everytime i read adventures in babysitting i think about a pregnancy scare. do you feel comfortable writing talks about pregnancy? or pregnancy in general?
Hello my love! Xx I’ve thought about it on and off and right now I think our girls in Adventures in Babysitting are not in the right place for a kid for sure so it wouldn’t be anytime soon, maybe a far in the future bonus write like I did their Halloween oneshot Trick or Treat x but I also struggle with writing children since I’m not around any young kids in my personal life I only taught teenagers. I swear Nicky already talks far too well for a 4 year old 😅x I’m a girl with cats for babies I’m pretty bad with kids so it will just be Nicky for the foreseeable 💜 or maybe it’s something to explore in a different series x
I’ve tried out a pregnancy fic once before though if you’d like to read that! It’s the Great Pumpkin, Agatha Harkness
hi! any plan to continue harken the shadows? love where it’s going and am so excited for the long-awaited reunion :)
Hi my love! I’ve recently answered this question on this post 💜 but short answer is I am definitely planning to continue harken the shadows, I am just in draft hell and am undecided about which route to take Agatha and Y/N (like do I get them together in the next chapter or do I create more angst and have their first meet not go very well… I’ve written like 4 different ways to go and I can’t pick 😭). But once I put my big girl panties on and make a decision I’ll upload 💜💜
Quick question, will there be a chapter 4 of harken the shadows or another chapter of the Claire debella series? No rush or pressure! I just wanted to get your thoughts on that! Hope you’re doing well!!!
Hi Angel! No worries! Yes the Claire series is continuing I already have a chapter in the works nearly completed so you shouldn’t have to wait too long for her! As for Harken I definitely haven’t given up on it but for their meeting I have like 4 different ways I could take it and I’m sort of stuck as to what direction to go with it (do I reunite them and keep them together, do I make it more angsty and have Agatha leave without getting out forgiveness for marrying Rio etc etc) the possibilities are endless and I am a terrible decision maker x so I’m trying very hard 😅x just know like many drafts have been made!
Summary: After dropping out of your doctorate under difficult circumstances, your younger brother Billy gets you a job babysitting his boss, Professor Harkness’ 4 year old Nicky. Little did you know that this part time job to get you out of the house would lead to so much more.
Word Count: 9.2K
Warnings: smut warning for this one so as always MDNI xo
A/N: I’m back on the Adventures in Babysitting grind! I’ve had some big writers block and anxiety but I’ve started to really get momentum with this series x and obviously if there’s anything you want to see in any of my other things let me know! I’m sure I’ll have loads of Maya content when season 2 comes out 💜 Xx
It’s late by the time you ease your own front door open, the rain still dripping from your hair and coat. You slip your boots off quietly, trying not to wake the house, but the flicker of light from the living room gives them away.
Your mom and Billy are curled on the sofa, a blanket tossed over their legs, eyes glued to the TV. The shrill strings of some old horror film fill the room, shadows dancing across their faces.
You step into the doorway just as something jumps on screen, a ghoul lunging. They both scream, at full volume and ridiculous.
“Wow,” you deadpan, dropping your bag onto the side table. “Not exactly the reaction I was hoping for.”
Billy clutches his chest, glaring at you through wide eyes. “Jesus Christ, you nearly killed me!”
Your mom swats his arm, though she’s still catching her breath too. “Don’t sneak in like that!”
“I walked through the front door,” you point out, chuckling as you peel off your damp coat.
“Like a ghost,” Billy mutters, pulling the blanket tighter around himself. “All silent and creepy.”
You roll your eyes, but the warmth and normalcy untangles something in your chest that’s been knotted all night.
Your mom pats the space between them. “Come sit, sweetheart. We’ll protect you from the scary bits.”
Billy snorts. “We’ll protect her? You’re the one who screamed loudest.”
You laugh, shaking your head, and sink down onto the armchair instead, curling up and letting their bickering fill the room.
Billy mutes the TV with a dramatic flourish of the remote once the commercials come on, eyes squinting at you. “Didn’t expect you to come in tonight,” he says, grin tugging at his mouth. “Thought you’d be… busy.”
Your mom shoots him a look, then turns her attention to you, brows raised expectantly.
You tug the blanket tighter around your shoulders. “Her son was really sick. She needed to focus on him, so I came home.”
“Her son,” your mom repeats slowly, like she’s trying the words on for size. Her eyes narrow a little. “Wait. Are you telling me… are you’re dating the woman you babysit for?”
Your heart lurches into your throat. “I uh…” you glance at Billy, who is already grinning like the Cheshire Cat, clearly enjoying every second.
“Mom,” you start carefully, “please don’t freak out…”
“Oh my god.” She presses a hand to her chest, eyes wide. “I cannot believe you didn’t tell me.”
Billy laughs. “I told you she had a girlfriend.”
“Billy!” you hiss, heat rushing up your neck.
Your mom leans forward, still staring at you in disbelief. “So you’re really with her? Billy’s boss? The professor?”
You nod, cheeks flaming, wishing you could sink into the armchair and disappear. “Yeah. I am.”
Your mom leans forward, pausing the movie entirely now, her eyes fixed on you with that maternal mix of worry and curiosity.
“She’s a bit old for you, isn’t she?” she says gently, but firmly. “And sweetheart, being a stepmother, even unofficially, that’s a big responsibility. Are you sure this is a good idea?”
The words hit hard, right in the soft spot where your insecurities live. Your cheeks heat, your chest tightening. “Mom…”
Billy groans, tossing his head back against the sofa. “Here we go.”
“No, I’m being serious,” she insists, folding her hands in her lap. “You’re still so young. You’ve been through a lot, and I don’t want you getting hurt because you’ve taken on more than you can handle.”
You swallow, staring down at your hands twisted in the blanket. “I… I know it sounds complicated. And yeah, she’s older. A lot older.” Your voice drops, softer. “But I… care about her. And I care about Nicky. It’s not… it’s not something I fell into by accident.”
Your mom studies you, her expression unreadable for a moment. Then she sighs, reaching across to squeeze your hand. “I’m not trying to scare you off. I just want to make sure you’re thinking it through. You deserve to be happy, not overwhelmed.”
You nod, throat tight, managing a small smile. “I am thinking it through.”
Billy smirks, breaking the tension. “Besides, you’ve already survived me. You’re basically qualified for stepmom status.”
You throw a cushion at him, rolling your eyes, but the knot in your chest loosens a little.
Your mom squeezes your hand once more, then leans back against the sofa with a decisive nod. “Well I’ll need to meet her.”
Your head snaps up. “Mom, no. Please, no.”
“Yes,” she says firmly, crossing her arms. “If you’re serious about this woman, and it sounds like you are, then I need to meet her. That’s non-negotiable.”
You groan, dragging the blanket over your face. “You’ll scare her off.”
Billy chuckles, tossing popcorn into his mouth. “Trust me, Agatha Harkness isn’t scared of anything. Except maybe imminent death.”
You peek out from under the blanket just enough to glare at him. “Not helping.”
Your mom shakes her head, smiling faintly but with a stubborn glint in her eyes. “Sweetheart, if she’s good enough for you, then she’s good enough for me. And if she’s serious about you, she won’t mind meeting your mother.”
“She will mind,” you mutter.
“Then she’s not as serious as you think.”
That lands like a stone in your stomach. You sink deeper into the chair, groaning, while Billy smirks at the whole scene.
“Mom,” you mumble, “please don’t make this a thing.”
“It’s already a thing,” she says simply. “And I expect to meet her. Soon.”
~
The living room is a mess of crayons, construction paper, and little cut out leaves Nicky insisted on bringing home from preschool. You’re on the rug with him, knees tucked under you, while he twirls in a circle with his stuffed goat clutched in one hand.
“Autumn leaves are falling down, falling down, falling down,” he sings, his little voice high and proud, bouncing more than dancing.
You chime in with exaggerated gusto, clapping along in time. “Red and yellow, orange and brown, all around the town!”
He collapses into giggles, clapping his hands and throwing himself into your lap. You catch him, pressing a noisy kiss into his curls before sitting him upright again. “That was so good, professor,” you tell him, using his goat’s honorary title. “Ten out of ten.”
“Again!” Nicky cheers, already springing back up, his little feet stomping against the rug.
You take a deep breath, lifting your arms dramatically like a conductor. “Ready? One, two…”
“Three!” he shouts, spinning wildly as you both launch into the song again, your voices overlapping.
It’s in the middle of the second round that the front door opens. Agatha steps inside, still in her work clothes, hair a little mussed from the wind. She stops short in the doorway, her briefcase slipping from her fingers with a soft thunk.
On the rug, Nicky is twirling like a leaf himself, his cheeks flushed, his laugh bubbling high and bright. You’re on your knees, arms waving with theatrical drama, singing loudly and off key just to make him laugh harder.
For a moment, Agatha just watches, something soft breaking open in her chest.
When Nicky spots her, he squeals. “Mama! Look!” He rushes over, tugging at her hand. “We’re singing my show song! Y/N knows it too!”
Agatha’s gaze flicks from her son’s shining face to yours, your cheeks pink, still catching your breath from all the singing. Her lips curve, slow and warm, into the kind of smile she almost never shows anyone.
Agatha sets her briefcase down with a soft thud, hand to her chest like she’s been hit. “Oh, you got your show song today?”
Nicky bounces on his toes, nodding so hard his curls flop. “Yes! Yes! Wanna hear it?!”
Agatha gasps, playing along, eyes wide. “Do I ever!” She drops into the armchair like it’s the front row of Carnegie Hall. “Give us a performance, darling boy.”
Nicky scrambles back to the middle of the rug, shoving his goat into the “audience” too, then throws his arms wide. “One, two, three!” he counts off, launching into the little song with all the power in his tiny lungs.
You pad over and sink onto the armrest beside Agatha. Her hand immediately finds your knee, giving it a squeeze, her eyes fixed on Nicky like the world could fall down around her and she wouldn’t notice.
He twirls, stomps, half forgets the words halfway through and makes up the rest, but his grin never wavers. When he belts the final line, “all around the town!” he bows so low he nearly tips over.
You and Agatha clap wildly, cheering like lunatics. “Bravo!” Agatha cries, whistling through her fingers. “Encore, encore!”
You laugh, clapping until your palms sting. “Ten out of ten, Professor Goatly agrees!” You lift the stuffed goat in mock solemnity, making Nicky dissolve into shrieks of giggles.
Agatha glances sideways at you, her smirk softened into something gentler. Her thumb strokes over your knee, an unspoken thank you, as Nicky starts gearing up for another round, eyes bright and cheeks flushed.
Later, after dinner and the small storm of bedtime negotiations of one more story, one more sip of water, one more kiss, the house finally quiets. Nicky’s door clicks shut, and Agatha pads into the living room, her blouse a little rumpled, her hair falling loose around her face. She drops onto the sofa beside you with a sigh.
You curl sideways to look at her, chin propped on your hand. “Well,” you murmur, eyes glinting, “I hope you’re prepared to hear that song every day, about a hundred times, from now until the show.”
Agatha groans, throwing her head back dramatically. “God help me.”
You smirk, clearing your throat with theatrical gusto. “Autumn leaves are falling down, falling down, falling down!”
Before you can get to orange and brown, she leans over and captures your mouth in a kiss, effectively cutting you off. It’s slow at first, deliberate, her hand cupping your cheek.
You grin against her lips, the song dissolving into a muffled laugh as you kiss her back.
When she finally pulls away, her eyes are half lidded, her smirk wicked. “That’s the only acceptable way to shut you up,” she murmurs.
“Mm,” you hum, still smiling, “guess I’ll have to sing it more often.”
Her hand squeezes your thigh, her brow arched. “Careful, babygirl. I’ll find other ways to make you quiet.”
You start to laugh again, but it dies on your lips as she leans back in, kissing you slower this time. Her hand slides from your thigh to your waist, tugging you closer until you’re curled against her side. The silk of her blouse is cool under your fingertips as you fist the fabric, melting into her warmth.
She tilts her head, deepening the kiss, her thumb stroking along your jaw in a way that makes your chest ache. You sigh into her mouth, letting her take the lead, letting her set the pace.
When she finally breaks away, her lips hover against yours, her breath warm. “There,” she murmurs. “Much better than singing that damn song.”
You giggle, pressing your forehead to hers. “You didn’t even let me get to the second verse.”
“Exactly,” she says, smirking, and kisses you firmer this time, until you’re clutching her blouse tighter, your heart racing.
By the time she eases back, you’re curled fully into her, your head tucked under her chin, her arm wrapped tight around you. She presses a kiss into your hair, sighing as her other hand rubs slow, soothing circles over your back.
You breathe her in, the faint trace of her perfume mingling with the warmth of home, and let yourself sink into her hold. The world outside, with all its sharp edges and questions, feels far away. Here, it’s just her arms, her lips, the steady thrum of her heartbeat under your ear.
You’re still curled against her, her hand stroking slow lines down your back, when you mumble into the fabric of her blouse, “My mom’s been talking again about meeting you.”
Agatha hums low in her chest, fingers pausing for just a second. “Would you like me to meet her?”
You groan, tilting your head back enough to look at her. “Honestly? No. She’s insufferable. But she’s important. And she won’t let up.” You chew your lip, hesitating before adding, “So… maybe for my birthday. You could come out to dinner with us?”
Her whole body stiffens beneath you. She pulls back, her brows lifting high. “Excuse me, your birthday?”
You blink at her, suddenly sheepish. “…Yeah?”
Her eyes narrow, a flicker of guilt and annoyance cutting through her expression. “And you were going to tell me this when exactly? After the fact? Over cake crumbs?”
You flush, pulling the blanket higher over your lap like it’s a shield. “It’s not a big deal.”
“Not a big-…” she cuts herself off, shaking her head, her tone sharp with disbelief. “Sweetheart, your birthday is a very big deal to me. You’re my girl.” She cups your jaw, forcing you to meet her eyes. “I should’ve known.”
Your stomach twists, a mix of guilt and nerves under her gaze. “I just… I don’t like making it a thing.”
“Well, it’s a thing now.” She kisses you once, quick but fierce, before pulling back with a sigh. “I hate that you didn’t feel like you could tell me.”
You lean into her touch anyway, your voice small. “You know now.”
Her expression softens, but there’s still that glint of frustration in her eyes, not at you, but at herself for missing it. She presses her lips to your temple, her arm wrapping tightly around you again.
You tilt your face back toward her, biting your lip. “So you’ll come? It’s nothing huge. We always go to this Thai place Billy loves the day before my birthday.”
Agatha’s brows knit. “The day before?”
You nod, smiling a little shyly. “Yeah. Because… my birthday’s on Halloween. So we celebrate the day before.”
Her mouth falls open, eyes narrowing like she thinks you’re joking. “You’re serious. Halloween?”
You grin, unable to help it. “Yeah. I’m a Samhain baby.”
There’s a beat of silence before she tips her head back, laughing. “That makes so much sense.”
You giggle, hiding your face in her blouse. “Don’t make fun of me.”
“I’m not,” she insists, still laughing, pressing a kiss into your hair. “Of course you were born on Halloween. That explains everything. My little witch.”
You laugh with her this time, the sound warm and tangled, the tension between you dissolving into something softer.
Agatha is still chuckling, her thumb brushing the line of your jaw. “Alright, Samhain baby,” she teases, “so what do you usually do on the actual day? Your spooky little Halloween birthday?”
You shrug, cheeks heating. “Honestly? Horror movies in bed. That’s kind of it.”
Her brows rise, lips curving slow and sly. “So… no real plans.”
You shake your head, tugging the blanket tighter around yourself. “Not really.”
“Good.” She leans in, her voice dropping low against your ear. “Because that means you’re all mine.”
The words make your stomach flip, your whole body going hot at once. You duck your head, blushing furiously, but she catches your chin with her fingers, forcing your gaze back to hers.
“Ohhh,” she purrs, clearly enjoying the way your composure crumbles, “look at that blush.”
“Agatha,” you whine, but you can’t stop smiling.
Her grin widens, wicked and affectionate all at once. “Don’t worry, babygirl. I’ll plan something worthy of a Samhain birthday. You won’t lift a finger, except maybe to unwrap presents.”
You bite your lip, heart hammering. “You’re really going to plan my birthday?”
“Already am,” she murmurs, kissing the corner of your mouth. “You’re mine that day. No arguments.”
Your cheeks flame hotter, but your grin gives you away.
Her mouth hovers at the corner of yours, her grin sly. “So what does my little Samhain baby want for her birthday? A cauldron? A broomstick? A séance in the living room?”
You swat weakly at her shoulder, giggling. “Shut up.”
“Oh, she giggles.” She leans in, brushing her lips against yours. “Cute.”
“Agatha…” you start, but the rest is swallowed when she kisses you properly, her hand sliding into your hair to keep you exactly where she wants you.
You melt, sighing into her mouth, your fingers clutching at her blouse. She chuckles softly against your lips, clearly pleased with how easily you crumble for her, and deepens the kiss.
Your blush only worsens when she murmurs between kisses, “All mine. Gonna spoil you rotten, babygirl.”
You whimper, caught between laughter and want, and she grins against your mouth, tugging you into her lap like it’s nothing. The blanket slips to the floor, forgotten, as her hands spread warm over your back.
“Mm,” she hums, lips trailing down your jaw, “maybe I’ll start planning tonight.”
“You’re ridiculous,” you giggle, tilting your head back to let her mouth find your throat.
“And you love it.” Her teeth graze your skin, just enough to make you squirm, before she pulls back to kiss you again, like she could happily make out on the sofa with you all night.
