Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

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In the quiet after the storm—in the soft hush that folowed hours of joy and pain, laughter and cries, tiny fists clenching bigger fingers and a miracle wrapped in hospital linens—the room had finally settled into stillness.

The hum of monitors tickled along steadily. The scent of lavender lotion lingered faintly in the air, mingled with something sterile, clean, and somehow sacred. Sunlight streamed lazily through the blinds, illuminating the hospital bed where Rio lay, half-asleep, half-enchanted.

Beside the bed, in the clear-walled bassinet, their daughter dozed—a perfect, curled-up whisper of a girl named Violet. Swaddled in a pale pink blanket with ta floral pattern stitched into its edges, her tiny chest rose and fell with the rhythm of new life. Her impossibly small hand had curled once around Agtha’s pinky finger earlier and hadn’t let go for nearly a full minute. Agatha could still feel the imprint.

Now, she stood at the foot of the bed, one handresting gently on the railing, her thumb brushing unconciously against the cool metal. Her gaze never left Rio—her wife, her warrior, her heart—who had finally let her head fall back against the pillow in an exhaustion that only came after both breaking and remaking the world inside herself.

Ri’s hair was a tousled halo around her flushed face, lips parted slightly, her breathing slow but shallow—sleep tugging her even as her body stayed tuned to the presence of their child. Her eyes were half-lidded but awake, always awake, tracing Violet’s tiny silhouette the way a cartographer might map a newly discovered land. There was awe in her expression still, like she couldn’t quite believe they’d done it, like she might wake up and find it was all a dream.

Just an hour ago, the room had been a symfony of love and noise.

Nicky had returned from a snack break like a bolt of lightning, all limbs and light, his little sneakers thumping against the tile floor, his arms overflowing. In one hand, a crumpled drawing of their family that he’d left in the waiting room during the chaos of Violet’s birth and insisted—urgently, stubbornly—that he had to go back for. In the other, a plastic bag of gummy bears he’d convinced Lilia to buy from the vending machine “just in case the baby likes them already.” He had stormed in with the full energy of his seven years and then, at the sight of Violet - despite having already met her earlier that day -- had gone so still it seemed like the whole world paused with him.

He had climbed onto the chair beside Rio’s bed like it was a cliff face he had to conquer, eyes wide, hands clutching the bassinet’s edge as he leaned forward and whispered,  “She’s still so small.”

And Agatha, standing off to the side then, had pressed her fingers to her lips, trying to keep from crying again.

Lilia had followed behind, slower but no less radiant, her arms now overflowing with soft flannel blankets and tupperware containers and one enormous tote bag that bore, in bold black permanent marker, the words: FOR RIO ONLY OR I WILL HAUNT YOU, that she must have gonee to retrieve in her car. She had leaned over Rio with the tenderness of a lifetime, brushing her daughter’s hair back from her forehead, and kissed her like she had when Rio was sixteen and come back from school with her first broken heart. Then she’d whispered something in Sicilian, low and lyrical and impossible for Agatha to understand—but it made Rio laugh and cry at once, and that was all that mattered.

Even now, the echoesof their voices still lingered in the corners of the room. Like the walls were cradling the memory of first introductions and gummy bear offerings and the word sister being whispered as if it were holy.

Now, at last, everything had gone still.

Rio sighed softly, her hand resting on her stomach where Violet had been only hours ago. Agtha moved closer, slipping her hand in Rio’s with ease, with familiarity, with a kind of reverence she didn’t know she was capable of until this woman gave her a daughter.

“What are you thinking about?” she asked gently, her thumb stroking over Rio’s knuckles.

Rio nodded, her eyes still focused on the bassinet. “I feel like… if I speak too loud, I’ll wake up and find she’s not real.”

Agatha smiled, chuckling slightly.

They stood like that for a moment, wrapped in golden silence and the fragile, glowing enormity of what they had just created.

They had only just left—Lilia and Nicky—stepping out for a quick lunch at the cafeteria, though it had taken a fair bit of gentle negotiation. Lila had to swear on her life that yes, she would bring Nicky back immediately afterward, no detours, no dawdling. Nicky had clutched her hand tightly, glancing back over his shoulder every few steps like he was being sent off to war.

“I don’t want Violet to forget me,” he’d said, deadly serious, his brow furrowed with worry as if his baby sister might forget his face in the time it took to eat a grilled cheese sandwich. Rio had smiled through tears, and Agatha had kissed the top of his head, promising her solemn seven-year-old that no one could ever forget him. Least of all Violet.

Now the room had stilled again.

The click of the door closing behind them left a hush in its waket, heavy with everything that had just happened and everything that was still sinking in. Outside, they could hear the distant rolling hum of carts being pushed down the hallway, the murmur of voices, the faint ding of the elevator—but inside their little room, there was only the steady beep of the monitor, the soft breath of a sleeping baby, and the quiet rhythm of two hearts slowing down together.

Agatha moved from where she’d been standing and walked to the side of the bed, her movements unhurried, as though any sudden shift might disturb the fragile stillness in the air. She reached over and adjusted the blanket draped across Rio’s legs, smoothing it down with the instinctive tenderness of someone who didn’t quite know how to stop touching the person they loved. Her hands lingered on Rio’s shin, then her knee, then finally her arm—like she was reassuring herself this was all real.

“You okay?” she asked softly, brushing a loose strand of hair from Rio’s temple and tukcing it behind her ear with gentleness.

Rio blinked up at her, slow and heavy-lidded. Her face was flushed, her hair a mess, her lips slightly chapped—but she was more beautiful than Agatha had ever seen her. Holy, somehow. Like the aftermath of something divine.

She gave a small nod. “Yeah,” she rasped. Her voice was rough and husky, worn thin from all the pushing and breathing and crying and laughing. She swallowed, then added, “Tired.”

“I bet.” Agatha’s smile was soft. “You did everything.”

Rio let out a breath, almost a laugh, almost a sob, her eyes flicking toward the bassinet again. “But… happy,” she said softly, like she was still surprised by it. “So happy I feel like I might shatter.”

Agatha’s heart twisted. She leaned forward, sitting carefully on the edge of the bed, close enough that their knees touched, their breaths mingled. She took Rio’s hand in both of hers and lifted it to her lips, kissing the back of it and her wedding band.

“Then we’ll shatter together,” she whispered, voice thick. “Piece by piece, if we have to.”

Rio’s fingers curled around hers tightly, and she nodded, her chin trembling. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. They just sat there, holding each other in the quiet. In the golden light. In the afterglow of creation and survival.

Outside the window, the world carried on—cars moving, clouds drifting—but inside this room, time slowed. Stopped. Softened.

Their baby stirred gently into the bassinet, letting out a tiny sigh, and both women looked over at once.

Rio let out a breath like a prayer. “She’s really here.”

Agtaha nodded. “She is.”

“And she’s ours.”

“She always was.”

Their hands stayed clasped, resting against Rio’s stomach. One heartbeat beside another. Still so full, still so close to breaking open from the sheer magnitude of it all.

Rio closed her eyes for a long moment, her breath steady but slow, like she was teaching herself how to breathe again. Her fingers tightened slightly in Agatha’s, as if to anchor herself—not to the bed or the moment, but to the reality of it all. The silence that stretched between them was not empty. It was full. Heavy with the stillness that follows something monumental. It was the silence that came only after life had been torn open and offered back, fragile and screaming and new. 

“I wasn’t sure…” Rio began, her brow furrowing just slightly. “I wasn’t sure I’d be okay. That I’d be able to do this. That I’d survive it. I know it sounds silly—”

Agatha didn’t let her finish. Not because she wanted to interrupt, but because some things shouldn’t be spoken like that. Some things deserved to be met with tenderness, not dismissal.

“It’s not silly,” she said, and there was not one hesitation in her voice. She leaned down slowly, kissed Rio’s hand again, then pressed her cheek against it. “None of it was silly. You brought her to the world with fire in your heart. I watched you do it. I’ve never seen anything more powerful in my life.”

Rio didn’t speak. Her eyes glistened, and for a moment, all she could do was breathe. Then she turned her head slightly, slowly, toward the bassinet—toward the sleeping baby swaddled in soft hospital blankets and bathed in golden light.

“She looks like you,” she murmured.

Agatha let out a quiet breath of laughter, shaking herhead. “No, love. She’s all you. The little nose? That’s yours. The pout? Yours. The dramatic entrance and the attitude already? That’s pure Rio Harkness-Vidal.”

Rio let out a surprised, breathless laugh and immediately winced, her hand instinctively wrapping around her middle. Agatha was on her feet before the sound had fully left her lips, already reaching for the water on the bedside table. She slid an arm behind Rio’s shoulders, helping her up with care.

“Easy,” Agtha murmured, holding the glass to her lips. “Sip. That’s it. No rush.”

Rio drank, her fingers resting against Agatha’s wrist, her eyes never leaving her wife’s face. When she leaned back against the pillows, she let out a long sigh, this one deeper, steadier, and filled with something like peace.

“We’ve got all the time in the world now,” Agatha said softly, setting the glass down and brushing a kiss against Rio’s temple.

Rio nodded, her voice barely more than a whisper. “I’m glad it’s with you.”

Agatha didn’t say anything to that—she just kissed her again. And then again. On her forehead. Her cheek. Her lips. Slow and quiet and full of the kind of love that doesn’t need to prove itself anymore.

The world went on. People bustled in the halls. Lunch trays wheeled past. A nurse laughed down the corridor. But inside this room, time stood still. A family had been born. A mother had survived. A baby girl had arrived with a scream and settled into the silence with a sigh.

And Agatha and Rio—tired, overwhelmed, stitched together with awe and exhaustion—held on to each other with the quiet certainty that somehow, against all odds, they’d made something whole.

Rio looked at her wife, her eyes suddenly glassy again, catching the light like they might spill over without warning. She blinked once, then again, but the tears stayed, balancing on the edge like her heart.

“I’m scared,” she whispered. Her voice was small—not feafrul, exactly, but fragile. Honest. “Not like… bad scared. Just—this is huge. She’s so little. And I’m supposed to be the one who knows what to do. What if I mess something up? What if I don’t know how to help her when she needs me?”

Agatha didn’t miss a beat. She leaned in close, cradling Rio’s cheek with her palm, and gently rested her forehead against hers, breathing with her, matching her pace like she’d done a thousand times before—through grief, through healing, through laughter, and now through this.

“You won’t mess it up,” she said softly, the words simple and true. “You’re not alone. And she doesn’t need you to be perfect. She just needs you to be you. To love her the way you already do.”

Rio closed her eyes, her breath catching at the edges of a sob she didn’t let out. Agatha’s other hand found hers, their fingers tangling effortlessly—like instinct, like memory, like home.

“You’ll know what to do in time,” Agatha whispered. “We both will. And when we don’t, we’ll figure it out together.”

They stayed like that for a long moment, head to head, hand in hand, just breathing. The soft, even rise and fall of their daughter’s tiny chest from the bassinet beside them was the only rhythm in the room, a steady drumbeat anchoring them to this quiet, wondrous new reality.

Agatha pulled back slightly, just enough to see io’s face. She brushed away a single tear that had slipped free. “You’ve already done the hardest part, love. You brought her here. You held her through every heartbeat, every kick, every wild dream. You already know how to love her better than anyone else ever could.”

Rio exhaled shakily, but there was a smile tugging at the corner of her lips now. Soft. Tired. Overwhelmed.

Agatha gathered her close again, wrapping an arm carefully around her shoulders, tucking her against her side. And Rio let herself lean into it, sinking into the warmth, into the comfort, into the familiarity of her wife’s body and the still-strange-but-beautiful weight of their new title: mothers of two.

Their daughter slept beside them, her little hands curled into fists near her face, unaware of the world she’d just entered—but already wrapped in more love than some people ever know.

The air had changed. The frantic energy of birth had settled into something quieter now. A hush that felt like stilness. 

Just the three of them for now—Rio, Agatha, and Violet. And Nicky, always in their heart, waiting for him to return to them.

Agatha moved to lift Violet gently in her arms and settled carefully onto the hospital bed beside Rio, every movement measured, gentle. Violet was tucked into the crook of her arm, a bundle of warmth and breath and soft, newborn skin. She was clad in the pale blue onesie with little clouds on it—the one Nicky had also worn on his first day on earth, the one they had chosen together on a rainy Saturday. Now she was here, wiggling softly in Agatha’s arms, her tiny fists bunching at her sides, her mouth searching the air, letting out a single, piercing cry that felt far too big for someone so small.

Agatha didnt flinch. She only smiled, brushing the pad of her thumb across the soft curve of Violet’s cheek, marveling again at how impossibly delicate and perfect she was. How she seemed both ancient and brand new at once.

She turned to Rio, her voice quietand low.

“Love,” she murmured. “She’s ready.”

Rio looked up at her slowly. Her eyes were rimmed in red, lashes still wet from earlier tears. Exhaustion was written in every line of her body, but it wasn’t just that—it was awe too, and something like fear. Her arms hovered awkwardly, unsure, as if there were a right and wrong way to hold her own daughter.

“I don’t know if I’ll do it right,” she whispered.

Agatha didn’t answer immediately. She didn’t rush it. Instead, she leaned in, one hand coming to rest lightly on Rio’s shoulder. Then, with infinite care, she helped her shift into a more upright position, fingers deft and steady as she eased down the top of Rio’s gown. There was no ugrency in her movements—only patience, and reverence, and a quiet sort of joy that made Rio’s chest ache.

Her heart beat too fast. Her hands trembled.

But Agatha was right there.

“You will,” Agatha said softly, kissing her temple. “I remember feeling that way too. With Nicky. I was terrified I’d break him. But it’s not something you have to force. It just… happens. It’s like breathing once you start. You and her—your bodies already know how to do this.”

Rio stared down at her hands. “But what if I don’t get it right?”

“Then we’ll try again,” Agatha said simply. “And if it’s not for you, that’s okay too. There are other ways. You don’t have to prove anything.”

“I know,” Rio murmured, her voice smaller now. “But… I want to.”

Agatha nodded once. That was all she needed. She gently transferred Violet from her arms to Rio’s, guiding her with tenderness, supporting the baby’s head, steadying Rio’s hands. Rio’s breath caught. Violet squirmed against her chest, searching. Rooting again.

And then—she latched.

Rio gasped.

The sensation was unexpected—soft and strange and overwhelming. Her whole body shivered, not from pain, but from something deeper. Something cellular. Ancient. Her arms instinctively tightened around the tiny body nestled against her, and her eyes filled, the tears spilling fast and silent down her cheeks. Her mouth parted, but she couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. Violet was warm and impossibly small. So alive. So real. so hers.

Agatha brought a hand up to cradle the back of Rio’s head, guiding their foreheads together, skin to skin. She could feel the tremor in her wife’s breath, the tremble in her shoulders. And she understood—because she’d been there. Because there was nothing in the world like this moment.

“That’s how I felt the first time too,” Agatha whispered. “Like everything I’d ever been was undone, and rebuilt all at once.”

Rio let out a shaky laugh, half-sob, half-light. “It’s so much,” she said, voice breaking.

“I know.” Agatha pressed a kiss to her brow, brushing dark strands of hair back from her face. “I know, love. It’s everything all at once. You are incredible. Look at you—look what you’ve done.”

Rio glanced down again at the small miracle in her arms. Violet was suckling now, tiny fingers curling instinctively into the edge of Rio’s gown. She looked so peaceful. So trusting. As if she already knew she was safe.

The room had gone still againe. The lights were soft, the rest of the world forgotten behind hospital walls.

And in that stillness, Rio let herself feel. Agatha held her. Violet fed. And somewhere in the space between pain and joy, fear and awe, something settled.

A mother was born again.

They stayed like that for a long time, cocooned in a perfect stillness. Time seemed to suspend itself around them, as if the very air knew better than to intrude. Violet nursed quietly, her tiny mouth moving in soft, rhythmic pulls, the sound of it so gentle it barely stirred the quiet. Her little hands were curled near her cheek, one of them flexing slightly now and then, as though she were dreaming already, as though even in sleep she was learning the world through her mother’s warmth.

Agatha’s hand never left Rio’s shoulder. She kept her touch steady, gentle, the way one might hold a candle in a breeze—constant, careful, present. Every few minutes, her thumb would move in slow, soothing circles over Rio’s skin, grounding her. Staying with her in every breath, every tremble, every shift in emotion that passed through her wife’s exhausted body.

Rio sat in awe, eyes fixed on the small miracle cradled on her chest. Her breath had steadied, but her mind hadn’t—she was still reeling, still trying to catch up with what her body already knew. That she was a mother to a baby now, not just a little boy. That the weight in her arms was their daughter. That the tiny life she’d carried, feared for, dreamed about, was now real. Here. Alive. Breathing.

“She was just a flutter in my body,” Rio whispered eventually, her voice hoarse with emotion. “A bump. A heartbeat on a screen. And now she’s… she’s real. She’s a person.”

Agatha turned toward her, her own eyes shining. Her heart was full in a way she hadn’t known was possible—so full it ached sweetly in her chest. “A tiny person,” she said, smiling, “with your stubborn chin and our completely dramatic sense of timing.”

Rio let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh, or a sob, or both. “She better not inherit our flair for theatrics. She’ll be unstoppable.”

“And your fire,” Agatha added, her tone teasing. “Definitely your fire.”

“Your patience,” Rio said, a bit more softly. “God, I hope she gets that.”

“Maybe,” Agatha said, brushing a fingertip along Violet’s temple. “But she has your hair. And your eyes. That’s your nose, too, whether you want to admit it or not.”

They both leaned in without thinking, drawn by the same pull. Their lips brushed Violet’s forehead at the same time, a shared kiss that met in the middle. When they pulled back, their mouths met briefly, unintentionally, before they smiled against each other, the motion (gesture? --> decid later) feather-light and full of love.

Violet stirred slightly at the touch, letting out a sigh that was too small for words but somehow full of contentment. Rio adjusted her hold immediately, a gentle, automatic movement, as though her body had already begun the lifelong process of memorizing its child’s every need. She shifted, protecting Violet’s head with one hand, instinct guiding her where experience had yet to reach.

Agatha watched her, utterly still. Her gaze was tender as though watching a miracle unfold one breath at a time. For all the years they had loved each other, all the lifetimes it sometimes felt they had lived side by side—this moment eclipsed them all. Watching Rio cradle their daughter, offering her breast and body, her warmth, her strength—it was the most beautiful thing Agatha had ever seen.

Her voice dropped to a whisper, close to Roi’s ear. “Do you know how much I love you?”

Rio didn’t look up right away. Her eyes stayed on Violet, wide and wet. “I think I do,” she said, resting her head gently on Agatha’s shoulder. “Because I love you just as much. Maybe more.”

Agatha turned and kissed her temple again, closing her eyes. There were no more words, but none were needed.

In that hush, Violet nursed peacefully, her impossibly small body curled against the woman who had carried her through fire and fear and pain. The woman who had made space in her own body for her life to grow.

And wrapped around them was Agatha—the woman who had loved them both long before she held either of them in her arms. Who would guard them with every piece of herself until her last breath.

After a while, the adrenaline that had carried Rio—wild and relentless—was beginning to ebb, the way a storm gives way to still water. And with its retreat came exhaustion, vast and unrelenting. Agatha watched her closely, never once looking away. She saw how Rio’s blinks became slower, heavier, how her head started to dip just slightly with each passing minute. Her arms trembled from holding Violet so long, but she refused to let go. Her grip wasn’t tight, but it was desperate in its own quiet way—a silent plea to stay present just a little longer. To not miss even a second more.

Her skin was pale, almost translucent in the low light, and her lips were parted like she was trying to form a word she no longer had the strength to say.

Agatha felt it all—every unspoken thing—and her heart tugged painfully in her chest. This was the woman she had married. The woman she had watched learn how to live and love and forgive herself. The woman who had carried their child with every ounce of grace she could manage. And now, she was unraveling gently, bravely, right in front of her.

She leaned in, brushing a kiss to Rio’s temple before her arms moved with infinite care, easing Violet from her chest just as the baby finished nursing. The little one gave a soft, sleepy murmur, but didn’t protest. Agatha’s arms were familiar already, her scent known. She pressed Violet close against her shoulder and kissed her tiny head before lowering herself again to Rio’s side.

“She’s okay, love,” Agatha murmured, voice like warm silk. “Let me take her for a little while. You need to rest now.”

Rio’s head moved the smallest bit—barely a shake, but full of protest. Her voice was no louder than a whisper caught on air. “No… I can hold her. I want to… I don’t need to rest…”

Agatha silenced her gently, brushing her lips over Rio’s, tender and sure. “You already did the hardest thing in the world,” she whispered. “You brought her into it. That’s more than enough. Rest isn’t weakness, love. It’s strength. It’s knowing when to let someone else carry you for a bit. There’s nothing stronger than knowing when to stop.”

She turned slowly, placing Violet in the clear bassinet beside the hospital bed. The baby wriggled once, sighed—a little puff of sound—and melted into sleep again, completely trusting of the nearness of her mothers.

Agatha turned back, her gaze falling to Rio like a prayer. She leaned over her wife, brushing a curl from her forehead, fingers light as breath.

“Sleep, my love,” she murmured, folding both of her hands around Rio’s. “You’re safe. She’s safe. I’m right here. I won’t go anywhere.”

Rio’s lashes fluttered. “But what if she… what if she needs…”

“She will,” Agatha said softly, gently. “She’ll need you. Every day. Every hour. And you’ll be there for her—gods, she’s so lucky you’re her mother.” She smiled, voice melting into something even softer. “But right now? What she needs most is a strong mom. And that means you need to rest.”

There was a quiet beat, a moment where the air between them shimmered with something too fragile to name.

“You gave me our daughter,” Agatha whispered, her thumb brushing the back of Rio’s hand in slow, grounding circles. “Let me give you this. Let me take care of you now.”

Those words made the floodgates open.

Rio broke.

Not in a quiet, delicate way, but in a raw, breathtaking release—like a dam finally giving way under the weight of everything it had held back. Her body shook with sobs that rolled through her like thunder, all-consuming and unstoppable. This wasn’t just crying. It was grieving and marveling at the same time—grief for the pain, the fear, the aching stretch of pregnancy and labor, awe for the miracle that had come of it, the beauty, the terror, the victory. A storm of postpartum chaos and unfiltered love and hormonal overwhelm.

But she didn’t hide. She didn’t curl away in shame or try to suppress it.

She cried openly, fully, messily—because she knew.

She knew Agatha could hold it. Could hold her. Every shaking breath, every cracked sob, every tear that spilled down her face without apology.

And Agatha didn’t flinch. She didn’t fill the silence with platitudes or try to fix it. She just moved with quiet grace, careful not to jostle the bed too much as she climbed in beside her wife. She curled her body around Rio’s, fitting herself into every space that needed warmth, every curve that begged for comfort. Her hand came to rest at the back of Rio’s head, fingers weaving gently into tangled curls. Her other hand traveled with infinite tenderness down her arm until it found her waist, anchoring her.

Agatha bowed her head, lips brushing Rio’s hair as she whispered, just loud enough for her alone:

“It’s okay, my ove. You can fall apart. I’ll hold the pieces.”

That was all it took for Rio to hicup out another sound—a half-laugh, half-sob that trembled in her throat. There was something exhausted and alive in it, something broken open and holy. Her fingers clutched at Agatha’s shirt like she was holding onto shore after almost drowning, anchoring herself in the steady, solid warmth of the woman she loved.

“I love you,” she choked out, breath catching. “So much…”

Agatha closed her eyes, her own chest tight with emotion. She kissed her again—softly, slowly, reverently—before murmuring back, “I love you more.”

And finally, finally, Rio surrendered.

Her sobs slowed. Her chest, which had been rising and falling in sharp gasps, began to ease. Her spine, once locked in tension, softened against Agatha’s body. Her muscles loosened, every part of her sinking into the safety offered so willingly, so endlessly.

Agatha didn’t move. She stayed right there, arms cocooned around her wife, her cheek pressed gently to Rio’s temple. Her eyes drifted between the woman in her arms and the tiny miracle sleeping just an arm’s reach away. And as she watched them both—her family—Agatha whispered silent thank-yous into the soft quiet of the room. Thank you to whatever had brought them here, had kept them whole, had let her witness something so unimaginably profound. Thank-yous to the universe she never stopped believing in. Thank-yous for her son and daughter. Thank-yous for her wife.

The room went quiet except for the rhythmic beeping of monitors and the occasional sleepy sigh from the newborn nestled in her bassinet. A golden hush settled over the small hospital suite, as if the world outside had paused out of respect for everything that had just happened within those walls.

Agatha tightened her hold, brushing her fingertips along Rio’s waist in slow, grounding circles. Her other hand continued to comb gently through dark curls, soothing, worshipful.

She could feel it—how Rio’s breathing was shifting now, deepening with each inhale. The tremble in her limbs had lessened. Her fingers, once gripping Agatha’s shirt with desperate need, had relaxed, the fabric no longer twisted in her grip. Sleep was taking her gently, like a tide coming in.

The tears had dried on her cheeks, leaving faint salt trails on her skin. And in Agatha’s arms, with their newborn daughter sleeping just beside them, Rio slipped into the first true rest of this new chapter.

A mother of two. A woman who had done something nearly impossible and had done it with quiet, aching beauty, like so many women did before her. Like Agatha had done seven years ago. It had been Rio’s turn, and she had done it beautifully.

Agatha kissed her temple once more, murmuring against her skin, “That’s it, love. That’s it. You’re safe. You’ve done enough.”

But still, she didn’t move.

Not when Rio went completely still, heavy in her arms, breath deep and even. Not when Violet stirred with a soft, snuffling sigh and reached out blindly in her sleep, fingers curling in the air like she was already dreaming, already knowing she wasn’t alone.

Agatha held them all in her heart in the silence. Rio, Nicky, Violet. She had never believed more in anything in her life.

She just lay there, her face tucked into Rio’s hair, breathing in the scent of her and the faint lavender-vanilla from the baby lotion in the hospital welcome kit.

She thought of the path that had led them here.

She thought of the long months—of first kicks and sleepless nights, of cravings and nausea and every sudden fear Rio refused to name but carried anyway. She thought of how Rio had gripped her hand in the delivery room with a strength that felt like it could split stone, enough to anchor both of them. She thought of the way Rio had whispered, barely audible, “I can’t,” and still—still—had kept going, fierce and trembling and unimaginably brave.

And then—Violet. The moment their daughter had arrived like a thunderclap wrapped in quiet. That first cry, piercing and real. That moment when everything cracked open and remade itself around her. It had undone Agatha. It had rebuilt her.

And now—this. This aftermath of soft silence and raw emotion. Of Rio asleep in her arms, their baby dreaming within reach. Their son with his grandmother just a few flights of stairs away.

Agatha turned her head slightly to look at the bassinet. Violet’s tiny face was turned toward the sound of their breathing, her little lips moving in her sleep. There was already so much expression there. So much life.

“I love you the same way I love your brother,” Agatha whispered toward her. “Like it’s the easiest thing in the world.”

And it was. Love like this didn’t require effort or decision. It simply was—all-encompassing, bone-deep, unquestionable.

