Rachael said simply, the honesty slipping out before she could dress it up.

It landed heavy between them — not uncomfortable, just true.

Isadora’s eyes softened, her teasing fading into something gentler. “Say that again.”

Rachael’s throat bobbed. “I love you.”

For a heartbeat, Isadora didn’t move. Then she stepped forward — slow, deliberate — until there was barely an inch between them. Rachael’s mug clinked quietly against the counter as she set it down, her breath catching.

Isadora tilted her head, voice barely above a whisper. “It’s been two years.”

Rachael smiled faintly. “Don’t remind me.”

“You kissed me once. When we went on those dates,” Isadora murmured. “And then decided to just… stop.”

“You started crying,” Rachael reminded her gently, teasing laced with affection.

“I was overwhelmed!”

“I was terrified.”

That made Isadora pause. The air shifted — lighter, sadder, sweeter all at once. “Still?”

Rachael’s gaze flickered down, then back up. “Maybe. But less, now.”

Something in Isadora’s expression melted. She reached up — slow enough that Rachael could stop her if she wanted — and brushed her thumb along Rachael’s jaw. Her hand trembled slightly. “You don’t have to be less scared for me.”

Rachael leaned into the touch anyway. “I know.”

They stood like that for a moment — breathing the same air, caught between laughter and something far quieter.

Then, finally, Rachael closed the distance.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t sudden. It was soft — almost hesitant — the kind of kiss that barely needed to happen to mean everything. Isadora froze for a fraction of a second, then sighed into it, her hands finding Rachael’s shoulders, holding her like something fragile.

It felt like finally.

When they pulled apart, Isadora stayed close, forehead resting against Rachael’s. Her voice was shaky but smiling. “Two years and you still kiss like you’re apologising.”

Rachael laughed under her breath. “I’m out of practice.”

“Well,” Isadora whispered, eyes flickering down to Rach’s lips again, “we can fix that.”

Rachael hummed. “Later. You’ve got morning shift tomorrow.”

“Ruining the romance as always,” Isadora groaned.

Rachael smiled, tugging her into another quick, soft kiss before pulling away. “Go to bed, menace.”

Isadora lingered in the doorway, grinning, voice sleepy but sincere. “Love you, Fairbear.”

Rachael turned off the kitchen light, the moon catching on the edge of her smile. “Love you too, Isadorable.”

And for once, the night didn’t feel heavy — just quiet. Just enough.