The TV flickers silently in the background, the whole house hushed, just the sound of your breathless laughter and her low, pleased sighs filling the room.
Agatha’s kisses turn greedier, her hands sliding from your back to grip your hips tight, tugging you closer against her. You gasp into her mouth, the shift in her energy making your stomach flip.
She growls softly, low in her throat. “God, babygirl… you’re killing me.”
You whimper as her teeth catch your lower lip, her tongue soothing the sting before diving back in, kissing you like she’s starving. The blanket on the floor is long forgotten, all you can think about is the way her fingers dig into you, pulling you exactly where she wants you.
She pulls back just enough to murmur against your lips, breath hot and uneven, “Bed. Now.”
Your cheeks flame, your body already thrumming, and you nod quickly.
“Good girl,” she praises, standing smoothly and hauling you with her. One arm stays locked around your waist as she guides you down the hall. You stumble once, breathless with laughter, but she just scoops you up, carrying you the last few steps of the way.
“Agatha!” You giggle, your arms looping around her neck, “you don’t have to carry me!”
“Oh, but I want to,” she purrs, kissing your cheek as she pushes the bedroom door open with her hip.
She sets you down on the bed, eyes dark and hungry now, already tugging her blouse loose. “Been thinking about this since the car ride home,” she admits, crawling over you, her mouth claiming yours again before you can answer.
Your hands clutch at her shoulders, your body arching up into hers, the heat between you snapping fast from playful to desperate.
“Mine,” she growls against your mouth, pinning you beneath her. “All mine.”
Her hands are frantic, pulling off your panties, tugging at your dress, sliding up under the fabric to touch as much skin as she can. You arch into her, whimpering, your fingers tangled in her hair.
“Agatha,” you breathe against her lips, your voice breaking with need. “I love you.”
She freezes for just a second, pulling back enough to look at you. Her pupils are blown wide, her lips swollen, but the expression on her face is pure awe.
“Oh, my baby,” she whispers, voice rough. Her hand cups your cheek, her thumb brushing away the tear you didn’t realise had slipped free. “You undo me every damn time.”
Her mouth crashes back onto yours, her tongue sliding against yours, her sighs mingling with your gasps. She kisses you like she’s trying to breathe you in, like she’s terrified of ever letting go.
Her hands skim down your body, every touch deliberate. She takes her time undressing you, murmuring soft praises between kisses. “So beautiful… my perfect girl… mine.”
She parts your thighs wider as she presses into you, letting you feel every inch of her cock inside of you, her breath shuddering against your mouth. You gasp, your nails biting into her shoulders as your body stretches around her, clenching tight.
“Jesus, baby,” she groans, forehead dropping to yours. “So fucking tight for me, you were made to take me.”
Your whimper makes her kiss you again, swallowing the sound, her hips rolling until she’s fully seated inside you. She doesn’t move right away, just holds you there, both of you trembling.
Her hand cups your face, thumb brushing your swollen lower lip. “God, I’ll never get over this. Being inside you… it’s like nothing else.”
When she starts moving, it’s with deep, unhurried strokes that make your toes curl and your back arch. Every thrust drags a desperate sound from your throat, and every sound makes her groan like she’s losing her mind.
“That’s it,” she pants, kissing the corner of your mouth, your jaw, your throat. “Cling to me, baby. Let me feel you. You’re so good, fuck, you’re perfect.”
You whimper, burying your face against her neck. “Agatha…”
She stills, just for a heartbeat, forcing you to look at her. Her eyes are dark, glassy with want, but underneath it’s awe. “Tell me you love me baby,” she whispers, voice breaking.
“I love you,” you breathe, shaky, desperate.
Her lips crash onto yours, the kiss hot and wet and claiming. “My baby,” she moans against your mouth. “You undo me, you fucking undo me.”
Her pace builds, not rushed but more insistent, each thrust deeper and harder like she’s trying to carve herself into you. Her hand slips between you to circle your clit, drawing sharp cries from your throat.
“Take it, babygirl,” she growls, her voice low and rough. “Take all of me. You’re mine. Always mine.”
You cling tighter, keening under her, your body a mess of heat and want. She kisses you through every sound, her words tumbling fast and needy between kisses: “So beautiful… so good for me… fuck, the way you squeeze me baby, I never want to leave you.”
The intensity builds until you’re trembling, every nerve ending on fire, every thrust making you see stars. And she’s right there with you, her own breath ragged, her moans spilling into your ear.
“Come for me,” she begs, almost broken with it. “Let me feel you, baby, give it to me.”
And when you shatter, sobbing her name, she follows with a guttural groan, burying herself deep, spilling inside you with a kind of ferocity that makes her whole body shake.
She holds you through it, kissing your hair, your face, anywhere she can reach, murmuring ragged I love you’s and mine’s until all that’s left is the sound of your breaths, tangled and shaking, pressed so close you’re not sure where you end and she begins.
~
By the week of the show, that damn song has invaded every corner of your world.
Your mom hums it absentmindedly as she stirs a pot of soup, tapping the spoon against the rim in time with the melody. Billy whistles it while brushing his teeth. Agatha, caught on a work call, doesn’t even notice herself mouthing “red and yellow, orange and brown” as she paces the kitchen with her laptop open.
You groan every time you hear it, because it’s everywhere.
Even Nicky’s stuffed goat has been enlisted. Last night he’d made you hold Professor Goatly and make him “sing along” while Nicky spun in circles until he fell into a heap of giggles.
It’s in your head when you wake up, when you shower, when you’re trying to fall asleep. You’ve caught yourself humming it under your breath while waiting for the kettle to boil, and immediately wanted to throw yourself out the window.
Lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, the lines repeat in an endless loop. Autumn leaves are falling down, falling down, falling down…
You throw an arm over your face and groan. “I’m being haunted.”
From the bathroom, Agatha calls back dryly, “Welcome to parenthood, darling. Death by nursery rhyme.”
And then you hear her voice, smooth and rich, sliding into the next line without missing a beat, “red and yellow, orange and brown…”
“Agatha!” you shriek, throwing a pillow toward the bathroom door. “Don’t encourage it!”
She peeks her head out, towel in hand, grinning like a fiend. “Too late, babygirl. It’s already in my bones.”
She slides in beside you a minute later, her damp hair brushing your shoulder, the faint scent of her shampoo clinging to your sheets.
She pulls you close automatically, her arm heavy and solid over your waist, her breath brushing your temple as you settle into the curve of her body. For a moment it’s quiet, just the occasional car passing outside.
And then, before you can stop yourself, you murmur, “Parenthood, huh?”
Her body goes still behind you. You can feel her stiffen just slightly, like you’ve touched a nerve.
You turn your head, peeking up at her, your voice softer now. “Was that a joke, or…?”
Agatha clears her throat, the sound low, almost sheepish which is rare for her. “Well I did mean it when I said I intend to keep you round forever, baby.” Her thumb rubs an absent line over your hip, grounding herself. “And forever, for me… means my son, too.”
Your heart gives a nervous kick. You roll onto your side so you can see her face, her eyes dark in the low light, her brows drawn just faintly as if she’s bracing herself.
“So…” you whisper, barely more than a breath, “does that mean I’d be like… a stepmom, or something?”
There it is, the question you’ve been carrying in your chest for weeks, finally out loud.
Her gaze flickers over your face, searching. “If that scares you, tell me now,” she says quietly. “Because Nicky isn’t going anywhere. He’s my whole life. You’d be stepping into something… permanent.”
Your throat tightens, but you force yourself not to look away. “It doesn’t scare me. I just…” Your hands twist in the sheets. “I don’t want to be… not enough. For him or for you.”
Agatha exhales, something breaking in her expression, half stern, half unbearably soft. She shifts closer, one hand coming up to cradle your cheek. “Sweetheart,” she says, her voice low but steady, “you are already enough. He adores you. And as for me,” her mouth trembles into the faintest smile, “I don’t think I’ve ever loved anyone like this.”
You blink fast, your chest tight with something that’s part fear, part relief. “You really think I could be good at it? At being that kind of part of his life?”
“I don’t think,” she corrects, leaning in until her forehead presses to yours. “I know. I watch you with him. I see the way he lights up for you, the way you meet him where he is, the way you give him your whole attention. That’s what matters. Not perfection or some fantasy. Just love.”
Tears prick hot at your eyes, your voice cracking. “I don’t want to mess it up.”
Her thumb swipes under your eye before a tear can fall. “Then don’t walk away, and you won’t. We’ll figure it out. Together.”
For a long moment, you just breathe together, her forehead pressed to yours, her hand warm against your cheek, your own heart pounding out its uneven rhythm.
Finally, you whisper, “Forever sounds really good.”
Her lips brush yours, the kiss slow and deliberate, carrying more weight than any words could. When she pulls back, her eyes are shiny, her smile small but certain.
“Then forever it is,” she murmurs.
You sink back into her arms, your chest loosening for the first time all night, the ridiculous little autumn song still rattling around your brain but quieter now, drowned out by the steady thrum of her heartbeat.
Agatha settles onto her back and tugs you with her until your cheek is pillowed against her chest, her fingers stroking lazily up and down your spine. The room feels smaller like this, tucked away from the world. Her heartbeat is steady under your ear, grounding you.
“So,” you mumble, voice muffled against her blouse, “what’s the show gonna be like?”
She chuckles, low in her throat, her hand tracing the curve of your shoulder. “Chaos. Delightful chaos. The youngest class always sings something, the teachers line them up, half of them forget the words, two start crying, one picks his nose through the entire performance…” She tips her head so her mouth brushes your hair. “And it’ll be the most important show I’ve ever been to.”
You smile, even though your chest pinches. “Wish I could come.”
Her hand pauses, then resumes its soothing stroke. “Two tickets per child, baby. You know I’d have you there if I could. But it’s just me and Rio.” She sighs softly. “Not exactly my dream pairing.”
You hum, tucking yourself closer. “Guess I’ll just have to make do with the dress rehearsal.”
She laughs, kissing your temple. “Which I’m sure he’ll put you through a dozen more times before Friday.”
You grin against her chest, eyes fluttering shut as the steady motion of her hand and the warmth of her voice start to lull you. She notices, her fingers drifting up into your hair, her voice softening.
“Sleep, my little Samhain baby,” she murmurs. “You’ll hear the song again soon enough.”
You snort, too drowsy to answer properly, but your arm tightens around her waist. The song plays faintly in your head still, but softer now, muffled under the rhythm of her heartbeat.
And before long, you’re asleep in her arms.
~
The morning of the show, the whole house feels a little different, brighter and buzzing like even the sunlight is in on the excitement.
Agatha is already in the kitchen, hair swept into a loose twist, sleeves pushed up as she wrestles with Nicky’s tiny button-up shirt. He squirms on the chair, cheeks puffed out in protest.
“Mama, it’s itchy,” he whines, tugging at the collar.
Agatha sighs, half exasperated, half amused. “Of course it’s itchy, darling boy, it’s new. Just let me do the last button and then you can show everyone how handsome you are.”
He grumbles but lifts his chin, letting her fasten the top button. The moment she’s done, he hops down and spins dramatically. “Do I look like a big boy?”
Agatha presses a hand to her chest, feigning shock. “Like a very big boy. Practically a man.”
He giggles, then blurts, “Can we sing it one more time?”
Her mouth curves into a smile despite herself. “One more time,” she agrees, crouching down so they’re eye to eye.
He claps his hands together, takes a deep breath, and launches into the song, his little voice clear and wobbly at the same time.
“Autumn leaves are falling down, falling down, falling down…”
Agatha joins in, “…red and yellow, orange and brown, all around the town…”
Nicky grins, twirling so fast his shirt comes half untucked. When he stumbles, she catches him, pulling him into her arms and pressing a kiss into his curls.
“You’re going to be brilliant,” she murmurs, her hand smoothing down his back. “The brightest leaf of all.”
He giggles into her shoulder, but when she sets him down again his little hands twist in the hem of his shirt. “What if I forget?” he asks her nervously. “What if I mess up?”
Agatha kneels, cupping his face gently. “Then you’ll keep going. Everyone messes up sometimes, darling boy. What matters is that you sing with your whole heart.”
He nods, comforted, though his grip on her hand lingers as she straightens up.
She brushes his curls back, sighs, and mutters half to herself, “God help me if he starts crying on stage I’ll be up there singing it with him.”
Agatha buckles him into his car seat, tugging the strap snug across his chest before leaning in to kiss his forehead. He smells faintly of the apple shampoo you helped him pick out, his curls still damp.
The morning rush fades into the quiet hum of the car. Nicky hums under his breath in the backseat, his little legs swinging, and Professor Goatly clutched tight against his chest.
“You’ll be there, Mama?” he asks suddenly, his voice serious.
Agatha catches his gaze in the rear-view mirror, her expression softening. “Of course I’ll be there, darling boy. Right in the front row.”
He nods, reassured, then adds quickly, “And Mama Rio too?”
“Yes, baby,” Agatha says with certainty. “She’ll be there too. Both of us, cheering you on.”
Nicky lets out a relieved little sigh, hugging the goat tighter. “Can you bring Professor Goatly? He makes me brave.”
Agatha smiles, her heart squeezing. “We’ll tuck him in my bag. He’ll be clapping louder than anyone.”
That wins a giggle out of him, but after a beat, he asks in a smaller voice, “will Y/N be there?”
Agatha keeps her eyes on the road, her voice gentle but firm. “Not this time, love. The school only gives two tickets. Just me and Mama Rio today.”
His shoulders slump, the smile sliding right off. “But I want her there.”
Agatha reaches back at the red light, her hand brushing over his knee. “I know, darling. She wants to be there too but she’ll be waiting to hear all about it when we get home and you can sing the song just for her.”
Nicky clutches the goat close, his little mouth set in a pout. “It’s not fair.”
Agatha sighs, her thumb stroking his knee, steady and reassuring. “It isn’t. But you’ll still have us there, and we’ll be so proud of you.”
His lip wobbles, but he nods, leaning into the goat like it can hold the rest of his nerves.
The school car park is crowded, parents and little ones spilling across the pavement in a noisy tide of coats and backpacks. Agatha slips the car into a space, glancing back to where Nicky sits clutching Professor Goatly, his face pinched with nerves.
She opens his door, unbuckles the seatbelt, and helps him hop down. His hand finds hers right away, small and clammy, his eyes fixed on the swarm of children heading inside.
Agatha crouches so they’re eye to eye, brushing a curl back from his forehead. “Alright, darling boy. You’re going to go in with your class, and then this afternoon you’ll get to show us your big performance. Sound good?”
Nicky chews on his lip, shifting from foot to foot. “You’ll be there?”
She nods, steady, certain. “Front row, I promise. Me and Mama Rio.”
“And Professor Goatly?”
Her mouth curves despite herself. “Professor Goatly wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
He huffs out a little laugh, then throws his arms around her neck. She holds him tight, breathing in the warm, apple scented tangle of his curls, before setting him back down and nudging him toward the door.
“You’ll be brilliant,” she says firmly, squeezing his hand one last time before a teacher waves him over.
Nicky looks back once, eyes wide and anxious. Agatha smiles, blowing him a kiss. “See you later, my leaf.”
That wins the smallest grin out of him before he toddles toward his classmate.
Agatha watches until he disappears inside, her chest tight, before straightening her coat and heading back to the car.
Once Agatha gets home she drops her keys into the bowl by the door and kicks her heels off. She’d cleared her whole day for this, every email bounced back with a crisp ‘out of office,’ every meeting pushed to tomorrow. Today was for Nicky.
She’s halfway through making tea when her phone buzzes across the counter. Rio.
With a sigh, she picks up. “What?”
“Agatha.” Rio’s voice is clipped and hurried with the cadence of someone already halfway into an excuse. “I’ve got a huge meeting this afternoon. It just came up and I can’t get out of it.”
Agatha goes still, the kettle starting to hiss behind her. “What do you mean you can’t get out of it?”
“I mean exactly that. The client flew in early, and the entire board is expecting me. It’s not optional.”
“You’re telling me you’re going to miss his show for a client meeting?” Agatha’s voice sharpens, low and dangerous.
“Don’t make it sound like that,” Rio snaps back. “You know how my job works. This is one of those times.”
Agatha presses her palm flat to the counter, nails biting into her skin. “No. No, this is his time. He’s been talking about this show for weeks. He asked me this morning if you’d be there. I promised him. And now you’re bailing?”
Silence hums on the line, heavy. Then Rio sighs, softer but no less infuriating. “You’ll be there. He’ll still have a parent in the audience. He won’t even notice.”
Agatha’s laugh is sharp, humorless. “You really believe that? You think he won’t notice the empty seat? He notices everything, Rio. Everything.”
There’s a pause, long enough that Agatha can hear her own pulse hammering in her ears.
“I’m sorry,” Rio says finally. “But I can’t be in two places at once. You’ll just have to handle it.”
The line clicks dead before Agatha can bite back.
She slams the phone down onto the counter, the sound echoing in the quiet kitchen. The kettle shrieks behind her, but she doesn’t move, her chest heaving, jaw clenched so tight it aches.
Agatha eventually kills the kettle with a sharp flick, the whistle cutting off mid shriek. The kitchen falls back into silence, but it doesn’t feel quiet. It feels heavy.
She paces the length of the tiles, phone still in her hand, thumb pressing into the glass so hard she’s surprised it doesn’t crack. Her mind runs circles around itself.
She can’t call the school to warn him. He’ll be lined up with the other kids, scanning the crowd for her face, for both their faces. He’ll spot her easily, and then he’ll keep looking. And looking. And when he realises Rio isn’t there…
Agatha exhales sharply, dragging both hands through her hair until it’s wild around her face.