She let her eyes flutter closed for a moment, just to feel the weight of it all. Her fingers drifted gently over the soft cotton of the hospital blanket until they reached Rio’s hand, and there—there was the familiar press of her wedding band against her own. That small circle of gold, warm from her skin, was a promise that had never wavered. They had made it. They had made it.

Together.

Agatha didn’t sleep. Not yet. Her body was tired, but her mind was lit up with awe, running fingers over every minute of this day like turning over precious stones. She stayed like that, keeping vigil—not because she needed to, but because she wanted to. To watch. To witness. To hold.

Holding the pieces, just like she had promised.

And outside the window, the sun shone bright.

A brand new day for a brand new girl.

Violet Harkness-Vidal.

Their daughter. Their miracle. Their flower, blooming in the soft light of morning, joining their son in the garden of their love.

Their new beginning.

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Once Rio had finally drifted into sleep—her body gone limp, her breath soft and even in the hush that followed the storm—Agatha stood slowly but remained still beside the hospital bed, as if moving too quickly might shatter the fragile peace that had finally settled over the room.

She studied her wife’s sleeping face, now devoid of strain. There was something so beautiful in the stillness of it—like a painting of strength and love and sheer will. Her lashes lay dark against her cheeks, lips parted slightly, the lines of pain and effort smoothed away by rest. Agatha lingered in that moment, letting herself marvel. My love. My warrior. My heart.

But then her gaze was pulled toward the bassinet. As if magnetized. She couldn’t keep herself away for a moment longer.

Moving quietly, reverently, she stepped toward it. The newborn lay there, impossibly small, a universe folded into six pounds of perfection. Agatha reached in and gathered Violet up with slow, practiced hands, cradling the weightless bundle close. The baby stirred—eyelids fluttering but never fully opening—then let out a soft sigh as she nestled instinctively into her mother’s chest, her tiny fist curling against Agatha’s blouse like she already knew where she belonged.

Agatha held her close, breath catching in her throat. Her arms curved around Violet’s fragile body with the kind of precision that came from awe, not caution. This was no longer a theoretical child, no longer a bump in Rio's belly, no longer a hope or a plan or a list of baby names scribbled into the margins of Rio’s notebook. She was real. She was here.

And she was theirs.

Agatha moved to the armchair placed between the bed and the window, the early afternoon light just beginning to pour in golden streaks across the tiled floor. She sat down slowly, carefully, adjusting Violet against her chest as she reached with one hand to unbutton her blouse. Her skin met the baby’s, warm against warm, and something ancient and instinctive clicked into place.

Skin to skin.

Chest to chest.

Heartbeat to heartbeat.

She bowed her head and pressed a trembling kiss into Violet’s crown, already full of thick, dark hair so much like her Mom’s. It still smelled like new life—warm and soft and a little like Rio. She whispered nonsense into the dark fluff, her voice no louder than breath, telling Violet all about the world that waited for her, the stories she would be told, the family that already adored her.

She didn’t even realize she had started to sway, a gentle rhythm like a tide—rocking without thinking, the way mothers had rocked their children since the beginning of time. And as she rocked, she began to hum. Just under her breath. Just enough for Violet to hear.

It was the lullaby Rio had taught her in the hushed twilight of the nursery, weeks before the birth. Her wife had been shy about it at first, her voice wavering on the unfamiliar notes, but Agatha had watched her fall into the memory—stronger with every repetition, until it became second nature. Rio had told her it was the only song she remembered from her first foster mother—a melody wrapped in the fleeting softness of a childhood that hadn’t stayed soft for long.

It was simple, repetitive, full of tenderness.

Agatha had memorized every note.

It was a lullaby that had once meant safety. Agatha had promised herself it would mean that again.

She sang now, voice low and warm, threading the melody through the room like ribbon. The same notes Rio had sung, curled up on the nursery rug with her hand on her belly. The same notes that had carried love through every inch of their house, through every fear and dream and late-night worry.

And Violet—new, perfect Violet—breathed it in. Her face relaxed even further, her little mouth falling open in complete, blissful trust.

Agatha kept singing.

Now, in the still hospital room, she sang it to Violet, her voice just for her daughter, for Rio, for this moment that changed her life in the best possible way. She rocked gently as she sang, her thumb brushing slow circles on Violet’s back.

“I’ve always loved violets,” she whispered between verses, voice thick. “But I never knew they could mean this.”

Beside her, Rio lay motionless on the hospital bed, sleep finally claiming her after hours of fierce effort and pain. Even in rest, her presence pulsed like a heartbeat through the room. Her body, so recently gripped in the storm of labor, now lay quiet in the hush of what came after. And Agatha couldn’t stop looking at her—couldn’t stop tracing the silhouette of her wife’s profile in the low light, the rise and fall of her chest, the slight furrow in her brow that never quite left.

And with Rio asleep beside her, and Violet pressed to her heart, Agatha felt just like the young Mama she had been seven years ago, when Nicky was first placed in her arms. When she had first looked into her son’s eyes and realized the world was no longer just hers. And now it bloomed again, fuller. Wider. More certain.

She was a mother. Again.

She was Rio’s wife. Forever.

And her heart—so full it ached— was wrapped around two perfect children and one magnificent woman. And even if she lived a hundred lifetimes, she knew she’d never find the words vast enough to hold what they meant to her.

She was tired, yes. Her back throbbed from hours of standing, of holding Rio upright through wave after wave of pain, of pressing strong hands to her back and breathing with her through the worst of it. Her arms ached from supporting, guiding, catching.

But none of that mattered now.

Not next to what she held in her arms. Not next to what lay sleeping just beside her.

She couldn’t stop staring at them.

It had all happened so fast. The world had shifted in the space of a scream, a cry, a single gasp of breath. And yet here, in the stillness of the aftermath, it felt eternal. Like everything had slowed to let her catch up. Like time itself was letting her marvel.

Her thumb stroked Violet’s back again, feeling the delicate rise and fall of that small chest. So small, and already so strong. Already so full of life. And still, her other hand never strayed far from Rio. She would anchor herself to all of them if she could—to her wife, to her daughter, to her son who would be back with them soon, to this exact moment, carved out of everything they’d lived through to get here.

Agatha looked down at Violet, eyes burning.

“You have no idea how loved you are,” she whispered.

And Agatha let herself breathe. Let herself be. Just a woman, in love with her family. Just a mother and a wife, holding her whole world in her heart.

And for the first time since Violet had arrived, she let her head rest back against the chair. Not to sleep, not yet—but just to be.

To feel the weight of love in her arms.

To remember that this moment was real.

To hold her forever in the now.

The door creaked open, slow and cautious.

Agatha’s head snapped up from where she sat cradling Violet. Her spine straightened, her eyes sharpening instantly, all softness gone in a breath.

A young nurse poked her head into the room, her sneakers barely making a sound against the linoleum floor. She inched forward with practiced quiet, a clipboard clutched to her chest like a shield. “Hi—sorry,” she whispered, hesitant but polite. “I just need to ask Mom a quick post-birth question—”

Agtha rised to her feet in one fluid motion. She shifted Violet slightly in her arms, tucking the infant securely against her chest, then stepped forward—positioning herself fully between the hospital bed and the nurse. The change in her demeanor was subtle, but unmistakable. Her voice, when she spoke, was soft but immovable.

“She just delivered a child,” Agatha said, each word deliberate. “She’s sleeping. She needs to stay that way.”

The nurse froze mid-step, caught between professional duty and something much heavier—a presence she hadn’t expected. Her eyes flicked toward Rio, whose face was half-buried in the pillow, hair tousled, her body limp in the aftermath of labor. Then back to Agatha.

Agatha didn’t raise her voice. Her stillness, her steadiness, spoke louder than anything. But beneath the calm, there was no mistaking the warning: not now. Not her. Not on my watch.

The nurse hesitated. “It’s just a standard questionnaire—shouldn’t take more than—”

“She is not to be disturbed,” Agatha said again, a little quieter now, but firmer, her tone brooking no argument. “You can ask me instead. If it’s important, I’ll answer. If it can wait, it will wait. She is recovering. She’s done enough.”

The nurse blinked, clearly debating whether to push back. But something in Agatha’s gaze stopped her. Not unkind. Not cold. Just deeply, fiercely resolute. Like a tree rooted in centuries of stone.

“Of course,” the nurse said at last, shrinking back a step. She offered a nod, almost apologetic. “I’ll leave the paperwork with you.”

“Thank you,” Agatha said, her voice softening just a fraction now that the moment of tension had passed. She took the clipboard in one hand, balancing Violet in the other with practiced grace. As if she’d been doing this for a lifetime.

The nurse placed the pen on the bedside table and backed toward the door. “I hope you all get some rest,” she offered gently.

Agatha gave a small nod of thanks, already refocusing on her wife and daughter.

The door closed behind the nurse with a quiet click, sealing them back into the sanctuary of their dim, sacred silence.

Agatha stood there for a moment, breathing slowly, feeling the way Violet’s small body fit against hers like she had always belonged there. Then she turned back toward the bed, brushing Rio’s hair gently away from her temple with the backs of her fingers before turning away. The clipboard could wait.

This was what mattered.

She had her girls. She had her boy.

And she would guard this peace with everything she had.

Agatha sighed quietly and returned to her chair beside Rio’s bed, placing the clipboard on the side table, untouched. There would be time for questions, for checklists, for answers later. Violet stirred slightly in her arms, let out a tiny sigh, and pressed her face against the soft curve of Agatha’s collarbone.

Agatha bent over her again, whispering. “You’re safe, little flower. Mom’s right here. Mama’s right here. Always.”

And when she looked back at Rio—still sleeping, her chest rising and falling with steady rhythm, her brow no longer furrowed—Agatha felt the weight of everything settle in her heart like a veil.

Her hand found Rio’s beneath the blanket, fingers curling around her knuckles like a secret handshake. Like an anchor. She didn’t squeeze—just held. Just stayed.

It had happened again. The world had shifted beneath her feet, remade itself entirely in a blink.

She had fallen in love with Rio the moment she met her, all those years ago in a seminar room.

She had fallen in love with her again watching her become a mother to Nicky.

And here she was, falling again watching her give birth to their daughter.

And now—with Violet nestled against her chest and Rio sleeping peacefully beside her—Agatha felt it all widen inside her, boundless and bright and terrifying in the best possible way.

She had never been more ready to love.

And she would never, not in this life or any other, stop.

Time slipped by in gentle silence.

Rio was still asleep, her body slack with well-earned rest, the lines of pain smoothed from her brow, her breaths deep and steady now. She lay curled slightly on her side, one arm bent close to her body, like she was still instinctively holding onto something—perhaps the memory of Violet’s first cry, or the feel of Agatha’s hand in hers as she brought their daughter into the world.

Beside her, Agatha sat like a statue softened by love, not daring to move more than necessary. Violet remained tuckedagainst her chest, cradled under the open panels of Agatha’s blouse. The baby’s cheek was pressed directly to her mother’s skin, their heartbeats quietly syncing in the hush of the hospital room. Her tiny fists had uncurled slightly in sleep, now resting on Agatha’s chest like she was claiming her place in the world—here, safe, held.

Agatha couldn’t stop looking at her.

She studied each perfect detail: the miniature fingernails, soft and translucent; the faint line of lashes resting against round cheeks; the mess of dark, silken hair that already reminded her so achingly of Rio. Every breath from that tiny chest made Agatha’s own lungs feel fuller. She had forgotten how small a newborn could be—how small, and yet how powerful. This child had rearranged her entire world the moment she entered it.

Her phone buzzed gently on the side table, the vibration a soft interruption to the stillness. Carefully, with one arm still supporting Violet, Agatha reached for it and tapped the screen with a practiced swipe.

Lilia: Be there soon with Nicky.

A smile curled onto Agatha’s lips before she even realized it was forming.

Nicky. Her first light. Her son. Her wild, curious, fiercely loving little boy. The thought of his voice in the room, his energy filling the corners of this quiet space, brought a wave of warmth crashing through her. Her family was on its way. Soon, all of them would be here again.

She swallowed down a sudden swell of emotion and glanced toward Rio, who hadn’t stirred. Gently, Agatha pressed a long, lingering kiss to the soft crown of Violet’s head. Then, moving with a grace that came from deep familiarity, she began to button her blouse back up—slowly, carefully, one-handed. She kept one hand steady beneath Violet’s small frame, never once letting her feel unsupported.

When she finally rose to her feet, she cradled Violet against her for just a moment longer—just a heartbeat more—and whispered, “You’re going to love your brother’s antics. He’s already in love with you. You’ll see, he’ll never let you go.”

Then, with a sigh full of tenderness, she stepped to the bassinet.

She lowered Violet into it with infinite care, her hands adjusting the onesie with muscle memory born from sleepless nights and years of practice. She took her time, smoothing the fabric over Violet’s belly. She brushed a finger down the baby’s cheek, light as air. Violet didn’t stir.

Agtaha stepped back only once everything was perfect.

Then she returned to her chair, her eyes flicking between Rio in the bed and Violet in the bassinet. She folded her hands in her lap for a moment—then reached for her phone again, unable to resist.

She opened the camera and took a picture: the bassinet glowing in the afternoon light, Violet fast asleep in a perfect bundle of soft blues and whites, her features delicate, her brow relaxed.

She sent it to Lilia, with a single caption:

Agatha : She’s ready to see her big brother again.

And then Agatha sat back, one hand resting on her stomach, the other reaching out to touch Rio’s fingers where they peeked out from under the blanket. She didn’t speak, didn’t move, didn’t rush.

She just waited—for her family to arrive, for the next page to turn, for the world to grow a little brighter still.

A few minutes later, the door flew open.

Nicky burst into the room like a firework—his small sneakers squeaking wildly against the polished tile floor, cheeks pink from the spring air outside, arms flailing with excitement. Right behind him came Lilia, breathless and smiling, one hand still outstretched as if she’d been trying to slow him down in the hallway.

“Moms, guess what—”

“Shh!” Agatha stood halfway up, instinct already in motion, her finger raised gently to her lips. Her voice was soft but immediately commanding. “Mom is resting. She needs sleep. You can tell me quietly, sweetheart.”

Nicky skidded to a halt, frozen mid-step with his mouth still open, his eyes flicking toward the hospital bed.

There she was—Rio, lying on her side, the sheets tucked up beneath her arms, her face softer than he’d seen it in days. Her hair was a little messy, and there were dark shadows under her eyes, but she looked peaceful. The kind of peace that made something still in his little chest.

Nicky nodded solemnly and lowered his voice without another word. His usual bounce was gone, replaced by something reverent. Tender, even.

He padded over, silent as he could manage, and when he reached Agatha’s side, he didn’t say anything. He simply clambered up onto her lap with familiar ease, like it was the most natural place in the world to be, like he’d been doing it every day of his life—and in a way, he had. She adjusted automatically, curling her arm around his back, making space for him just as she always did.

He tucked himself under her chin, into the warm space where Violet had been only minutes ago, his small body settling in like a puzzle piece falling into place. Agatha’s heart cracked open all over again. To hold both her children in one morning—one newly here, the other newly promoted to big brother—it felt like the universe was offering her something impossibly precious.

She held him close, one hand smoothing his curls while the other slipped instinctively around his side, and she leaned down to kiss the top of his head. The familiar scent of sunshine and playground and vanilla shampoo filled her senses.

Agatha’s heart swelled. Holding her oldest baby while her youngest slept only a few feet away—it was almost too much to bear.

Nicky turned his face up to look at her, his voice dropping into a whisper, like a secret just for the two of them. “So Grandma took me to lunch,” he said seriously, his hands clinging softly to the collar of her shirt. “And she let me have two cookies. Because she said it was a very big day.”

Agatha smiled, and her laugh came out in a whisper of breath against his hair. “Did she now?”

“She said one was for me. And one was for Violet. But I ate both. ’Cause Violet’s too little for cookies.”

Agatha chuckled again, keeping it quiet, her voice almost a hum. “That was very thoughtful of you,” she said. “I’m sure she’d want you to enjoy it for her.”

“I saved a crumb,” he added with a mischievous glance, and she laughed again, fully now, the warmth of it spilling into her chest.

Lilia stood by the door, watching with soft eyes, a hand to her heart. She didn’t interrupt—just offered Agatha a knowing smile and mouthed, he couldn’t wait.

Agatha mouthed back, thank you, and turned her attention back to the boy curled up in her lap.

Lilia lingered by the bed, her presence a gentle stillness in the quiet room. Her gaze drawn to Rio’s face, softened by the hush of sleep and the fragile aftermath of birth. There was something in her expression—an ache, a fierce kind of tenderness that only a mother could carry after watching her child go through something so immense.

She leaned over and brushed her fingers gently through her daughter’s dark hair, her touch feather-light and full of unspoken love, like she was afraid to wake her, but also like she couldn’t not touch her—couldn’t resist the pull to comfort, to connect, even now. Her hand lingered at Rio’s temple for a moment, thumb tracing the edge of a curl, before sliding back into stillness.

She stayed like that for a moment longer, then straightened and looked toward Agatha.

“I’ll go back to the house,” she said softly, nodding toward the hallway as she met Agatha’s eyes. “Grab a few things you’ll need. Some of her pajamas. Toothbrush. Something comfortable for you.”

Agatha blinked, her throat thick with unspoken gratitude. Her arms were full of Nicky. Her heart was full of her children. And now, here was Lilia, holding everything else together with that gentle efficiency that made her feel like the world wasn’t such a frightening place after all.

Agatha mouthed another simple, Thank you, her voice too caught in her chest to speak aloud. But Lilia understood. Of course she did.

She reached for Nikcy’s head in passing, smoothing his curls with one last touch, then turned and slipped out the door.

At some point—still nestled comfortably in Agatha’s arms, his limbs draped lazily across her torso—Nicky’s gaze drifted to the bassinet. And then it stayed there. His breath slowed, eyes wide and full of a quiet awe that Agatha hadn’t seen in him before. He clutched his blue stuffed dragon absently, one small hand tracing the soft felt of its wings without really noticing.

“She’s so little,” he whispered eventually, the words barely carried on his breath, as though he were afraid to disturb the air around them. His eyes never left the bassinet. He leaned slightly to the side, trying to see better, still half curled in Agatha’s lap.

Then, a moment later—this time with a little more fire, a little more certainty—he added, “I’m gonna draw her.”

Agatha’s smile bloomed before she could stop it. She tucked a curl behind his ear and brushed a hand through his hair, her voice low and warm against the crown of his head. “That’s a wonderful idea, sweetheart,” she murmured.

With practiced ease, she shifted him gently in her arms and stood, lifting him with her until his feet touched the ground. He clung to her leg for a moment, still watching Violet like she was something made of starlight. Agatha reached for his little backpack—faded blue, one strap frayed from too many adventures, and a worn dinosaur patch barely hanging on. She unzipped the main compartment with one hand and smiled softly at its contents: a squashed granola bar in a napkin, two action figures, and a slightly wrinkled stack of paper held together with a rubber band. His crayons were loose in a side pocket, colors worn down to their stubs from use.

She moved through the quiet room with care, setting up a little station for him in the corner, just far enough from the bed to let Rio rest undisturbed, but close enough that he could still see Violet clearly. The light filtering through the window was gentle now, golden and soft, and it pooled over the little side table where Agatha laid out a few blank sheets of paper and lined the crayons up beside them like little soldiers ready for duty.

“There you go,” she said, kneeling beside him and pressing a kiss to his hair. “Draw everything you see. And let me know if you need help with the colors, okay?”

Nicky nodded solemnly, his little brow already furrowed in thought. He selected a peach crayon and began sketching a soft, rounded shape in the center of the page with deep concentration. His tongue peeked out between his lips as he worked, and he glanced up every few seconds to study Violet’s shape in the bassinet—so careful, so full of wonder.

Agatha sat back on her heels for a moment, just watching him. The way his small fingers gripped the crayon, the intensity in his face, the sheer tenderness in every line he drew. Her heart ached with love—vast and quiet and overwhelming.

Agatha stood slowly, her movements fluid, as she made her way back to the bedside. As her feet shuffled quietly across the room, she glanced down at Rio, whose body stirred faintly. Her eyes fluttered open just a little, too tired for full consciousness, but enough to register the world around her. 

Her fingers twitched against the blanket, her browfurrowed with the kind of weariness that came from the deepest kind of exhaustion—body and soul.

Agatha leaned over her, brushing a few strands of dark hair from her face. Her hand moved gently, rhythmically, stroking Rio’s hair in the way she knew calmed her best. She leaned in close and whispered softly against her temple,

“He’s drawing her. Your two babies are fine. Sleep, my love.”

A slow breath left Rio’s lips, and the tension in her brow faded. Her body settled again, sikning deeper into the mattress, the rhythm of her breath evening out as she drifted back to sleep.

Agatha stood there for a moment, watching her, her hand still in Rio’s hair. The room was quiet except for the soft sound of crayons moving across paper and the steady breath of the three lives she loved more than anything.

Once she was sure Rio had fallen fully back into sleep, Agatha stepped away quietly, casting a last glance at the bassinet where Violet still slumbered, and then to the corner where Nicky sat crossed-legged on the chair, hunched over his paper, tongue still peeking out slightly in concentration.

Agatha’s heart tugged. Two children, so different already—one full of color and movement, the other still just a whisper of a presence in the world—and yet, here they both were. Both hers. Both theirs.

She made her way back to the armchair by the window, the one she’d barely left since the birth. It had become her quiet post, her watchtower, her sanctuary in these early hours of motherhood once again. The cushion gave slightly beneath her as she sank down, and she exhaled slowly, letting the weight of the day catch up with her.

Her hand reached down for the soft leather bag tucked against the leg of the chair. With quiet fingers, she unzipped it and pulled free her notebook—worn and well-loved, the edges soft, the leather creased with time and use. The pen was still tucked neatly in the spine. She slid it free, opened to a blank page, and rested the tip just above the lines.

She sat still for a moment, her breath catching slightly in her throat.

Then she began to write.

She gave birth today.

The words settled heavily on the page. Her pen hovered as her heart took a beat to catch up, the fullness of it nearly too much to translate into language.

And now she is resting. A little broken open. And more beautiful than I’ve ever seen her.

Agatha paused, staring at the words, the truth of them like a quiet ache in her chest. She looked over at the bed, at the soft way Rio’s mouth parted in sleep, her face pale and peaceful now. The rawness of labor still clung to her, a quiet, sacred vulnerability that hadn’t faded with the cutting of the cord.

Her pen moved again.

She kept writing.

She was so brave. Even when she was afraid. Even when she cried. Especially then.

She made space in her body for another soul to come through, and I watched her—God, I watched her—and I don’t think I’ve ever believed in anything more.

She didn’t know how strong she was. She still doesn’t. But I did. I always did.

The page filled slowly, her handwriting neat but slightly slanted with emotion. It was more than journaling. It was a kind of remembering. A way to capture a moment so holy, so fleeting, it might otherwise slip away into the blur of days and feedings and exhaustion that she knew were coming.

She paused only when the sound of a crayon snapping drew her attention. Nicky was replacing the broken piece with a fresh color, utterly unbothered, then continuing his drawing with the same intensity. Agatha smiled softly, brushed a tear from the corner of her eye, and looked back at her page.

I love her more today than I ever have. I didn’t think that was possible.

She wrote about the way Rio had reached for her, gasping her name during the final push, and how she had whispered every encouragement she could summon even as her own voice trembled. She described the first cry of their daughter, that high, startling sound that had cracked the whole world open.

She wrote of how Rio had faded out for a moment because of the sheer exhaustion coursing through her body and her waking to her baby in her wife’s arms. The way Rio had cried when Violet was placed on her chest, the look on her face—shocked, awed, undone.

She wrote about Violet’s tiny fingers curling instinctively around her skin during those first moments of skin-to-skin, and how time had stilled into a pocket of eternity while she just held her.

And then, as the ink bled deeper onto the page, Agatha turned her thoughts to Nicky - her firstborn, the one who had already taught her more about love than she ever thought possible. She wrote about the way his eyes had widened when he first laid eyes on Violet, how the pure wonder in them was so untainted, so raw, that she had to hold back her own tears. How he had whispered, She’s so little, his voice full of wonder, as if she were the most fragile thing he had ever seen. She hadn’t expected that kind of emotion from a child, but in that moment, Nicky had shown her a wisdom that went beyond his years.

She described him now, sitting in the corner of the room, scribbling intently, pausing every so often to look up at the bassinet with a kind of gentle seriousness no one had teached him. She  marveled on paper at how effortlessly he had stepped into the role of older brother, how his love for Violet was already instinctive, pure, and unconditional.

And without even realizing it, the entry in her notebook had transformed. It stopped being just documentation—her attempt to capture the details of the day—and became something much deeper.

It became devotion.

A love letter.

A love letter, to the woman asleep in the bed, to the baby wrapped in blankets, to the boy humming softly as he worked.

And she wrote, I don’t know how to hold all this love. It doesn’t fit inside me. But here it is, spilling over. They’re all here. They’re safe. They’re mine. She’s mine.

The words spilled onto the page, one after another, a quiet confession that left her feeling both full and empty at the same time. She was a woman completely awash in love, a love so fierce it made everything else seem insignificant.

After a while, when the ink had dried, she simply signed the page the way she always did when it mattered most—when the weight of everything was too much to say aloud but too important not to record.

—A. 

She closed the notebook gently, holding it for a moment in her lap as though it might warm her hands. Then she looked around again—at Nicky’s drawing, at the slow rise and fall of Rio’s chest, at Violet’s tiny form curled in the bassinet.

Agatha leaned back in the chair, folded her hands over the notebook, and let herself rest too—quiet, full, and surrounded by everything she had ever longed for.

By the time Rio began to stir again, it was late afternoon, the light in the room dim and golden, softened by the hospital curtains. Her lashes fluttered first, then her brows knit together ever so slightly as the haze of sleep lifted from her face.

Agatha noticed before Rio even opened her eyes. She always did. She rose from the armchair with Violet in her arms, moving to the bedside just as Rio let out a small, tired breath.

“Hey,” Agatha whispered, brushing her fingers over Rio’s temple. “Welcome back, my love.”

Rio blinked slowly, her eyes heavy but clearer now. She turned toward Agatha, instinctively seeking her presence even before registering what time it was or where she was.

As the soft murmur of voices filled the space, Nicky’s head popped up from his drawing station in the corner. His eyes widened with excitement, and before either of them could say a word, he was off—his little legs carrying him so fast he was almost a blur. His small body leapt onto the bed with a burst of energy, and Agatha’s heart skipped a beat as she saw him in motion.

“Mommy!” Nicky gasped, his voice full of joy and relief. He didn’t wait for an invitation, scrambling up the side of the bed with all the impatience and excitement only a child could possess.

“Careful!” Agatha warned quickly, but her tone was light, a gentle laugh escaping her lips as she reached out to steady him. She gripped him with one hand, making sure he didn’t jostle Rio too much. “Be gentle with Mom, okay?”

Nicky, oblivious to the careful caution, nodded solemnly. His little face was a picture of innocence, eyes wide with devotion. He clambered up beside Rio with all the certainty of a child who knew exactly where he belonged. Without hesitation, he tucked himself under her arm, his small frame curling in beside her, resting his head on her chest as though he’d been waiting for this moment all day. His body relaxed immediately, and he sighed deeply.

Rio smiled sleepily, her eyes glassy and soft, and brought one arm around him, holding him tightly even though she was still so tired she could barely lift her head.

For a long moment, the room was silent but for the soft sounds of Nicky’s breathing, the quiet rustle of the sheets, and the gentle murmur of Rio’s voice as she whispered into the space between them, “I missed you, little love.”

“I missed you too, Mommy. I drew something,” Nicky whispered. “Wanna see?”

Rio’s lips curved into a gentle smile, her body still heavy from the weight of labor, yet her eyes held a soft spark of joy. “Of course, baby,” she murmured, her voice rough with the exhaustion of childbirth, but it still managed to sound like home.

Nicky grinned, his eyes shining with the kind of innocent joy only children know, and carefully pulled a slightly crumpled piece of paper from his back pocket. He unfolded it with deliberate care, holding it up for Rio’s inspection. The drawing was simple, yet it captured something perfect in its simplicity—unmistakably Violet. The round head, tiny arms, wide eyes full of wonder, and a pale blue scribble that was meant to be the little onesie she wore. And above her floated a stick-figure family—one tall (Agatha), one shorter with a big smile (Rio), and one medium-sized with a mop of brown hair (Nicky himself)—all holding hands.

Rio let out a soft laugh that melted into a sob she didn’t quite let escape. She cupped Nicky’s cheek and kissed the top of his head. “It’s perfect. Just like you.”

Agatha sat down gently on the edge of the bed, Violet nestled in her arms, wraped snugly in her onesie, her tiny face squished peacefully against her mother’s chest. She leaned over and rested her forehead briefly against Rio’s shoulder, just needing that moment of closeness.

And for a while, they stayed like that.

Nicky curled against Rio, proudly clutching his drawing. Rio, exhausted and glowing, held him as if she never wanted to let go. And Agatha, with Violet sleeping safe and small against her, watched them all—her heart full in a way that felt almost too big for her body.

It was a quiet, perfect scene—fragile and sacred. Two mothers, a son, a daughter.

A family.

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Chapter Text

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The next morning was a quiet, peaceful one in the hospital room. The soft light filtering through the blinds bathed the room in a golden glow, and the only sounds were the occasional shuffle of nurses in the hallway and the gentle murmur of Nicky’s voice as he talked quietly to Violet in Roi’s arms. 

Outside the room, the hospital moved at its usual pace—nurses’ shoes scuffed softly against the linoleum, distant murmurs of conversation came and went like passing waves—but inside, everything felt untouched, preserved in a kind of sacred calm.

Agatha sat curled in the corner chair, notebook resting closed on her lap, one hand wrapped around a cup of lukewarm coffee she hadn’t yet touched. She didn’t need it. Not this morning. Her eyes were fixed on the bed with a quiet intensity, a faint smile playing on her lips.

Rio sat propped up against a mountain of pillows, hair now brushed and neatly braided by Agatha, her face tired but glowing with something that went deeper than rest ever could. In her arms, Violet slept nestled beneath a pink blanket, her tiny fists balled up near her cheeks, her breaths slow and steady, impossibly small.

Nicky, perched carefully on the edge of the bed beside them, leaned in close to his baby sister. His curls flopped over his forehead as he whispered something only Violet could hear, his voice hushed and full of wonder. Every now and then he giggled, quiet and delighted, like he was telling her a secret no one else was allowed to know. He gently reached out and touched the edge of the blanket near her feet, as though afraid to disturb her, his small fingers reverent with a child’s instinctive tenderness.

Rio glanced down at him, watching the way he watched Violet, her heart aching in the best possible way. There was still exhaustion clinging to her limbs, but it was threaded now with something light and bright—a love so vast it made her feel almost outside herself. She brushed her hand gently through Nicky’s hair, her fingers lingering at his temple. He leaned into her touch without looking away from the baby, content just to be there.

“She’s listening, you know,” Rio murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “She knows her big brother’s voice already.”

Nicky beamed, pride blooming across his his face like sunlight breaking through clouds. “She blinked when I said her name,” he whispered back. “I think she smiled too.”

Agatha let out a quiet laugh from her chair. “She’s probably wondering why her big brother’s been talking her ear off since seven this morning,” she teased gently, her voice warm and amused.

“I wasn’t loud,” Nicky defended, looking up at her with mock indignation.

“No,” Agatha said, crossing the room and brushing her fingers over the top of his head. “You were perfect.”

She leaned down and kissed Rio’s temple, then pressed a soft kiss to Violet’s tiny forehead, her heart tightening as she looked at the three of them—her wife, her son, her newborn daughter. A strange feeling rose in her chest again, that swelling, breathless awe she hadn’t been able to shake since yesterday. It wasn’t just love. It was something deeper. Something anchoring. Transforming. Like her whole world had been quietly rearranged to fit them better.

It was then that the door burst open with all the subtlety of a stage curtain being yanked back mid-performance.

“Where is she?!” Alice’s voice rang out like a trumpet blast, crackling with excitement and absolutely no regard for hospital protocol. The sheer force of her entrance made the door bang against the wall behind it. She didn’t wait for a reply—didn’t even glance around for permission—before barreling into the room like she’d been waiting at the gates for hours.

Trailing closely behind her was Jen, slightly more composed in gait but every bit as animated in expression. Her pink coat was askew, her makeup slightly smudged, and her eyes immediately locked onto the bed as though drawn there by instinct.

They came to a screeching halt just a few steps in.

Because there she was—Rio, pale and glowing all at once, propped up on a nest of pillows, with a baby curled warm and still against her chest. A tiny bundle of swaddle and dark hair, completely unaware she’d just become the center of the universe for two very emotional godmothers.

Neither Alice nor Jen could move. They just stood there, frozen, breath caught somewhere in their throats as the sight anchored them in place.

Jen’s hands flew to her cheeks. “Oh my god,” she breathed, the words catching on the edge of a gasp, like she’d just walked into a miracle.

Alice made a sound so loud and dramatic that Agatha, who’d been sitting peacefully in the corner chair near the window again, jumped slightly in surprise. The force of Alice’s gasp was so theatrical, it nearly set off the entire room. A tray of hospital supplies, balanced a little too close to the edge of a nearby counter, wobbled violently in the aftermath of her entrance.

In a flash, Agatha’s gaze snapped to her. She was already halfway out of her seat, one hand instinctively reaching out toward the baby even though Violet was perfectly safe in Rio’s arms.

“Alice,” she said sharply—firm, maternal, but with that undeniable thread of exasperated fondness. “If you knock over that tray and so much as startle my baby, I swear I will banish you to the hallway for the next three hours.”

Alice froze like a guilty child caught mid-mischief, both hands still suspended mid-air as if she could physically catch her own chaos.

“I didn’t mean to!” she squeaked, lunging forward and steadying the tray just before it could tip over. “Oh my God—sorry, sorry, I swear I didn’t mean to! I just—look at her!” She turned back to the bed, eyes wide, voice dropping to a hushed whisper-shout. “She’s so small. How is she that small?”

Rio smiled, her eyes flickering with that soft, half-dreamy joy that hadn’t left her face since Violet had been placed on her chest a day and a half ago. “She’s about the size of a loaf of bread,” she murmured, voice hoarse but light. “A really squishy, perfect little loaf.”

Jen had inched closer to the bed now, her hand instinctively rising to her heart like she had to physically contain the swell of emotion threatening to escape. “I thought she’d be bigger,” she said quietly, almost apologetically. “We saw all the ultrasound pictures and the belly and all that… but she’s so… tiny. Like, breakable.”

“Like a peanut,” Agatha added with a smile, easing herself off the chair and moving to stand beside Rio, one hand resting on her wife’s shoulder. “We call her that sometimes. Our little peanut.”

Alice crept forward like someone approaching a wild animal in a nature documentary. “Can I touch her? Or will I shatter her into a thousand emotional pieces if I try?”

“Touch her,” Rio said gently, lifting one hand from Violet’s back to offer Alice the tiniest nod of encouragement. “She’s sturdier than she looks.”

Alice moved slowly now, reverently, as though suddenly aware of how much noise and space she took up. She crouched at the bedside and reached out with trembling fingers to brush Violet’s tiny foot through the blanket. Her breath hitched.

“Oh my God,” she whispered. “Her foot is smaller than my thumb.”

Jen leaned in on the other side, careful not to crowd. Her voice was tender, almost reverent. “She looks just like Rio. Look at that little pout.”

“She does have my resting unimpressed face,” Rio muttered sleepily, drawing a laugh from both her friends.

“She’s got Agatha’s eyebrows, though,” Alice added. “That baby’s gonna be judging us all by the time she’s three weeks old.”

Agatha chuckled, brushing her fingers through Rio’s hair before bending to kiss the top of her head. “She’s already judging. She judged you the second you nearly took down the hospital tray.”

Alice held up her hands in surrender. “Okay, fair.”

Alice breath trembled as she reached out again, the tips of her fingers barely grazing Violet’s impossibly small hand. The baby’s fingers curled reflexively, catching the very edge of Alice’s touch like it meant something, like it recognized her. That was all it took. Alice’s eyes filled with tears she didn’t even try to blink away.

“She’s perfect,” she whispered, her voice cracking in the middle, raw and full of wonder. “She’s so perfect I want to scream, but I won’t because I’ve been threatened with exile.”

Her words made Rio laugh softly, and even that small sound seemed to calm the room. The kind of laugh that had no strength behind it but held so much love it didn’t need any.

Jen stepped up beside Alice then, slower, her face gentler, quieter. There was a stillness to her awe, like she was holding something holy in her chest and didn’t quite know how to breathe around it. Her gaze locked on Violet’s delicate features—the downy hair on her head, the rosebud lips, the tiny chest rising and falling in steady little sighs of sleep.

“I can’t believe she’s real,” Jen murmured, her voice low and slightly hoarse. “I mean, I knew she was coming. I counted the days. But nothing—nothing—prepared me for this.”

She leaned forward slightly, also brushing a single fingertip against the baby’s tiny foot where it peeked from under the bblanket, so small it didn’t look real. “I’m going to spoil you rotten, baby girl,” she whispered with the kind of gentle promise that meant forever. “You don’t even know it yet, but I’m already planning your first guitar. It’s gonna be blue. Maybe with sparkles. You’re going to be amazing.”

Rio smiled at that, her face drawn with fatigue but still radiant. Her voice was low and warm, filled with sleepy affection. “Perfectly spoiled. That’s the goal,” she said, glancing between her two best friends. “And yes—guitar is all yours. I’ll handle drums. We’re starting a band, clearly. Violet, Nicky and the Godmothers.”

“Are we the backup singers?” Alice asked, still staring down at the baby, tears still clinging to her lashes. “Because I’m fine with that. I’ll wear glitter. I’ll wear a cape.”

Jen gave a mock sigh. “You always want a cape.”

“You’re just mad you didn’t think of it first.”

As the teasing banter began to bubble between the two, Agatha—who had quietly shifted beside the bed—moved closer, gracefully taking her seat again next to Rio and Nicky, who had stayed quiet so far. She reached over and gently adjusted Violet in Rio’s arms, helping her settle deeper into the crook of her mother’s body. Then, with a tenderness only Rio ever got to see, she curled one arm around her wife’s shoulders and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her temple.

“I think she’s already been spoiled,” Agatha said quietly, her voice threaded with affection, humor, and just the slightest hint of awe. “By all of us. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

She looked up at Alice and Jen, her eyes glinting with something deep and soft and steady. “You’re going to be the most ridiculous, chaotic, wonderful godmothers this world has ever seen.”

That earned her two matching grins—wide, mischievous, and proud.

“And it’s only going to get worse,” Alice added with a grin. “Wait until she’s old enough to ask for a drum kit and an electric guitar and a pet iguana.”

Rio groaned playfully, sinking back into her pillows. “If you get her a pet iguana, I’m moving out.”

“You can’t move out!” Alice said, faux-indignant. “You made her! You’re the frontwoman of the band!”

Laughter trickled through the room like sunlight after rain, warm and bright and full of something ancient—something that had nothing to do with the baby’s size or the clinical coldness of the hospital and everything to do with the people who filled the space. The love that pulsed between them. The sacredness of chosen family.

As Alice and Jen continued to fawn over Violet, Nicky – who slipped off the bed - was now practically bouncing off the walls, unable to contain his excitement any longer. He rushed over to them, his little legs moving so quickly that they nearly tripped him up as he darted between them, arms flailing.

“AUNT ALICE! AUNT JEN!” he shouted with glee, his voice echoing off the walls like a trumpet call to joy. “HUGS! I NEED HUGS! AND THE HANDSHAKE! THE SECRET HANDSHAKE!”

Before either woman could prepare, he flung himself into the space between them, arms spread wide like a superhero in mid-flight. Alice let out a startled yelp and caught him, staggering back a step, while Jen laughed and swooped in to sandwich him in a warm, slightly chaotic group hug.

“Woah there, tornado!” Alice gasped, hugging him tight and lifting him slightly off the floor with a grunt. “You trying to knock us over?”

“You nearly succeeded,” Jen added with a grin, ruffling his curls before pulling back to extend her hand. “Now, are we doing the full routine or just the express version?”

“Full! Always full!” Nicky declared, wriggling free of their embrace and immediately launching into a flurry of motions: a dramatic salute, a spin, a fist bump, a double high-five, and the finale—a goofy finger wiggle followed by a chest bump (carefully modified for hospital-appropriate behavior, of course). They all burst out laughing as they landed the last move together, their little trio buzzing with shared joy.

But Nicky wasn’t done—not even close. This was a Big Day. A huge day. And he had information to share.

He stepped back with the self-importance of someone about to deliver breaking news to the United Nations. His chest puffed up, his expression growing solemn, and he dramatically held up one finger for silence.

“I have to tell you everything about her,” he said, eyes wide. “I’m her big brother now. I know stuff.”

Alice knelt down to his level, matching his seriousness. “We’re listening,” she said, nodding gravely. “What do we need to know?”

“Everything,” Jen added, crouching beside Alice. “Give us the full briefing.”

Nicky leaned in close, eyes darting around as though someone might be spying. “Her name,” he whispered dramatically, “is Violet.” He paused for effect, clearly expecting gasps.

Alice put a hand to her heart. “Gorgeous.”

“She was born at night,” Nicky continued, straightening up like a soldier giving a report. “And she has teeny toes.” To prove his point, he kicked off one shoe and wiggled his socked foot in the air. “Way smaller than mine. Like this small.”

Jen inspected his foot with exaggerated awe. “That is pretty small.”

“But hers are, like, mouse-sized,” he clarified. “They’re like—like—acorn-sized.”

Alice giggled. “Acorn toes! That’s officially her nickname now.”

Nicky nodded, pleased. “Also, she eats from Mom’s boob,” he announced with the blunt confidence of a seven-year-oldr, then gave an exaggerated full-body shudder. “It’s kind of gross, but also kind of cool. I think it’s how babies get superpowers.”

That got a snort from Alice, who had to cover her mouth. Jen raised her eyebrows and said with complete solemnity, “That checks out.”

“She cries really loud,” Nicky added, now fully in his stride. “But not too much. Just like—‘waaah!’—then she’s done. And she doesn’t even hate me! She looked at me. With her eyes. Both of them.”

“Impressive,” Alice whispered.

“And—” Here, Nicky glanced over his shoulder and leaned in even closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “She already met Yellow Dragon.”

Both women blinked in confusion for a moment before Alice whispered back, “You mean her Yellow Dragon?”

Nicky nodded solemnly. “Yup. I brought her. She watched over her while she was sleeping. She said she passed the test.”

Jen held back a laugh, managing a serious nod. “Wow. That’s big. Not everyone pass Yellow Dragon’s test.”

“I know,” Nicky said with a heavy sigh, like the weight of guardianship was already on his small shoulders. “But I think she’s gonna be okay. And Yellow Dragon is already best friend with Blue Dragon, just like Vivi and I.”

Alice and Jen exchanged a look filled with tenderness and barely contained laughter, their hearts already swelling with love not just for Violet, but for the devoted, dramatic little boy who’d just declared himself her lifelong protector.

“You’re doing a great job already, buddy,” Alice said, giving his shoulder a squeeze. “She’s lucky to have you.”

“Yeah,” Jen added, her voice soft. “Best big brother ever.”

For a moment, Nicky beamed, soaking it in. Then he glanced over toward the bed, where Rio was watching him with tired, sparkling eyes, a soft smile on her lips. Violet, still nestled in her arms, gave a tiny, sleepy yawn, her whole face scrunching like a flower folding back into its bud.

Agtha, who had been quietly watching from her spot beside Rio, couldn’t stop the small smile that tugged at her lips. There was a stillness in her now, a peaceful quiet that settled into her bones as she took in the scene unfolding before her—a scene so full of love and chaos and warmth that it made her chest ache in the best way. Nicky was still buzzing with energy, flitting between Alice and Jen like a firefly who refused to dim, his joy too big for his little body. Alice and Jen, equally captivated, were completely absorbed in the wonder of their best friend’s newborn daughter, their gazes soft, their movements reverent.

And Rio—her Rio—was radiant in a way Agatha could barely describe. There was a glow to her, not just the tired joy of someone who had just brought new life into the world, but something deeper. A quiet power. A kind of quiet pride and fierce love that made her seem untouchable. She looked down at Violet with the sort of tenderness that could rewrite the definition of motherhood, and yet, when her gaze lifted to track Nicky’s bouncing figure, that same love burned just as brightly. She had always been Nicky’s mom in every way that counted. But now, looking at her with Violet in her arms and Nicky orbiting her like a star to its sun, Agatha saw it more clearly than ever: Rio was theirs. Theirs, wholly. The heart of their little family.

“Don’t worry, Mom,” Nicky said suddenly, turning to Rio with a seriousness that caught all their attention. His voice dropped into the kind of solemn tone only a seven-year-old could muster when he thought he was being Very Grown Up. “I’ll take care of Violet.”

The room hushed, the air shifting slightly as he stepped forward, puffing out his chest with pride, his curls bouncing with each step. “I’m gonna teach her everything,” he declared. “Like how to talk to Yellow Dragon, and how to draw with crayons. I’ll show her the good markers, not the dry ones. And I’ll show her how to make peanut butter mountains with crackers. You have to smoosh them just right.” He demonstrated with his hands, miming an imaginary sandwich with great focus. “I’ll protect her from scary stuff. Like thunder. And spinach.”

Rio laughed softly, her voice a little cracked around the edges. “You’re going to be the best big brother,” she said, reaching out to gently ruffle his hair. “She’s already lucky to have you.”

Nicky beamed, practically vibrating with pride as he leaned in closer, peeking at Violet’s tiny, sleeping face.

Across the room, Jen and Alice had quieted, both of them watching Rio now with a kind of quiet reverence, as if they were seeing her for the very first time all over again.

“She looks so soft,” Alice whispered, nudging Jen gently with her shoulder, eyes still locked on their best friend, who sat surrocunded by the people she loved most in the world. “Look at her.”

Jen nodded, her smile softening. “She always was,” she murmured. “Even back then.”

“Back then” was college—dorm rooms and deadlines and 2 a.m. pizza runs, and Rio curled up in the corner of the seminar room, quietly listening to Agatha Harkness lecture about metaphor and mortality, all while doodling spirals in the margins of her notebook, secretly enamored with the stern woman that would become her wife. She had been a little wild, a little strange, sharp and bright and untamed—but never once had she lost that softness. That tenderness. That aching, stubborn heart.

“She’s always been good with them,” Jen continued, her voice quiet and sure. “With both of them. She’s just… more herself now.”

There was a brief pause—one of those fleeting, charged silences that spoke volumes—when Jen and Alice exchanged a glance. It was subtle, the kind of look that passed between people who knew each other’s hearts as well as their own. A tiny smile flickered across Alice’s lips, while Jen gave the softest tilt of her head, and in that instant, without words, a hundred memories seemed to echo between them—of late-night whispers, shared dreams, and long-held hopes. They had talked about this moment more times than they could count, picturing it in that hazy, half-serious way close friends do, imagining Rio with a baby in her arms, imagining themselves part of that baby’s life. And now, here they were, watching it all unfold—real, and better than either of them had dared to imagine.

But the quiet was quickly broken by Nicky, who had scampered to the other side of the bed, climbing up carefully like he was on a secret mission. With a determined little grunt, he knelt on the mattress beside his mom, leaning over Violet with the focus of a boy who had just decided his entire purpose in life was to make his baby sister smile.

He was already hard at work, making a series of wild, exaggerated faces—eyes wide, tongue out, nose wrinkled, complete with tiny snorts and wiggling ears. “Heyyy, Violet,” he cooed, his voice climbing into a silly, high-pitched register. “Look at meee! I’m a platypus!” He flapped his arms in a chaotic dance, then abruptly stopped to shove a familiar stuffed toy in her direction. “Do you think Violet likes Yellow Dragon?” he asked, turning toward the room at large, holding up the plush with both hands like it was an offering to a queen.

He brought the dragon down gently, tapping its soft snout to Violet’s tiny cheek. “Do you, Violet? Hmm? She’s really nice. She likes warm places and peanut butter crackers, just like me. She helped me sleep when I you were still in Mommy’s belly, and now she’s gonna help you, too. Okay?”

The baby stirred a little, shifting slightly in Rio’s arms, her delicate mouth curling in the beginnings of a yawn or maybe – but unlikely - a smile. Nicky gasped. “She blinked! That means yes!”

Rio let out a soft laugh—not loud enough to disturb the peace of the moment, but warm and full of the love that strethched through her chest and made her feel like her heart had doubled in size. She watched her son, all elbows and determination, offering Violet her most precious companion like it was the only thing that mattered. In his world, it probably was.

There was something quietly breathtaking in how seriously he took it all—how naturally he stepped into the role of big brother without being asked or guided. He didn’t just want to protect her—he wanted to teach her everything. Wanted to make sure she knew what was important: Yellow Dragon, and silly faces, and the sound of laughter, and soft things you could cuddle.

From where she sat, Rio could already see it: the way Nicky would grow into this role, the way Violet would one day chase after him down the hallway, barefoot and giggling, the way he’d stand in front of her when she was scared or sad, arms crossed and chin high, just like now. He had claimed that responsibility before she even asked.

Agatha leaned in slightly and brushed her thumb along Rio’s shoulder, her gaze following the shape of Nicky’s little body as he hovered protectively over Violet. She could feel Rio exhale, the kind of breath that released not just air but years of hope and fear and tenderness.

“He’s all in,” Agatha murmured near Rio’s ear, her voice soft with wonder.

Rio turned to look at her wife, her smile tired but radiant. “He always is.”

Once Nicky’s whirlwind of excitement had finally begun to taper off—his boundless energy redirected into a quiet, focused task of introducing every single stuffed animal he owned to his baby sister—Alice and Jen saw their chance. With stealthy determination and unmistakable delight, they inched closer to Rio’s bedside, clearly refusing to let her rest without first showering her in the kind of love only lifelong friends could give.

They leaned in, crowding the space in the most affectionate way, their eyes shimmering with admiration, joy, and maybe just the tiniest bit of disbelief. There was something reverent in the way they looked at Rio, like they were standing in front of a masterpiece that one of their own had painted while they’d only blinked.

Alice was the first to break the quiet reverie, her voice trembling on the edge of laughter and awe. “You legend. You absolute champion,” she whispered, almost breathless. Her gaze flicked down to the bundle in Rio’s arms, where Violet slept peacefully, her tiny hands curled into fists against the soft fabric of her onesie. “Look at this tiny human you made. You actually made her. She’s so little I think I might cry.”

She gestured dramatically, half-laughing, half-sniffling as if Violet’s very existence was more than she could reasonably be expected to handle.

Rio, exhausted beyond words but still humming with that strange, intoxicating new-mother high, let out a quiet laugh. Her lips curved into a soft smile, and even in her tiredness, her eyes shone. Alice’s enthusiasm was always over the top, but today, it felt like a warm blanket wrapped around her soul. She held Violet a little closer, letting her cheek rest briefly against the baby’s forehead as if to confirm—yes, this was real. This tiny person was hers.

“You’re going to make me cry,” Rio murmured, her voice hoarse but tender.

“Good,” Alice said instantly, grinning. “You deserve to. You’ve earned it.”

Then, with all the solemnity of someone bestowing a knighthood, Alice extended her hand toward Rio for their classic celebratory high five—a ritual they’d shared since undergrad days. Usually it followed things like passing brutal exams or submitting wild last-minute essays, but today it meant something far more monumental.

Before Rio could even think about returning the gesture, Agatha, who had been standing nearby with her arms crossed and an arched brow of amusement, stepped in smoothly. In one swift move, she intercepted Alice’s hand mid-air with a palm against Alice’s wrist, her expression that familiar blend of playful mockery and fierce protectiveness.

“If you make my wife lift her arms, I’m removing you from this room,” Agatha said flatly, her voice calm but utterly serious in a way that only made her smirk more terrifyingly effective.

Alice froze, hand still suspended in midair, then turned to Agatha with a mock gasp. “Ma’am. That’s a threat.”

“No,” Agatha said dryly. “That’s a promise.”

Jen snorted beside her, trying to muffle her laughter behind her knuckles. “You should’ve known better, babe.”

But Alice was already adjusting, eyes twinkling as she raised her elbow instead. “Okay, okay. Elbow bumps only. I can work with this. I’m adaptable.”

Rio chuckled, her smile soft despite the weariness pulling at her features. She leaned just slightly to bump her elbow against Alice’s in return, careful not to disturb Violet, who was still snoozing peacefully with a little sigh. “You two are ridiculous,” she said with a gentle shake of her head.

“Thank you,” Alice said proudly, as though it were a compliment.

Jen, the eternal voice of reason between them, gave Alice a light nudge on the arm. “Let’s not be the reason Agatha murders someone in a hospital,” she said teasingly. Then she turned her attention back to Rio, her voice softening. “You did it, Rio. You really did it. And now you get to just… rest. Be adored. Let us spoil you a little.”

She leaned in slightly, her gaze gentle. “And she’s perfect. Just like her mom.”

Rio’s eyes grew glossy for a moment, and she swallowed around the lump in her throat. Violet stirred faintly in her arms, as if echoing the swell of emotion in the room, and Rio instinctively adjusted her hold, already so at ease in this new role that none of it looked new at all.

Agatha, quiet as ever, shifted a little closer and let her hand rest on the curve of Rio’s shoulder. 

Alice, despite her dramatic shift in approach—and Agatha’s earlier threat of removal—was clearly not done stirring the pot. She perched on the edge of a nearby chair, eyes gleaming with barely-contained mischief as she gestured grandly toward Violet. “So. What’s the plan for Violet’s first week at home? Are we thinking some kind of baby parade? Float, maybe? Streamers? Nicky in a tux handing out cigars?”

She shot Agatha a cheeky grin, the corners of her mouth twitching in delight, as if daring her to object. She wasn’t so much asking a real question as she was poking the bear, and the bear—in this case, Agatha—was well aware of the game.