“Damn it, Rio.”
There’s nothing she can do. No way to soften it. No way to prepare him. She imagines the wobble in his bottom lip, the panic in his eyes, and her stomach twists until she feels sick.
She had promised that they’d both be there. His small hand had been so tight around hers, his voice so hopeful.
Agatha presses her palms into the counter, bowing her head. For all her careful planning, the cleared calendar, the pressed blouse, the camera already charged to film him, none of it matters. Because all he’ll see is the empty seat beside her.
She straightens, jaw locking. She’ll have to make up for it somehow. She doesn’t know how yet, but she will.
Her thumb hovers over your name in her contacts, the one she always presses when she’s unraveling, when she doesn’t know what to do.
Her first thought is to call you. She pictures your voice, steady even when you’re unsure, the way you’d talk her down and remind her to breathe. The way you’d probably say that he won’t be alone, Agatha. He has you. That’s enough.
Her thumb twitches, ready to tap.
But then she remembers you told her this morning that you have therapy at noon. You’d made that brave little smile as you said it, like you were trying to be casual when she knew it still terrifies you.
And now, as the clock blinks 12:14 from the oven display, she can see you in her mind’s eye, knees tucked up in that chair, fidgeting with your sleeves, trying to peel your chest open in front of a stranger. She can’t interrupt that, can’t drag you out of your own fight just to soothe hers.
Agatha sets the phone down with a sharp clatter, bracing her palms on the counter. Her jaw tightens until her teeth ache. All she wants is your voice. But for now, she has to sit with the silence.
The thought of Nicky seeing that empty seat makes her stomach twist again. She paces, furious with Rio, furious with herself for promising something she couldn’t control, desperate to reach for you but refusing to rob you of the one thing you’re doing for yourself.
~
Traffic crawls outside the school, minivans and SUVs jostling for the drop off lane. Agatha grips the wheel tighter, her pulse hammering as she imagines the gymnasium filling up, the folding chairs in neat rows, one of them already destined to stay heartbreakingly empty.
Her phone buzzes in the cupholder. Your name.
She snatches it up, fumbling to put it on speaker. “Baby?”
“Hey,” your voice comes, soft but steady. “I know the show’s about to start. I just wanted to say good luck. Tell him I’m cheering for him.”
Agatha swallows hard, the words spilling before she can stop them. “Rio’s not coming. She called with some bullshit excuse about meeting she ‘couldn’t miss.’” Her knuckles whiten on the steering wheel. “He’s going to look for her, and she won’t be there. He’ll see that empty chair and…”
Her voice breaks, raw. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to explain it to him.”
There’s a beat of silence, and then your tone sharpens. “How long do I have?”
Agatha blinks, thrown. “What?”
“How long until showtime?”
She glances at the dashboard clock. “Ten minutes, maybe less. Why?”
“Okay, gotta go,” you cut in, and the line goes dead.
Agatha stares at the phone, stunned, then back to the traffic outside the school.
And for the first time all day, a flicker of hope pushes through the dread because if anyone could make sure her son doesn’t see an empty chair, it’s you.
The corridors smell faintly of glue sticks and floor polish, children’s artwork taped in uneven rows along the walls. Agatha makes her way toward the gym, heels clicking against the linoleum, her bag heavy with Professor Goatly tucked inside.
At the entrance, a cheerful woman with a clipboard greets her. “Name?”
“Agatha Harkness. For Nicholas Harkness Vidal.”
The woman checks her list and smiles. “Two tickets. Is your guest with you?”
Agatha forces a calm nod, adjusting the strap of her bag. “She’s running a little late, but she’ll be here. Please just let her through when she arrives.”
“Of course,” the woman says, waving her inside.
The gym is already buzzing with rows of metal chairs filled with parents, the makeshift stage lined with autumn decorations of paper leaves, construction paper pumpkins, and a painted banner that says ‘Welcome Fall!’ in uneven letters. The teachers hustle small children behind the curtain, voices hushed but urgent.
Agatha takes her seat in the front row, the little folding chair creaking under her as she sits. It feels too small for her, but she barely notices.
Her eyes keep darting to the door. Every time it opens, her breath catches, but it’s just another parent, another sibling, another stroller rolling in. Not you. Not yet.
Her fingers tap against her knee, restless. She can already picture Nicky’s face peeking from behind the curtain, scanning the crowd. If you don’t get here in time…
She presses a hand over her heart, swallowing hard. She told the clipboard woman you’d be here. She told herself you’d be here. And now, all she can do is sit in the small chair, surrounded by smiling parents, and pray you’ll make it before her son steps out and sees an empty space where his family should be.
You’re not even sure how fast you drove, only that you threw the car into the first open space you saw, half crooked across the line, and bolted.
Now you’re sprinting across the school parking lot, bag thumping against your hip, lungs burning with the chill of late October air. Parents are strolling casually toward the doors, chatting, clutching travel mugs, and you weave between them, muttering frantic apologies as you go.
Inside, the halls are a blur of posters and backpacks. You catch the faint sound of a piano warming up from the gym, a teacher’s voice herding kids into line. Your heart slams harder. Don’t miss it. Don’t let him see that empty chair.
Your boots squeak against the polished floor as you skid around the corner. The clipboard woman at the door startles when you appear, breathless.
“Agatha Harkness’ guest,” you gasp, already reaching for your ID.
She checks the list, then waves you through with a smile. “Go, go! They’re about to start.”
You dart inside, the gym already packed, rows of parents filling the folding chairs. The paper pumpkins and tissue paper leaves strung across the stage blur past as your eyes lock on the front row.
The moment the door swings open, Agatha’s eyes snap toward it, the way they have every single time someone’s walked in. But this time it’s you.
Breathless, cheeks flushed, hair wild from the sprint, eyes wild with determination as you hurry down the aisle. You don’t even glance around at the rows of parents craning to see who’s rushing in so late, your gaze is locked on hers, like you knew exactly where she’d be.
Her chest seizes. Relief crashes over her so hard she almost sags in her chair.
You, her messy, shy, stubborn, beautiful girl, you showed up. Not for her but for him.
She knew she loved you before, of course she did, but this is another level entirely. A raw, bone deep love, sharpened into something fierce by the sight of you gasping for air in a school gym just to make sure her little boy won’t see an empty chair.
You drop into the seat beside her, still panting, and without thinking she reaches for you, her hand clamping onto your knee. Your hand covers hers, warm and steady despite your racing pulse, and Agatha has to bite down on the inside of her cheek to keep her composure.
She leans closer, her voice a rasp only you can hear. “You came.”
You manage a breathless grin. “I wasn’t about to let him look out and see an empty chair.”
Her throat tightens. She swallows hard, blinking back the sudden sting in her eyes, and squeezes your knee so hard you almost wince. If you weren’t in a room full of preschool parents, she thinks she’d kiss you until she cried.
Instead, she whispers, “God, I love you,” and turns back toward the stage just as the curtain begins to twitch.
The curtain ripples as the teachers shuffle the kids into place. Your hand slips quietly into Agatha’s bag, rummaging till you grab Professor Goatly. You pull the plush goat out and set him carefully on your lap, arranging him so he’s sitting tall, facing the stage.
Agatha sees it and her composure cracks, the corner of her mouth tugging up into a grin so tender it makes your chest ache. She leans sideways, pressing a quick kiss into your hair, her lips lingering for a second longer than they should in public.
Her voice is a whisper, warm against your ear. “I want to tell him.”
You turn your head, blinking. “Tell him what?”
Her hand finds yours under the cover of the goat, her thumb stroking over your knuckles. “That you’re not just his babysitter.” She swallows, her eyes glinting in the stage lights. “That you’re Mommy’s partner. That you’re ours.”
Your breath catches. The noise of parents settling in, the scrape of chairs, the rustle of costumes behind the curtain, all of it fades. It’s just her, her hand squeezing yours, the weight of those words hanging heavy and bright between you.
Tears sting hot in your eyes before you can stop them. “You mean that?”
Her grip tightens, her forehead brushing yours for the barest moment. “I’ve never meant anything more.”
You sniffle, trying to blink the tears away before the curtain goes up, before Nicky can see. But you can’t hide the way your smile trembles as you whisper back, “I want that too.”
Professor Goatly sits proudly in your lap, a silent witness, as the first notes of the piano strike up.
The curtain shuffles open, revealing a row of tiny four year olds in paper leaf crowns, each one fidgeting in place, eyes scanning the crowd.
The teacher steps forward with a big smile. “Our youngest class has been working very hard on their autumn song. Please welcome them!”
The room erupts into applause and camera flashes.
And there he is. Nicky. His curls bouncing under his crown, his little shirt tucked neatly into his trousers, Professor Goatly nowhere in sight because he’s safely on your lap.
His eyes dart nervously across the crowd, wide and searching. Then they land on the front row. On Agatha first, her hand raised in a steady wave, her smile as bright as he’s ever seen it.
And then on you sitting right beside her, the goat propped up proudly on your knees.
Nicky freezes, blinking like he can’t believe it. Then his whole face lights up. He beams so hard his crown slips sideways, and he waves with both hands, bouncing on his toes.
You and Agatha both wave back, grinning like fools. She leans into you, her voice barely a whisper. “Look at him.”
The music cues again, and Nicky straightens with the other kids. He takes a deep breath, clutches the edge of his shirt, and sings at the top of his little lungs.
“Autumn leaves are falling down, falling down, falling down…”
Some of the kids sing at the top of their lungs, others mumble shyly into their collars. One little boy in the middle stares at the ceiling like the words might be written there, while another girl next to him is already chewing on her paper crown.
Nicky belts it. His voice wobbles on the high notes, but he sings directly toward the front row, his eyes darting between Agatha, you, and the goat on your lap. Each time he catches sight of all three, he grins wider, his crown slipping further over his curls.
“Red and yellow, orange and brown, all around the town!”
Half the class comes in too early on orange and brown, dissolving into giggles that make the teacher clap frantically to bring them back together. Agatha’s shoulders shake with quiet laughter beside you, her hand covering yours tightly.
They launch into the second verse, even less in sync than the first, but no one in the audience cares. Parents beam, phones held high. A mom in the second row dabs at her eyes like she’s watching the Royal Opera instead of a preschool show.
One little girl forgets the words entirely and just twirls in a circle until she falls over. The boy next to her bursts into tears, tugging at his crown. But the rest keep going, the song chugging along through every wobble and mistake.
And through it all, Nicky keeps singing, cheeks flushed, his little fists clenching and unclenching at his sides like he’s putting every ounce of bravery he has into each line. His eyes flicker to you both constantly, like he’s drawing strength from the fact you’re there, his family in the front row.
“All around the towwwwnnnn!”
The kids hold the final note far too long, their voices cracking with the effort. The teacher claps her hands together, beaming. “Take a bow!”
They do, half tripping over each other, crowns tumbling, paper leaves scattering across the stage.
The audience erupts in applause, cheers echoing through the little gym. Cameras flash, parents whistle.
Nicky bows so low he nearly topples over, then pops back up, grinning so wide his face could split. The second his eyes find you and Agatha again, he waves with both arms, practically vibrating with pride.
Agatha squeezes your hand hard, her throat working. “My brave boy,” she whispers, voice thick.
The applause still thunders through the little gymnasium as the children are shepherded off the stage, paper crowns crooked, some of them already yawning from the excitement. Parents begin to shuffle, standing to get a better view, calling their kids’ names.
Agatha rises, her hand slipping from yours only because she’s craning her neck to what door Nicky will come out of. You clutch Professor Goatly against your chest, your stomach already tight with anticipation.
And then there he is.
Nicky barrels out from the side of the stage with the other children, his crown now fully askew, his face flushed and glowing. He scans the crowd wildly, eyes wide.
“Mama!” he yells, spotting Agatha first. Then, a beat later, his gaze lands on you and the goat in your arms. His whole face lights up, brighter than the stage lights, and he bolts.
“Mama! Y/N!”
He collides into Agatha’s legs first, wrapping his little arms around her waist. She scoops him up without hesitation, kissing his curls, her own eyes suspiciously bright. “Darling boy, you were wonderful.”
“I did it!” he beams, breathless from the run, curls sticking to his forehead. “I wasn’t even scared!”
You hold up the goat, and he squeals, reaching from Agatha’s arms to grab both you and the plush at once. “Professor Goatly saw me! You saw me too!”
You nod, grinning, your eyes stinging. “I saw everything. You were amazing.”
He wriggles until Agatha crouches down to set him between you both, his little arms looping around your necks, pulling you close in a clumsy, tight hug. “Best show ever!”
Agatha meets your eyes over his curls, her smile breaking into something raw and full. She mouths, ‘thank you’, even as she kisses the top of Nicky’s head again and again.
“Well, superstar,” she says, brushing a stray curl off his forehead, “I think a performance that brilliant deserves a celebration.”
His eyes go wide, glittering. “Celebrate?!”
“Yes honey.” She taps his nose, grinning. “What do you think? Pizza?”
“Pizza!” he squeals, throwing his arms up so enthusiastically his crown finally slips all the way off and clatters to the gym floor.
You bend to pick it up, laughing as you hand it back to him. “Pizza sounds perfect.”
Nicky hugs the goat tight against his chest, practically vibrating with excitement. “Best show ever, best pizza ever!”
Agatha stands, slipping one hand around your waist while she reaches for Nicky’s little hand with the other. “Then it’s settled. Let’s get our superstar fed.”
You glance at her as the three of you head toward the exit together, her eyes catching yours with that same look from before, full of love, relief, and something deeper and fiercer than you’ve ever felt trained on you.
And for the first time, it really feels like you’re a family walking out of that school together.
Hi love your fiction❤️ and I want to ask if you have a taglist to your stories? If you do I want to be on it @langeskovstg1
Hi Angel 💜 thank you so much!! I’m going to try to organise a taglist of some sort, I remember someone suggesting I make a Google form? I’m going to try to learn how to do it if anyone has any tips on making it easier I’d love to hear 💜💜💜
Do you ever think you’ll re-upload any of your works to ao3??? Not to pressure you, I’m just curious because I love your stories so dearly and would love to download them to my e-reader so I can read them when I travel for work! Lol it’s most discreet that way & I have nosy coworkers 🤣
Hi love! I’m not sure! I was originally using a friends ao3 account since I didn’t have an account of my own and then I started getting hate and I literally just shut it down out of like sheer anxiety to limit any interactions for hate since I’m not 100% with how ao3 worked in terms of blocking etc x maybe I’ll try get an account one day but for now I’m still majorly anxious when I post like anything still so it might take me a while just to overcome it xo
Not sure if you’re taking requests so feel free to ignore if not!!! But I think a fic about detective!agatha and readers first time would be sooo hot and sweet!!! :) love your fics btw!!!!
Hi Angel! Xo sorry I’ve just seen this but luckily I have indeed written their first time! I have Like a Virgin and Like a Virgin 2 x they’re both under my ButchAgatha Masterlist xo I’m still totally taking requests on anything you all want to see I’m just bad with looking at asks right now xx
Summary: After dropping out of your doctorate under difficult circumstances, your younger brother Billy gets you a job babysitting his boss, Professor Harkness’ 4 year old Nicky. Little did you know that this part time job to get you out of the house would lead to so much more.
Word Count: 9.5K
Warnings: talk of abuse of power and assault but no graphic descriptions x no smut this time loves but as always MDNI xo
A/N: lots of backstory and plot on this one folks x hope you all enjoy and hope you’ve had a blessed beltane and are taking care of yourselves xo
The waiting room is too bright. Every wall is stark white, filled with posters about mindfulness and breathing techniques in pastel colours, the faint whir of a vent overhead the only sound. You sit in one of the plastic chairs, knees pressed together, hands fidgeting with the strap of your bag.
Your phone vibrates in your lap.
~ Mum: Good luck today, sweetheart. So proud of you. ❤️~
A second buzz, almost immediately after.
~ Billy: You’ve got this. Text me after or I’ll come drag you out for coffee, deal? ~
And then, right on their heels is a text from Agatha.
~ Agatha: With you in spirit, babygirl. Be gentle with yourself. Call me the second you’re done. ~
You stare at the three messages stacked on top of each other, all soft and supportive, and somehow they just make your stomach twist harder.
You swallow, staring down at the screen until the words blur. It should feel good, having them cheer you on. Instead it feels like pressure. Like they’re all waiting for you to come out better somehow. Fixed.
You slip the phone back into your bag, pressing your palms to your thighs to keep them from shaking.
Your name is called from the doorway, your head jerking up at the sound of your name.
The air feels thick in your chest as you stand, your body already too warm. You force your legs to move, every step toward that office making the sick feeling coil tighter in your gut.
She’s not what you expected.
Short, with dark hair pinned back in a loose twist, streaks of silver glinting through. Big, expressive eyes lined in kohl. Her clothes are professional enough but there’s something wildly witchy in the way bracelets are stacked at her wrists, a single silver ring catching the light when she pushes the door open wider for you.
“Come on in,” she says, her accent faint, a lilting undercurrent that makes you glance twice.
You step into her office, clutching your bag strap too tight. The space smells faintly of herbs and old books. There are shelves lined with psychology texts, yes, but also a few dog- eared novels, a thick candle burned low in a glass jar.
And behind her desk is a framed, weathered map of Sicily.
Your nerves tangle with curiosity. “Are you Sicilian?”
Her mouth curves, faintly amused. “I am. Very perceptive.” She gestures to the map, stepping past her desk to pull a chair out for you. “My family is from Palermo. I keep that there to remind me of home.”
You nod quickly, sinking into the offered chair. Your heart is still hammering, your palms clammy, but there’s something steady in the way she looks at you, direct but not unkind.
Dr. Calderu settles into her chair across from you, her bracelets give the faintest chime when she folds her hands in her lap.
“So,” she says gently, tilting her head a little, “why have you decided to come to therapy?”
You pull your knees up into the chair before you can stop yourself, arms wrapping around them tight. The position makes you feel smaller, safer.
You sigh, eyes flicking to the floor. “I don’t know. I guess… people are worried about me.”
“People?” she echoes, tone curious but not sharp.
“My mom. My brother. My…” You hesitate, chewing the inside of your cheek. “My… girlfriend.” The word comes out quieter than you mean it to.
Dr. Calderu nods once, like she’s tucking the detail away without judgment. “Why do you think they’re worried?”
Your gaze skitters away from her, catching instead on the lines of that old Sicilian map behind her desk. You focus on the faded coastline and the faint, sea worn names of towns you don’t know. It feels easier to look at that than her eyes.
You shrug, hugging your knees tighter. “I left my doctorate. I moved back home. Slept a lot.” Your words are flat, like you’re reading them off a page.
She doesn’t rush. “Why?”
Your throat tightens. You squeeze your arms tighter around yourself, knuckles pressing into your ribs. Your gaze drops to your shoes, blurring a little through the sheen of gathering tears you refuse to let fall.
You shake your head, voice cracking just slightly. “I don’t… I just...” you can’t seem to get the words out.
She nods again, slow, calm, like she expected that answer. “That’s alright. We don’t have to talk about anything you’re not ready for.”
Her voice is steady and low, grounding in a way that makes you breathe a little deeper, even as your arms stay locked tight around yourself.
Dr. Calderu lets the silence hang for a moment before she shifts slightly in her chair, her bracelets chiming as she folds her hands loosely again.
“Alright,” she says softly. “Let’s try something else. Tell me, what do your days look like now?”
You sniff, wiping quickly at your cheek, though no tears have fallen yet. “Um… I babysit a little boy.” Your voice is small, but it’s something. “Most weekdays.”
She nods. “That sounds like important work.”
You huff a laugh, quick and humourless. “It’s just one kid.”
“Just one kid who depends on you,” she counters gently. “That still matters.”
You look down, embarrassed, your arms tightening around your knees. “The rest of the time I… I don’t know. I sleep. Or I’m at home with my mom. Or with…” you trail off, fumbling for the word, “…her.”
Dr. Calderu’s eyes are steady, but not piercing. Just open. “So it sounds like your days are split, some responsibility, some rest, some time with people who care about you.”
“I guess,” you whisper, though your shoulders hunch tighter. “But it still feels like nothing. Like I’m not doing anything that counts.”
Her head tilts. “Counts to who?”
The question lodges in your chest, simple and impossible at once. You don’t answer right away, your throat tightening. You just squeeze yourself smaller, trying to avoid her gaze, the question buzzing in your ears.
You don’t speak for a while but when you do, your voice is quiet. “I always wanted to be a professor.”
Dr. Calderu doesn’t interrupt, just waits for you to continue.
“I loved what I did,” you continue, staring down at the floor. “I was good at it. I mean… I was becoming kind of a leading researcher in my field. My specialty was folklore, and the history of witchcraft. Obscure archives, manuscripts, oral traditions… I loved digging through things no one else seemed to care about.”
Your arms tighten around your knees. “My whole family was proud. My mom told everyone I was going to be a Doctor of History. Billy bragged about me. It felt like my life was all finally… coming together.”
You swallow hard, your throat thick. “And now anything else I do feels… empty. Pointless. Like I’ve already failed at the only thing that mattered. Babysitting, sleeping, cooking dinner with my mom… it doesn’t touch the same place. It just feels like I’ve ruined everything.”
The silence after is sharp, and you almost wish she’d say something, challenge you, contradict you, anything. But instead Dr. Calderu just nods once, her expression unreadable except for the steady warmth in her eyes.
“That’s a lot to carry,” she says softly. “No wonder it feels heavy.”
Your lip trembles, and you duck your face back into your knees, ashamed of how raw your voice had come out.
Dr. Calderu watches you tuck your face down into your knees, arms locked tight around yourself. She doesn’t rush, doesn’t fill the silence, just tilts her head and lets the space hold. Then, softly:
“Would you like to try again to tell me what happened?”
The question cracks through your chest like glass underfoot. You sniff, wiping your nose with the cuff of your sleeve, and your anxiety surges sharp and immediate, throat closing, stomach rolling, palms damp against your jeans. You don’t want to look at her. You can’t.
Your heart is already pounding, the way it always does when the memory comes. You can taste it, that awful mix of shame and bile, and your body doesn’t seem to know whether it wants to run or collapse.
“My professor,” you start, barely audible. “My… mentor.” The word sticks in your throat. You swallow hard, your voice cracking. “She was… inappropriate.”
Your whole body tenses, like even saying it out loud is dangerous. The air feels too thick, like it’s sticking to the inside of your lungs.
“I didn’t… I didn’t know what to do,” you manage, words tumbling, shaky. “So I went to the dean. And they…” You break off, hugging yourself tighter, fingernails pressing crescents into your arms. “…they took her side.”
The shame rushes back hot and heavy, like it’s happening all over again. You can feel the sting in your throat, the heat behind your eyes.
“So I left.”
The words hang there, small and brittle.
You drag a shaky hand through your hair, your whole body restless, twitchy with the memory. “And now I’m nothing. I walked away from everything I worked for. And she’s still there. She’s still teaching, still publishing, like nothing happened. No fucking consequence.”
Your voice cracks harder, breaking into something closer to a sob. “And I’m so angry. All the time. I loved what I did. I really, really loved it. And now it’s gone. It’s just…” you clutch your knees tighter. “It’s nothing. I’m a failure.”
The words echo in the quiet of the office, and for a second you can’t breathe, like you’ve hollowed yourself out just to say them.
You hug your knees tighter, your face pressed into the fabric, as the silence stretches. It feels like ripping a scab clean off, raw air rushing into an open wound you’ve kept hidden, hidden so well you almost convinced yourself it wasn’t still bleeding. And now it’s gaping wide, stinging in every nerve. You can feel your pulse in your throat, in your fingertips, in your temples.
For the first time in a long time, you don’t try to patch it over. You just let it sit. The ugly truth of it. The humiliation. The anger. The grief.
“What happened to you,” she says, her accent softening the words, “does not make you a failure.”
Your head tips, just enough to peek at her through damp lashes. She hasn’t shifted in her chair — she’s still sitting, composed, but her eyes are fixed on you, steady and unwavering.
“You were wronged,” she continues. “By someone who abused her position, and by an institution that chose to protect her instead of you. That is not your failure. That is theirs.”
You swallow hard, the lump in your throat catching.
“I hear how much you loved your work,” she says. “How much you poured into it. That love doesn’t vanish because you were forced to walk away. It’s still yours. What she did… what they did… it cannot erase the truth of your talent or your worth.”
Your arms loosen a little around your knees. Just a little.
Dr. Calderu leans forward slightly, resting her forearms on her thighs. “You are not nothing. You are someone who survived being betrayed in the place you should have been safest. And you are here choosing to talk about it and get help. That does not look like failure to me.”
Your lip trembles, the tears threatening again, but this time they feel different, not humiliation but something closer to release.
Dr. Calderu doesn’t look away from you, doesn’t soften into pity or harden into judgment. She just watches you carefully, her voice lowering another notch.
“All you wanted,” she says, quiet but steady, “was to go to school and to learn. To do the work you loved.”
Your breath catches, and suddenly you can’t hold it back anymore. The tears spill fast, burning hot as they track down your cheeks, and then you’re sobbing.
And still, Dr. Calderu doesn’t move to interrupt it, doesn’t shush you or rush you along. She sits in her chair, letting the silence of the office hold your sobs, like there’s space here for all of it. Years of anger, shame, betrayal, and all the things you never said out loud, spill out in sobs that feel endless yet cathartic. Your chest hurts, your throat raw, but it’s different than before. This isn’t panic, it’s release.
When the sobs finally start to ebb, you can hear your own shaky breathing again, the hitch and stutter of air trying to find its rhythm.
Dr. Calderu speaks only then, her tone the same as it’s been from the start, calm and solid.
“What was done to you was wrong. But none of it changes who you are. You are still the girl who loves to learn. That’s still in you. And it always will be.”
You wipe at your face with your sleeve, the fabric damp by the time you drag it away. Your chest still hiccups a little with the aftershocks of crying, but your lips tug into the faintest smile. “…thank you.”
Dr. Calderu doesn’t soften into platitude. She just inclines her head, eyes steady, a small curve of her mouth. “No need.”
The quiet lingers for a few beats before she shifts, crossing one leg over the other. Her bracelets clink faintly. “Tell me,” she says, voice still calm but curious, “how are you taking care of yourself?”
You blink at her, frowning. “What do you mean?”
“Forms of self care,” she explains. “Little rituals, routines, things you do to keep your body and mind steady. Ways you give yourself kindness.”
You sniffle, your frown deepening as you hug your knees tighter. “I don’t really… I don’t know.” You shrug, embarrassed. “I don’t think I do that.”
She nods once, decisive but not unkind. “Then that’s your homework. Between now and the next session, I want you to choose ways you can take care of yourself. It doesn’t have to be anything complicated, just something.”
You hesitate, then murmur, “My girlfriend’s taking me to the movies tonight, does that count?”
“Yes.” Dr. Calderu’s smile widens just slightly, enough to feel like approval. “That’s a start.”
You duck your head, cheeks hot, but there’s a flicker of warmth in your chest that wasn’t there before.
The clock on the wall ticks past the hour. You hadn’t even noticed how much time had gone until Dr. Calderu leans forward, uncrossing her legs.
“Well,” she says, tone gentle but conclusive, “that’s enough for today.” Her eyes stay fixed on you, steady and unflinching. “You’ve done the hardest part, showing up and saying the truth out loud. Now we can begin to make things better.”
You sniff, rubbing your sleeve under your nose, but there’s a tiny warmth in your chest at her words. A cautious spark of relief.
She stands, offering you her hand to help you up. When you’re on your feet, she simply says, “Same time next week,” like it’s already decided, and somehow that makes it easier to nod.
“Yeah. Okay.”
Her smile is brief but real. “Good work today.”
You leave her office slowly, the weight of what you said still clinging to your shoulders, but lighter now, like some of it was peeled away.
In the hallway, you finally dig your phone out of your bag. The screen lights up immediately with stacked messages.
~ Billy: Still alive in there? 👀~
~ Mom: Thinking of you. Call me when you’re home. ❤️~
~ Agatha: How’s my girl? ~
The knot in your stomach twists again, but this time you remind yourself that they’re all waiting for you, that you’re not walking out of this alone. You tuck the phone back into your hand, breathing deep, before pushing the door open to step outside.
The door clicks shut behind you, the late afternoon air hits cool against your face. You’re fumbling for your earphones when movement across the street catches your eye.
Billy.
He’s leaning against his beat up little car, jacket collar turned up, hands stuffed in his pockets. He’s scanning the building, bouncing on his heels like he’s been waiting a while, trying to look casual but not quite pulling it off.
Your chest clenches so fast it knocks the air right out of you. Your eyes sting all over again, vision swimming before you can stop it. He looks up at just the right moment and catches sight of you, his face softening instantly.
You don’t even think. You just run.
Your boots slap against the pavement, your bag thudding against your hip, tears blurring your vision as you cross the street. Billy straightens, arms already opening, and you crash into him hard enough to make him stumble a step back.
“Hey, hey, I’ve got you,” he murmurs, wrapping you up tight, his chin resting on the top of your head. One hand strokes down your back, steady and sure. “You did it. You went in there. I’m so proud of you.”
You clutch fistfuls of his jacket, sobs coming again, smaller now but with all the rawness still in them. He just holds you, rocking faintly, his cheek pressed against your hair.
“Shh,” he soothes, rubbing between your shoulders. “It’s over now. You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to. Just breathe.”
And you do, clinging to him on the street, tears soaking into his jacket, the weight of the session finally breaking loose in the safety of his arms.
Billy flicks the blinker on once you both get into the car, pulling out into the slow crawl of late afternoon traffic. He drums his fingers against the wheel like he wants to fill the silence but knows better than to push too soon.
After a few blocks he glances over, voice careful. “Did it… go okay?”
You keep your eyes fixed on the window, watching the blur of shopfronts and bus stops slip past. Your throat feels raw. “I told her.”
There’s a pause. He chews on his lip, then asks, gently, “told her… about university?”
You nod once, quick, still staring out the glass. The words scrape their way out, shaky. “I told her what happened. About…” you falter, clutching your sleeve tighter. “About my professor. And the dean. And how I left.”
Billy’s hands tighten on the wheel, knuckles pale, but he stays quiet, letting you say it.
You breathe hard through your nose, tears starting again before you can stop them. “She said… she said all I wanted was to go to school and learn, and…” Your voice breaks on the memory, sobs catching in your chest. “And it’s true. That’s all I wanted. Just to do what I loved. And now it’s gone. It’s all gone.”
Your chest heaves, your forehead pressing to the cool glass. Tears blur the passing cars into streaks of colour.
Without a word, Billy flicks the indicator on and pulls the car to the side of the road. The hazard lights tickn in the background. He shifts the gear into park, then leans over, one hand on your arm. “Hey. Hey, look at me.”
You shake your head, but he tugs gently until you turn, and then he’s unbuckling his seatbelt and pulling you across the console into his arms.
“I know,” he murmurs into your hair, squeezing you tight. “I know, I know.”
You sob against his chest, clutching the front of his hoodie like you’ll fall apart if you let go. He just rocks you a little, his hand rubbing circles into your back, his voice steady even as yours cracks apart.
“You’re not a failure,” he says firmly. “You’re my sister. You’re brilliant. You survived something that would’ve broken most people. And I love you. Always. No matter what.”
The words crack something deeper in you, but this time the sob that comes feels like release instead of shame. You let yourself cry into him, and he just keeps holding you, repeating soft little “I know”s until the storm ebbs enough that you can breathe again.
By the time Billy pulls up outside the house, your eyes are raw and sore, your chest still hiccupping now and then with leftover tears. He kills the engine, squeezes your hand once, and says, “Ready?”
You nod, even though you don’t really feel it, and follow him up the path.
The door barely clicks shut behind you before your mom’s there, wiping her hands on a dish towel, eyes darting to your face.
“Sweetheart!” She doesn’t wait for you to explain, just pulls you into her arms.
It’s different from Billy’s hug, less steady and more frantic, her hands smoothing over your hair, your back, like she’s trying to check every part of you at once. You sink into it anyway, letting her fuss, letting her hold you.
“Thanks,” you mumble into her shoulder, a small smile breaking through. “I really needed it.”
She leans back just far enough to cup your cheek, her thumb brushing under your tired eyes. Her own smile is soft, if not a little wobbly. “Anytime, my love. Always.”
Your throat tightens again, but you nod, squeezing her hand before gently untangling yourself. “I’m just gonna… go upstairs for a bit.”
She presses a kiss to your temple before letting you go, turning back toward the kitchen.
You slip up the stairs, your phone already in your hand by the time you reach your room. The screen lights up with a fresh message from Agatha.
~ Agatha: Well? How’s my girl? ~
You curl on your bed, back against the headboard, blanket tugged around your shoulders. Your thumbs hover for a moment before you finally type.
~ Y/N: I feel better x tired but better ~
It only takes a few seconds before her reply pings through.
~ Agatha: Good girl. I knew you’d get through it. ~
Your lip wobbles, but you smile, tucking the blanket tighter. You type again.
~ Y/N: How wasNicky? ~
~ Agatha: Handed him to Rio this morning. He clung a little longer than usual… always does when it’s her week. The house feels too quiet without him. ~
You stare at the screen, chewing your lip. You know how hard those hand offs are for her, she never says it outright but you can read it between the lines.
~ Y/N: Then it’s a good thing we have a date tonight x ~
The typing bubble appears instantly.
~ Agatha: Damn right we do. What time are you coming over? ~
You grin at your phone, typing back.
~ Y/N: Whenever you want me x but fair warning my therapist gave me homework to practice more self care so I’m picking the movie x ~
There’s a beat, then her response flashes up:
~ Agatha: Ohhh self care is it? So what are we watching? A three hour black and white documentary about goat sacrifices in the Carpathians? ~
You snort, shaking your head.
~ Y/N: Very funny but no x and you’re not allowed to complain! ~
~ Agatha: Never. I’ll even buy you the big popcorn bucket. Anything for my girl. ~
Your chest warms, the ache of the day easing a little more with each message.
Later on you stand in front of the mirror for longer than you mean to, tugging the hem of your dress down, smoothing it again even though it doesn’t need it. Your hair falls just the way Agatha likes, and you swipe on a little lipstick just enough to feel like you made an effort. You glance at your reflection, heart fluttering at the thought of her seeing you like this.
By the time you come downstairs, your boots clicking against the steps, the living room is filled with the low hum of the TV. Your mom looks up first, dish towel still in her hands.
“Well, don’t you look nice,” she says, brows rising. “Where are you off to all dressed up?”
Before you can even open your mouth, Billy twists around on the sofa, a grin spreading wide across his face. “She’s got a date.”
“Billy!” you hiss, heat rushing up your neck.