Agatha didn’t even flinch. She raised a single, unimpressed eyebrow at Alice, lips twitching slightly in what might’ve been a warning—or a challenge. But she didn’t take the bait. Instead, she simply turned her attention toward Rio, her eyes softening instantly, and gave a small nod in her direction.

“You should be asking her,” Agatha said smoothly, as she stepped closer to the bed. Her tone was light, affectionate. “She’s the one who’s been running the show. I’m just the assistant director who occasionally fetches juice boxes and threatens people.”

She reached down to gently adjust the hospital blanket that had slipped down around Rio’s hip, her fingers lingering for a moment in a quiet, grounding touch. It wasn’t for show—Agatha rarely did anything for show—but there was so much care in the gesture that even Alice fell briefly silent.

Rio gave a soft huff of laughter, her smile small but genuine. She shifted slightly on the bed, careful not to jostle Violet, who was still fast asleep against her chest like a sleepy little starfish. “No parades,” Rio said, her voice low but firm, tinged with fondness. “Absolutely no parades.”

She glanced at Alice, then at Jen, and finally at Agatha, her eyes glinting with wry humor. “Just a lot of snuggles. A lot of naps. Some survival. And—” she tilted her head toward Nicky, who was crouched next to her bed now, simultaneously attempting to get Violet to give him a high-five, his face scrunched in concentration and holding up a tiny plush dragon in front of Violet’s face and whispering an elaborate backstory about the dragon’s magical powers “—whatever that is.”

The room chuckled gently as Rio leaned back against her pillows, visibly relaxing, her expression peaceful in a way that was only possible in the company of people who knew you inside and out.

Alice and Jen exchanged a look over her bed—a quiet moment of lovers locking eyes with a thousand unspoken thoughts between them. They’d saw Rio through every stage of her life: chaotic, brilliant, fiery, stubborn, heartbroken, resilient—and now this. A mother of two. Stronger than ever. Still her.

And still, unmistakably, theirs.

Jen stepped forward, her smile soft and full of affection. She bent down to press a gentle kiss to Rio’s forehead, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m so proud of you, Rio. You’re already amazing with them.” She let the words hang for a moment before adding, quietly but with deep certainty, “Both of them.”

Agatha, who had been standing nearby, her hands still protectively wrapped around her wife, looked at Rio with such obvious affection that it was impossible to miss. Rio met her gaze, and for a moment, there was nothing but a deep, shared understanding between them—two people who had built something beautiful, something lasting, even in the quiet moments.

With Violet nestled safe and warm against her, and Nicky chattering on like the world’s tiniest bard, Rio finally looked back at her friends, her voice thick with emotion. “Thank you. Both of you. For being here. For everything. You’ve been with me through so much… and I don’t think I could’ve done any of it without you.”

Alice grinned at that, but this time it was softer, stripped of all her usual theatrics. “You never had to,” she said simply.

Jen reached down and placed a steady hand on Nicky’s shoulder, who was now deeply committed to assigning Violet an honorary dragon name. “We’re not going anywhere,” she said, her voice low but sure. “You’ve got us. For everything that comes next.”

“And we’re not missing any more firsts,” Alice added quickly, her tone quieter now, more tender. “First smiles. First steps. First anything. We’re in this.”

It wasn’t just a reassurance—it was a vow, spoken with the kind of love that had never wavered, not even through the wildest chapters of their lives.

And Rio believed them. Because they always kept their promises.

As she lay there, her body aching but her heart impossibly full, Rio looked at her wife. Then at her kids. Then at the two women who had stood beside her every step of the way.

“Okay,” Alice said with a dramatic sigh, tossing her hands up like she was surrendering to the overwhelming tenderness of the moment. Her eyes, however, sparkled with affection as she leaned forward, fixing her gaze on Rio. “Now, Rio—can we at least take a million pictures? You know she’s going to grow up and ask where her baby book is, and if you don’t have a properly curated digital archive, she’ll hold it against you forever. Teenagers are petty like that.”

Rio chuckled, the sound low and warm. She shifted Violet gently on her chest and met Alice’s gaze with tired amusement. “We’ve got plenty already. Nicky’s been documenting everything like a tiny paparazzo.” She tilted her head toward her son, who was now sitting cross-legged on the couch with Agatha’s phone, reviewing pictures like it was a full-time job. “But yes, go ahead. Take all the pictures you want. Just don’t blind her with flash.”

Alice lit up like a stage light had hit her. “You’ll regret this,” she warned gleefully, pulling her phone from her pocket and immediately launching into full-blown photographer mode. “Alright, ladies and gents and babies—candid smiles only, please. No filters. We’re going for authentic chaos and postpartum glow.”

Jen rolled her eyes but was already pulling her own phone out, moving slowly around the bed as though afraid to disturb the gentle calm in the room. “You’re ridiculous,” she murmured to Alice, though there was no real bite in it—only the softness of someone who loved the chaos just as much as the peace.

As Jen and Alice busied themselves capturing every yawn, every fluttering eyelid, and every tiny fist clenching Rio’s shirt, Agatha remained where she was, rooted by Rio’s side. She hadn’t moved much since Violet had been born, and now, even as the room swelled with laughter and low voices, she stayed still, one hand resting gently against the bedframe, the other lightly brushing Rio’s arm in quiet intervals—an anchor, a presence, a quiet constant.

Her eyes, however, never left Violet.

She watched—carefully, intently—as Jen took and cradled the newborn, her scientist’s hands suddenly soft and reverent. As Alice reached out to smooth a wrinkle from the tiny hat atop Violet’s head. They moved slowly, almost ritualistically, each motion deliberate, like they were afraid to wake a spell.

Agatha didn’t interfere. But she hovered.

Always just close enough to step in if something felt off. Just close enough to breathe easier knowing she could take Violet back in an instant if she needed to. There was a quiet fierceness in her stillness, in the way her gaze never wavered. She’d been here before, in the early days of Nicky’s life, watching the world reach out for something she had made. And there it was again, this something uniquely raw about Violet’s newness. Something just as fragile. As though holding her required not just gentleness but reverence. As though the world hadn’t quite earned her yet.

It wasn’t distrust—not of Jen or Alice. It was instinct. That silent, primal edge that rose in her chest any time someone else held her children. That feeling that said watch, wait, be ready.

Rio noticed it too, of course. She knew Agatha better than anyone. Knew the way her wife’s hand tightened slightly whenever Violet was passed from one set of arms to another. Knew the way she leaned forward just a bit more when Jen’s grip shifted, or Alice paused to swipe away a tear of laughter. Knew that Agatha would never say a word about it unless asked—but that she was quietly tracking every breath.

And yet, beneath that vigilance, there was somthing softer.

Because even as Agatha kept her eyes on Violet, her hand had drifted again toward Rio’s. Their fingers brushed and then twined together without a word, a quiet lifeline between them.

Rio glanced at her, lips quirking into the faintest of smiles. “She’s okay,” she murmured, barely audible over Alice’s camera clicking and Nicky’s stage-whispered commentary about Violet’s “royal baby cheeks.”

Agatha didn’t respond right away. She just looked—at Rio, at Violet, at the family they’d somehow grown into—and nodded once, the kind of nod that meant yes, she is, and so are you, and I’ve got you. All of you.

Alice, cradling Violet with a tenderness she rarely let the world see, rocked slightly from side to side as though instinctively mimicking the rhythm of comfort. She looked down at the baby’s peaceful face, barely the size of her forearm, and couldn’t help the grin tugging at her lips. Her voice dropped to a whisper, warm and soft and filled with a love so immediate it nearly startled her.

“Hi, goddaughter,” she murmured, brushing a single finger against the blanket wrapped snugly around Violet’s tiny form. “We’re going to be such a problem for your moms. And I absolutely can’t wait.”

There was something gleefully conspiratorial in her tone, as though she were already plotting secret adventures and mischief. Violet, of course, remained entirely indifferent—her little brow relaxed in the deepest sleep imaginable, completely unaware of the chaos that would one day accompany her godmothers’ affections.

Jen stood beside her, arms folded and lips curled in a smirk that threatened to give way to full-blown laughter. She leaned down slowly, placing a steadying hand on Alice’s arm as she gazed at Violet with mock solemnity, her voice low and firm like she was delivering a sacred vow.

“Don’t worry, kid,” she said, her words laced with playful intensity. “If anyone ever messes with you, they’ll answer to me… and a beaker full of carefully measured regret. Some formulas aren’t for the faint of heart.”

She narrowed her eyes for dramatic effect, as if daring the universe to even try touching Violet the wrong way.

Alice let out a snort and shot Jen an exaggerated wink. “We vow to protect, inspire, and—when the time is right—corrupt you, in strictly age-appropriate, ethically flexible ways.”

Then, in an almost theatrical flourish, she bowed her head low and solemn, as if reciting an ancient godmotherly rite.

Agatha, who had been watching from just a few feet away with her arms crossed and a brow raised in that signature expression of “motherly apprehension cloaked in affection,” let out a quiet, unimpressed breath. She muttered just loud enough for them to hear, her tone dry and pointed.

“Let’s skip the ‘corrupt’ part, shall we?”

Her voice held the weariness of a mother who already anticipated the chaos her daughter’s future would hold—and knew exactly who would be behind it. And yet, there was a twinkle in her eyes, betraying her amusement and affection beneath all the faux disapproval.

Rio laughed lightly at the scene unfolding before her. Her fingers lazily brushed over the soft edge of her blanket, her eyes sparkling with tired joy.

“Let them have their fun,” she murmured, her voice threaded with warmth. “She’s a day old. She won’t remember any of this… yet.”

Agatha shot her a look, the kind that clearly said yes, but you will, and Rio just smiled wider, the room suddenly feeling too full of love to even hold it all.

Then, from the corner of the bed, a small but commanding voice broke in.

“Mama,” Nicky said, eyes big and serious as he looked between Alice and Violet. “What does ‘corrupt’ mean?”

A brief silence fell across the room like someone had hit pause. All four adults froze mid-motion, their eyes drifting to the small boy sitting upright with the eager solemnity of someone very proud to be part of the grown-up conversation.

Rio bit her lip to hold back a laugh. Agatha gave him a slightly panicked glance, clearly trying to decide if this was one of those parenting moments where honesty or evasion was best.

But Jen, always quick, always smooth, stepped in before the pause could become awkward.

“Well,” she said, crouching slightly to meet Nicky’s eyes, “it means sometimes your Aunt Alice and I teach you and your sister things your moms might not. Like, you know, sneaking cookies before dinner. Or staying up late to stargaze. Harmless fun stuff. But only if we think you’re ready.” She gave him a wink, then shot a look to Agatha that practically said see? Safe. Totally harmless.

Alice jumped in too, her grin wide. “It’s like when we bend the rules, just a little, to make life more fun. Like… building a pillow fort in the living room and pretending it’s a spaceship. Or dancing in the rain when you’re supposed to be napping.”

Nicky seemed to consider this carefully, eyes narrowed like a philosopher weighing the truth of the world. After a few seconds, he nodded slowly. “Okay,” he said, very seriously. “But only if Mama says yes.”

Agtha looked at him, startled and visibly moved, then slowly smiled as her tension visibly melted. “Good answer,” she said softly.

Rio, now laughing despite her exhaustion, nodded toward Nicky. “I think your aunts just want to make sure you know what’s really important in life,” she said, her voice affectionate. “But don’t worry, little man. You’ve got us to keep you in line.”

Nicky, always ready to jump back into his own version of the conversation, looked back at Violet. “I’ll keep her in line too,” he said, his tone suddenly serious, as if he was giving a grand proclamation. “And I’ll protect her from anyone who tries to take her cookies. Don’t worry, Violet. I got you.”

There was a beat of stunned silence—then a chorus of laughter broke out around the room. Alice clutched Violet a little tighter, nearly losing it in a fit of giggles. Jen wiped at her eyes, muttering, “Oh my God, he’s already a big brother. Like, really a big brother.”

Agatha smiled, that rare, soft smile that she only gave to the people she trusted with everything, and she stepped closer to press a kiss to Nicky’s curls. “You’re the best boy,” she whispered.

Jen and Alice both turned their attention back to the tiny baby in their arms, who had managed to drift off into a peaceful sleep despite the ruckus around her. They exchanged a glance, knowing this moment would be a story they’d laugh about for years to come. But for now, the room was full of warmth—of a new family beginning, of love flowing so freely it almost seemed to settle in the air.

With a sigh, Alice handed the little girl back to her Mom, who took her eagerly and turned to her wife with a mischievous smile.

“She’s mine again,” Rio murmured, with a smug little grin. “No returns, no exchanges.”

Agtaha arched an eyebrow but didn’t resist, only brushing a strand of hair from Rio’s cheek. “For now,” she said wryly. “Until it’s diaper time.”

*

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Chapter Text

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Alice and Jen’s visit was going surprisingly well.

Right until they turned to the enormous basket they had lugged in earlier, which had sat mostly ignored in the corner amid the chaos of greetings and baby introductions. The extravagant bouquet of violets they had brought along with it—fresh, fragrant, and artfully arranged—rested on the table nearby, a forgotten symbol of their enthusiasm and complete lack of restraint.

Nicky, however, had not forgotten the basket.

His eyes grew comically wide the moment he spotted it, and he let out a delighted gasp. “Snacks!” he cried, voice echoing through the room like an alarm bell. In a blur of motion, he darted across the room toward it, his little feet pounding against the floor, arms already stretching out as if the basket might disappear if he didn’t get there fast enough.

“Whoa!” Jen laughed, stepping aside just in time to avoid getting bowled over. “Kid’s got priorities.”

Agatha barely had a second to react before Nicky dropped to his knees in front of the basket, tugging it toward himself with the fervor of someone uncovering buried treasure. He began to rummage through its contents with a kind of reverent glee, pulling out tissue paper and containers with dramatic gasps, like each snack was a precious artifact.

Alice knelt beside him, grinning. “You’re quick, little man,” she said, fishing out a flaky pastry wrapped in wax paper. “Here—this one has your name on it.”

Nicky’s entire face lit up as he accepted the offering. “Yay!” he shouted, taking a massive bite before anyone could warn him to slow down. Pastry crumbs exploded in all directions like celebratory confetti. “It’s SO good,” he mumbled around a mouthful, already eyeing the rest of the basket for his next target.

Rio, watching from her spot on the bed, shook her head in mock despair. “We’re never getting him to eat dinner now.”

Agatha crossed her arms, smiling despite herself. “We might never get us to eat dinner now.”

Jen had perched herself carefully on the edge of the hospital bed, her movements exaggeratedly delicate as she lifted the large basket onto her lap with mock ceremony. The woven lid creaked open like the top of a treasure chest, and she glanced over at Rio with a smirk that barely disguised the affection in her eyes.

“Alright, my turn,” she declared, reaching inside with dramatic flair. “Let’s see what our merry band of snack elves packed today. We’ve got goodies for everyone, even you, Rio.” Her tone dipped into the kind of mock-chiding usually reserved for someone notoriously bad at eating. “You look like you could use a treat. Something decadent and full of calories.”

Rio gave her a tired smile, leaning her cheek lightly against the crook of her hand as she watched Jen sift through the basket. Her eyes sparkled faintly with warmth, with gratitude she didn’t have the energy to voice. “Bring me the good stuff,” she murmured, voice soft but clear. “I’ve earned it.”

Alice had already crossed the room to join Jen, crouching beside the bed with the grace of someone determined not to knock anything over… yet. She leaned over and plucked a chocolate-filled pastry from the basket, holding it up like an offering to the gods. “You deserve some too, rockstar,” she said with a grin, the corners of her eyes crinkling with affection. “You birthed a whole human today. That calls for chocolate, minimum.”

But just as she was about to hand over the pastry, her elbow nudged the IV pole.

It wobbled sharply—too sharply—and the soft, rhythmic beeping of the monitor beside the bed suddenly spiked. The sound wasn’t alarming, not yet, but it was enough to change the temperature in the room.

Agatha’s head snapped up immediately. The protective spell she’d been casting over the room—not literal, but just as powerful—shimmered back to the forefront of her expression. Her eyes flicked to the IV pole, then to Alice, and her voice rang out with a precise kind of exasperation that only came from someone balancing exhaustion with fierce devotion.

“For the millionth time, careful,” she snapped, sharp but not cruel. Her voice was the verbal equivalent of slapping a hand away from a lit stove.

Alice froze, grimacing as she straightened up and tucked the pastry back into the paper it came in. “Whoops,” she muttered, suddenly looking a lot more like a scolded teenager than a grown woman. “Sorry, Ags.” She placed the pastry down on the side table, now handling it like it was made of glass. “Didn’t mean to shake the entire hospital.”

Jen snorted quietly but wisely kept her mouth shut.

Agatha inhaled through her nose, eyes scanning Rio and the monitors before allowing herself to exhale. Her shoulders relaxed fractionally. “Thank you,” she said, her tone gentler now—but still carrying the faint warning of someone who would absolutely follow through on a threat. “Now leave her alone or I’ll throw that basket at you. Aim for the head.”

Alice blinked at her, mouth falling open. “You wouldn’t.”

Agatha arched a brow, her mouth twitching at the corners. “Try me.”

“Okay, okay! Standing down!” Alice raised her hands in mock surrender, retreating a step but not before sticking her tongue out behind Agatha’s back.

From the bed, Rio let out a low chuckle, too tired to laugh properly but too amused not to respond. “I do want the chocolate, though,” she added with a smirk that could only come from someone who knew exactly how to defuse her wife’s worst moods. “Your threats are very hot and moving, darling, but I still want dessert.”

That earned her a proper smile from Agatha, soft and slow, like the sun peeking through a cloud. “Of course you do,” she murmured, brushing her thumb gently over Rio’s wrist before leaning in to kiss the crown of her head. “You’re going to put crumbs all over your bed, darling.”

Alice, seizing her moment of redemption, snatched the pastry off the table and offered it again—this time with exaggerated caution, as if approaching a sleeping tiger. “Here you go, you legend,” she said, holding it out like an Olympic medal. “Eat it while I distract Agatha with the baby so she’s not planning my doom.”

Rio reached out and took the pastry with absolute care, biting into it with a hum of satisfaction that made even Agatha’s narrowed gaze soften fully.

Agatha shook her head with a sigh, the corner of her mouth twitching upward despite herself. “You’re lucky she’s hungry,” she muttered, giving Alice a sidelong glance. “Or I swear I’d have launched that basket like a missile.”

Alice gave her a toothy grin, clearly feeling safe now that Rio had intervened. “Noted. Rio’s appetite is my only shield.”

“Exactly,” Jen chimed in, watching the scene with obvious amusement. “And let’s be real—she’d choose chocolate over all of us anyway.”

Rio, mouth full and unapologetic, raised an eyebrow and gave them a thumbs-up.

Jen, who had been quietly observing the chaos like a seasoned wildlife documentarian, finally leaned back with a soft chuckle that turned into a full laugh. “You two are absolutely like an old married couple,” she said, shaking her head in mock disbelief. “One minute you’re ready to brawl over pastry etiquette, the next you’re making heart eyes over chocolate and newborns.”

At that moment, Violet let out a shriek and Alice cast a meaningful glance at the overflowing basket of snacks beside her. “And I think we can put the snacks on hold for now. Violet might need her mom more than a croissant or two. Specifically…” She raised a knowing eyebrow and nodded pointedly at Rio’s chest, with the audacity of someone who knew she was about to be smacked.  “…she’s gonna want her snack soon. The house special.”

Rio groaned dramatically, flopping her head back on the pillow. “Great. I’ve become a 24-hour milk bar.”

“Five-star milk bar,” Alice added helpfully, flopping into a nearby chair and popping a grape into her mouth. “Excellent ambiance. Gorgeous staff. The barista’s hot. Slightly intense security. The bouncer looks like she’d murder someone with a glare though.”

Agatha —bouncer, wife, general chaos manager— narrowed her eyes in mock warning. “Okay, enough. Eyes and mind off my wife’s chest. That’s my job and the privilege is mine exclusively.” Then, with a theatrical sigh, she added, “Well, mine and the baby’s, I guess. Because for her, tragically, it’s a buffet. Tragic little love triangle we’ve got going.”

“I hate all of you,” Rio muttered into her pillow, but the laughter in her voice betrayed her. “Except the baby. And Nicky. The rest of you can go to Hell, for all I care.”

Jen raised both hands in surrender. “Hey, We’re not trying to start anything! Just pointing out the obvious. That kid’s got a look of hunger and vengeance. I know it when I see it.”

“She does look like she’s plotting her next snack attack,” Alice said with a grin, peeking into the bassinet. “There’s a spark in her eye. A hunger. A destiny.”

Agatha rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide the soft smile tugging at her lips. “Thank you both for the snacks,” she said, her voice losing its edge and dipping into something genuine. “Even if you’re both menaces. I’m sure Nicky will devour half of them by sundown.”

Right on cue, Nicky—still perched on the floor like a snack gremlin—lifted his head, cheeks full and face gloriously smeared with crumbs and frosting. “And Mom and Mama will too!” he said through a mouthful, spraying a few crumbs in the process. He looked absolutely delighted with life, like a small pirate who had just discovered a dessert island. “We can all share! Right, Mama?”

Agatha turned toward him, her expression melting instantly into that familiar, quiet warmth she reserved only for her son. “Right, sweetheart,” she said, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear as she looked at her little family—her beautiful chaos. There was Rio, tired and glowing, cradling a baby who would soon wail for milk again like a tiny, furious goddess. There was Nicky, covered in crumbs and love. And there were their friends, being insufferable and hilarious, exactly as they should be.

It was messy, loud, full of laughter and affection and crumbs on every available surface. And it was perfect.

Even if she did now have to guard Rio’s chest like a territorial dragon. Because Agatha knew—knew deep in her soul—that if one more person stared at her wife’s breasts, she would commit a felony.

But, for now… she’d settle for throwing a croissant at them.

After what was now known as the Great Snack Fiasco—during which Nicky had somehow gotten jam all over his shirt and hair, and Jen had narrowly avoided using a chocolate chip as a projectile weapon—Agatha had barely finished brushing the crumbs off the sheets when Alice clapped her hands like an overeager camp counselor.

“Okay!” she declared with the determination of someone who had just watched a ten-minute how-to video on YouTube and considered herself an expert. “I volunteer as tribute. Let me swaddle her.”

Agatha raised a single eyebrow. “Are you sure?”

Alice puffed up. “I’ve wrapped burritos before.”

“That’s… not comforting,” Rio mumbled from the bed, still redressing after feeding Violet and looking at Alice like she was about to perform open-heart surgery with salad tongs.

But Agatha just chuckled. She knew this game. Alice would try and make a mess. And, really, what was the harm? Violet was fed, sleepy, and too tiny to judge anyone’s technique. Besides, Agatha was right there.

“Alright,” she said, handing Violet over carefully. “Be gentle. And no flourishes.”

“Got it,” Alice nodded solemnly, like she was accepting a sacred mission. She sat down with Violet cradled in her arms, the blanket draped across her lap like a sacred relic.

And then… the chaos began.

Alice stared down at the baby and blanket with the focus of someone defusing a bomb. She folded one corner over with great ceremony, then the other, but somehow that made the third corner go rogue. As she tried to tuck it under, Violet’s tiny fist shot out like a victorious gladiator. Alice paused. Adjusted. Re-folded. Violet kicked. The blanket unraveled with quiet defiance.

“It’s like she’s fighting me,” Alice muttered. “She’s so small. Why is she so strong?”

“Because she’s Agatha’s daughter,” Jen said from the armchair, grinning like a cat watching a puppy try to climb stairs. “You really thought this would be simple? That’s your first mistake.”

“I folded it, Jen. I folded everything!” Alice hissed under her breath, trying to restrain one squirming baby arm while the other flailed victoriously out of the blanket like it had discovered freedom. “Why does this feel like origami designed by Satan?”

Jen leaned in, arms folded. “Because you’re trying to wrap a baby like a spring roll.”

“I was almost done! She looked fine!”

“She looked like a doll a two-year-old had tried to dress,” Jen replied. « Are you two? »

Agatha finally took pity on the increasingly panicked Alice, who now had Violet resembling something between a half-wrapped gift and a very annoyed jellybean. With the smooth efficiency of a woman who had done this in the dark, one-handed, with a very enthusiastic boy singing about dinosaurs beside her, Agatha reached over and said, “Here, let me.”

And in about six seconds—and maybe a single flick of her wrist that defied physics—Violet was transformed into a perfectly swaddled baby burrito. Tiny fists tucked in. Blanket edges secure. No baby limbs waging rebellion.

“Behold,” Agatha murmured dryly, “the ancient art of not panicking.”

Alice blinked at the finished product, completely awestruck. “That’s sorcery. That’s actual witchcraft. I did the same thing and she looked like a sentient napkin. Or a mummy. How did you do that?”

Agatha gave a casual shrug, smoothing the edges of the blanket one final time with the air of someone adding a signature to a masterpiece. “Experience. And talent. Mostly talent.”

Alice groaned and flopped backward on the couch, arms out dramatically. “Well, fine. Take your perfect wife and mother points. I hope you choke on your competence.”

Agatha smirked. “Not likely. I chew it slowly. With wine.”

Jen laughed so hard she nearly fell off the arm of the chair. “God, I love when you two start to bicker. This is so much better than Netflix.”

Meanwhile, Violet snuggled into the warmth of the expertly folded blanket, letting out a contented sigh like a baby who knew she was in the hands of a pro.

“Just wait till bath time,” Agatha said lightly, bouncing Violet once on her arm.

Alice groaned. “Don’t you dare. I will drown myself in the baby tub before I attempt that.”

From the bed, Rio raised a hand. “Please do it somewhere that doesn’t ruin the swaddle. Agatha finally made it look like our child isn’t being sacrificed to the god of laundry.”

And just like that, the room erupted into a new round of bickering and laughter, while Agatha, queen of the swaddle and extraordinary chaos tamer, stood in the middle of it all—calm, smug, and holding a perfectly wrapped newborn like a trophy.

Alice let out an exaggerated sigh, crossing her arms. “Well, I guess I’ll never be the swaddling expert.” She shot Agatha a mock-glare, though her smile betrayed any real frustration. “Next time, I’m sticking to the snacks.”

Jen leaned over to Alice, whispering conspiratorially, “You know, if you ever need swaddling lessons, I think Agatha’s giving private sessions.”

Alice raised an eyebrow at Jen, an amused smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “I’d rather die. I give up. I’ll never be the burrito specialist.”

Agatha’s eyes sparkled with amusement, but she was careful to keep her focus on the baby in her arms. “You could also try diaper duty if you want to test your skills,” she teased, her voice light but filled with affection for her friends. “I’m sure Violet will appreciate it when she’s a little older.”

Alice snorted at that, shaking her head. “Oh, I think I’ll stick with the cookies and pastries, thanks. I’m good at those.”

“Snack Lady is a solid title.”

After her failed attempt at swaddling Violet, Alice, who had just been defeated by a blanket, was stating to feal a bit too confident in her ability to make herself comfortable. Without thinking, she flopped down onto the side of Rio’s bed, landing with a soft thud that made the mattress shift. But as soon as the bed moved, Rio, who had been dozing in a haze of tired joy, winced, her body tensing at the unexpected jolt.