Your mom’s eyes light up instantly. “A date?” She steps closer, eyes narrowing with curiosity. “Who is she? How long have you been dating? When do I get to meet her?”
“Ma stop.” You laugh nervously. “You’re not meeting her!”
Billy snickers, leaning back on the sofa with his arms stretched wide, smug as anything. “I’ve met her.”
Your jaw drops. “Billy!” you gasp, whipping your head toward him. “Stop it!”
He just grins wider, unbothered. “What? It’s true.”
Your mom turns on him immediately. “You’ve met her?”
“Billy,” you warn, glaring, but he just wiggles his eyebrows, enjoying every second of your mortification.
“Sweetheart,” your mom presses, turning back to you, her voice practically a coo, “why can’t I meet her? If your brother has-”
“Because,” you cut in quickly, grabbing your coat from the hook, “it’s new, and you’ll scare her off, and ugh, stop interrogating me.”
Billy snorts, hiding his laugh behind his hand as you shove your arms into your coat sleeves.
“Not funny,” you mutter at him, though your cheeks are flaming.
He just grins. “Kinda funny.”
You’re still fussing with your coat zipper when Billy pipes up again, voice all faux innocent.
“Don’t stay out too late, okay? Curfew’s midnight.”
You shoot him a murderous look over your shoulder. “God, I miss life before Mom adopted you.”
“I’m not adopted!” he protests, sitting bolt upright on the sofa.
“Yeah okay,” you say sweetly, already pulling open the front door. “Keep telling yourself that.”
He splutters behind you, and your mom sighs, “Children,” in that long suffering tone that tells you she’s trying not to laugh.
You step out into the cool evening air, the flush of embarrassment still warming your cheeks. The sky’s deepening violet, the street lamps just flickering on as you cross the drive to your car.
By the time you slide behind the wheel and start the engine, your nerves are sparking again but this time with excitement and the anticipation of seeing Agatha.
The drive over is a blur of headlights and nerves. Your fingers keep tightening and loosening on the steering wheel, stomach flipping every time you picture her face when she sees you and the fact that you actually made an effort to look pretty for her.
When you pull up outside her building, you cut the engine and fish your phone from your bag, thumbs tapping quickly before you can second guess yourself.
~ Y/N: I’m outside! ~
A couple minutes later, the front door swings open, and there she is.
Agatha steps out onto the stoop like she’s walking into a premiere, her hair blown out smooth, lips painted deep red, a soft silk blouse tucked into tailored black trousers that make your breath catch. A cropped jacket is slung over her shoulders. She looks devastatingly put together, every inch of her styled for you.
Her eyes find you through the windshield, and her mouth curls into a grin that makes heat spark low in your belly. She strides down the steps, heels clicking, and opens the passenger door like she’s already claimed the seat.
“Well, don’t you look edible,” she purrs, sliding in and letting her bag drop at her feet. She leans over the console before you can answer, pressing a slow kiss to your mouth, her perfume curling around you.
You melt instantly, giggling when she nips your lip lightly before pulling back.
“You driving us tonight, babygirl?” she teases, smoothing a hand over your thigh like she already knows the answer. “Good. I like being chauffeured around.”
You roll your eyes, cheeks hot, but the butterflies in your stomach are fluttering so hard you can barely focus on putting the car back in gear.
The car hums back to life under your hands, headlights catching the wet sheen on the road as you ease out from the curb. Agatha shifts in the passenger seat, one leg crossed over the other.
You clear your throat, gripping the wheel a little tighter. “Okay, but fair warning, you’re not allowed to criticise my driving.”
Her head tilts, a smirk already tugging at her lips. “Sweetheart, I would never criticise… I would observe, maybe. Colourfully.”
You snort, shooting her a quick look. “That’s worse.”
She laughs, the sound warm and throaty, and it untangles some of the nerves fizzing in your chest. She leans back into her seat, watching the way your hands grip to the wheel. “Relax. You’re doing fine. Better than Billy anyway, the boy thinks turn signals are optional.”
That makes you laugh despite yourself, and her smile sharpens like she’s pleased to have dragged it out of you.
Her hand drifts then, sliding over to rest warm against your thigh. The weight of it is immediate, her thumb brushing idly against the fabric of your dress.
You flinch. Just a tiny jolt, your leg stiffening under her palm.
She notices instantly, withdrawing her hand back to her own lap like she’s been burned. “Hey,” her tone drops softer, careful, “sorry. Too much?”
You bite your lip, cheeks heating, eyes flicking from the road to her and back again. “No, I’m sorry I just… it’s been a rough day.”
Something in her expression eases. The sharp teasing softens into something warmer. She nods once, leaning back in her seat. “Then we’ll make it better. Starting with popcorn the size of your head.”
You let out a shaky little laugh, shoulders relaxing again as the road unfurls ahead of you, her gaze still steady on you in the glow of passing streetlights.
“So,” she says finally, low and lilting, “therapy.”
Your knuckles whiten against the wheel. “Mm.”
“How did it go?” she presses, her tone not quite teasing this time.
You can feel her waiting. It ties your insides up instantly. “Uh,” you murmur, eyes darting between the road and your side mirror. “It… went.”
“It went,” she repeats, one brow arching. “That’s very detailed. Extremely helpful.”
You let out a nervous laugh, heat crawling up your neck. “Yeah, well, I’m not writing a report.”
She hums, amused but clearly not letting you off that easy. “You know, if I had a dollar for every time someone tried to dodge me with a vague answer…” She trails off, turning her head to look fully out the window, but the smirk stays. “I’d still be working at the university, but at least I’d have a nicer office.”
“Very funny.”
Her eyes flick back to you. “So? Was it awful? Was it bearable? Did you feel like you could say what you needed to say?”
Your chest tightens. Your throat does too. You swallow, fingers twitching on the wheel. You can feel her watching you, steady and expectant, and the pressure of it makes your heart hammer harder.
So you blurt the first thing that comes into your head. “My mom wants to meet you.”
That gets her. She blinks, then lets out a low laugh, sharp and delighted. “That’s… not the same thing.”
You risk a glance at her to see that she’s grinning, lips painted red and wicked, and groan. “I know. But she asked, okay? Tonight. She was all ‘who is she, how long have you been dating, when can I meet her?’” You shake your head, cheeks burning as you stare hard at the road. “And I said absolutely not. She’s not going to meet you.”
Agatha smirks, leaning an elbow on the console, chin in her hand as she studies you. “Why not?”
“Because she’ll…” you falter, feeling the heat creep higher into your face. “She’ll interrogate you and scare you off.”
“Oh, baby.” She leans in just enough that you feel her gaze burning into the side of your face. “Nothing about your mother could scare me off.”
Your stomach flips violently and you bite your lip, keeping your eyes on the road just so you don’t have to look at her directly.
She notices anyway, she always does. “You’re blushing,” she teases, voice velvet smooth.
“I am not,” you protest immediately.
“Yes you are. I can see it.” She grins wider. “It’s adorable.”
“God, you’re annoying,” you mutter, but your voice cracks on the word and it makes her laugh, throaty and warm.
The neon glow of the theatre sign cuts through the rain slick night, splashing red and blue light across the windshield as you pull into the lot. The wipers drag one last streak across the glass before you kill the engine, the hum of the car falling into silence.
You’re fumbling with your bag strap, nerves jittering again now that you’ve actually arrived, when you feel her eyes on you.
“Hey,” Agatha says softly, drawing your attention.
You glance over to see she’s already leaning in. Her hand comes up, sliding over your cheek, her thumb brushing the corner of your mouth before her lips press to yours.
Your breath catches, and you melt into it, eyes fluttering shut as her mouth moves against yours. She lingers, kissing you deeper, her palm warm against your skin. When she finally pulls back, her forehead rests lightly against yours, her lips still brushing yours when she speaks.
“Better,” she murmurs. “I’ve been waiting all damn day to do that.”
You giggle softly, your stomach flipping, and she grins at the sound, her thumb stroking your cheek once more before she leans back, unbuckling her seatbelt.
“C’mon, babygirl,” she says, voice low but playful again. “Let’s go see what ridiculous film you’ve picked for me.”
Inside, the theatre lobby is buzzing with families corralling kids toward animated features, clusters of teens clutching sodas, and the hum of arcade machines chiming from the corner. The smell of buttered popcorn and artificial cherry slush fills the air as you step inside.
Agatha keeps close behind you, her hand brushing the small of your back as you head for the ticket counter. “Alright,” she murmurs, leaning down toward your ear, “what are we seeing? Please tell me it’s not three hours of men in spandex punching each other.”
You bite back a grin as you pass her the ticket stub. “We’re seeing a scary movie.”
She lets out a soft laugh, shaking her head. “Of course. My little witch picks the horror flick.”
“You don’t like scary movies?” you ask, pretending innocence.
“I love scary movies,” she declares, her chin tilting up, lips curving into her trademark smirk. “Love ‘em. Bring it on.”
But the way she smooths her jacket down and clears her throat says otherwise.
You hide a smile, threading your arm through hers as you head to the concession stand. She doesn’t argue when you order the jumbo popcorn, just pays for it and hands it over like she planned it that way.
By the time you find your seats in the darkened theatre, previews already rolling, she’s sprawled into the chair beside youl, jacket folded neatly over her lap.
“This is nothing,” she mutters under her breath as the lights dim further. “I’ve lived through faculty meetings. Nothing’s scarier than a tenure review.”
You snort, sipping your soda. “You’re a terrible liar.”
“I am not.” She takes a handful of popcorn, eyes flicking to the screen a second too quickly as the opening credits roll over a dimly lit house and a low, ominous score.
When the first jump scare hits, a sudden shriek of violins accompanied by a figure lunging across the screen, Agatha jolts in her seat, her hand flying to the armrest.
You smirk into your soda straw. “Not scared, huh?”
“Shut up,” she mutters, her hand sliding deliberately over yours on the shared armrest. “Just making sure you’re not scared.”
You squeeze her fingers, hiding your grin as the movie swallows the both of you in shadow and sound.
On screen, the camera glides through a dark, empty house. An ominous score swells and you know what’s coming. The second scare comes sharply, a figure slamming past the window with a crash of strings. The whole audience gasps. Agatha, too. You bite your lip, smothering a smile.
She leans sideways, voice low and dry. “Don’t you dare say a word.”
“I wasn’t going to,” you whisper back, eyes glinting.
“Uh huh.” She crunches a kernel like she’s proving a point, then focuses her gaze stubbornly on the screen.
But the movie doesn’t let up. A long stretch of silence, a door creaking slowly open on its own. Agatha tilts her chin, like she’s not fazed at all.
And then a hand shoots out of the dark to grab the protagonist’s shoulder.
Agatha jumps.
This time it’s not subtle, her hand shoots across the armrest and latches onto your thigh before she can stop herself. Her nails dig through the fabric of your dress, and you bite back a gasp more from the suddenness than the pressure.
Slowly, you glance at her. Her eyes stay glued to the screen, jaw tight, like if she ignores you, it didn’t happen.
“You okay?” you murmur, lips quirking.
She exhales through her nose. “Perfectly fine. Just making sure you’re safe.”
“I feel very safe,” you whisper, giggling.
Her hand doesn’t move, though. If anything, her thumb strokes once over your thigh like she’s soothing herself.
The film spirals darker. After every scare Agatha stiffens a little, shoulders tightening under her silk blouse. She keeps up the bravado, muttering dry little comments like “oh yes, by all means go into the basement, that’s clever” but every loud sting in the score makes her jump again, her hand squeezing your thigh tighter.
At one point, the protagonist creeps toward a closet, the camera closing in on the knob twisting slowly. The theatre goes dead silent. You can feel Agatha holding her breath next to you, her grip iron tight. The door bursts open with a shriek of violins and Agatha actually yelps under her breath.
You press your fist to your mouth to keep from laughing out loud.
Her head whips toward you, eyes narrowing in the glow of the screen. “Not. A. Word.”
You lean in, whispering so close your lips brush her ear. “You’re so brave.”
She smirks, but her ears are pink.
By the time the third act rolls in, full of bloodied survivors running through shadowy corridors, monsters lunging from every corner, she’s flinching in her seat, her arm now solidly around your shoulders under the guise of keeping you safe.
When the credits finally roll, the lights starting to come up, Agatha exhales like she’s been holding her breath for two hours straight. She shakes her head, smoothing her hair back into place, trying to look casual.
“Well,” she says, voice a touch higher than usual. “That was… interesting.”
“Totally.” You grin at her, eyes sparkling.
She narrows her eyes, lips twitching. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”
“Maybe.”
She sighs theatrically, standing and stretching her arms over her head, blouse riding up just enough to make you blush. “Fine. Next time, I pick the movie.”
“You promised me selfcare!”
Her grin returns, sly and sharp. “Exactly. And selfcare means no more demon closets.”
You laugh, trailing after her as she leads the way out of the theatre, her hand sneaking back into yours as the crowd spills into the neon lit lobby.
The crowd spills out into the night, chatter buzzing with nervous laughter and retellings of the scariest bits. The neon from the marquee paints everything in red and blue stripes, slicked across the wet pavement.
Agatha slips her hand into yours as you step down the curb together, her grip firm, like she’s still recovering from the film.
“How,” she says, voice low and incredulous, “do you enjoy that shit?”
You laugh, the sound spilling out before you can stop it, shoulders shaking. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” she throws her free hand up dramatically, “two hours of jump scares and bloody shadows, and you’re just sitting there, sipping your soda like it’s a Sunday matinee.”
You grin, bumping your shoulder against hers as you walk. “I’ve always loved horror movies. Even as a kid. I used to sneak them on late night TV when my mom thought I was asleep.”
“Of course you did,” she mutters, smirking sideways at you. “Creepy little thing.”
“Hey.” You giggle, pretending to pout.
She squeezes your hand. “Cute creepy,” she amends, the smirk widening.
By the time you reach the car, the rain’s thinned to a mist, dampening your hair. She presses the key fob, the lights flashing, and opens the drivers door for you with a little flourish. You roll your eyes but climb in, still smiling.
When she settles into the passengers seat, adjusting the mirrors with a casual flick, she glances over at you, lips curving into something slower, heavier. “Back to mine, baby?”
You gasp theatrically, pressing a hand to your chest. “Agatha Harkness. Are you suggesting I put out on the first date?”
She barks a laugh, throwing her head back against the headrest. “Oh, sweetheart.” Her hand slides deliberately onto your thigh again, this time with no flinch from you. “That was always the plan.”
You giggle, turning the ignition, the car purring to life beneath you both as she eases it out of the lot.
The engine hums low as you pull out of the lot, headlights cutting across wet asphalt. Inside the car it’s quiet, just the swish of the wipers, the muted thrum of tires on slick road.
“So,” she drawls after a beat, “did you have fun tormenting me, babygirl? Sitting there watching me jump out of my skin?”
You stifle a giggle. “Maybe a little.”
She side eyes you, smirk tugging at her lips. “You’re cruel. I like it.”
You take one hand off the wheel to hit her arm lightly, pretending to pout. “I wasn’t cruel! I was supportive.”
“Supportive,” she repeats, amused. “Is that what you call smirking every time that I jumped in my seat?”
You can’t help giggling outright now, shoulders shaking. “You were so brave, though.”
“Brave?” she scoffs, squeezing your thigh just enough to make you squirm. “Baby, I nearly threw the popcorn at the poor bastard sitting in front of us.”
You bite your lip, grinning at the windshield. “I’d still go to another one with you.”
Her smirk softens into something warmer, “yeah?”
“Yeah,” you say, quieter.
There’s a pause before she murmurs, “Good because like taking you out. Even if it’s to a fucking haunted house.”
The car hums on through the wet streets, streetlights flashing across her profile. Every now and then, her thumb strokes idle patterns against your thigh, like she’s not even aware she’s doing it.
“So…” you start, smirking. “What exactly are your intentions with me tonight, Professor Harkness?”
Her smirk returns, slow and dangerous. “Oh, sweetheart. My intention is to get you back to mine, pour you a drink, and see how long it takes you to climb into my lap.”
You gasp, half laughing, half flustered. “You can’t just say things like that while I’m driving!”
She chuckles, low and pleased with herself, leaning back in her seat. “Consider it motivation.”
Your breath catches. The light turns green, but you barely notice, you’re too busy stealing a glance at her, heat crawling up your neck.
“Eyes forward,” she teases, voice like velvet.
You swallow hard, forcing your gaze back to the road, but your pulse is a drumbeat in your ears. The car hums on, block after block bringing you closer to her place, the tension tightening like a bowstring.
By the time you pull into her street, your hands ache from gripping the wheel. You slide into the curb, kill the engine, and before you can even draw a steady breath, she’s leaning in.
Her mouth crashes against yours, hot and insistent. You whimper into the kiss, your hands flying to her shoulders. She pulls you over the console, her fingers already tangling in your hair, kissing you like she’s been starving for it.
You gasp against her mouth, and she takes advantage, deepening the kiss, her tongue stroking yours greedily. Her other hand fists in the hem of your dress, tugging you closer.
“Been waiting all night for this,” she growls against your lips, kissing you harder, her teeth catching your bottom lip just enough to make you moan.
Your breath comes fast, fogging the windows, your body melting against hers as the kiss turns hungrier, the whole world shrinking to the heat of her mouth and the steady grip of her hands.
You whimper when she drags you fully over the console, the gearshift digging into your thigh as you straddle her lap. You don’t care, her hands are everywhere, one cradling the back of your skull, the other gripping your hip tight enough to bruise.
“Fuck, babygirl…” she groans against your mouth, kissing you harder, open and hungry. “You’re killing me.”