Immediately, Agatha whipped around, her sharp eyes locking onto Alice with a glare that could melt steel. Her voice was a controlled, lethal calm—one that only came when she was this close to losing her patience. “For god’s sake, be careful, you bulldozer!” she snapped, the sharpness in her words causing everyone in the room to freeze. “A baby just passed through her body!”

Alice’s eyes widened in shock, and before she could even process what had happened, she felt like she’d just been struck by a bolt of lightning. She scrambled to her feet, practically flying off the bed as if she’d touched lava. Her hands flew up in surrender. “I-I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to—” she stammered, her face a shade of red that could rival the ripest apple.

Agatha stood tall, still holding Violet in her arms, her gaze unrelenting. “You almost knocked her out of bed!” she continued, her voice still tight with controlled frustration. “She’s not a mattress, Alice. Careful.”

Alice, still standing at the edge of the room, looked like she was trying to blend into the walls. Her usual boldness was replaced by sheepishness as she took a few slow, careful steps backward. “Okay, okay. Lesson learned.” She raised her hands defensively. “I’ll stay far, far away from the bed, I swear. I didn’t mean to make the queen of the bed flinch.”

Rio, who had been holding her breath for a moment after the sudden movement, now gave a soft chuckle, her smile a little tired but still warm. “It’s fine, Alice,” she reassured, though she did look a little bit sore from the jostling. “It’s just… you know… I’m a little fragile right now.”

Alice, looking entirely too guilty, turned back to Rio with a soft expression, patting her on the head instead. “I’m really sorry, Rio. I swear, I don’t know what came over me.” She bit her lip. “It’s just… the baby. She’s so tiny. I’m excited, okay? I promise I’ll be more careful. I can’t help it—I want to squish her and cuddle her and never let her go.”

Agatha shot Alice one last, pointed look, before her expression softened, though the edge of her concern was still present. “Just… next time, take a minute to think before launching yourself at a woman who just gave birth, alright?”

Alice nodded enthusiastically, her sheepishness giving way to a smile. “Got it. I’ll be as careful as a sloth on a soft pillow from now on. Promise.”

Rio laughed again, the sound light but genuine, and shook her head with fond exasperation. “You’re going to be the death of me, Al,” she said, her voice laced with amusement, though the affection in her eyes left no doubt that she’d already forgiven her best friend. “But I do appreciate the enthusiasm. Just… maybe tone it down a little next time? My spine would be forever grateful.”

Alice clutched at her chest in dramatic fashion, as if Rio had wounded her. “Tone it down?” she gasped. “What is this, censorship?” But then she caught Agatha’s eye and thought better of pushing her luck. She dropped the act with a sheepish grin. “Okay, okay. Consider it toned down,” she added, her tone playfully solemn as she tiptoed—literally—back to her seat. She sat down with exaggerated care, like someone testing thin ice, one hand bracing the edge of the chair as though it might explode beneath her.

Jen, who had been quietly observing the chaos with the calm of someone used to it, finally leaned forward, an amused glint in her eyes. She crossed her arms and looked over at Agatha with a teasing smirk. “Alright, alright, Agatha,” she said, her voice light with mock seriousness. “You’ve thoroughly lectured Alice. When do I get another turn to hold Violet? Or are you going to stand there all day hoarding her like some sort of mother dragon?”

Agatha raised an eyebrow but couldn’t help the soft smile that tugged at her lips as she glanced down at the sleeping baby in her arms. “Well, I am a bit territorial,” she said, smoothing a fingertip along Violet’s tiny hand. “But I suppose the dragon can be bribed with tea.”

“Tea?” Jen echoed, rising with purpose. “Done. I’ll brew the entire pot myself if that gets me thirty seconds of cuddle time.”

Alice, who had been nursing her bruised ego in the safety of her seat, immediately perked up at Jen’s words. Her expression lit up like someone who’d just been handed a second chance at life. “Wait, yes! Me too. But carefully this time. Very carefully. Handle her like she’s made of spun sugar, Jen. And also—heads up—the mother bites.”

Jen gave her a sideways glance. “I’m not the one who almost knocked someone out of bed.”

“Don’t remind me,” Alice muttered.

Agatha sighed deeply. “Sometimes, I think my one-day-old baby is more mature than both of you.”

Jen made her way toward the teapot on the other side of the room, tossing a grin over her shoulder. “That’s a low bar, Harkness.”

Alice placed a hand on her chest. “Wow. Wounded. Betrayed. Undervalued. And still not trusted with the baby.”

Rio let out a soft laugh from the bed, rubbing at her temples, clearly both amused and exhausted. “Can someone please give Jen my baby before Alice spirals into a full tragedy?”

“I was born for tragedy,” Alice muttered under her breath. “But yes. Please. Give Jen a turn so I can re-earn my privileges via emotional redemption arc.”

Agatha rolled her eyes but stepped forward, moving with the sort of measured grace typically reserved for heart surgeons and bomb defusal experts. With all the solemnity of a priest delivering a sacred relic, she carefully placed Violet into Jen’s waiting arms, who accepted her like she was accepting the Holy Grail.

All sarcasm drained from Jen’s face in an instant. She stared down at Violet like the baby had just whispered the meaning of life to her in Morse code.

Alice leaned sideways toward Rio and whispered behind her hand, “I give it five seconds before she starts crying.”

Rio cracked one eye open. “Jen or the baby?”

“Honestly? Either. But if Jen starts crying, I’m taking pictures.”

Jen didn’t look up. “I heard that.”

“And I meant every word,” Alice said sweetly, hands folded like a choirgirl. Then she narrowed her eyes. “But I still say it’s the mother you have to watch out for.”

Agatha—now settling into the armchair with the air of someone who had narrowly survived a natural disaster—rubbed at her temple like the headache was forming putting her head in a church bell. “I should’ve known I was inviting chaos the moment I let you three exist in the same room at the same time.” She tilted her head toward Rio with a sigh. “And yes, Rio, I’m including you. Your’e literally encouraging them.”

“But it’s chaos with love,” Rio said softly, her eyes fluttering shut for a moment. “Don’t send them away just yet.”

Agatha looked at her, her expression softening again. “I wasn’t going to,” she said gently. “But I might confiscate Alice’s limbs if she launches herself at the bed again.”

Alice nodded in solemn agreement. “That’s fair.”

Jen was still enraptured, cradling Violet like she’d just won her in a raffle and was terrified someone would take her back. “She’s perfect,” she whispered, one finger brushing a wisp of dark hair on the baby’s head. “And she didn’t even bite me.”

“Yet,” Alice muttered ominously, arms crossed like she was preparing for a courtroom trial. “I told you. That kid is pure power. She’s just playing nice now. Lulling you into a false sense of security.”

“She’s one and a half day old,” Jen said.

“Exactly. Prime manipulation age.”

« She doesn’t have teeth! »

Agatha shot Alice a look that could’ve sterilized a room. “Alice, if you say one more thing about my daughter’s alleged criminal tendencies, I will glue your shoes to the ceiling.”

Alice raised her hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. I’m done. I love the tiny overlord, I swear.” She paused, then added with a small voice, “Just maybe don’t let her near mirrors until she’s ten. You know. In case she’s already haunted.”

Agatha didn’t even respond. She just closed her eyes and inhaled deeply through her nose like she was grounding herself in another dimension.

“I think Agatha’s ascending,” Rio said faintly, watching her wife with a soft, amused smile. “Or dissociating. Hard to tell.”

“She’s disasscending,” Alice whispered. “That’s when your soul just politely leaves the room through the floorboards.”

Agatha reopened one eye, expression flat. “Alice.”

“Yes?”

“At the risk of repeating myself, if you ever dive-bomb the bed again like an excitable cocker spaniel, I will personally confiscate your limbs. Not violently. Just… efficiently.”

Alice pressed a hand to her heart and nodded solemnly. “That’s fair. Honestly, I was out of line. I got overwhelmed by the baby’s cheek-to-face ratio. It won’t happen again.”

“Good,” Agatha said, leaning her head back against the chair. “Because I really don’t want to explain to security why someone left this hospital in pieces.”

Alice snorted a quiet laugh, eyes already drifting closed again. “This is the most love I’ve ever felt while being threatened with dismemberment.”

“That’s the Agatha Harkness brand,” Jen said, smiling down at Violet. “Tough love. Heavy on the tough. And occasionally carrying a flamethrower.”

“Don’t tempt her,” Alice whispered.

But Jen, not one to pass up an opportunity for a dramatic performance, began telling Violet a story in her arms, her voice rising and falling with exaggerated tones, punctuated by wild one-armed gestures. Her hand flailed about like she was conducting an orchestra, and the story quickly grew louder and more animated with every passing second.

“And then,” Jen said, her voice dipping to a dramatic whisper, “the dragon swooped down from the sky, its scales glittering in the moonlight—” She threw her arm out wide, mimicking the dragon’s wings, nearly knocking over the stack of magazines on the bedside table.

Violet, understandably alarmed by the sudden audio-visual assault, let out a tiny, indignant squeak that bloomed into a full-bodied wail. Her tiny fists clenched, her eyes went wide, and her entire existence radiated one singular message: What the hell was that?

.

Rio winced, her face tightening at the sharp sound. “Jen, please,” she murmured, her voice still hoarse from the delivery. “Inside voice. She’s, like, tiny tiny. And I’m… very exhausted. Possibly dying.”

Jen froze mid-dragon, eyes flicking down to the squirming baby in her arms like she’d just realized she’d been yelling tales at a sleeping kitten. “Oh. Oh no. Sorry—sorry, little one. And sorry, slightly larger one,” she added quickly, glancing at Rio with an exaggerated grimace of shame. “I got carried away by the narrative arc.”

Agatha, who had been silently observing the entire performance from the armchair like a very tired goddess watching mortals bumble around with fire, finally spoke. “Jen,” she said calmly, though her tone carried the weight of centuries. “She wasn’t kidding. There is a very tiny human in this room. And a very exhausted one who literally pushed said human out of her body less than two days ago.”

Jen’s posture straightened like she was at military inspection. “Right. Yep. Quiet mode activated.” She gave a sheepish salute, then carefully readjusted Violet into a gentler, less bouncy cradle in her arms.

Across the room, Alice raised both hands like she was being held at wand-point. “Noted,” she declared with great seriousness. “From this moment on, we shall speak in reverent whispers and only move in slow, graceful swan-like motions.”

Her voice, of course, was still twice as loud as it needed to be.

Agatha turned toward the ceiling with a slow inhale, pinching the bridge of her nose like she was summoning the patience of saints past and present. “Why do I even try?” she murmured.

But the corner of her mouth twitched upward, betraying the smile she was pretending not to have.

Rio, now half-asleep again, mumbled from the bed, “Because you love us and you’re stuck with us.”

“Unfortunately,” Agatha said, but her voice had gone soft, affection blooming through her exasperation.

Jen leaned over slightly, peeking at Violet, who had miraculously returned to her peaceful, blinking state. “Okay, baby. Round two. Once upon a time—very quietly—there was a dragon who learned to whisper. And there was a princess…”

Violet blinked. Then hiccupped.

Alice gasped. “She likes it! She hiccupped in approval!”

“I think she’s threatening us,” Agatha muttered.

“And I respect that,” Jen whispered solemnly.

Agatha’s gaze softened as she watched Jen gradually shift into a gentler, more delicate version of herself—something rare and faintly magical, like spotting a unicorn at a rock concert. Violet’s tiny eyes, once startled wide, had relaxed into a slow blink, her little fists uncurling as the chaos of the room settled into a more manageable hum. The baby blinked again, this time less like someone fighting for their life and more like someone considering a nap.

Across the room, Rio stirred against the pillows, her eyelids fluttering open just enough to spot Agatha. Her lips curled into a lopsided smile, sleep clinging to her face like static. “Maybe we should just let them have their fun,” she murmured, her voice a whisper thick with exhaustion. “They’re not completely destroying the place.”

Agatha raised an eyebrow, tightening her hold on Nicky, who had climbed unceremoniously onto her lap and was now happily and quietly playing with Blue and Yellow Dragon. “They’re fun,” she agreed, her voice low and dry, “but they’re fun like a marching band in a library.”

“Or a circus in a church,” Rio added, her smile widening as she adjusted her position and winced slightly. “But, let’s be real… we’re going to need a lifetime supply of that brand of chaos.”

Agatha’s lips twitched as she exhaled slowly, brushing a hand gently through Nicky’s curls. “God help me,” she muttered under her breath, though her eyes lingered on her wife.

Meanwhile, Jen was fully immersed in her theatrical comeback, crouched slightly like she was about to spring into action. She held Violet like a precious heirloom and spoke in a voice so high-pitched it could probably communicate with bats. “And then, the brave princess drew her magical sword—not for battle, but for justice and snacks!”

Violet blinked once. Then hiccupped. Then blinked again.

Agatha turned to Alice, who had doubled over with barely-contained laughter, her hand clamped over her mouth so tightly it looked like she was trying to prevent a demon from escaping.

“Alice,” Agatha said without turning her head fully, her voice no louder than a sigh, but packed with centuries’ worth of menace and maternal fury, “if you laugh and encourage her, I will personally throw you out that window.”

Alice nodded rapidly, tears in her eyes from the effort of staying quiet, despite the hundredth threat against her physical integrity that day. Then she broke into a series of muffled giggles that sounded like a duck being strangled. “I—I’m sorry,” she wheezed, her voice a pitch higher than normal. “It’s just… look at her! She’s baby whisperer. With a sword.”

“I’m right here,” Jen stage-whispered dramatically, “and I accept that title.”

Agatha let her head fall back against the headboard, her eyes closing as she pinched the bridge of her nose like she was praying to the gods of patience and caffeine. “You’re all impossible,” she muttered.

Nicky paused his own dragon reenactment long enough to chirp, “Jen’s funny,” which only fueled the chaos further.

“I rest my case,” Agatha sighed.

Rio, watching the whole scene with a tired but deeply content expression, reached out across the bed and slid her fingers over Agatha’s hand. She gave it a squeeze, her thumb brushing softly against her wife’s knuckles. “I love them,” she whispered.

Agatha opened her eyes again, her expression shifting as she looked at her wife—so pale, so exhausted, and still managing to glow somehow. She squeezed back, her voice barely audible and full of tenderness. “I know. So do I.”

There was a beat of peace then, a brief pause in the madness, like the moment between thunderclaps. Jen had gone still, Violet was almost asleep again, and even Alice had momentarily forgotten how to laugh.

Until Nicky let out a sudden, triumphant yell, raising Blue Dragon high above his head, almost knocking Agatha out: “SWORD!” and everyone in the room jumped.

Jen blinked at him, grinning. “You see? He gets it. It’s a metaphor.”

Agatha looked down at Nicky, deadpan. “If you yell ‘sword’ again, you’re sleeping in Jen and Alice’s apartment.”

Alice raised both hands. “We don’t even have a bed frame. But we’ll take him.”

Rio laughed—weak but genuine—and let her eyes drift shut again. “You’re all insane,” she murmured. “But no, I’m keeping him right here, thank you very much.”

“And yet, here we are,” Agatha replied, brushing her thumb gently across Rio’s knuckles. “This is what home looks like now.”

But as the story wound down—somewhere between the magical sword and the princess adopting the dragon as her slightly problematic pet—the room gradually settled into a familiar state of comfortable chaos. Violet had dozed off in Jen’s arms, her little chest rising and falling in the rhythm of pure, milk-drunk peace. The atmosphere was warm and soft, despite the debris of makeshift toys and snack wrappers littering the nearby table like the aftermath of a birthday party planned by sleep-deprived gremlins.

Alice, however, was anything but settled.

She leaned in again—again—edging far too close to Rio’s side with all the grace and spatial awareness of an excited raccoon. Her eyes were locked on Violet with an expression of reverent obsession, her fingers twitching like she was about to steal a holy relic. She was practically hanging over the bed now, her knee pressing into the mattress, her entire torso arched above Rio like a very enthusiastic gargoyle.

Rio, flattened slightly under the sheer presence of Alice, blinked up with the resigned expression of someone being steamrolled by love and poor boundaries. “Alice,” she mumbled, “your elbow is in my kidney.”

“Shhh,” Alice whispered, eyes gleaming. “She’s smiling in her sleep, Rio. It’s illegal to look away.”

But Agatha had had enough.

In one fluid motion, she stood from her seat and walked up behind Alice, her presence looming in a way that made the air feel heavier. Without a word, she came to stand behind Alice, her height giving her a natural advantage in intimidation. Then, very calmly, very deliberately, she placed one hand on Alice’s shoulder—her fingers pressing down with the kind of weight that didn’t hurt, but definitely had the potential to. Her touch said: I am not mad yet. But I could be.

“Alice,” Agatha began, in a voice so smooth and composed it could’ve been mistaken for affectionate, if not for the lethal undercurrent humming just beneath the surface, “you’re a godmother now. That’s a big deal.”

Alice smiled slowly, cautiously, like a woman sensing she was walking into a trap.

Agatha leaned in, lowering her voice just enough to make every syllable more menacing. “If you injure my wife with your overexcited hovering, I will take that title back so fast your head will spin off your neck like a cursed carousel horse. Do you understand?”

Alice froze. Fully, completely froze. One could almost hear the Windows error sound playing inside her head.

She turned her neck with the same speed one might use to face an angry bear mid-hibernation. “…Yes, ma’am,” she squeaked, her voice cracking slightly as she took a sharp step backward, both hands raised in exaggerated surrender like a cartoon burglar. “Nobody touch the not-pregnant-anymore lady. Got it. Message received. Loud and clear.”

Jen raised an eyebrow, not even pretending to hide her amusement. “Damn,” she muttered to Alice under her breath, “she’s always been scary, but this is, like… upgraded scary. Deluxe package. Witch-Queen of Vengeance level.”

Alice nodded slowly, visibly recalculating all her life choices. “I breathed near Rio and she summoned God Mode. I’m never leaning again.”

“She’s got that new-mom energy again,” Jen whispered with a note of admiration. “You can’t mess with that. It’s basically a superpower.”

“She didn’t even blink,” Alice whispered back, wide-eyed. “I think her hand got heavier the longer I stood there.”

Rio, now mercifully free from Alice’s weight, snorted softly from the bed. “Honestly, I’d let her threaten you more often if it gets you off my ribs.”

Agatha shot her a look—dry, deadpan, vaguely fond. “Don’t encourage her. Or I’ll start charging per threat.”

“You wouldn’t,” Alice gasped.

Agatha raised an eyebrow, her hand finally leaving Alice’s shoulder as she crossed her arms and leveled her with a look that could turn water to wine—or just vaporize the wine entirely.

Alice blinked. “You absolutely would.”

Jen chuckled as she gently shifted Violet, her voice low. “We’ve seen her bargain with overly-caffeinated sleep-deprived students, Alice. You’re lucky she didn’t invoice you for the elbow incident.”

Agatha said nothing. Just stood there with the kind of composure that screamed: Try me again. I dare you.

Alice backed away another full step for good measure.

“Right,” she muttered, “I’m gonna go sit over there. In that chair. Very far away. And look respectfully.”

“Excellent choice,” Agatha replied, not even smiling.

Rio, watching from the bed with a lazy grin, reached for Agatha’s hand and tugged her back down beside her. “Remind me to stay on your good side for the rest of my life.”

Agatha’s face finally softened as she looked at her wife. “You’re always on my good side, darling.”

“I’m pretty sure your good side could still hex a man into a tree,” Rio mumbled, half-asleep again.

“Only if he deserves it.”

“They always do.”

Then Agatha turned slowly, deliberately, back to a now thoroughly sheepish Alice. The weight of that stare alone could’ve turned a lesser mortal to stone. Alice, to her credit, only flinched a little.

“I’ll let it slide this time,” Agatha said, voice still sharp enough to slice bread, but now laced with just the faintest hint of fondness—like she was addressing a particularly irritating but beloved cat. “But next time?” She tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowing. “There won’t be a warning. I will simply… act. Swiftly. Efficiently. Maybe dramatically. Who’s to say?”

Alice nodded quickly, swallowing any protest that might have been brewing in her throat. “Got it. Total respect,” she said, hands raised in mock surrender again. “No one touches the queen. Queen has full sovereignty. Piss off the queen’s wife, perish.”

Jen snorted from the other side of the room, nearly choking on a sip of her coffee. “You were practically crawling into the bed, Alice.”

“I got excited! She’s tiny and soft and smells like heaven! I blacked out!” Alice whisper-yelled back.

“Yeah, and you almost used Rio as a human beach chair,” Jen muttered, rolling her eyes.

Agatha, amused now in that way only a woman with all the power and none of the patience could be, raised an eyebrow. “You know, I do admire your enthusiasm. If only it weren’t so… threatening to my wife’s internal organs.”

Alice looked appropriately ashamed. “In my defense, her ribs are in prime leaning territory.”

“Those ribs were occupied by a second human not forty-eight hours ago,” Agatha said flatly, her tone implying she’d win this argument and rewrite the laws of physics if necessary.

With her point made and the dramatics thoroughly delivered, Agatha turned gracefully back toward Rio. As she passed, Jen handed Violet back over, the baby making a soft, sleepy noise as she nestled into Agatha’s arms like she knew precisely whose aura radiated the highest level of maternal dominance in the room.

Agatha returned to Rio’s side like a queen to her throne—precisely, calmly, and with the satisfaction of someone who had just re-established order in her kingdom. She let one hand drift down to brush gently over Rio’s arm, her thumb sweeping in small, protective circles.

“Well, since I’ve got full compliance now,” Agatha said, her tone softening as she returned to her usual gentle side, “I’ll allow you both to hold her a little more. But only if you’re careful.”

Jen and Alice exchanged a glance, both looking more than eager to hold the tiny baby a few minutes more. It was clear they were both a little more mindful now, their excitement tempered by Agatha’s subtle but undeniable threat.

“We will cradle her like she is the Crown Jewels,” Jen vowed solemnly.

“Not good enough,” Agatha said. “The Crown Jewels don’t coo at me.”

« Baby Jesus, then. »

« Much better. »

Alice clutched her chest. “If this baby ever starts crying, I’m throwing myself out the window and apologizing on the way down.”

“Do it quietly,” Agatha replied, not missing a beat.

Jen and Alice exchanged a glance, clearly vibrating with excitement but now operating with the quiet coordination of nurses in a sacred ward. Violet remained nestled with Agatha for a moment longer before she gently passed the baby back to Jen, who received her like a holy relic.

Meanwhile, Rio had been watching the whole scene unfold from her cozy cocoon of pillows, a lazy but distinctly smug smile curling on her lips. She looked up at her wife, eyes twinkling despite the dark circles under them.

“You’re such a protective mama, love,” she murmured, voice hoarse but fond. “It’s hot.”

Agatha’s gaze snapped to hers immediately—like a predator catching movement in the woods. Her entire demeanor shifted from poised to predatory goddess in one heartbeat. The hand still resting on Rio’s arm moved upward to brush her cheek, her fingers pushing a few damp strands of hair behind her ear.

“Oh, is it?” Agatha murmured, her voice suddenly much lower. Dangerous. Delicious. “Are we flirting in front of the baby?”

“We have two babies in the room,” Jen said from across the room, bouncing Violet gently and pointing at Nicky, now absorbed in his book. « Actually three. Two literal and one metaphorical. And I refuse to be the metaphor.”

Alice gagged. “Please. Don’t make out while I’m holding your baby. Or worse, make a third baby while I’m in the room.”

“We are not making a third baby,” Rio muttered, eyes closed now, hand over her forehead. “God, I just finished making the second one. Give me a snack and a nap before you start plotting again.”

Agatha chuckled, a rare, quiet sound as she leaned down to press a kiss to Rio’s temple. “For the record,” she whispered just loud enough for Rio to hear, “I’d burn down a kingdom for you. Or even just, say, a mildly annoying English department and few people in it. I’ve got a list.”

“What’s on the list?” Rio asked sleepily.

“The dean. No actually, I like that man. The neighbor who mows his lawn at 6am on Sundays. Anyone who doesn’t use the Oxford comma. And—” Agatha glanced up, eyes gleaming— “whoever designed the university’s payroll website.”

Rio smiled sleepily. “You say the most romantic things.” She sighed deeply, sitting straighter. “I married you for your sexy spreadsheets, but I’m staying for the vengeance.”

Alice groaned again, louder this time. “This is scandalous. This is filth. This is romantic treason. And it’s turning me on, and I hate that for me.”

Jen sipped her coffee, unfazed. “Honestly, same. But I’d still die for this baby.”

“Same,” Alice said.

“Same,” Agatha added without missing a beat, though her hand was still tangled in Rio’s hair.

“Same,” Rio murmured from under her arm. “But also? Snack. Please. Like. Immediately.”

And then, from the corner of the room, a small but pointed voice piped up:

“And me too,” said Nicky, his eyes wide over the top of his picture book. He was, very clearly, absorbing everything.

All four women froze.

“Oh God,” Jen whispered. “He’s been downloading this like a sponge.”

“Agatha,” Rio hissed, sitting up half an inch. “You corrupted the baby.”

“I corrupted you, darling,” Agatha said smoothly, adjusting the blanket over her wife’s legs. “He just inherited your inability to mind his own business.”

“I love it here,” Alice said with a tear in her eye.

“I fear it,” Jen muttered.

“We thrive,” Rio said, reaching lazily for Agatha’s hand. “Now someone get me that grilled cheese before I do make a third baby out of spite.”

And Agatha stood up immediately.

*

*

*

Chapter Text

*

*

*

The hospital room had never truly returned to peace after Jen and Alice stormed through the door—how could it? Quiet was no match for the twin tornadoes of chaotic affection and unfiltered enthusiasm that were Rio’s best friends. They entered like they owned the place, bringing coffee, laughter, and an entire extra layer of noise that the maternity ward had not consented to but was now fully immersed in.

Jen, tall and perpetually caffeinated, had immediately declared herself Violet’s fairy godmother and begun planning her university scholarship fund and her band debut, while Alice, glitter eyeliner still somehow intact from the night before, hovered between near-tears and shrieking joy every time the baby so much as twitched. Violet, naturally, slept through all of it with the disdainful serenity of a queen unbothered by the clamor of her subjects. She was curled in Agatha’s arms like a secret, a tiny bundle of perfect stillness amid the chaos.

Meanwhile, Nicky—who had clearly sensed the energy shift and taken it as an invitation for full theatrical performance—was bouncing between the two women like a sugar-powered pinball. He narrated Violet’s birth like it had been a Marvel origin story, complete with dramatic reenactments and sound effects, even if he had not been there.

“And then! She SHRIEKED! Like this—AAAHHHHHH—and Yellow Dragon ran away to tell me everything! I think she has powers,” he whispered conspiratorially to Alice, who gasped like she was being told state secrets. “Nighttime birth powers.”

“Of course she does,” Jen said solemnly, adjusting her grip on her coffee like it was a scepter. “She’s your Mama’s daughter. She probably has a built-in glare that melts metal.”

“And Mom’s!” Nicky added quickly, proud. “That means she’s super good at things and will definitely build a robot to protect me when I’m in middle school.”

From her cocoon of pillows, Rio let out a slow, fond laugh, eyes fluttering closed as she basked in the golden late afternoon light filtering through the curtains. The sun had shifted angles with the end of the afternoon, now bathing everything in that impossibly soft, honeyed glow that made the white hospital walls look almost inviting. Her face, pale and a little drawn from exhaustion, was still radiant in its own quiet way—serene, content, and deeply proud.

Agatha sat beside her, calm amidst the whirlwind. One hand cradled iolet; the other rested lightly on the bed, close enough for Rio to reach. Her normally polished exterior—designer blouse, swept-back hair, that don’t-mess-with-me posture—had softened around the edges. The elegance was still there, but now it shimmered with something warmer, gentler. A kind of awe.

She wasn’t looking at the others. Not right now. Her entire gaze was on the tiny baby pressed against her chest, like the world had shrunk down to just this one heartbeat beneath her hand.

“You okay?” she murmured quietly to Rio, low enough that only her wife could hear.

Rio nodded slowly, her eyelids half-lowered. “Happy. Tired. Kind of want a donut.”

Agatha smiled. “I’ll get you one. A dozen if you want. With the weird sprinkles you like.”

“Love of my life,” Rio whispered.

Jen and Alice were now building a “baby prophecy” board on the whiteboard by the sink using stolen pens and Nicky’s assistance. There was an elaborate timeline forming, complete with doodles of a tiny violin, a crown, and what suspiciously resembled a laser cannon.

“She’ll lead a band by age five,” Jen was saying.

“Rule the school by seven,” Alice added.

“She’ll probably overthrow a small principality by ten,” Jen finished.

“You guys are deranged,” Agatha said dryly, though she didn’t look away from Violet.

“And yet,” Rio mumbled from her pillows, “they’re not wrong.”

From his perch by the foot of the bed, Nicky beamed. “We’re gonna be so cool.”

Agatha finally looked up and met Rio’s eyes again. The smallest, softest smile touched her lips.

“We already are,” she said.

Then Alice suddenly gasped—a sound so exaggerated it could’ve been pulled straight from a soap opera death scene. The whole room froze. Even Nicky paused mid-sentence, one hand still in the air from describing Violet’s “cosmic fire cry.”

All eyes snapped to her as she clutched her chest with both hands like she had just been struck by divine inspiration—or a minor heart attack.

“Oh my god,” she said, voice quivering with urgency. “I almost forgot.”

She spun dramatically on her heel, her oversized sweater swishing behind her like a cape, and dove for her bag—a monstrous red tote so covered in pins, patches, and dangling keychains it could’ve qualified as a traveling art installation.

“No, no, no,” she muttered, practically elbow-deep in tote chaos. “Where is it… Where are they? You two are not ready. Humanity is not ready.”

Jen, entirely unbothered, sipped her coffee with the air of someone who had seen this play before. “Brace yourself,” she said to Agatha with a knowing nudge. “This is about to get weird. Possibly illegal. Definitely cute.”

Agatha glanced down at Violet, still snoozing like royalty on her shoulder, and sighed. “Define weird,” she said warily. “On a scale from ‘tattooed bibs’ to ‘homemade electric rocking chair powered by rage and Red Bull,’ where are we landing?”

Alice made a triumphant noise that sounded vaguely like a war cry.

“BEHOLD!” she bellowed, spinning back around like a magician at the grand finale of her act.

From the depths of the red tote, she produced two small bundles of fabric—green and purple, soft and glittering faintly in the golden light from the window. With a flourish that would’ve made a Vegas showgirl weep with pride, she unfurled them mid-air like flags declaring war on minimalism.

The room went dead silent.

Jen blinked. Rio tilted her head slowly. Agatha squinted, as if trying to determine whether the items were garments or props in a children’s fantasy film.

Then—

“Are those—” Rio started.

“They’re dragon costumes,” Alice said proudly, practically vibrating. “One for Violet. One for Nicky. Matching. In your colors. Because obviously. You’re scary, Agatha. Rio is… whatever flavor of chaos she is. And your children deserve nothing less than to be mythical creatures with coordinating outfits. I am, frankly, shocked it took me this long.”

Agatha blinked once. Then again. “I—don’t know whether to thank you or ask if this violates child protection laws.”

“I love them,” Rio said at the same time, her voice warm with laughter. “Oh my god, they even have wings.”

“And glitter horns!” Alice chimed in. “They light up if you press the button on the inside! Jen added that part because she’s a scientific genius and possibly a little bit cursed.”

“I am cursed,” Jen muttered into her coffee. “With style.”

“Oh my god,” Rio said, grinning ear to ear. “That’s so cute.”

Nicky let out a squeal so high-pitched the glass of water on the side table trembled. “DRAGONS?! Are we going to be dragons?! Violet’s gonna be a BABY DRAGON?!”

“You are dragons,” Alice confirmed solemnly, kneeling before him like she was knighting him into an elite club. “You and your sister are the ancient guardians of bedtime snacks and glitter. The prophecy is real.”

“THIS IS THE BEST DAY OF MY LIFE,” Nicky announced to the room.

Agatha gave Jen a sideways look. “Do you people ever bring a normal gift?”

Jen shrugged. “You married into this. No refunds.”

Rio leaned into Agatha’s side, grinning despite her exhaustion. “C’mon. Admit it. You’re going to cry when you see them in it.”

“I do not cry,” Agatha said with her nose in the air. “I merely experience localized emotional turbulence.”

Jen smirked. “Localized, huh?”

“Localized entirely to my tear ducts and only under extreme baby-dragon-related circumstances,” Agatha muttered, already pulling Violet a little closer like she was mentally sizing her up for the costume.

From his corner, Nicky had already begun spinning in a circle, arms outstretched like wings, chanting: “Dragon powers! Dragon powers!”

Jen stepped forward with a grin so smug it could’ve been framed, the unmistakable pride of someone about to show off a masterpiece. “We made sure they match,” she said, nudging Alice with her elbow like a proud co-conspirator. “Baby dragon and big dragon. Violet gets the teeny one, obviously. Look at the tail—it wiggles.”

She said it like that was the punchline to a cosmic joke, but she wasn’t wrong.

Alice lifted the newborn-sized costume delicately, with reverence usually reserved for sacred relics or fresh pastries. It was impossibly tiny, all soft lavender and pastel purple scales stitched into fleece, with green felt wings that folded daintily over the back. A little hood flopped over like a sleepy lizard head, complete with closed dragon eyes stitched in thread and two shimmering golden horns poking out the top like a crown for the tiniest queen of chaos.

Jen held up the matching one made for Nicky—same design, same flair, but bolder. His version shimmered with deeper greens and rich purples, the colors inverted from Violet’s like a mirrored spell. The wings were sturdier, too, clearly designed with one extremely energetic child in mind. There was even a secret pocket, because of course there was.

Agatha, who had never been known to dish out praise for any eccentric gift (not even the time Alice gave them all mugs shaped like Shakespeare’s head), stared at the costumes in stunned silence. Her lips twitched once. Then, with no warning, she actually laughed—a soft, surprised sound that made Jen do a double take and Alice nearly trip over her own boots.

“Okay,” Agatha said slowly, reaching out to touch the fabric with one hand while keeping the other cradled protectively around Violet. “I have to admit. That’s… adorable.”

Nicky’s shriek of joy was so sudden and piercing it startled everyone, including the baby—who stirred briefly before settling again against Agatha’s chest. He had launched himself off the chair like a rocket, landing half on Jen’s feet in his enthusiasm.

“Is that really for me?!” he gasped, practically vibrating with excitement. “Is it mine? For real?!”

“And for your baby sister,” Alice said grandly, holding up Violet’s costume like she was presenting a newborn heir to the throne. “So the two of you can match, conquer kingdoms, and demand snacks in unison. Preferably while roaring.”

“I LOVE IT!” Nicky shouted, his voice cracking from sheer volume. “We’re gonna be DRAGONS! Can I wear it now? Mama, please, can I wear it now? Violet can wear hers too, right? We can be dragons together! We can fly! Right now, right now? Pretty pleeeease?!”

He was already bouncing on his toes, flapping his arms like wings in a desperate attempt to take flight through sheer willpower. His curls bounced with him, and his socks squeaked slightly against the hospital floor as he spun in a fast, slightly wobbly circle. His cheeks were flushed, his grin was enormous, and the joy rolling off him was so pure it could’ve powered the whole city for a week.

Agatha tried to hold firm, to stay the composed adult in the room, but her resolve cracked with every second of Nicky’s flailing enthusiasm.

“Sweetheart, we can’t exactly dress the baby right now—” she started gently, but Nicky was already hugging the bigger costume to his chest like a priceless treasure.

From the hospital bed, Rio watched it all unfold with a slow, blissful smile that stretched across her tired face. Her body ached in places she hadn’t known existed, her hair was a soft mess now, and she was fairly certain she could fall asleep mid-breath—but none of that mattered. Nicky’s joy, his wide-open heart and the glittering light in his eyes, was everything. It was the best kind of medicine. It was him.

She let out a hoarse, sleepy laugh, warm and full of awe. “He’s gonna wear it until it falls apart.”

“Yup,” Jen said proudly. “And that’s why we reinforced the tail.”

“Just… no dragon battles near the IV stand,” Agatha said, already resigning herself to the chaos. “And if you fly out the window, I am not chasing you.”

Nicky beamed up at her, already halfway into the costume. “You don’t have to, Mama. I’ll circle back for you! But Vivi has to wears hers too !”

Rio reached out, her fingers curling gently around Nicky’s little hand as she tugged him closer to the bed. He clambered up with practiced ease, all knees and enthusiasm, but settled immediately when she brushed the hair back from his forehead with the tenderness only a mother could muster.

“Baby,” she murmured softly, her voice still husky from exhaustion but steady with love, “she’s asleep.”

Nicky’s face fell just slightly, disappointment flickering across his wide eyes.

“But,” Rio added quickly, giving his hand a squeeze, “yes. One day very, very soon, the two of you will be the scariest dragons this hospital has ever seen. The walls will shake. Nurses will run. Dragons will reign.”

Nicky’s eyes lit back up, his grin reappearing like the sun through clouds. “Really?” he whispered, glancing at his sister with awe. “We’ll be a dragon team?”

“The fiercest,” Rio said, nodding solemnly. “Your fire will be legendary.”

Still, Nicky’s gaze flicked back to Violet. His voice dropped again to a hopeful whisper. “Can we still put hers on just for a minute? Just real quick? She won’t even know! I promise I’ll be super gentle—like a feather. Like a sleepy feather.”

And then he turned to Agatha and deployed his most lethal weapon: the look. That signature Nicky expression with eyes big and glossy, chin slightly tucked out, lower lip pushed out just enough to tremble—equal parts angel and master manipulator.

Agatha faltered instantly.

She looked down at Violet, still sleeping soundly in her arms, the little one’s face relaxed, mouth slightly open, a single hand curled up near her cheek like she’d fallen asleep mid-thought. Agatha sighed.

“She just fell asleep,” she began, careful, already bracing for the incoming campaign.

“She’s got that newborn sleep, though,” Alice interjected, leaning forward with all the enthusiasm of a lawyer who knew she had the better case. “You know—deep, magical coma sleep. Practically unshakable. A marching band couldn’t wake her.”

“You are not a marching band,” Agatha said without even looking up.

“Nope,” Alice agreed. “But I am extremely gentle. Scout’s honor.”

Agatha raised an eyebrow. “You were never a scout.”

“Okay, then… guitar band honor.”

Jen snorted. “I think that’s the opposite of a scout, actually.”

“Hey, we’re deeply loyal and we carry snacks,” Alice defended. “We’re basically music elves.”

Agatha sighed again, the exasperation real, but the corners of her mouth were giving her away—curling upward in that reluctant, fond smile she always tried to hide when Alice was being ridiculous.

“Alright,” she relented, shifting Violet ever so slightly in her arms, “but only for a minute. And if anyone knocks over so much as a crinkle of tissue paper, or if I see one wrinkle on that baby’s forehead, you’re all banned from baby privileges for a month. A month, Alice.”

Alice immediately snapped into a salute, face solemn. “Yes, ma’am.”

Jen mimed crossing her heart. “Swear on our amplifiers.”

Nicky squealed softly and started bouncing in place, careful not to jiggle the bed but vibrating with excitement like he might take off any second.

“I’ll be quiet! I’ll be gentle! I’ll help! I’ll hold her tail if it needs adjusting!” he whispered in a rush, already half-dressed in enthusiasm alone.

Rio leaned her head back on the pillows, watching her son bounce like a happy spring, her wife trying to look stern and failing miserably, and her newborn baby somehow napping through all of it like a seasoned professional.

It was chaos. It was loud. It was deeply strange.

And it was hers.

“We gave birth to little dragons, my love,” Rio murmured, her voice threaded with fondness and soft amusement as she watched the flurry of activity around the room. “One each.”

Agatha let out a quiet snort of laughter and leaned down to press a kiss to Rio’s temple. “One chaos-born sunbeam,” she whispered, letting her lips drift across Rio’s cheek with the gentlest brush of affection, “and one sleepy little hatchling.”

Rio tilted her head just enough to meet Agatha’s mouth, and their kiss was slow and tender, a grounding press of love that said, We did this. Together. When they pulled apart, Agatha kept her forehead resting against Rio’s, lingering in the quiet moment.

Then, softly, Agatha rose and transferred Violet—still snoozing in her tight little blanket burrito—into Rio’s arms. Rio cradled her instinctively, adjusting her hold with care even though Violet hadn’t stirred at all. The baby’s cheek rested against her mother’s chest, mouth parted in a perfect sleepy pout, the tiniest dragon in the world.

Agatha crouched down beside Nicky next, the dragon costume bunched under her arm and reached for her son—who was now vibrating at a level only visible to bees and small rodents. He bounced on the balls of his feet like he was physically incapable of standing still, and his curls were fluffed into a storm cloud from all his wiggling. His shirt had ridden up during the commotion, revealing a sliver of soft belly that only added to his general chaos gremlin aesthetic.

“All right, little beast,” Agatha said with a mock-serious tone, her smile betraying her affection, “let’s suit you up.”

The child giggled like he’d just been given permission to breathe fire. He held out his arms dramatically, wiggling his fingers with anticipation as Agatha guided the soft green costume up his body. The fabric rustled as she slipped his arms through the sleeves and zipped the front up with gentle fingers. The moment the zipper clicked into place, he went stock-still—a miracle in itself—as if preparing for his grand transformation.

Agatha reached up and pulled the green hood over his curls, adjusting the floppy golden felt horns until they sat just right atop his bouncing mop of hair. She took a step back, placed her hands on his little shoulders, and looked at him.

“Oh, Nicky,” she whispered, not bothering to hide the way her heart clenched. “You look very fierce, big dragon.”

“RAWR!” he shouted triumphantly, puffing out his chest and flexing his arms like a lizard warrior posing for battle.

Jen applauded dramatically from the other side of the room. Alice pretended to faint in fear, collapsing onto a chair with a gasp. “Too powerful!” she cried. “We’re doomed!”

“Tail check?” Agatha asked with a grin.

Without hesitation, Nicky spun in a dizzying circle, nearly toppling over as the purple tail of his costume flailed behind him like a delighted puppy. He stumbled slightly, caught his balance, and threw both arms in the air. “CHECK!”

Laughter echoed through the room, soft and warm and full of light. Agatha scooped him into a tight hug, dragon hood and all, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

“Big dragon approved,” she whispered.

“We really did make dragons,” Rio murmured again from the bed to no one in particular, her voice thick with wonder.

Nicky twirled dramatically in the middle of the hospital room, arms flared out wide, the tail of his dragon costume trailing behind him like a royal cape. The purple wings attached to his back flapped with every bounce, spinning and flopping in wild sync with his enthusiasm. He stomped one foot, then the other, clearly imagining he was on the stage of a grand, fire-breathing performance.

“I’m gonna match with my sister!” he roared, voice full of pride and glee. “RAWWWR! I’m a dragon! Violet, are you seeing this? Violet, look at me!”

Violet, of course, remained utterly unfazed—fast asleep in Rio’s arms, the softest little bundle of pink skin and blankets, not remotely concerned with her brother’s antics.

“We’re gonna match forever,” Nicky declared, spinning one more time before striking a heroic pose.

Rio’s voice came from the bed, raspier than usual with fatigue but warm and full of heart. “You do match forever, baby,” she said, watching him with a smile that made her eyes go soft around the edges. “And that means you have to protect her forever, too. Big Dragon duty.”

“I will!” Nicky said instantly, stamping one small foot for emphasis and planting both fists on his hips like a tiny superhero. “I already told Yellow Dragon she’s mine to keep. And she said okay.”

“Oh good,” Rio said, trying not to laugh too hard and jostle Violet. Her ribs ached, her throat was dry, and she hadn’t slept in what felt like a year—but god, she could’ve burst with love. “Glad we’ve got the dragon council’s blessing.”

“Yellow Dragon is very wise,” Agatha added solemnly, kneeling behind Nicky to help adjust the floppy little wings sewn into the back of his costume. Her fingers were gentle, brushing his curls out of the way as she checked that the velcro was secure. 

Nicky jumped once in triumph, then scrambled back up onto the edge of Rio’s bed—this time slower, more careful, like he remembered the quiet bundle in her arms. He balanced on his knees and leaned in close, peering at her face.

“Mom,” he asked seriously, “do I look scary or adorable?”

Rio tilted her head and squinted at him in mock consideration. “Hmm,” she said, drawing the word out as she poked his belly gently. “Definitely both.”

Alice, crouched near the window with her phone in hand, didn’t look up as she muttered, “Okay, not to alarm anyone, but I have taken seventy-three pictures of this tiny lizard in motion. I swear, if this doesn’t win us some kind of godparent award, I’m suing.”

Agatha gave them both a look that was half amusement, half threat. “You can win awards after you refill the water pitcher and lower the blinds like you promised thirty minutes ago.”

Alice leapt up and saluted with dramatic flair. “Yes, General Dragon Mama!”

Jen whispered as she passed behind Agatha toward the window, “Still scary. Still so hot.”

Agatha didn’t respond, but the slight twitch at the corner of her mouth betrayed her amusement and looked back at her little ones as Nicky started to tug on her sleeve. « Now it Vivi’s turn. Put it on her too. So we match match.”

Rio chuckled under her breath, giving up any last half-hearted effort to let Violet continue sleeping. “Alright, alright,” she murmured, already shifting to sit up straighter. She carefully nestled Violet in the curve of her lap, peeling back the edge of the swaddle with slow, practiced hands, like she was unwrapping a sacred treasure instead of a slightly milk-drunk baby.

“I think you and your brother are going to be the cutest little dragons, sweet girl,” Rio said softly, her voice honey-warm and almost lullaby-like as her fingers guided Violet’s tiny feet into the legs of the dragon onesie. The fabric, soft violet with mint-green accents and soft textured scales stitched into the back, was luxuriously plush—Alice had insisted on only the softest thing in the entire baby-wearable universe. It slid over Violet’s legs with ease, like the costume itself had been waiting to meet her.

Violet squirmed at the sudden chill of uncovered skin, kicking gently against the air in protest, her little fists curling and uncurling as she adjusted to the change. But her eyes stayed closed, and her brow remained smooth—a sleepy hatchling still halfway in a dream.

Rio’s heart ached with adoration.

“There we go, baby girl,” she whispered, as she eased the arms of the onesie up, then reached for the tiny hood with its barely-there felt horns. She lowered it carefully onto Violet’s head, adjusting it until it framed her soft face just so. Her movements were reverent—more a caress than a costume change—driven by a quiet awe that never seemed to fade, no matter how many times she looked at her daughter.

“She looks like a little puff of magic,” Jen whispered from across the room, one hand pressed to her chest. “I’m losing my mind.”

Violet made a small, indignant noise—a squeaky sigh that teetered dangerously close to complaint. Her face scrunched up, lips parting, and for a split second it looked like she was about to unleash a proper wail.

But instead, she yawned.

A big, jaw-stretching, open-mouthed yawn that seemed far too dramatic for a creature so tiny. Almost like a roar.

Everyone in the room let out some version of a gasp, a coo, or a completely undignified squeal.

“Oh, look at that,” Rio murmured, brushing the pad of her thumb gently along Violet’s impossibly soft cheek. “So fierce. So terrifying.”

“She’s ferocious,” Agatha said from across the bed, already scooping Nicky up with ease and settling him beside Rio. “Look at your baby sister. She’s a real dragon now, too.”

Nicky’s eyes grew wide with awe, his breath catching like someone had just shown him a real-life miracle. “She is!” he gasped. “She’s one of us! Can I roar at her?”

“No,” Rio and Agatha said in perfect sync—so automatic it barely registered as speech.

Nicky blinked, completely unfazed. Then grinned. “Okay. But later?”

“Maybe,” Agatha said with a sigh that was more amused than stern, reaching behind him to straighten his wobbly costume tail. “If she’s awake. And if you promise to do it gently.”

Nicky nodded solemnly, as if agreeing to an ancient pact.

Rio shifted just enough to turn and show Violet off to the room, holding her up with the kind of pride that made her chest ache. The newborn was now fully suited up in her baby dragon costume, arms stiffly out to her sides like she was still figuring out how to exist—both in this world and in this absurdly soft, slightly confusing outfit. Her tiny fingers curled and stretched, her legs wiggled in slow motion, and the fabric of her little green wings flapped gently with each movement like they had a mind of their own.

It was, objectively, the cutest thing any of them had ever seen.

“I cannot handle this,” Alice whispered from behind her phone, voice shaky with emotion as she furiously snapped pictures like she was covering a royal event. “Two dragons. Matching. I’m gonna cry. Someone hold me. I mean it.”

Jen, standing right behind her, wordlessly reached out and grabbed her shoulder, like catching a fainting Victorian lady and not her very dramatic girlfriend. “Focus,” she murmured. “We can break down emotionally after we document every second of this ridiculous perfection.”

“I think we’re gonna need professional photos,” Alice said dramatically, already zooming in like she was filming a nature documentary. “Halloween. Birthdays. Graduations. I want a dragon theme forever. Full branding. Personalized keychains. Maybe a coffee table book. The Age of Dragons: A Family Archive.”

Agatha looked up slowly from her perch on the bed, deadpan and dangerous. “If you turn this into a thing,” she said, “I’ll ban you from the house. No warning. No appeals.”

“You say that,” Jen replied, unbothered, already plotting three Pinterest boards in her head. “But you’ve bought every single dragon-related item since Nicky was three and convinced he could breathe fire. And I’ve seen your secret hoard.”

Agatha narrowed her eyes. “What hoard?”

“The one where you keep every drawing Nicky’s ever made,” Jen said sweetly. “Including the one where he drew you with five legs, purple eyes, and breathing sparkles instead of fire.”

Agatha didn’t blink. “That one was surprisingly accurate.”

Rio snorted, laughing so hard she nearly dropped Violet—who, in perfect comedic timing, squeaked from within her onesie and waved a tiny fist like she wanted in on the conversation. Her expression remained vaguely confused, her hood slightly lopsided on her head, the horns flopping sideways, but she was awake now. Barely. And making herself known.

“She heard you,” Rio murmured, kissing the top of Violet’s fuzzy head as she adjusted the hood back into place. “She wants to join the debate.”

“She’s probably wondering what kind of family she got born into,” Alice muttered fondly. “Chaos, baby, chaos. Honestly, she’s lucky.”

Nicky, perched beside Rio with his costume wings slightly askew and his tail dragging over the blanket, leaned over slowly and very carefully pressed a kiss to the top of Violet’s hooded head.

“You’re my best baby sister ever,” he declared in a loud, whispery voice, like it was the highest honor he could bestow.

Agatha, ever the realist, added gently, “She’s your only baby sister, love.”

“Exactly!” Nicky beamed, rocking slightly with the force of his own excitement. “She wins!”

“She didn’t even have to compete,” Jen murmured.

“She was born a champion,” Rio said, her voice soft and marveling as she cradled Violet back against her chest.

Violet gave another of those vaguely threatening yawns, her face crumpling before stretching wide with the effort, then settled again, this time tucking her cheek into Rio’s collarbone like she’d finally figured out the assignment.

The chaos quieted a little. Just for a moment.

Nicky couldn’t wait another second. His voice burst out like it had been sitting in his throat for far too long. “Can I hold her now? I’m a dragon! I can protect her!”

Agatha looked down at him, her expression instantly softening. There was always something about the way Nicky’s excitement lit up his whole face—like he was powered by joy alone. Her hand reached out instinctively to smooth over the messy curls escaping from under his dragon hood, the plush fabric crumpled from all his bouncing and declarations of draconic greatness.

“Alright, big dragon,” she murmured, her voice like warm velvet. Then, quieter, more intimate, she turned to Rio and asked, “Ready, Mom?”

Rio nodded, a soft smile curving her lips despite the exhaustion in her eyes. There was something endlessly grounding about this moment. She gave Violet one last snug hug, as if pressing her heart into the baby’s tiny chest for safekeeping, then carefully shifted upright, adjusting the sleepy bundle in her arms.

“Let’s do it,” she said, voice a little breathy, a little emotional.

Agatha reached out and gently lifted Nicky by the waist, placing him onto the bed beside Rio with practiced ease. Her movements were second nature—strong and careful, like lifting something priceless. She arranged pillows around him like little guards, anchoring him without making it feel like she was fussing. Every motion was done with the ease of a mother who’d done this kind of thing a hundred times and the reverence of someone who never took it for granted.

“Okay, scoot back just a little—yes, that’s it,” Agatha guided gently, crouching beside him. “Arms here… gentle hands. Just like with the kittens at Grandma’s that one time, remember?”

“I remember,” Nicky whispered solemnly, like this was sacred knowledge.

“Perfect.”

Rio leaned in slowly, like a ceremony, and began to transfer Violet into Nicky’s waiting arms. Her movements were deliberate, hands steady but her breath catching ever so slightly. She lingered a moment too long—just a heartbeat—her fingers brushing the curve of Violet’s back even after her weight had left them, as if her body hadn’t quite agreed to let go yet. Agatha’s palm hovered just beneath the baby as the hand-off happened, her presence a quiet safety net that neither of them had to speak aloud.

And then, there they were.

Violet, impossibly small and bundled in soft purple fleece, was now resting against the padded belly of her older brother, whose own dragon onesie matched hers almost exactly—except his wings were a bit wrinkled from running down the hallway earlier, and his hood kept slipping back from the sheer determination in his movements.

Nicky went utterly still. The kind of still that children rarely achieve—completely frozen, eyes wide with reverence. He looked down at her like she was made of glass and stars, fragile and glowing. His arms, outstretched and cradling, were stiff with focus, as if he were holding a tiny, snoring miracle.

“She’s so little,” he whispered, awestruck. “She is not heavy at all. Like my school bag. Except softer. And warmer.”

Rio chuckled softly, brushing a finger along Nicky’s shoulder. “She’s all squish right now.”

“She smells like milk and clouds,” Nicky added, wrinkling his nose slightly, but with a deep sort of fondness that didn’t quite make sense—except it did, completely.

“She smells like you did when you were new,” Agatha said gently, brushing back the hood that had slipped sideways on Violet’s face. “Just smaller.”

“She’s perfect,” Nicky whispered, like it was a secret just for them.