You tug at her jacket, fists clutching the silk of her blouse underneath, kissing her back with everything you’ve got. The need floods hot through your veins, sparking at every point of contact.
Her mouth leaves yours only to trail down your jaw, her teeth grazing your throat as she licks and sucks there, messy and possessive. You gasp, nails digging into her shoulders.
“Mine,” she mutters into your skin, voice ragged. “All mine.”
Your hips roll helplessly against hers, and she groans, bucking up just enough to make you gasp. The car rocks faintly with the movement, the leather seat creaking under you both.
Your kiss turns frantic again, teeth clashing, tongues sliding, the two of you breathing like you can’t get enough air unless it’s from each other.
You break only long enough to whisper, “Agatha,” your voice shaking with it, “please don’t stop.”
Her hand fists tighter in your hair, pulling your head back so she can kiss you deep and filthy, like she’s trying to devour you whole.
The windows are nothing but mist now, the whole car swallowed in your heat, your panting, and the desperate sound of her kissing you like she’s not letting you go.
You moan when her hand slides up the back of your thigh, fingers pressing into bare skin. “Agatha…” comes out as a whimper, broken and needy.
“Mhm,” she hums against your throat, teeth catching your pulse. “Tell me what you want, babygirl.”
“I-” your words scatter when she rocks up against you, the friction sparking heat through your whole body. “I want… god, I just want you.”
That earns you a low, guttural laugh. “Already have me baby.” She kisses you again. “Always.”
Her hand inches higher, skimming dangerously close to where you need her most. Your hips buck, desperate, and she groans into your mouth like she’s the one falling apart.
The seat squeaks, the car rocks faintly, her breath hot and heavy as she mutters, “You feel so fucking good in my lap… could take you right here, couldn’t I? Fuck you until the car shakes.”
You whimper, clinging to her shoulders, dizzy with need. The heat between you both is unbearable, every kiss frantic, every touch like she’s staking claim all over your body.
Then she stills, forehead pressed to yours, both of you panting. Her fingers flex on your thigh, achingly close.
“As much as I’d love to ruin you right here,” she rasps, eyes dark and wild in the dim light, “you deserve a bed where I can take my time.”
You whine, hips rolling helplessly against hers, but she just smirks, kissing you soft and slow now, a cruel contrast to how desperate it’s been.
“Don’t worry, babygirl,” she murmurs against your lips. “We’re not stopping. Just relocating.”
Her hand slides back to your hip, steadying you as she helps ease you off her lap, both of you flushed and panting in the fogged up car.
By the time you stumble into her apartment, your cheeks are still flushed, lips swollen from the car. You kick your boots off half blind, her mouth still chasing yours as she shrugs out of her jacket and tosses it somewhere.
She’s tugging you toward the bedroom when her phone buzzes against the counter, a vibration so insistent it doesn’t stop. Then again. And again. The screen lights up: 12 missed calls. Rio.
Agatha freezes, her hand still curled around your wrist. “Shit.”
You blink, heart still racing, the heat of the makeout still buzzing under your skin, but the tone in her voice slices right through it.
She snatches up the phone, thumb swiping across the screen. It barely rings once before Rio’s voice bursts through, tinny and frantic. You can hear enough to piece together that Nicky’s sick, feverish, and inconsolable, crying for his mother. Rio’s frazzled, her voice clipped with panic.
Agatha’s whole posture changes, shoulders stiffening, face sharp with focus. “I’ll come get him,” she says quickly, already moving, hunting for her keys. “Just keep him cool, I’ll be there in twenty tops.”
She hangs up, shoving her phone into her pocket, muttering, “Goddammit.”
You step closer, touching her arm. “Let me drive.”
Her head snaps up, eyes flashing. “You don’t-”
“You’re too upset to focus on the road,” you remind her gently. “And Rio already knows about us. It won’t make a difference if I’m the one behind the wheel.”
For a moment she just stares at you, jaw tight, breathing heavy through her nose. Then she exhales sharply, shoulders sagging. “Alright.”
You squeeze her arm once, steadying her. “Go grab what you need for him. I’ll get the car.”
She nods, still rattled but grateful, and you turn for the door, the urgency of the night flipping from hungry kisses to something far more fragile, getting to Nicky.
The city blurs past in streaks of neon and wet asphalt, wipers beating fast across the glass. Your hands grip the wheel tighter than usual, every muscle in your shoulders strung taut with the weight of the moment.
Beside you, Agatha is nothing like the composed, teasing woman from the theatre. She’s wound tight, knee bouncing, fingers tapping restless patterns against her thigh. Her phone sits face up in her lap, screen dark now but still heavy with the weight of those missed calls.
“Shit,” she mutters under her breath, more to herself than to you. “He sounded bad. He hardly ever sounds that bad.”
You glance over briefly, heart twisting at the sight of her. “Kids get sick,” you say carefully. “It doesn’t mean-”
“It does with him,” she cuts in, sharper than she means to. She drags a hand through her hair, sighing hard. “He’s always been… fragile. Even as a baby. The asthma, the infections, the nights I was up with him every hour.” Her voice cracks but she swallows against it. “Every time he so much as coughs, I hear it all over again. Him tiny, gasping, hooked up to those fucking machines.”
You bite your lip, eyes flicking from the road to her profile. The streetlights catch the tightness around her eyes, the way her jaw works like she’s trying not to cry.
Your hand slips from the wheel just long enough to brush her knee, steady and grounding. “He’s not that tiny anymore,” you murmur. “He’s bigger and stronger. And you’re already on your way to him.”
Her hand finds yours fast, gripping like a lifeline. “I just hate how fast it all comes back.”
You squeeze her fingers, the hum of the car wrapping around your silence. Rain spatters harder against the windshield, and she leans her head back, eyes closing, still holding onto you.
The road stretches ahead, but all you can think is getting her to her son and keeping her steady until she’s there.
You pull into Rio’s drive, the porch light a soft yellow against the rain. Before you’ve even shifted the car into park, Agatha’s unbuckled and out the door, heels clicking up the path in a near run. You stay put, hands locked on the wheel, heart thudding as you watch her disappear inside.
Through the rain blurred glass, the scene unfolds. Rio opens the door, hair mussed, wearing an oversized sweater. She looks frazzled and pale and the second Agatha steps in, Nicky is already there, flushed and teary, reaching for her. Agatha scoops him up without hesitation, murmuring against his damp curls, rocking him close.
You can’t hear through the car windows, but you can see Rio talking, the sharp gestures of her hands, the way she leans in close. Agatha shifts Nicky on her hip, answering clipped, then starts for the door again. Rio blocks her path.
You crack the window, just enough for voices to filter in over the rain.
“Stay,” Rio urges, her voice low but edged with something fierce. “He needs his mother here. Just stay the night.”
Agatha shakes her head, calm but firm. “No. He needs to be comfortable in his own bed. I’ll take him home.”
Rio’s tone sharpens. “It’s his home here too.”
Agatha exhales through her nose, jaw tight. “Y/N’s in the car. We’ll go back together.”
The name lands like a slap. Rio’s posture stiffens, her arms folding, her mouth curling. “Of course. Her.” The word drips venom.
Agatha adjusts Nicky against her shoulder, protective. “Don’t start, Rio.”
“I’m not starting,” Rio snaps back, voice rising. “I just don’t understand why she has to be involved in everything. She’s the babysitter, Agatha. She’s not family.”
Your stomach twists at the words, heat crawling up your neck even as you sink lower in your seat.
Agatha’s eyes flash, steel behind them. “She’s mine,” she says simply, quiet but razor sharp. “And she’s here. End of story.”
Rio bristles, lips parting like she wants to lash out more, but Nicky whimpers against Agatha’s chest, and the fight drains into a hissed sigh. She steps aside, jerking her chin toward the door. “Fine. Go.”
Agatha doesn’t wait another beat, she tightens her hold on Nicky, presses a kiss to his hot forehead, and sweeps back out into the rain toward the car.
The passenger door swings open hard enough to rattle the hinges, and then she’s climbing in, rain streaking her hair, Nicky clutched tight against her chest. He’s whimpering, little fists knotted in her blouse, his face blotchy and damp from crying.
Agatha doesn’t even glance at the front seat. She shifts straight into the back, settling against the leather with Nicky curled into her, murmuring low in his ear.
You turn in your seat, heart tugging at the sight of them. “Both of you stay in the back. I’ll get us home.”
Her eyes flick up to yours, gratitude breaking through the storm in them, and she just nods. Nicky’s too far gone to notice, he’s burrowed against her shoulder, trembling and whimpering, his breaths hitching like he can’t quite calm down.
Agatha rocks him gently, her cheek pressed against his curls, whispering soft comforts only he can hear. Her hand rubs slow circles between his shoulder blades, her whole body curved around him like a shield.
The car fills with his small, uneven sounds, the shudder of his breath, the occasional broken “Mama” against her neck.
Agatha hums softly, kissing his temple again and again, eyes closing as she holds him tighter. The steel you saw in her face at Rio’s is gone now, replaced with pure, aching love for her boy.
You keep your eyes on the road, hands steady on the wheel, giving them that cocoon of space. The quiet hum of the engine blends with her soft murmurs and the sound of Nicky’s clinging little breaths. He hasn’t let go of Agatha, tiny fists still fisted in her blouse, his face pressed wet and hot into her neck.
You ease into her drive and kill the engine. For a moment, none of you move. Agatha strokes her hand over his back, pressing another kiss into his curls, whispering so softly you can’t quite catch the words.
Then you twist in your seat, catching her eyes in the dim glow of the streetlight. “Go take care of him,” you murmur. “I’ll come by tomorrow, yeah?”
She blinks, lips parting like she wants to argue, to insist you come in — but then she sees the look on your face. The understanding. The way you’re not asking her to split herself in two, not making her choose between you and the boy trembling in her arms.
Her throat works, and she exhales slowly, relief softening every sharp edge. “God, baby…” Her voice cracks just a little. “You get it.”
You smile, small but sure. “Of course I do.”
She leans forward as much as Nicky will allow, pressing her forehead to yours through the gap between the seats. Her free hand curls at the back of your neck, squeezing gently, her breath warm against your lips.
“Thank you,” she whispers. “For knowing.”
You close your eyes, soaking in the touch, before she pulls back. Nicky whimpers again, and she shifts him higher on her hip, climbing out of the car with the practiced ease of a mother who’s done it a thousand times.
You watch as she disappears inside with him, the door closing behind them. Tomorrow, you’ll come back. Tonight, she belongs to her son.
Whisky Sours and Wine ~ Chapter 3: The Robe Stays On
Whisky Sours and Wine Masterlist
Pairing: Claire Debella x female reader
Summary: Claire had been very careful to keep her fellow disrupters away from you, terrified they would ruin yet another aspect of her life. But nobody says no to Miles, so you find yourself by Claire’s ‘inner circle’ and inner secrets on a luxury week away. What could go wrong?
Word Count: 7.8K
Warnings: none for this one! But smut will be back next chapter so as always MDNI xo
A/N: sorry for my absence hopefully I’ll be more regular uploading from now on but this one’s for @agathaspett and the other Claire loving girls xx let me know what you guys wanna see next! Xx
Claire closes the bathroom door behind her and exhales sharply. She leans on the counter a second, palms flat, studying her reflection. She’s still flushed from earlier, your mouth, your cries, your hands in her hair, but now that’s fading under a different heat: the one that prickles just beneath her skin when she remembers who else is going to be at that pool.
Her swimsuit, the one she packed last-minute, barely thinking, clings in all the ways she’s been avoiding lately. The plunge neckline shows the soft swell of her chest, and the ruched middle draws in slightly at her waist, but not enough to hide the way her stomach settles. Her thighs are bare. Her arms aren’t toned like they used to be.
She tugs at the straps, then stops, hands hovering mid-adjustment.
She looks at herself and thinks: I could be her mom. She hears your voice sometimes, playful and breathless, telling her how beautiful she is, how hot, how lucky you are to have her. But right now, she doesn’t feel hot. She feels older. Softer. Covered in the weight of politics and sunscreen and expectation.
Claire ties up her hair with quick fingers, tugging the ends into a low bun. She grabs the complimentary white robe off the hook, wrapping it tight around her. She finishes off her total cover up with a sun visor.
She stares at herself one last time. Wrapped up. Covered. Beige.
She looks like a woman trying to disappear.
Then, you open the door.
“Hey babe, it’s really hot. Do you know if there’s a cover up I can borrow or…?”
She turns and her breath catches.
You’re standing there in your black bikinis all sleek and sharp, a little sheer at the hips. Your body gleams faintly with lotion, the curves of your waist and breasts catching the golden light from the porthole window.
You look young.
Not in a way that shames you, but in a way that shatters her. Because you’re hers. And somehow, so far out of her league it hurts.
You blink. Then tilt your head. “Wait, why are you in a robe?”
Claire clears her throat, defensive before she even speaks. She shrugs, avoiding your eyes. “It’s breezy out there.”
You step closer. “Claire.”
She doesn’t look up.
You slide your hands around her waist, tug the robe a little looser. Your fingers brush her side, soft and warm.
“You look beautiful.”
Claire huffs softly, eyes still not meeting yours. “You have to say that. You’re in love with me.”
You grin, nose brushing hers. “And still I’d say it even if I wasn’t. Because it’s true.”
She flinches.
“Claire.”
“I know, I know,” she mutters, voice brittle. “It’s stupid. It’s not even that revealing. I just… Birdie’s going to be dripping in sequins and nipple glitter, and Whiskey’s got that fitness influencer body and I look like I’m going to check the pools chlorine levels”
“Stop.” You interrupt.
She looks up, startled.
You press your hands to her waist, right over the tie of the robe. You kiss her collarbone. Her shoulder. The dip just beneath her throat.
“You are the sexiest woman I’ve ever seen,” you whisper, voice firm. “Not just on this crazy expensive ship. In the world.”
That makes her laugh, hoarse and unsteady.
“I’m serious,” you murmur, sliding your fingers into the robe belt and gently undoing the knot.
She exhales, eyes softer now as you peel the robe open slowly, letting it fall to the floor. And fuck, you look at her like she’s divine.
That swimsuit clings to her breasts, the neckline plunging low enough to make you ache. Her thighs are soft and perfect. There’s a line at her waist from how she sat earlier, and you kiss it like it’s holy.
“Claire Debella,” you whisper, mouth trailing down her chest. “My powerful, stunning, completely fuckable girlfriend.”
She flushes, laugh catching in her throat.
You look up, smile and whisper against her stomach, “do not make me get on my knees right now just to prove a point.”
She snorts, one hand covering her mouth, the other tangling in your hair.
“You’re a menace,” she murmurs.
You grin up at her. “But I’m your menace.”
You kiss her deep and unhurried and you feel the second she starts to pull back. It’s subtle. A tension at the base of her spine. The shift in her breathing. She eases out of your arms just a little too fast, her hand sliding back to re-tie the robe before the fabric even slips off her shoulder.
You blink, frowning. “Claire c’mon…”
She cuts you off with that voice, the one she uses in meetings, in hotel rooms, behind closed doors when she wants you to be still.
“The robe stays. Okay?”
It’s not cold. But it’s final.
Your brows knit together. You don’t want to let it go, not when she’s so fucking beautiful, not when you can see her hiding. But there’s something about the way she squares her shoulders, the tightness in her jaw, that makes you pause.
So you nod slowly. “Okay.”
She exhaled like she didn’t even know she was holding her breath.
You reach out and take her hand instead, intertwining your fingers through hers.
“I just think…” Your voice is soft now, almost shy. “You’re the prettiest woman I’ve ever seen.”
Claire doesn’t respond right away, just squeezes your hand. Then lifts it to her mouth and kisses your knuckles, slow and reverent, robe fluttering slightly with the motion.
“You’re too young to be that good at saying exactly what I need to hear,” she murmurs, eyes on your fingers.
You smile, but it’s sad around the edges. “You deserve to hear that you’re pretty all the time.”
Claire meets your gaze. And for just a second, behind the cool exterior, behind the robe, the visor, the instinct to shield, you see it. The girl inside the politician. The woman who fought so hard to get here she forgot how to feel beautiful.
You lean forward and kiss her cheek.
Then tap her ass gently through the robe. “C’mon, Councillor. Let’s go get through this pool party.”
Claire chuckles. “Not if you’re wearing that bikini. I’ll never get anything done.”
The pool deck is all white and chrome and glinting glass.
You step onto it with Claire just behind you, one hand resting light but insistent on your lower back. You’ve got her TED Talk tote over your shoulder, your sheer black cover up drifting around your legs. You’re trying so hard not to feel out of place, even as your heart bangs against your ribs like it’s trying to escape.
Claire’s at your side, robe still firmly belted, sun visor shielding her eyes. She walks like she’s going into a press event, not a poolside hangout. You, meanwhile, feel like an underdressed extra on a luxury set piece you didn’t audition for.
Lionel is already poolside, reclining on a sun lounger under an umbrella, tablet in one hand, whisky in the other. He looks up briefly when you approach, gives Claire a small nod, and then gestures to the seat beside him.
“Didn’t think you were a pool girl.”
Claire exhales like she’s been holding her breath since Athens. “I’m not. But Miles insists.”
She sinks down beside him, carefully arranging her robe, legs crossed, visor low. You hover for a moment, unsure whether to sit or wait, before sitting on the empty lounger next to Claire, half listening to them talk about polling data, Miles’s new tech ideas he won’t stop taxing Lionel, and something about the optics of Duke’s twitch streams.