Agatha smiled, and Rio leaned her head on her wife’s shoulder, exhaustion and peace melting together in her bones.

Nicky adjusted his arms just slightly, instinctively mimicking the way Agatha had shown him, cradling Violet’s head more securely. His dragon hood tilted forward a little with the movement, soft purple wings brushing the blankets as he leaned in to study her face.

Violet was already drifting off again, as if the warmth of her brother’s arms had lulled her right back into sleep. One tiny hand had curled near her cheek, her fingers twitching in miniature dreams, her lips slightly parted in that newborn pout that made everyone melt on sight.

Nicky turned his head just enough to look at Rio and Agatha, serious in that way only a seven-year-old could be.

“I’m gonna protect her forever,” he declared, his voice low but full of purpose. “Even when she’s annoying.”

“You’ll regret saying that in about three years,” Agatha said, smoothing a hand down his back. “But we’ll remember you said it. Every time she steals your toys and draws on your books.”

Rio leaned a little closer, resting her elbow on her knee, her tired eyes fixed on the two of them—her babies, both dressed in their mothers’ colors, little dragons on a bed full of pillows and warmth. Her heart ached in the sweetest way possible. “You’re doing amazing, dragon,” she whispered.

Nicky’s whole face lit up like a paper lantern catching flame. His grin was enormous, toothy and wild with pride. “She’s my baby too, right?” he asked, not for the first time—but this time, needing to hear it again, needing it written into the walls.

“Always,” Agatha said, before Rio could even open her mouth. The answer lived in her voice already, certain and anchored. “She’ll always be your baby sister.”

Nicky gave a triumphant little nod, proud and fierce and, admittedly, just a little smug—as if the universe had personally awarded him with this tiny sibling and he intended to take full credit.

“Does she know I’m her brother?” he asked, his gaze flicking back to Violet like she might wake up and confirm it for him. “Can she tell?”

“I think she does,” Rio answered, her voice dipped in wonder. Her gaze lingered on Violet’s small hand as it twitched again, this time brushing against Nicky’s sleeve. “She knows your voice already. You talked to her every single day, remember? When she was still in my belly.”

Nicky blinked at her. His mouth dropped open slightly in astonishment. “That worked?!”

Rio laughed, light and tired and full of love.

“Of course it worked,” Agatha added, brushing a loose curl from his forehead. “You’ve always had a strong voice. She heard you, loud and clear.”

Nicky looked back at Violet, wonder stretching across his face like sunrise. He stared at her as if she were suddenly glowing.

“She’s never gonna forget me,” he said solemnly, his brows furrowing with importance. He looked between both his moms like this was a pact, something they had to promise him, right here and now. “Even when she grows up.”

“She never will,” Rio said softly, leaning over to kiss the top of his head. “You’re in her story already.”

Nicky nodded again, deeply satisfied, and then leaned forward just a little, resting his cheek gently against the top of Violet’s hood. He closed his eyes for a second, breathing her in, as if trying to memorize the way she felt. When he pulled back, his eyes were shining.

“Good,” he whispered. “’Cause I’m gonna teach her stuff. Like how to be a dragon. And how to roar. Really loud. And how to scare away monsters and mean people. I’ll tell her which people are boring and which people are funny. And how to do the best jump off the couch without breaking anything. Probably.”

Rio let her head fall into her hand with a groan that wasn’t really a groan. “Oh boy.”

Agatha chuckled quietly beside her. “We’re in trouble now.”

“Big trouble,” Rio added.

Nicky beamed. “That’s okay. Dragons like trouble.”

And Violet, warm and safe and perfectly still in her brother’s arms, gave the tiniest sigh, as if agreeing completely.

From the foot of the bed, Alice brought both hands to her chest and whispered, her voice thick with awe, “Don’t move. I’m painting this in my head. Framing it. Gonna cry.”

Jen, arms crossed and blinking a little faster than usual, added dryly, “Honestly, same. But I’ll do it with quiet dignity, thank you.”

Agatha rolled her eyes, though the fond smile tugging at her mouth betrayed her. “You’re both being very dramatic,” she muttered—but her arm tightened instinctively around Rio’s shoulders, drawing her in just a bit closer. There was no hiding the softness in her eyes every time she glanced down at the scene before them: their children, curled up together like some impossibly perfect dream.

Nicky sat proud and perfectly still, careful not to jostle Violet as she slept against his chest, her tiny mouth twitching in some newborn dream. They looked like a portrait someone might find in an old fairytale book—two little dragons in matching onesies, curled in a nest of blankets and love between their mothers.

Jen, ever the self-declared historian of their chosen family, had already crouched low near the end of the bed, Agatha’s phone steady in her hands, fingers poised over the shutter. The soft click of the camera was barely louder than the hum of breath in the room, but it came again and again—each photo another small hymn to the moment.

Every angle, every glance, every accidental curl of a tail or wing between siblings—she caught it all.

Agatha leaned forward, reaching out to adjust the plush green hood on Nicky’s costume so that his felt horns stood up properly. She gave the hood a final pat and whispered near his ear, her voice low and full of mischief, “You both look adorable. Big dragon and baby dragon.”

Nicky grinned, chest puffing out in pride like he’d just been knighted by a queen. “The fiercest dragons in the land,” he said, in a deep, theatrical growl, holding very still so as not to disturb Violet but clearly delighted with himself.

Rio, nestled back against the pillows with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, watched her little family with a gaze so tender it ached. One arm was looped securely around Nicky’s back, grounding him without holding him down. The other hand hovered protectively near Violet’s impossibly tiny form, like her touch alone might keep the whole world safe.

Her chest felt too full, her breath catching every few seconds like her heart was trying to stretch wider to make space for the moment. There were tears forming—soft ones, not heavy or sharp, just the kind that came when something was too beautiful.

She reached for Agatha’s hand, and Agatha immediately threaded their fingers together, her thumb stroking along Rio’s palm without a word.

“You’re all going to thank me in ten years,” Jen murmured from her crouch, eyes narrowed in concentration as she lined up another shot. “Or at their wedding slideshows. I’m not picky. I just need credit.”

“God, let’s not talk about wedding slideshows when one of them is a literal day old and the other isn’t even eight,” Agatha said with a mock grimace, though she couldn’t keep the laugh out of her voice. “I just got her out of her Mom, not ready to give her away yet.”

Alice sighed dramatically, leaning against the doorframe like she couldn’t physically hold all her feelings upright. “I know we joke,” she said, voice still hushed with reverence, “but I mean it. This right here? This is what joy looks like.”

For once, Jen didn’t make a snarky comment. She just nodded, eyes still fixed through the lens, and whispered, “Yeah. It really is.”

Nicky’s eyes suddenly lit up like a lightbulb had just switched on above his head. He gasped, twisting toward Agatha with an expression of intense, almost panicked inspiration. “Wait! Wait, wait, we forgot something super important!”

Agatha, mildly alarmed but mostly amused, raised a brow. “Did we forget to feed someone? Did we forget to name the baby again? Did you leave a potion boiling in the kitchen?”

“No! It’s the dragons!” he declared, bouncing slightly in place. “All the dragons need to be in the picture! It’s a family picture and that means everyone has to be there—even the plush ones!”

He turned to Rio, who was blinking up at him in bemused wonder, and then swung his wide-eyed gaze toward Jen. “We need Blue Dragon! And Yellow Dragon! And—and Mom’s dragon too! All the dragons have to be in the family photo or it doesn’t count!”

Rio let out a soft, fond laugh, reaching for the nearby bassinet where Violet’s yellow stuffed dragon was tucked in. “You heard the boy,” she said as she passed it to Agatha. “It’s a family portrait. All dragons included.”

Alice, already on the move, darted to the couch where Nicky’s ever-faithful blue dragon lay and grabbed it, tossing it gently to Jen, who caught it mid-air and tossed it to Agatha, who nearly missed it, due to Jen’s poor throwing skills and passed it over to Nicky.

“I’ve got Mom’s,” Jen then said, turning toward the nearby duffle bag where Rio’s treasured purple and green dragon lived—one Agatha and Nicky had given her years ago when she was still an overworked PhD student and not doing so well. It had been her talisman through long nights and hard days. It had sat on her desk through every late-night writing frenzy, been clutched to her chest during every panicked breakdown, and occasionally acted as a makeshift pillow when she’d fallen asleep on the floor surrounded by books and half-eaten granola bars.

It had been her silent companion through the chaos. A guardian. A soft little symbol that she wasn’t alone.

The dragon’s velvet wings were a little frayed now, but she still kept it close like a relic of survival.

Jen pulled it out with a dramatic flourish and cradled it with exaggerated care, then held it aloft with a dramatic flourish and cradled it with exaggerated ceremony, like it was made of diamonds and gold. “Behold,” she proclaimed grandly. “The Matriarch Dragon.”

She turned and presented it to Agatha with the grace of someone offering a crown to a queen—knees bent, eyes lowered, chin bowed. Agatha rolled her eyes hard enough to see into her past lives.

“I don’t even have my own dragon,” she muttered as she took the plush creature, though her hands betrayed her fondness—her fingers brushing reverently over the worn fabric as if checking for battle scars. “It’s always her dragon.” But Rio’s dragon was hers too in all the ways that mattered.

“Because you gave it to me,” Rio said immediately, her voice soft but sure as she leaned into Agatha’s side with the kind of casual intimacy that still made Jen and Alice side-eye each other like conspirators. “That makes it special.”

She reached out and took the dragon from Agatha’s hands, nestling it onto her lap like something sacred. Then she tilted her head and pressed a kiss to Agatha’s shoulder—gentle, affectionate, totally unapologetic.

“I’ll get you one,” she whispered against her wife’s skin. “I swear. A big one. With wings. Glitter. Possibly armor. It’ll have a doctorate.”

Agatha snorted. “If it’s not bilingual and deeply sarcastic, I’m sending it back.”

“Oh, it’ll sass the baby,” Rio promised, eyes twinkling. “And it’ll flirt with you.”

“You know I like my dragons emotionally available,” Agatha deadpanned.

Jen groaned from behind the camera. “Can you two not flirt while I’m trying to document your children’s childhood?! This is archival material! Keep it PG!”

“Too late,” Alice stage-whispered. “The Matriarch Dragon has probably already seen things.”

Rio laughed, the kind of laugh that made her eyes crinkle at the corners and her tiredness momentarily lift. She curled her fingers around the dragon in her lap, glanced at her family—her wild, chaotic, ridiculous, perfect family—and whispered, “Welcome to the portrait, old girl.”

And the dragon—slightly squished, a little lumpy, absolutely irreplaceable—was home.

Nicky, now on a mission, arranged the dragons with laser focus with one arm, the other holding his sister, not noticing Agatha had slipped an arm under the little girl to keep her from slipping while her brother worked. He positioned Blue Dragon next to his foot like a loyal knight, tucked Yellow Dragon beside Violet’s tiny arm like a protective shield, and very seriously adjusted the purple-and-green dragon on Rio’s lap—its head resting gently against her belly.

He stepped back, gave the whole scene a critical once-over, and then nodded with the satisfaction of a true artiste. “Okay,” he said solemnly. “Now it’s perfect.”

Jen, blinking back the sudden and completely uninvited sting in her eyes, lifted the phone again and crouched. Her voice was a bit unsteady, though she did her best to disguise it with theatrical cheer. “Alright, everyone look this way. Say ‘Rawr!’ on three.”

“One, two—

“Rawr!” Nicky shouted gleefully, while Violet slept through it all.

The camera clicked again. This time, it captured more than a sweet moment. It captured a story. A new chapter. One of family, and softness, and silly traditions. Of dragons and lullabies. Of love stretched wide like wings to hold four hearts—and then some.

Rio leaned into Agatha’s side as the last photo was taken, her voice a soft hum against her wife’s shoulder. “This is what magic looks like, huh?”

Agatha wrapped an arm around her and kissed the top of her head. “Exactly this.”

Across the room, Jen leaned closer to Alice and whispered behind her camera, eyes still locked on the frame. “They really did hatch dragons.”

Alice nodded, mouth twitching. “And I’m stealing every single one of these photos.”

Without even lifting her head, Agatha spoke—calm, lethal. “You steal any, and they’ll vanish mysteriously from your phone. Along with every password you’ve ever loved.”

Alice blinked. “Still scary.”

“Still hot,” Jen confirmed, adjusting her lens. “This is gold. Pure, generational blackmail material. I’m making a full album and calling it Rise of the Dragons. Subtitle: The Tiny Roar Within.”

“I’m getting that printed on a mug,” Alice added instantly. “And also a blanket. And a tote bag. And—wait—I’m making a film. Rise of the Dragons: Starring Nicky and Violet. Coming soon to a living room near you. Limited screening. No popcorn, just juice boxes.”

“I’ll write the soundtrack,” she added. “Lots of triumphant violins and maybe a kazoo solo for when Nicky gets distracted halfway through and starts trying to fight a lamp.”

Hearing his name, Nicky spun around like someone had called “action.” His face lit up, eyes huge. “And our dragon lair is right here!” He flung his arms wide to indicate the bed like it was the throne room of an enchanted castle. “On this bed! Mama, you’re the Queen of the Nest! And Mom, you’re the Fairy of Dragonland! You get wings and sparkles and a sword that talks.”

“Oh my God,” Rio wheezed, clutching her side. “I’m keeping this kid.”

“Careful,” Agatha warned, hand already reaching to steady her as she half-doubled over in laughter. “Your little dragon is going to make you laugh yourself into postpartum bleeding again.”

“I’m willing to risk it,” Rio said, still breathless and grinning like a maniac. “For the honor of being the Fairy of Dragonland, I’ll bleed with pride.”

Alice threw a pillow at her. “Gross.”

“Poetic,” Jen corrected.

“Powerful,” Agatha added, brushing Rio’s hair back with one hand, because apparently even in chaos and dragon-themed bedlam, she was still the most composed person in the room.

After a flurry of camera clicks and more rearranging of dragon tails and tiny plush wings than anyone thought possible, Jen finally lowered Agatha’s phone, handed back to its owner and declared, “Okay. Moment officially captured. Someone print this for the Museum of Family Glory.”

But before Agatha could tuck the phone away, Nicky, glowing and breathless from all the excitement, tugged insistently at his mama’s sleeve. “Can I see? I wanna see all the pictures!”

Agatha chuckled softly and leaned over him, unlocking her phone. “Of course, big dragon. Prepare to be amazed.”

As soon as the screen lit up, Nicky’s face was overtaken by a full-body grin. He leaned in so close his nose nearly bumped the glass. “Look at us!” he gasped. “We’re dragons! Real dragons!”

Alice, not one to miss out, practically dove across the room and slid in next to him. “Show me, show me, show me!”

Jen followed a moment later, cramming in from the other side, all six of them now a single tangle of hair, limbs, and joyful commentary.

“Best. Costumes. Ever,” Alice declared, eyes shining as the photos flicked by. “We are geniuses. We are the smartest people alive. We really should win an award.”

“I’m framing this one,” Jen added, pointing to a photo where Nicky’s little arms were wrapped protectively around Violet, both of them snug in their dragon onesies, Nicky giggling at Violet’s yawning, Rio and Agatha beaming behind them.

Agatha scrolled to the one Jen had chosen and turned the phone so Rio could see. The sunlight from the hospital window had caught just right in that photo—Rio’s eyes soft and tired but glowing, Agatha’s hand resting gently on her shoulder, Nicky mid-giggle, Violet asleep in his lap. A dragon family, captured in a split-second of perfection.

Rio reached out slowly, brushing her fingers over the image like it was fragile, holy. “We all will. Frame it, I mean,” she murmured, her voice thick with emotion and still a little breathless from laughing too hard minutes ago. “That’s… that’s the one that goes on the wall. First thing you see when you walk in.”

She swallowed. “Send that one to Lilia. She’ll cry. But the good kind.”

Agatha nodded, already tapping the screen to send the image to her mother-in-law. “Done,” she said softly. “With a heart and everything. She’s probably screaming in her kitchen right now.”

Jen peeked over her camera and smirked. “I’m getting it printed on canvas. Maybe a puzzle. Maybe a billboard. Honestly, why limit ourselves?”

Alice raised her hand. “I’d like a copy for my wallet. For when I need to cry in traffic.”

“I want it laser-etched onto my laptop,” said Jen. “And also my soul.”

Nicky, still sitting proudly with Violet curled against him, puffed up his chest. “It’s ‘cause I’m holding her. That’s why it’s the best one.”

“You are holding her like a pro,” Agatha said, reaching out to tousle his curls. “Very protective. I almost cried and I don’t cry.”

“Yes you do,” Rio said instantly, leaning into her. “You cried last week when Nicky gave you a dandelion and called you ‘my brave lady.’”

“That doesn’t count,” Agatha huffed. “That was manipulative.”

Jen raised her eyebrows. “By a seven-year-old?”

“He knew exactly what he was doing.”

Nicky beamed. “I always know what I’m doing.”

Violet stirred slightly in his lap, her little hand twitching like a dragon trying to dream its wings into existence.

Jen snapped another photo, almost without thinking. “That one too. God, I’m gonna need a second hard drive.”

“And a therapist,” Alice mumbled fondly.

“We all do,” Rio echoed, her eyes still locked on the photo glowing on Agatha’s screen. “But this… this helps.”

Alice sniffled—loudly, and with dramatic flair—then immediately jabbed a finger in Jen’s direction. “It’s her. She’s crying. Not me. I’m emotionally stable and completely dry-eyed.”

Jen scoffed, swiping at the corners of her eyes with the sleeve of her hoodie, trying to look casual and failing spectacularly. “I’m not crying,” she insisted, even as her voice wobbled. “I just got something emotional lodged in both of my eyeballs. Simultaneously. Very rare condition.”

“Extremely rare,” Rio said, grinning at them from the hospital bed. “Highly contagious too, apparently.”

Alice made a noise halfway between a laugh and another sniffle. “Ugh. Don’t make me feel feelings. I came here for baby snuggles, not a full-blown existential heartache about the meaning of love and family.”

Rio tilted her head into Agatha’s shoulder and looked at their friends with mock solemnity. “Don’t worry, though. Dragons cry too. They just breathe fire while they’re doing it.”

That got a delighted gasp from Nicky, who had been very busy arranging a blanket fortress around Violet and her stuffed companions with one arm. He immediately perked up, fist in the air. “I wanna breathe fire!”

Agatha turned to him with a look of mock alarm. “Let’s not add arson to today’s list of milestones, sweetheart.”

“But Mom said dragons do it!”

“Mom says a lot of things,” Agatha muttered, then ruffled his curls and pulled him gently back down beside her. “Let’s start with you brushing your teeth without setting the bathroom on fire, deal?”

Jen ambled over with a sly grin and threw an arm around Agatha’s shoulders. “I don’t know, I think you’d still love him even if he burned down a village.”

Agatha didn’t hesitate. “I absolutely would. But only if it was a very annoying village. With bad zoning laws and noisy leaf blowers.”

“Or one of those neighborhoods with HOA rules against keeping Halloween decorations all year long,” Rio added helpfully, earning a fist bump from Jen.

Alice, sitting on the foot of the bed now, shook her head and laughed, wiping her eyes again. “The tradition lives on,” she said. “Raising a chaos gremlin with emotional depth. I’m honestly proud. You two are doing amazing.”

“Thank you,” Rio said, placing a dramatic hand on her chest. “We strive for balance. Equal parts brain and feelings.”

Agatha smirked. “And a mild touch of world domination.”

“Mild?” Alice asked, eyebrows raised.

“Very mild,” Jen chimed in. “Just enough to keep the planet interesting.”

“Can I be King of the Dragons?” Nicky asked, climbing into Agatha’s lap and tugging at the end of her sleeve. “Just for today?”

Agatha looked down at him, her expression melting like candlewax left too close to a flame. “You’re already King of the Dragons, darling,” she said, brushing a curl from his forehead. “You were born into the royal fire.”

“And Violet’s the Princess,” he added, glancing toward his little sister. “And Mom’s the Fairy. And Mama’s the Queen. » He paused, tuning to his aunts. « And you…”

He paused, thinking very hard.

Agatha waited patiently, amused.

“You’re the Clowns.”

Rio snorted so loud, Agatha had to wrap an arm around her to keep her from tumbling down the bed.

Jen gasped, clutching her chest. She turned to Rio, deadpan. “Did you put him up to this?”

Rio was wheezing into a pillow. “I wish. I wish I had this level of comedic timing.”

“Flawless casting,” Alice said, saluting him.

And Jen, swallowing her pride, tilted her chin proudly. “You know what? I accept.”

Then Nicky looked down at Violet in his lap again, his little hands patting her dragon-hooded head with the seriousness of a seasoned big brother. “Okay, Mom,” he said at last, turning toward Rio. “You can take her back now. My arms are tired.”

Rio laughed, a soft, bubbling sound full of affection as she leaned forward to take Violet from him. “Oh, my poor brave dragon,” she murmured as she gently settled the baby against her chest. Violet gave a sleepy sigh and curled in instinctively. “Look at her,” Rio whispered, tracing her daughter’s soft cheek. “Our tiny little dragon.”

Agatha leaned in, adjusting the hood with the precision of someone who had made a thousand gentle touches count. “We are so lucky,” she said quietly, her voice almost reverent, as if afraid to disturb the fragile spell in the room.

Nicky, now free of sister-duty, resumed his very important task: wrapping his beloved blue stuffed dragon in a spare baby swaddle. He furrowed his brow with concentration, then stood, carefully placing the swaddled dragon on a pillow like it was royalty being put to bed. Then, arms spread wide, his little dragon wings flapping behind him, he threw himself dramatically off the bed and onto the linoleum floor.

“We’re a clan!” he declared, spinning around with his arms still stretched, nearly toppling a lamp. “Aunty Alice! Aunty Jen! Thank you so, SO much! These are the best gifts ever in the history of gifts!”

Alice pretended to bow. “The Dragon King has spoken!”

Jen wiped her eyes with the corner of her sleeve, caught somewhere between a laugh and a sniffle. “Okay, fine,” she muttered, voice cracking slightly. “I might be crying a little. Shut up.”

“You’re such a mess,” Alice teased gently, nudging her. “A beautiful, emotionally wrecked mess.”

Jen sniffed louder. “I just didn’t know dragon babies could be this cute, okay?”

Agatha sat back down on the edge of the bed, one hand absentmindedly stroking Rio’s hair while the other rested protectively over Violet’s tiny form. “I don’t know how we got here,” she said softly, looking at her wife, her son, the little miracle cradled in her arms. “But I’m so glad we did.”

Today, they were dragons.

Tiny ones. Loud ones. Sleepy ones.

The clan was complete.

Their lair was warm.

The dragons were safe.

And their wild, wonderful story was only just beginning.

And it was perfect.

Once Alice and Jen had left, promising to come visit once they were back home, Nicky, freshly reenergized after his grand declaration of dragonhood, had quieted down, which in itself was newsworthy. He propped his elbows carefully on the bed next to Rio, planting his chin in his hands like a little scholar examining something sacred. For a full thirty seconds—thirty entire, uninterrupted seconds—he didn’t move. Not even a bounce. Not even a wiggle. A genuine miracle.

His gaze was fixed on Violet.

His little sister lay nestled against Rio’s chest, her tiny breaths puffing in and out beneath the soft folds of her dragon onesie, eyelids closed like she was dreaming of distant skies and gentle firelight.

Nicky reached out, his fingers moving slowly, reverently, like he was afraid the slightest breeze would make her vanish. He traced the edge of her plush dragon wing, then touched the tip of her little hand, featherlight.

“I love her, Mom,” he whispered.

His voice cracked slightly—gentle, almost shy—and Rio’s heart clenched in her chest.

She turned her head and kissed his curls, her lips lingering there as she closed her eyes. “We all do,” she murmured, her voice warm and thick with emotion. “And we love you.”

Her family, this improbable, patchwork tapestry of people she adored—loud and brilliant and chaotic and silly and soft—was real. This wasn’t something she had to fight her way into or earn with perfectly timed gestures and careful words. This wasn’t something that might vanish in the morning.

It was real.

Right here. Right now.

Agatha sighed, taking it all in. Her wife, radiant and rumpled in the soft afternoon light, humming something under her breath to soothe the newborn against her. Her son, wide-eyed and wonderstruck, brushing his sister’s wing like it was spun from magic. Her daughter, tiny and peaceful in the center of it all, wrapped in warmth and love before she even knew what those things meant.

And Agatha? Agatha had never been more sure of anything in her life.

She would guard this life with everything she had. With fire. With wit. With fierce, unapologetic love. With dragon wings and sarcasm and sharp looks over the rims of teacups.

She would burn the world down to keep them safe.

No questions. No hesitation.

They were hers. And she was theirs.

Forever.

*

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Chapter Text

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The ride home from the hospital was quiet, the kind of quiet that hummed with wonder and softness rather than silence. Outside, the sun was just beginning its descent, creating a warm amber glow over the familiar streets they had driven down so many times before. But today felt like the very first time. Everything had changed. The world looked different.

In the backseat, Nicky sat upright and impossibly still—an accomplishment worthy of a medal all on its own. His seatbelt was snug across his chest, and both hands clutched the sides of Violet’s car seat like he was holding on to the universe. Every few seconds, his wide eyes flicked from her tiny sleeping face to the window and back, like he was checking to make sure both were still there. Like he was guarding her with his gaze alone.

He leaned forward again, whispering into the snugly padded silence where Violet lay bundled in her softest blanket, her tiny dragon onesie still on, one paw-shaped foot peeking out. “Are you okay, baby dragon? We’re almost home.” His voice was hushed, like they were carrying a living treasure—and to him, they were.

Agatha drove with both hands gripped firmly on the steering wheel, her jaw tight, eyes locked on the road like it might suddenly throw a curveball just because it could. She wasn’t so much driving as she was gliding—at a pace that might frustrate snails, a pace that felt… slow. Extremely slow. Her posture was bolt-straight, every turn signal flicked on half a block in advance, her internal monologue one long chant of no sudden movements. She looked like she was transporting priceless art. Or radioactive material. Or a dragon egg.

Because she was.

In the passenger seat, Rio was curled into herself, bundled in Agatha’s too-big cardigan that still smelled faintly of sage and lavender shampoo. The fabric pooled around her like a blanket, hiding how sore and exhausted she was beneath the glow of new-mother awe. Her cheek rested against the cool glass of the window, the late afternoon light painting her face in gold and rose and shadows. Her eyes fluttered open and shut in slow waves, half-dreaming, half-memorizing the moment in silence.

She cracked one eye open as they rolled past a green light with the urgency of a drifting leaf. “You’re going twenty under the speed limit, Professor,” she murmured, voice husky with sleep and mischief.

Agatha didn’t even glance away from the road. “We have precious cargo in this car,” she said, her tone matter-of-fact, as if it were the most logical thing in the world.

Rio turned her face toward her wife, lips twitching. “You didn’t drive this slow when I was in labor.”

“You weren’t in a rear-facing car seat with no neck strength and a 90% chance of spontaneous sneezing, and I was so fast then,” Agatha said evenly. “Completely different scenario. Not comparable. Ineligible analogy.”

“She’s not a grenade, my love.”

“She’s my grenade.”