Then you notice Whiskey.
She’s lounging near the pool in a terracotta bikini, drink in hand, golden hair loose down her back. Her legs are long and tanned and glossy, and her eyes are on you.
She doesn’t hide it, not even a little. She gives you a slow up and down, her lips parted with a subtle, appreciative smirk when your cover up shifts with the wind and shows the deep curve of your waist.
Claire sees it as she’s mid sentence with Lionel. And that’s it, without a word, she stands. Lionel barely glances up as she steps around her lounger and comes to you.
“Arms,” she says.
Her voice is low and measured with that tone you know, the one that means do what I say, no questions.
You blink. “Here?”
“Now.”
You lift your arms automatically, eyes wide.
Claire pulls the sunscreen from the tote with one hand and squirts a generous amount into her palm. Then she perches herself on your sun lounger and begins rubbing it into your skin in slow, deliberate strokes down your arms, working it into your shoulders, your forearms, your wrists. Her hands are warm. Strong and claiming.
You glance around. Lionel’s back to his tablet. Duke’s still doing laps. Whiskey, however, is still watching, her expression unreadable now, but her gaze sharp.
Claire doesn’t care. She tugs the sheer fabric up your thigh.
“Legs.”
You hesitate then nod, cheeks pink.
She coats your calves in lotion, then your thighs, slow and thorough, thumbs pressing gently into the soft skin just above your knees.
“Back,” she murmurs.
You shift so she can reach, feeling her hands on your spine, your shoulders, the curve of your lower back. The whole time, she doesn’t speak, doesn’t glance at anyone else. Instead she just focuses on touching you. And when she finishes, she leans in close, mouth brushing the shell of your ear.
“You’re mine, baby,” she murmurs, soft and lethal. “She can look. But she’ll never touch.”
The sun glints hard off the water, bouncing off chrome railings and shimmering across the marble deck. You wipe your palms on your thighs, not from heat, but from nerves, and slide your sunglasses back into place.
Claire is now reclined on her lounger beside Lionel, robe still cinched, legs crossed at the ankle. She’s speaking low, tapping her finger against the side of her glass.
“Any word on when Miles is actually showing up?”
Lionel shrugs. “The man’s never on time. You think he’ll come by heli again?”
“Unless he’s planning a goddamn grand entrance by jetpack, yeah.”
Their tone’s casual, but Claire’s hand never strays far from her drink or from you.
You try to make yourself comfortable on the sun lounger beside hers, adjusting your sheer cover up with one hand, heart beating a little too fast. Maybe if you just sit, stay quiet, don’t draw attention, people will forget you’re even here.
“Uh-uh.” Claire doesn’t even look at you, just reaches out with her hand open, fingers curved in silent command. “On me.”
Lionel doesn’t react, doesn’t even glance your way. But your pulse stutters.
You nod softly and move toward her. Carefully, you ease yourself into her lap, straddling her thighs sideways, your shoulder resting against her chest. She adjusts automatically, one arm slipping around your waist, the other resting back on the armrest like this is normal. You exhale a soft little sound against her collarbone and settle in.
She smells like sunscreen and faint floral deodorant. Her hand presses lightly to your thigh, thumb brushing back and forth.
Lionel’s voice cuts through the heat. “You gonna talk to Birdie about her sweatpants venture?”
Claire hums, uninterested. “I’m sure she’ll find a way to bring it up.”
You smile against her.
Her voice shifts lower, lips near your temple. “Relax, baby. You’re safe.”
You let your fingers curl into the edge of her robe, cheek pressed to her collarbone, eyes slipping shut.
The sound of heels clacking against the deck cuts through the soft murmurs of morning.
You lift your head just in time to see Birdie Jay arrive like she’s storming a runway in a glittering bikini, body oiled to high heaven, sunglasses the size of dinner plates perched on her nose.
The bikini is… aggressively Birdie.
Tiny, sequined triangles, held together by an aggressive number of gold rings and straps that seem designed more for optical illusion than support.
It’s unclear how it’s staying on. But there she is, hips swinging, smile gleaming, voice already too loud.
Behind her, Peg lumbers under a backpack, and two tote bags carrying what looks like a pharmacy’s worth of skincare. She’s in baggy board shorts, a tank top, and a faded bucket hat.
Birdie’s already waving as she approaches.
“Oh my god, Claire!” she calls, voice rising an octave. “You look so cute!”
You stiffen slightly where you’re curled in Claire’s laps. Her arm tightens instinctively around you.
Birdie stops in front of your lounger, oversized cocktail in one hand, the other lifting her sunglasses just enough to scan Claire’s robe, her tied-up hair, and modest one-piece hidden beneath more beige.
“I love how you make an effort.”
Claire doesn’t miss a beat, she lifts her middle finger lazily and smiles.
“Thanks, Bird,” she says dryly. “I figured, you know… yacht.”
Birdie gasps, half mocking, half delighted, and flops dramatically onto the sun lounger next to Claire’s, nearly spilling her drink. Peg mutters something about heatstroke and slinks to a shaded corner near the ice bucket.
You glance up at Claire to find her jaw tightened. She’s reclasping her robe, pulling it tighter around her.
You frown and then you look at Birdie. You take in her glittering bikini, and the smug, sunlit smugness radiating off her.
You tilt your head slightly and blink, voice deadpan. “And you are dressed as…?”
Birdie freezes blinking slowly before throwing her head back and laughing.
“Oh my god,” she says. “You’re funny. She’s funny, Claire!”
Claire exhales a breath, you feel it more than hear it. Her chin dips against your shoulder, her lips brushing your cheek, just for a second.
A thank you, maybe.
You curl tighter in her lap, hand sliding under the edge of her robe, resting on the warm skin of her hip. Protective.
Birdie’s laughter has finally settled into soft hums as she sips her drink, legs stretched out, sunglasses tilted to the sky.
The sun is hotter now, glinting off the pool where Duke floats on his back, humming some awful electronic remix, while Whiskey scrolls through her phone without really looking at it.
You’re still curled in Claire’s lap, but she’s more upright now, one hand scrolling rapidly through her inbox on her work phone, eyes narrowed behind her visor. Her other hand rests lightly on your thigh. She’s still touching you, still present. But less… there.
It’s Lionel who breaks the silence. He exhales and glances around the pool deck with a tired kind of smile.
“Guess the band’s back together.”
No one answers at first.
Then Birdie leans up on one elbow, swirling the ice in her glass. Her gold bangles clink. “Well… apart from, you know.”
Her tone is airy and dismissive. But the words hang.
You blink and look up at Claire.
She doesn’t react, just keeps scrolling, only it’s faster now.
You shift slightly in her lap, lifting your head. “Who?”
She still doesn’t look at you. Instead she leans down and kisses your hair and murmurs, “shh, baby,” like you’re being sweet but silly. Her fingers tighten gently around your thigh. “Don’t worry about it.”
And she’s back to her phone before you can say anything else.
You sit there, heart beating just slightly faster. You’re not sure why it hurts, not sure why it feels like a door just closed in your face.
Claire’s still holding you, still anchored to you. But she’s somewhere else.
And you’re left blinking in the quiet, wondering who the hell this mystery uninvited guest is and why no one will say their name.
The beat hits before you see it.
It’s faint at first, a pulsing, thudding baseline threading through the sea breeze. But then it swells, louder and louder, until every head on the deck is tilting upward.
The Red Hot Chili Peppers.
Singing something about California, sun drenched skin and too much ego.
You squint against the sun.
Above, a sleek silver helicopter cuts through the blue sky, blades whipping the air into a frenzy. It’s descending fast with absolutely no subtlety.
The poolside is suddenly alive with movement: Lionel sits up, sighing like he’s aged ten years, Duke whoops and pumps a fist, Birdie shields her eyes with a manicured hand and shouts something giddy, even Whiskey slips her phone away, suddenly alert.
Claire stiffens beneath you.
Her hand clenches slightly on your hip, not enough to hurt, just enough to warn.
The wind hits a second later, kicking up towels and whipping Birdie’s curls across her face. You grab the edge of Claire’s robe instinctively, shielding your eyes as the rotor wash batters the deck.
The helicopter lands hard on the helipad above, music still blaring.
And then the door swings open.
Miles Bron steps out like he’s just invented air travel.
He’s wearing a white linen shirt with half the buttons undone, tight navy shorts, and mirrored sunglasses that reflect everything beneath him. A scarf is draped loosely around his neck, useless and theatrical, and he’s grinning like a man who’s never been told no in his life.
“HELLOOOOO, my Disruptors!” he booms, arms flung wide.
The music cuts out with a dramatic pause, as if on cue.
You stare. Still in Claire’s lap, wind swept and wide eyed, your first thought is that this guy is an egotistical dick.
The wind has barely settled when Miles descends from the helipad like he owns the fucking sun. He moves towards the group effortlessly, all teeth and golden charisma, doling out hugs and greetings.
Birdie squeals when he reaches her, flinging her arms around his neck, one leg lifted dramatically like a movie star from the fifties.
“Miles, baby, you look so tanned. Is that natural or are you finally using that tanning spray I told you about now?”
He laughs like she’s hilarious, kissing both her cheeks. “I missed you, Bird. The energy’s never right without you.”
“Damn straight it’s not.”
Peg offers a stiff nod from behind her sunglasses. Miles ignores it.
Lionel gets a warm clap on the back. A murmur about “brilliance can’t stay at work forever, huh?” before moving on without waiting for a response.
Duke gets a full bear hug, slapping backs like they’re old frat brothers.
And then this attention finally lands on Whiskey.
“Oh, Whisk.” He draws her in slowly, a hand low on her back, fingers just brushing the exposed skin above her bikini. His voice drops into something oily, private. “You look incredible.”
She giggles. “You always say that.”
“And I always mean it.”
His hands linger on her waist just a second too long before he finally lets go.
You raise an eyebrow.
Claire doesn’t move. But you can feel her shift slightly behind you, her muscles coiling tighter.
Then it’s your turn. He turns to you, spreading his arms wide like you’re an old friend.
“And you,” he says, beaming, “must be the writer.”
You stiffen as he pulls you into a hug before you can respond, warm and enthusiastic, one arm around your back, the other high on your shoulder.
“I’m so glad you could come,” he murmurs, just near your ear. “Seriously. I love your work. Huge fan.”
He pulls back to look at you, hands still on your arms, and his smile is just a little too perfect. A little too sharp.
Your skin crawls.
“Thank you,” you say, voice even and measured.
Claire is on her feet a second later.
She’s calm, but not casual. She places one hand on your hip, the other brushing your lower back, placing herself between you and him with a practiced smoothness.
“Miles,” she says, tone bright but brittle. “We were just getting settled.”
He smiles wider. “I can see that.”
Then he turns and strides toward the champagne waiting on ice, sunglasses catching the sun, already barking a joke at Duke.
You don’t move.
Claire doesn’t speak, but her hand stays tight on your back. You feel her breath at your neck, sharp and low.
“I didn’t like that,” she says.
Neither did you.
The champagne is poured.
The yacht hums with soft music and low chatter, sea breeze fluttering napkins and loose cover ups, and for a brief moment things almost feel normal.
Miles Bron takes off his shirt. It happens fast with a practiced tug over the head, tossed aside like a showman revealing something to behold. His chest is tanned to a suspicious level, hairless and oiled.
He lifts a flute of champagne and climbs up onto one of the low steps near the hot tub, standing barefoot and beaming, the late afternoon sun painting him gold like a cursed idol.
“My Disruptors!” he announces, arms wide like Christ on the bow of a tech yacht.
Peg mutters something that sounds like ‘Jesus Christ’, but it’s lost under the sudden silence as everyone turns.
Miles grins. “My inner circle! My brilliant, bold, beautiful friends. I am so glad you’re all here.”
He lifts his glass.
“This week, this legendary week, is about us. About connection. About remembering who we are. Who we’ve always been. Because this? This group? It’s magic.”
You glance around to see that Birdie’s already clapping. Duke lifts his beer in cheers, Whiskey flips her hair and murmurs something appreciative.
Claire’s jaw is tight, her robe is still wrapped around her like armor, her hand warm on your thigh.
“We’ve grown,” Miles continues. “We’ve changed. But the beauty of it is that we continue to disrupt. We evolve. But at our core? We’re the same. Still the same brilliant minds. Still the same family.”
And halfway through the word family, it hits you like a wave of overpriced cologne that the man is in love with the sound of his own voice. You shift slightly, trying not to laugh, but Claire notices. Her hand tightens, amused despite herself.
“I love you all,” Miles says, raising his glass again. “Let’s make this week unforgettable.”
He drinks to applause again. It’s lighter this time, uncomfortable. Too many eyes shift toward the champagne, the water, anywhere but Miles.
You lean closer to Claire and murmur, “do we clap again, or is there another round of speeches to come?”
She snorts quietly and presses a kiss to your temple.
“I love you,” she says, voice low, wry. “Please don’t find yourself alone with him.”
“There is no amount of money in the world to make that happen, baby.” You kiss her shoulder, smirking.
After his little messiah on the sundeck moment, Miles finally settles himself into one of the massive white poolside loungers, sunglasses perched atop his head like a crown. He lifts another glass of champagne and stretches out obnoxiously.
“So,” he says, clapping his hands once. “Here’s the vibe. We relax, we reconnect, we drink absurdly expensive cocktails by the pool,” he gestures grandly to the bar cart, as if he personally wheeled it aboard, “and dinner is at eight. No stress, just good company and good food. Sound good?”
General nods and murmurs of assent ripple around the group.
Claire doesn’t speak, her mouth is sealed tight in a practiced smile. You can feel the subtle tension in the arm she’s got wrapped around you.
Then, from across the deck, Whiskey rises. She adjusts her swimsuit strap, flips her hair, and walks purposefully over to Miles and sits beside him. It’s close enough that their knees brush.
You watch as she leans in slightly, fingers trailing over the edge of her glass, lips pursed in a curious pout.
“What are we having tonight?” she asks, her voice feather light, her gaze sparkling.
Miles grins. “I’ve hired the same chef that cooked my meal for Valentine’s.”
Whiskey giggles all bright and breezy and you swear to god you see her hand graze his thigh.
You raise an eyebrow. Claire sees it too. You feel the faint twitch of her leg beneath yours, but she says nothing.
You lean in, voice low. “Are they…?”
Claire exhales through her nose. “Don’t ask.”
You glance back over. Whiskey’s twirling the stem of her glass now, laughing at something Miles is saying. His hand is resting on the back of her chair, pinky nearly brushing her shoulder. They look… comfortable. Too comfortable.
You frown because now you’re not just watching Miles play host, you’re watching a dynamic unfold. A transaction. Something old and rotten dressed up in lip gloss and white linens.
“How is she so interested in what he has to say?” You murmur again, quieter this time.
Claire’s lips twitch. “She’s a very curious girl.”
And then she pulls you tighter against her, your bare thigh sliding over hers, her hand smoothing down your side, slow and possessive. You let her hold you, but your eyes don’t leave Whiskey.
The conversation drifts, the group scattering like birds. Peg’s halfway asleep under her hat. Duke and Birdie are already debating whether tequila belongs in a Cuban breeze. Whiskey’s still posted beside Miles, voice syrupy and bright.
Claire’s talking to Lionel. They’re leaned in close, voices low, the familiar rhythm of old friends slipping into shared code, scientific research, politics, debt ceilings, something about transportation funding.
You glance between them and your drink.
No one’s talking to you so you slip off Claire’s lounger, lift your sheer cover up off your body, and head to the pool.
The water’s warm, unnaturally so, and clear as glass. You sink in slowly, letting it rise over your chest, your arms, your collarbone. The black bikini hugs your skin, slick and sharp in contrast to the white stone deck.
You drift toward the center, eyes closing briefly as you tilt your head back to wet your hair.
For a moment, it’s quiet.
Until you feel eyes on you. You open yours slowly.
Across the pool, Miles is watching you. He’s still seated on his lounger, champagne glass in hand. Whiskey is sitting beside him but his gaze is not on her. It’s on you. Not in an overt, sleazy way, not obvious enough to call out. But that’s what makes it worse. It’s clinical. Like he’s… assessing.
You meet his gaze and hold it.
His answering smile is slow and pleased as if your attention confirms something for him.
You feel your stomach twist.
And then behind you, you hear the sound of shifting fabric paired with a sharp inhale.
Claire.
You turn slightly in the water, just enough to see her, still in her robe, her sunglasses tilted down just enough to show her eyes. And they’re locked on Miles.
Lionel’s still talking beside her, oblivious. But Claire’s no longer listening, instead she’s watching you float alone in the pool with Miles Bron watching you. She doesn’t speak but her jaw tightens, her hand curling into a fist by her side.
“C’mere a second?” His voice isn’t loud, but it carries. Miles lifts a hand in a casual little wave, fingers curling like you’re a dog he’s summoning.
Your eyebrow ticks up.
Across the pool, Claire still sits beside Lionel, jaw taut beneath her sunglasses, unreadable.
But you’re not one to be summoned.
So you rise, water cascading off your skin as you move towards the deeper end of the pool where Miles is sitting next to his acoustic guitar. Whiskey has already slipped away back to Duke’s side, rolling her eyes at something Birdie yells across the deck.
Miles is alone when you reach him.
“Having fun?” he asks, like you’re already old friends.
You tilt your head. “Still figuring out the dynamics.”
He chuckles. “That’s fair. We’re a… unique bunch.”
“You don’t say.”
He grins, all teeth, charming on the surface. But his eyes are calculating.
“I meant what I said, by the way,” he says, reaching for his glass. “Your writing? Incredible. The pacing, the tone, the way you build dread… it’s delicious.”
You blink.
Delicious?
He sips, watching your face as he swallows.
“Thanks,” you say, an eyebrow raised in suspicion. “Not everyone enjoys dread.”
“Oh, I do. Especially when it’s that controlled.” He leans in slightly, lowering his voice. “See, chaos gets all the credit, but control? That’s the real art.”
You keep your expression blank.
He smiles wider, like he’s winning.
“I’ve read all of your books, by the way,” he adds. “Even the older stuff. The really twisted one with the siblings.”
Your pulse stirs.
That book is out of print.
“Impressive,” you murmur.
“Not really,” he says. “I like to know things. Especially when they concern my guests.”
You stare at him. He stares back, his expression smooth and unblinking, until the silence threatens to curdle.
Then his voice drops. “Claire keeps her secrets close. But not quite close enough.”
That’s it.
That’s the slip. The threat under the compliment. The hand on the back of your neck disguised as flattery.
“And what do you know about Claire’s secrets?” You raise an eyebrow, your voice prickly.
“Hey man,” he says lightly. “Didn’t mean to stir anything.”
You tilt your head. “Is that what you think you’re doing?”
He grins. “I’m just talking to a brilliant writer. Is that a crime now?”
You fold your arms loosely on the poolside, bare skin still warm from the pool.
“What was with the invitation?” you ask. “It wasn’t exactly subtle.”
Miles leans back on his lounger, arms stretching wide like a satisfied cat. “Claire’s one of my oldest friends. And I thought it was time her real life joined the rest of us. You shouldn’t have to hide. Not from this group.”
You blink.
That almost sounds…
Kind.
He smiles. “Besides, as I said I’m a huge fan. I brought your last book on this trip actually. Cicada Night. That shit was haunting. You’ll sign it for me later, yeah?”
You nod once, slowly. He doesn’t wait for more.
“I mean,” he shrugs, pretending to be humble, “it just felt wrong. Her sneaking off to be with someone she clearly cares about? You should be here. You’re part of her life.”
You study him. His face is open. Pleasant. Too pleasant.
“So this is you… doing the right thing?” you ask.
“Isn’t it?” he says.
You say nothing.
And that’s when he leans forward, his eyes sharper now.
“Must be hard, though,” he murmurs.
You stiffen slightly.
He notices.
“Being the secret,” he says. “The hidden girl. Especially with someone like Claire: public life, press schedules, donor dinners. There’s always gonna be another election. Another reason not to tell.”
You look at him. And for just a second, your throat tightens. Because it’s not like he’s wrong. You’ve heard those lines. Not yet. Not right now. Just wait a little longer. You’ve spent birthdays eating takeout in your apartment while she gives speeches two towns over, smiling next to people who don’t know you exist.
And he sees it. Miles fucking Bron sees that flicker of pain and he smiles.
“I’m just saying,” he adds, gentler now, “everyone deserves to be seen.”
He sips his champagne and you force yourself to smile.
You hold his gaze and when you speak, your voice is steady.
“You did all this just to help Claire be honest?”
He shrugs, pretending modesty. “I care about my friends. I want to see them happy.”
“Right,” you smile wryly. “Because you’re just that generous.”
His smirk falters for a split second but you don’t flinch. You just lean back into the water, let your eyes drift back toward the sea, and pretend you don’t feel Claire’s gaze still burning from across the pool.
The water laps gently at your ribs, warm and silent now that the noise has faded. You watch Miles rise from his lounger, always theatrical, always moving like someone is filming him, and he tips his drink toward you.
“Kombucha?” he offers, tone breezy. “It’s Jared Leto’s small batch. Sea salt and rhubarb.”
You give him a polite smile. “I’m good, thanks.”
He holds your gaze for just a second too long, then shrugs and turns toward the makeshift bar at the edge of the deck, whistling as he walks with an air of satisfaction.
You feel her before you see her.
Claire’s arms glide around your waist as she steps into the pool behind you, pulling you gently against her chest, the fabric of her beige swimsuit slick and clinging beneath the water. Her cheek rests against your temple.
“Hey,” she murmurs, voice low.
You smile and let your eyes flutter closed for a second as her hands settle on your stomach, her thumbs tracing slow, absent minded circles.
She’s tense in her jaw and shoulders, but her touch remains soft.
You tilt your head, just enough to see her.
“Hey,” you whisper back, voice light. “You good?”
Her eyes flick briefly toward the bar where Miles leans, grinning to himself, pouring his drink like he’s already ten steps ahead of everyone.
Claire’s jaw ticks but she doesn’t answer. She just brings one hand up to cup your cheek, fingers tangling into your damp hair.
And then you kiss her. A real kiss, your mouth on hers, water curling around you both, the world quieting for just a moment. Her hand anchors you there. You can feel the tension start to bleed out of her as her other arm tightens around your waist, pulling you closer.
You don’t care if he’s watching. Because this isn’t some power game to you, this is real love. And that’s something he’ll never understand
You’re still curled against her, the water warm around your thighs and Claire’s hands pressed low on your stomach. The taste of her still lingers on your mouth, and you’re about to go in for another kiss when a voice cuts through the moment.
“Damn,” Duke whistles from across the deck, where he’s towelling off. “You two are, like… hot.”
You blink in shock.
Claire doesn’t. She flips him off without so much as turning around.
Claire sighs and kisses you again, just to make a point.
You giggle softly, turning to face her fully now that Duke’s returned to grunting about his protein intake.
But then you pause, eyebrows scrunching as you squint down at her collarbones.
“Baby,” you murmur, reaching out to trace your fingertip along the faint pink flush blooming beneath the edge of her suit, “you need more sunscreen. You’re burning.”
Claire groans, letting her head fall back with a dramatic sigh. “God. Not the governor of Connecticut being defeated by the Greek sun.”
You smile. “Guess your robe strategy wasn’t bulletproof after all.”
“Traitorous little UV rays.”
You kiss the corner of her mouth. Then, a little quieter, you ask “so what were you and Lionel talking about?”
Claire exhales through her nose, her body tensing slightly as her hands drift from your waist to your hips under the water.
“Work,” she mutters. “Sort of.”
You tilt your head.
She eyes the others, Duke still posturing near the towels, Birdie lounging, Peg zoning out, Miles lost in conversation with Whisky, then turns back to you.
“Lionel’s stressed,” she says. “Miles has him working on some new energy project. Biofuel, something cutting edge. He didn’t say much, but…” She shrugs. “It’s got him on edge.”
You frown. “Edge how?”
Claire’s eyes scan the pool. “He’s twitchier than usual. Said it’s ambitious, even for Miles. And unethical if it goes wrong.”
Your lips press together, uneasy.
“And Lionel’s the kind of guy who cares if it goes wrong,” she adds softly.
You nod, thoughtful.
Claire reaches up to tuck a damp strand of hair behind your ear. “Don’t worry,” she says, even though she’s clearly still worrying. “It’s probably just the usual. Miles talks big. Lionel panics. Rinse, repeat.”
But it doesn’t sit right. Not with how tightly Lionel’s jaw had been set, or with how Miles looked so fucking pleased with himself. And definitely not with how Claire keeps avoiding your eyes when she says ‘don’t worry’.
“Alright, out,” you say, swatting gently at her hip in the water. “You’re not frying on my watch.”
Claire grumbles under her breath, something about ‘solar resilience’, but she lets you tug her toward the pool ladder anyway. The robe’s waiting where she left it, and as soon as she’s shaken the water from her arms, she shrugs back into it like armor, tying the sash with a quick jerk.
She looks… soft, flushed with her hair slicked back, a little less polished than usual.
You grab the sunscreen and her TED Talk tote from beside the lounger, pat the spot in front of you with a firm little bounce.
“Sit.”
“Bossy,” she mutters, but does it anyway, legs crossed in front of you as she settles on the towel.
You tug her robe down, flip the cap open, squirt a dollop into your hand, and start working it gently into the tops of her shoulders, kneading it over that hint of a burn that’s already rising across her pale skin.
Then you hear the buzz of a phone, that horrible work specific hum she pretends not to be attuned to.
You glance over her shoulder to find that Claire’s already got her work phone in hand, eyes narrowed at the screen, thumb scrolling fast as her mouth sets in a familiar hard line.
“Claire,” you groan. “No.”
“Just checking-”
“You said no work.”
“I just need to respond to-”
“You promised.”
She exhales, eyes still fixed to the glowing screen. “It’s the campaign team,” she mutters. “They want to know if I’ll record a quick statement tomorrow morning for-”
“Baby.”
She finally turns her head to face you.
You’re holding the sunscreen bottle in one hand, palm still pressed to her shoulder, frowning.
“You’re in Greece. On a billionaire’s yacht. You’re in a robe.”
“I’m always in a robe at these things.”
“Exactly,” you say, snatching the phone from her gently but firmly and tossing it into her tote bag, away from reach. “That’s what the robe is for. Being off duty.”
Claire raises an eyebrow. “I thought the robe was for hiding my middle aged insecurities while my goth child girlfriend makes me feel like a sex criminal in public.”
You snort.
“Wow,” you mutter. “Sex criminal? Do you want me to bite your thighs in front of everyone?”
Her mouth twitches. “Kind of.”
“Unbelievable.” You chuckle as you reach for more sunscreen.
She sighs, finally leaning back on her hands to let you work.
The phone doesn’t come back out. Not yet at least.
You zone out somewhere between Birdie’s third rant about Twitter being so unfair to public figures and Lionel’s dry commentary on sustainable marketing metrics. Claire’s laughing warmly, hand on Lionel’s arm, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. She’s performing, keeping up appearances.
You watch her for a moment longer, then quietly slip away. No one notices you leave.
The deck bar is gleaming in the afternoon sun, rows of jewel toned liquor bottles catching the light. You lean against the wood, fingers tapping lightly on the counter as you ask for sparkling water.
The sun’s starting to sink a little lower in the sky, turning the pool water gold. You set your empty glass on the bar, tuck your sheer cover up tighter around your body, and exhale slowly. You’ve been here less than a day, and already it feels like you’re trying to breathe through a wall of mirrors.
Behind you, Claire’s laughing at something Lionel’s said. Birdie’s sprawled dramatically on a lounger, performing boredom. Duke’s flexing. Peg is… somewhere.
You reach for another drink.
“Hey.”
You glance to the side to find Whisky’s leaning against the bar next to you, hair damp and curling slightly from the heat. She’s covered her tiny bikini with a looser tank top, but her skin’s still sun kissed and glowing. She offers a small smile, almost shy.
“Figured I’d come say hi for real.”
She’s prettier up close, less curated than she looked earlier by the pool, like the sun and the breeze have melted off the last layer of Instagram polish. Her tank top’s damp along the neckline, blonde strands clinging to her collarbone. She’s holding a glass, condensation already dripping onto her hand.
You blink, then return the smile. “Hi.”
She takes a sip of something pale pink, eyes flicking toward the pool where Duke is still splashing like he’s in an ad.
“They kind of forget we exist, huh?” she says lightly.
You raise an eyebrow. “We?”
Whisky shrugs, glancing over her shoulder. “The girlfriends. The plus ones. The… hot accessories no one bothers to talk to.”
You huff a soft laugh. “Ah… that. Yeah, I’ve noticed.”
She lifts her glass to her lips. “So,” she says, “feeling invisible yet?”
You blink.
She gives a sheepish little smile. “Sorry. Too much too fast?”
“No,” you say, laughing softly. “Just… accurate.”
“Right?” She leans her hip against the bar, eyes flicking toward the pool where Birdie’s loudly talking over Peg and Claire’s got her head bent toward Lionel, face serious. “You spend the whole day next to your partner, and somehow still feel like the plus one of a plus one.”
You hum, watching Claire nod along to something Lionel’s saying. “Is this your first big trip too?”
She sips again. “My second. Last year was Iceland.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Seriously?”
She nods. “Yeah. Volcano spas, a dome hotel, two full days of Birdie trying to order in Icelandic.”
You snort.
Whisky grins. “It was… a lot.”
You glance sideways at her. “Did they treat you like an accessory then too?”
Her smile falters a little as she shrugs. “Pretty much. Birdie hates that I’m younger than her, Peg thinks I’m after Duke’s followers. Lionel won’t even look at me. Claire…” she hesitates, “Claire acts like I’m a walking swimsuit. Not a person.”
You don’t say anything. But she sees something shift in your face, and nods, satisfied.
“Thought you might get it,” she murmurs.
You do, all too well. You hesitate before replying, swirling your drink a little, watching the bubbles fizz and die against the glass.
“I’m sorry about Claire,” you say quietly, glancing up. “She’s not… always like that.”
Whisky smiles, not bitter or biting but tired. “Yeah. She is.”
You start to protest, but she waves a hand gently.
“It’s fine. I get it. I just…” She sighs through her nose, looking out at the pool. “I was actually kind of excited to meet her.”
Your heart tugs. “You were?”
She nods. “I know she’s intense, but I thought she’d at least be a little interested in why I had to say. I’m trying to get into policy, environmental comms, digital advocacy, stuff like that. Not just brand deals. I had this whole thing rehearsed, how I could use my platform for something that actually matters.”
She laughs once, short and small. “Didn’t even get the sentence out. She made a joke about my name and then just… moved on.”
You bite your lip, glancing down. “Yeah. She can be like that.”
Whisky looks at you, eyes narrowing just slightly with curiosity. “And what about you?”
You glance over.
“What do you do?” she asks. “Besides look like the hottest witch who ever lived.”
You bark a quiet laugh, startled. “Jesus.”
She smirks. “Sorry. Had to say it.”
“I’m a writer,” you say, shoulders lifting.
Whisky tilts her head. “Like… fiction?”
“Yeah. Horror, mostly.”
Her eyes widen a little. “Wait. You’re that writer? The…” she snaps her fingers. “The one with the haunted sea town book?”
You blink. “You read that?”
“Yes!” she grins. “My roommate in college was obsessed with it. Kept her light on for a week after finishing it.”
You laugh, genuinely now, surprised. “Oh my god.”
“I’ve been trying to get Duke to audiobook it for months,” Whisky says, then gestures around you. “So this is like, what, your nightmare setting?”
You look at the yacht, at the group and the glittering sea that goes on forever in every direction.
“Honestly,” you say, “it’s starting to feel like a really slow, psychological horror.”
Whisky laughs unguardedly and taps her glass gently against yours. You clink and something eases in your chest.
Whisky’s still smiling when she sets her drink down, leaning lightly on the edge of the bar with her hip. There’s something easier about her now, still flirtatious, still cool, but no longer performing. She’s not trying to impress you, she’s just enjoying talking to someone who doesn’t dismiss her.
“So,” she says, nudging your arm gently with her elbow, “how’d you manage to melt the Ice Queen?”
You blink. “What?”
She grins. “Claire. Senator ‘please don’t touch me unless you have a policy proposal’ Debella. I swear, I’ve seen her smile more today than I did the entire Iceland trip.”
You snort, surprised, and shake your head. “She’s not like that, not really.”
Whisky raises her brows.
You glance over toward the pool, where Claire’s now perched at the edge, deep in conversation with Lionel again, her brows furrowed, robe still wrapped tight around her, one bare thigh peeking out.
“She’s actually… kind of a sap,” you say softly.
Whisky stares at you.
You smile to yourself. “She read my first book before it got picked up by my publisher. She emailed me through my website with her full name, campaign email and everything. Said she couldn’t stop thinking about the ending and wanted to take me out for coffee so she could yell at me in person.”
“No way,” Whisky grins.
You nod. “I thought it was a joke. Or like a very weird prank.”
“But it wasn’t.”
“Nope,” you say, lips quirking. “She showed up in a suit and called me ‘kiddo’ and then spent an hour telling me all the ways she thought the book was secretly a metaphor for generational grief and inherited systems of power. I fell in love with her in, like, eight minutes.”
Whisky’s quiet for a beat. “Wow.”
“She’s not cold,” you add. “She’s just… guarded. Everything about her has to be polished. Precise. She’s under so much pressure all the time.”
Whisky nods slowly. “Yeah. I can see that.”
You look over again.
Claire’s still deep in conversation, but you feel the way her head tilts slightly. You know she’s checking on you without turning. It’s a practiced move, one you’re used to.
“She’s sweet,” you say. “When it’s just us. She’s so sweet, it kills me.”
Whisky smiles again but it’s smaller now. A little sad.
“Must be nice,” she says, and knocks back the rest of her drink.
I will still be writing my little wig fic for Maya but I’ve just been struggling a little with writers block and in general so I’ve just been taking care of myself but I should be updating soon 💜💜
Hi!!! Huge fan!! I love all your works but I’m quite obsessed with your Maya Mason stories. Idk if you l’ve seen the new set pics of our beloved Maya in the wig I’m assuming they’re on location in Venice for the film festival. Could you possibly write a story with Maya and reader in Venice for the festival and just have reader pull that wig off to reveal our favorite brown wavy locks underneath while things are getting a little hot and heavy?
Once again love all of your works!!!! Thank you for sharing your talent! 🩷🩷
Oh my love thank you 💜 and you’re reading my mind! I definitely want to write a wig fix it where reader can tell her marketing mommy to take off the wig, leave the bob look for Patti Lupone and to keep her natural locks as I’m sure we are all wanting to do right now haha xx
It’s only for one episode It’s only for one episode It’s only for one episode It’s only for one episode It’s only for one episode It’s only for one episode It’s only for one episode It’s only for one episode It’s only for one episode It’s only for one episode