Rio’s chuckle was breathy and warm. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And she’s barely seven pounds of baby,” Agatha muttered, flicking her turn signal on a full two streets before their own. “Have you seen how small she is?”

In the backseat, Nicky was still whispering to Violet. “We’re gonna show you everything, okay? Mom and Mama made you your own little bed. I put my best animals there to protect it. And there’s a night light. And snacks. Well. Not for you. But they’re in the room.”

Rio turned back toward the window, her smile going soft again. Her eyes blurred a little at the corners.

In the backseat, Nicky piped up again—his voice low but enthusiastic. “She yawned, Mom. That means she likes the car, right?”

“Definitely,” Rio murmured from the passenger seat, smiling with her eyes still closed. Her voice was lazy with affection, the kind that melted at the edges. “She loves it already.”

Agatha glanced into the rearview mirror. What she saw nearly undid her.

Her son, sitting so seriously, like a little knight guarding his queen, hands braced like a sentry around Violet’s car seat—watched his baby sister like he’d been born for this moment. Like he’d waited his whole life to become a big brother. His gaze didn’t wander. He looked at Violet like she was a spark of stardust in the middle of an ordinary afternoon.

 And her newborn daughter, safe and small in a sea of softness , one little paw-shaped foot from her dragon onesie still stubbornly sticking out. Her chest rose and fell in slow, perfect rhythm. She was so small. Too small, it felt, for a world this big.

Agatha’s heart squeezed. Then swelled. Then squeezed again.

Nicky tilted his head, peering at his sister like he was deciphering ancient runes. “What if she cries?” he asked, voice suddenly unsure. “What if she doesn’t like home?”

Agatha’s gaze softened, her hands steady on the wheel. “She will,” she said gently. “Because we’ll be there. And because you’ll be there.”

A pause settled over them, and the soft hum of the engine filled the space again. They passed familiar places: the little corner store Agatha always forgot to stop at, the weathered bus stop where Rio once waved at Nicky in the rain, the library where they had hidden from a thunderstorm and read picture books until the clouds passed.

None of it had changed. And yet, all of it had.

Rio opened one eye, catching a glimpse of the street outside bathed in golden light. She watched a child ride a scooter past someone’s flowerbed and thought, This is the same place we’ve always lived—but now we get to live here as four.

She blinked slowly, smile fading into something more peaceful. “I’m trying to stay awake,” she admitted, her voice quiet. “But I feel like my bones are made of pudding.”

Agatha reached across the console and found her hand without looking, their fingers locking together instinctively. Her thumb brushed over the back of Rio’s hand, grounding her there.

“Sleep if you need to,” she said, voice low and steady. “You did all the hard work. I’ll get us home.”

But Rio shook her head gently, her grip tightening just a little. “No,” she whispered. “I want to see us drive up. All of us.”

Agatha nodded, even if Rio couldn’t see it. She understood. The kind of moment you couldn’t bear to miss, even in exhaustion.

In the backseat, Nicky leaned forward again and peered into Violet’s seat, eyes shining. “I think she’s asleep,” he whispered, the words carried on a breath like he might wake her if he said them too loudly.

“She’s had a big day,” Agatha replied. “So have we all.”

Their street appeared just up ahead, and as they turned the corner, the whole world seemed to pause with them. Trees arched gently over the road like a canopy, sunlight slipping through the branches in dappled patterns. Houses stood like familiar sentinels, porches lined with windchimes and welcome mats. Little garden gnomes watched them pass like quiet witnesses. A neighbor waved from their lawn chair, and Agatha managed a nod in return.

The world felt both impossibly large and beautifully small.

Rio let her eyes fall closed again—not in sleep, but in reverence. She let herself feel the hum of the car beneath her, the warmth of Agatha’s hand in hers, the sound of Nicky’s breath next to Violet’s. All of them, packed into this little metal capsule, hurtling slowly toward home like it was the most important place in the universe.

When the car finally came to a gentle stop in their driveway, Agatha exhaled—a long, quiet breath she hadn’t even known she was holding. She shifted into park and sat back for a moment, just to feel it.

They were here.

Home.

She turned toward Rio, then glanced into the mirror at the backseat, where her children—her children—sat bathed in golden light.

“We’re home,” she said, soft and steady, a lullaby in the form of words.

And Nicky, vibrating with restrained joy, looked down at his sister and whispered, “Welcome home, baby dragon.”

The moment Agatha turned the key in the lock and gently pushed open the front door, Nicky exploded through the threshold like a tiny hurricane made entirely of joy and unspent energy.

“Violet is home!” he shouted, arms flung wide as he dashed into the house at top speed. “The baby dragon has arrived!”

His voice echoed wildly through the hallway and bounced off the walls like it was just as thrilled to be home as he was. Without pausing for breath, Nicky launched himself into the living room with the full theatrical flair of a performer on opening night. Arms outstretched like wings, he zoomed past the couch, past the coffee table, past the rug he always tripped on, spinning once with the full conviction of a child completely certain he could fly. The long, slightly crooked tail of his dragon costume—yes, he had begged to put it back on for this moment—trailed behind him with every bouncing step. He had insisted Violet wear hers too. Because, as he’d solemnly explained in the car, dragons should arrive at their lairs together.

His little lightning bolt sneakers thudded against the hardwood in joyful, clumsy rhythm, and somewhere in his wake, a stack of unopened mail slid off the side table with a soft flutter. He didn’t notice. He was too busy announcing his sister’s triumphant arrival to her kingdom.

Behind him, Agatha stood in the doorway, steady and focused as always, holding Violet’s car seat in one hand while the other hovered protectively around Rio’s waist. Rio moved slowly, careful with each step, her body still sore from the labor and the long days in the hospital, but her eyes were bright—tired and glowing all at once with a quiet light. A light that said I made it. That we all did. Agatha never let go of her, supporting her just enough to be helpful without smothering her. They moved as one, in silent rhythm, practiced and natural.

Like dancers in a duet they’d been learning their whole lives.

As they crossed the threshold into the house, something shifted. The air changed. Familiar scents greeted them—lavender from the laundry detergent, vanilla from a candle long extinguished but still faintly clinging to the curtains, and something like home cooked meals and new beginnings. The quiet was soft and waiting, like the house had been holding its breath.

Agatha paused just a beat to look around, eyes scanning the entryway, the light streaming in through the windows, the toys Nicky hadn’t put away in his pre-baby excitement. She tilted her head slightly, as if offering a silent acknowledgment to the space itself—We’re back. We’re more.

Rio glanced around too, slower, her gaze catching on everything. The shoes lined up by the door, the crooked photo frame in the hallway, the couch blanket still bunched from the last movie night they hadn’t finished. It wasn’t perfect. But it was theirs.

Rio blinked as she stepped into the hall, her arm looped around Agatha’s.

“Oh,” she breathed, pausing just a few steps into the entryway. Her body stilled, but her eyes moved—slowly, carefully—as if afraid to disturb what she was seeing.

“Wow.”

The house had changed in their absence. Not drastically, not in a loud or obvious way, but in the gentlest, most loving touches imaginable—each one so full of intention that Rio could practically hear the echoes of the laughter and whispered coordination behind them.

Across the archway between the hall and the living room hung a handmade banner, strung up with soft ribbon and painter’s tape. It read in big, colorful, slightly uneven letters: « WELCOME HOME, BABY VIOLET ». Some of the letters were rimmed with gold glitter, others dotted with hand-drawn hearts and little stars. A few had delicate pink and blue flowers painted into their corners with a shaky but determined hand. It was so clearly handmade that Rio could immediately picture Jen trying to measure each letter with scientific precision while Alice added glitter behind her back.

It was perfectly imperfect—exactly the kind of banner made by people who loved with all their might and zero concern for symmetry.

Rio’s breath caught, and her gaze drifted further into the house.

There were flowers. Everywhere. Right at home among Rio’s plants.

Clusters of wildflowers tucked into old glass jars and teacups sat on nearly every flat surface. They were clearly handpicked—sun-kissed and a little uneven in length, some still carrying flecks of soil on their stems. And the violets—so many violets. Tucked into tiny ceramic cups along the kitchen counter, spilling from a tall vase on the living room table, peeking out from the corners of the bookshelf like little purple whispers.

Above the window, someone had crafted a delicate wreath of woven greenery and violets, bound together with twine and careful fingers. It swayed slightly in the spring breeze coming in through the cracked window, and Rio could swear it smelled like hope.

She blinked again. Her eyes stung in that aching, unfamiliar way that meant she was about to cry, but she didn’t feel sad. She felt overwhelmed—by love, by beauty, by the realization that someone had thought of them, had made space for them to come home not just to something, but into something. A celebration. A welcome. A family.

She swallowed hard, voice catching slightly. “They did this… while we were gone?”

Agatha, who had been quietly watching her take it all in, smiled and nodded. “They must’ve snuck in. Alice asked me for the spare key ‘just in case of emergencies.’ I think she counted this as one.”

Rio let out a choked laugh, watery and small. “That tracks. Jen probably planned the logistics. Alice painted the banner and sabotaged it with glitter. Lilia picked the flowers. I bet even Nicky was in on it somehow.”

“Almost certainly,” Agatha murmured, her hand brushing gently over the small of Rio’s back, steady and grounding. “They wanted it to feel like home when we walked in.”

Rio’s hand tightened around hers. “It does,” she said quietly, voice trembling just a little. “It really, really does.”

For a moment, they just stood there—Agatha’s arm around her, Violet sleeping peacefully in her carrier beside them, the house blooming quietly with love and light around them. It didn’t feel like returning to something old.

It felt like stepping into the beginning of something brand new.

“Come on, let’s get you sitting down,” Agatha murmured, her voice low and warm, every syllable laced with the kind of patience that had soothed Rio through long nights and longer contractions. She guided her gently toward the couch, her arm wrapped securely around her waist, while her other hand expertly maneuvered Violet’s car seat. Agatha had long since mastered the art of doing three things at once—motherhood had a way of demanding it, and she’d risen to the challenge with quiet grace and a stubborn kind of devotion.

Rio didn’t resist. Her legs were heavier than they’d felt in days, and her body, though aching in ways she couldn’t quite name, trusted Agatha’s lead. The couch waited like an old friend—soft, familiar, a little worn around the edges, but safe. Safe in that wordless way only home could be.

Just as Agatha eased her down, a whirlwind of sneakers and boundless energy came charging back from the living room.

“Did you see the flowers?!” Nicky’s voice echoed through the hallway before his little body did, all limbs and excitement. “There’s sooo many! They even put some in the bathroom! Mom, Mama—come look! You gotta see!”

Agatha chuckled softly, still crouched near the couch, settling Violet’s carrier beside it as if it were made of glass. “We will in a minute, sweetheart,” she promised, glancing over her shoulder. “Let Mom rest a little first, okay?”

Rio let out a long, slow breath as she sank into the cushions. Her shoulders loosened, her spine melted into the familiar embrace of the couch, and for a second, she just existed. The living room looked the same. The soft throw blanket was still folded over the back of the armrest. The books were still slightly crooked on the shelf. But somehow, everything felt different.

Maybe it was the way the sunlight filtered through the curtains now—warmer, more golden than before—or maybe it was the violets, their sweet perfume hanging in the air like a lullaby. Or maybe it was the simple, unshakable fact that for the first time, they were home as four. That Violet was here, safely tucked into the rhythm of their life like she’d always been meant to be.

Agatha knelt beside the carrier, every motion slow and reverent, and began to gently unbuckle the baby, careful not to jostle her too much. “Welcome home, little one,” she whispered as she lifted her into her arms, voice almost inaudible but full of something ancient and tender. Violet stirred faintly, made a sleepy noise, then nestled deeper against Agatha’s chest, utterly content.

Nicky, not to be left out, clambered up onto the couch beside Rio with the enthusiasm of a boy twice his size. He moved more gently than usual, mindful of her, mindful of his new role. His small hand found her forearm, rested there, warm and sure.

“She’s gonna like it here, right?” he asked, quieter now, like maybe the weight of it all was starting to settle into him too.

Rio turned to look at him—her bright, curious, slightly rumpled boy. She brushed a few curls back from his forehead with trembling fingers. How was he this big already? How had he grown into a big brother overnight?

“She already does,” she whispered. The words caught a little in her throat, but they rang true.

Agatha stood then, slow and fluid, Violet pressed gently against her chest. She looked down at them—her wife on the couch, her son leaning in close, and their daughter sleeping softly against her heart—and something in her face shifted. A quiet awe. The kind of joy that doesn’t come all at once but builds, layer by layer, until it hums in your bones.

“It’s her home,” she said softly. “Just like it’s yours. Just like it’s mine and Mom’s.”

And then, as if the house had heard and agreed, it fell into a hush again—the kind of silence that wasn’t empty, but full. Full of breathing and warmth and the flutter of something impossibly sacred.

With wildflowers on the shelves, violets on the counter, a banner that still shimmered faintly where the sun kissed it just right. And beneath it all, the quiet rhythm of four hearts beating under the same roof for the very first time.

Here, at last, they were home.

Agatha stepped forward with slow, careful steps, her arms full with the smallest life she’d held since Nicky. Violet was still curled up against her chest, so light and warm and new that every second of holding her still felt like a quiet miracle. She was just starting to stir now, stretching one impossibly small hand against her mother’s collarbone as if reaching out into the world around her. She was barely more than a whisper in her mother’s arms—soft, sleepy, and impossibly new.

With a breath caught somewhere between awe and reverence, Agatha turned and gently, gently, placed Violet into Rio’s waiting arms, as if lowering a star into the sea.

Rio instinctively cradled her close, wrapping her body protectively around the bundle of softness and sleep. She looked down at Violet—at her daughter—with a quiet smile that said more than words could ever reach. Her thumb brushed over Violet’s tiny hand as she settled her, and Rio leaned back into the couch as if her whole world had finally clicked into place.

Nicky tucked himself against Rio’s side, not jostling too much, his wide eyes focused on his baby sister.

“Can I sit next to her?” he whispered, so quietly it was almost a breath, as though even his voice could rouse her from the warm spell of sleep.

Rio turned her head toward him, her eyes soft. “You already are,” she murmured, brushing a kiss into his curls.

Nicky grinned, bright and earnest, his eyes never leaving Violet. Her tiny form was swaddled in her violet-colored onesie, the soft cotton shaped like a dragon—complete with tiny green wings stitched at the back and little golden horns poking from the hood, which had slipped just slightly askew. She looked like something out of a fairytale—like a newborn dragon curled up in her nest, guarded by the people who loved her most in the world.

He reached out, slow and careful, pausing a fingertip’s width away from her cheek. He hesitated, like touching her might break some kind of spell.

“She’s so soft,” he whispered, finally brushing his finger gently along the peach-fuzz skin of her cheek. His eyes went impossibly round. “Like… like clouds.”

Rio chuckled quietly, her laughter thick with love and something else—something deeper, like the roots of a tree stretching down into her chest.

“She really is,” she agreed.

Agatha stayed standing for a moment longer, as if rooted to the spot by something sacred. Her breath caught in her throat as her gaze swept over the scene before her—one that she knew would etch itself into her bones for the rest of her life.

Rio sat curled around their daughter, her body still weary but holding that quiet, unshakable strength that seemed to radiate from deep within her. There was something in the way she held Violet—careful, reverent, like she was guarding a flame she’d carried across oceans. And Nicky, nestled close beside them, his hand hovering just inches above Violet’s impossibly small form, fingers trembling slightly with awe. He looked like he was staring at magic made real.

Violet, for her part, remained blissfully unaware of the enormity of the moment. She made a soft sound in her sleep, the tiniest flutter of her lips, as if even her dreams were still learning how to form. She didn’t yet know that her arrival had cracked the universe open and poured light into all the quiet, aching corners of their lives. She didn’t know how long she had been hoped for, wished for, dreamt into being.

But Agatha knew. She remembered every hour, every fear, every heartbeat of waiting.

And now, she was here.

Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes before she could stop them.

She walked around the couch quietly and lowered herself onto the edge, brushing her fingers lightly along the back of Rio’s shoulder. She leaned in close, kissed her wife’s temple with the gentlest of pressure, and whispered, “We did it, my love. She’s home.”

Rio turned to look at her, her eyes bright with emotion, lips parting like she wanted to say something but couldn’t quite find the words. So she just nodded and leaned into Agatha’s touch, pressing their foreheads together for a moment, breathing in the same space.

Nicky looked up at them both and whispered, “Mama’s crying,” with wide eyes.

Agatha laughed softly, wiping her cheek with the back of her hand. “Just a little. Happy tears.”

Nicky nodded solemnly, like he understood the importance of that.

“Is Violet crying too?”

“No,” Rio whispered, glancing down. “She’s still dreaming.”

“Maybe she’s dreaming about us,” Nicky said with a proud little puff of his chest. “I would, if I was her.”

Agatha reached for them then, her arm curling around both her wife and her son, gathering them closer, tucking them all into the crook of her body like she could hold the entire world in her arms. Her fingers settled gently against the back of Nicky’s head, her palm flat against Rio’s spine, and Violet—so tiny, so warm—between them all.

“She doesn’t have to dream about us,” she murmured, her voice barely more than a breath. “She’s got us right here.”

And for a long time, they stayed like that—no rush, no chaos, no outside world intruding. Just the quiet breath of a newborn sleeping, the slow rise and fall of Rio’s chest, the weight of Nicky’s small hand against her arm, and Agatha’s heart beating in time with them all.

Home. Finally.

They ended up all together on the couch for a long time, tangled in blankets and the soft hush of a house that had finally become a home for four. Rio leaned back against the cushions, Violet tucked snug in her arms, her tiny features still scrunched from sleep. Nicky had claimed Agatha’s lap, curling in with a tired kind of satisfaction, his head resting against her shoulder and his little socks peeking out from under a blanket he insisted on sharing with everyone.

The light outside was beginning to fade. Agatha, ever the quiet orchestrator, gently eased herself off the couch—careful not to disturb Nicky too much—and padded into the kitchen. Soon, the kettle hummed to life, filling the quiet with the promise of warmth.

She returned with a tray: one mug of tea, one cup of cocoa, and a warm glass of milk for Nicky, who lit up immediately at the sight of it.

“Thank you, Mama,” he said sleepily, his voice already beginning to slur with the onset of sleep. Agatha pressed a kiss to the crown of his head.

“You’re welcome, dragon.”

But then, just as they were all settling into the gentle stillness of their living room, Violet’s soft, uncertain fuss broke the quiet. It started as a small sound—barely a protest—but it grew steadily, her tiny arms squirming against Rio, her face crumpling into something that looked close to distress.

Rio reacted on instinct, rocking her gently, adjusting her grip with quiet expertise born from sheer instinct. She bounced Violet ever so slightly, whispering low reassurances in a voice meant only for her daughter. “Shh, it’s alright, little one… you’re okay, Mommy’s got you…”

But the fussing didn’t stop. It only grew more insistent, more urgent—her cries not yet loud, but filled with a kind of pleading that tugged directly at the chest.

Agatha was already moving before Rio had to say a word. She crouched at the edge of the couch with a quiet kind of grace, one hand resting briefly on Rio’s knee before she turned her full attention to Violet.

“Here,” she murmured, voice warm and steady as a candle flame. “She just wants her mom.”

She gently adjusted the dragon onesie, easing out one of Violet’s tucked arms with careful fingers, making sure there was no bunching or tightness. Her touch was tender but precise, each motion full of deliberate love.

“There we go, sweetheart,” she whispered, brushing her thumb ever so lightly over Violet’s temple.

Violet’s cries softened, but didn’t fade entirely.

Then came a tiny voice, soft but certain. “I think she’s hungry.”

Rio turned, blinking. Nicky was watching them from where he sat curled under the blanket, his warm milk still cupped in his hands but completely forgotten. His blue eyes were wide and earnest, full of a kind of gentle seriousness that made him seem suddenly older than his seven years.

“You think so?” Rio asked, surprised and quietly impressed.

He nodded slowly, as though weighing the gravity of his diagnosis. “That’s what babies do when they’re hungry. They yell.”

Agatha smiled and reached over to tousle his curls affectionately. “You might be right, big dragon,” she said, her voice proud and playful.

Rio looked back down at Violet, who had now begun that unmistakable rooting motion—her mouth turning from side to side, little jaw working in soft, searching movements. Her whimpers grew more pointed, more focused, as though she too understood that the answer had already been spoken aloud.

Rio tilted her head, studying her daughter with a mixture of wonder and recognition. “You know what, baby love,” she said softly, glancing at Nicky again, “I think your brother is absolutely right.”

She shifted slightly, preparing to feed her, and as she did, Agatha stood, brushing a kiss to the top of Nicky’s head again before moving to give them a bit of space. But Nicky stayed right where he was, leaning his head against Rio’s arm, his eyes fixed on Violet with a kind of reverence.

Rio shifted gently, careful not to jostle Violet too much as she opened her blouse, her movements slow and practiced. With one arm, she supported the tiny body against her chest, and with the other, she cradled her daughter close, guiding her with the soft kind of certainty that only love could teach.

“Come on, sweetheart,” she whispered, her voice barely a breath, coaxing gently.

Violet didn’t need more than that. Her tiny mouth found what it had been searching for, latching on with instinctive urgency—and almost instantly, the storm inside her calmed.

The difference was immediate. The tension that had wound her limbs tight seemed to drain away in a single long sigh. Her small fists unclenched, curling loosely against Rio’s breast, and her little legs relaxed, no longer kicking in protest. She made a soft noise—something like a satisfied hum—and then another, rhythmic and peaceful, as if to say, This. This is what I was waiting for.

Nicky, perched beside them with his own milk in hand and a furrow of concern still lingering between his brows, watched carefully. When he saw Violet settle, his shoulders dropped in visible relief.

“Told you,” he said matter-of-factly, shooting Rio a look of quiet pride.

“You did, little love,” Rio said warmly. “You’re going to be a really good big brother.”

“I already am,” he whispered proudly, sipping from his own milk.

Agatha settled in beside them again, wrapping one arm around Rio’s shoulders, her hand finding the space between Rio’s neck and collarbone and resting there, gentle and sure, and the other around Nicky’s little frame, pulling them all close.

They stayed like that for a while—just the quiet of the room, the warmth of shared space, and the sound of their baby daughter suckling softly in the dim golden light. And even though Rio was exhausted, even though Agatha’s entire body ached from tension she hadn’t yet allowed to release, and even though Nicky was clearly two minutes from passing out, it was perfect.

Their little family, all together.

No noise. No outside world. Just this.

Just home.

As Violet nursed peacefully in Rio’s arms, Nicky remained curled up beside Agatha, sipping his warm milk and sleepily watching with a furrowed brow. His little face was scrunched in that way it always did when he was thinking very hard—deep, serious thoughts for a very little boy. He kept glancing between Violet and Rio, then up at Agatha, then back again.

Finally, he whispered, “Mama?”

Agatha looked down at him. “Mm?”

He pointed, small finger lifting in that way only a child could manage—blunt, direct, utterly without malice. “Why is she drinking like that again?”

Rio, far from bothered, let out a soft, amused breath. “Curious little dragon, huh?”

Nicky wriggled a little but didn’t pull away, cheeks beginning to tint with pink. “I mean… it’s kind of weird. Is that normal?”

Agatha smiled, smoothing her hand over his back. “Very normal, sweetheart.”

He didn’t look convinced. “But like…” He paused, clearly struggling to find the right words. He squinted toward Violet again, as if expecting to understand more if he looked longer. “She’s drinking from Mom. Like…” He made a small face, trying to articulate the mystery of what he was seeing. “Like a juice box?” he offered finally, blinking in honest confusion. “That’s so strange.”

Rio immediately had to bring a hand to her mouth to stifle the laugh bubbling up in her chest. Agatha let out a low, surprised chuckle of her own, pulling Nicky in a little closer.

“Well,” Agatha said, recovering her composure, “not quite like a juice box.”

“But it looks like it,” Nicky insisted, baffled but fascinated. “She’s just… drinking. From Mom.”

Rio shook her head, smiling down at the peacefully nursing baby in her arms. “It’s how babies eat when they’re still very little,” she explained softly, her voice tender. “My body makes milk just for her. That’s why she snuggles up like this—because it makes her feel safe and full and close to me.”

Nicky blinked. “Wait, your body makes milk? Like a cow?”

Agatha couldn’t help it—she laughed out loud this time.

Rio gave Nicky a playful, mock-offended look. “Are you calling me a cow?”

He looked mildly horrified. “No! I didn’t mean—! I just—!”

Rio leaned over and kissed his forehead. “I’m teasing you, baby.”

“Oh,” he said, relieved, but still suspicious. “I guess it’s okay if Violet thinks you’re a juice box.”

Rio snorted. “Thanks for the permission.”

Agatha, doing her best not to laugh too hard, smoothed her fingers through Nicky’s dark curls, brushing them away from his forehead as he gawked at the scene before him.

“It’s called breastfeeding, baby,” she explained gently, her voice low and warm. “That’s how a lot of babies eat when they’re this little. That’s how you used to eat.”

Nicky’s eyes widened so dramatically that it seemed almost theatrical. “Me?!”

“You,” Agatha confirmed with a slow, solemn nod, like she was delivering ancient knowledge of great importance. “All the time. You were just like Violet. You’d wiggle, and squirm, and yell at the top of your lungs when you were hungry. And I’d sit down with you, just like Mom’s doing now, and—well, you’d drink from me.”

His mouth dropped open. He looked completely scandalized. “From you?!”

Agatha nodded again, utterly unfazed. “Mm-hmm. You were very serious about it too. No distractions. Not even music. If I tried to hum, you’d glare at me.”

He gaped at her, then turned slowly to Rio. “But I didn’t do it with you?”

“Nope,” Rio said with a little smile. “You were already a big boy when I met you. So you were drinking your milk out of a cup by then—usually a red one, because the blue was clearly inferior. You remember that, don’t you?”

“Oh yeah,” Nicky said, momentarily distracted by the memory. “That cup was awesome.” Then his brows furrowed again. “But… I really did that with Mama?”

“You did,” Agatha said with a fond little sigh. “You’d curl up in my arms just like Violet’s doing now, and you’d fall asleep with your mouth still latched, your little hand resting right here—” she touched the place over her heart, “—and sometimes you’d let out these tiny, happy sighs, like you’d just had the best meal in the world.”

Nicky stared at her like she’d just told him he used to breathe fire.

“I did not!”

Agatha tilted her head, feigning seriousness. “Oh, absolutely you did. And don’t even get me started on the milk drunk smiles. Little milk drunk dragon. You were so happy.”

“I was not!” he gasped, completely scandalized. “I don’t remember that!”

“You wouldn’t. You were a baby,” Agatha said, amused. “But I do. Very very well.”

Nicky groaned and hid his face in her arm. “This is so embarrassing.”

“Sweetheart,” Rio said, laughing now, still gently nursing Violet, who was dozing off, full and content. “I promise, there is nothing embarrassing about how babies eat. It’s the most natural thing in the world.”

Nicky peeked out from behind Agatha’s sleeve, his expression still half-scandalized, half-intrigued. “Even if it’s weird?”

Agatha pressed a kiss to his temple. “Even then. ‘Weird’ is just a grown-up word for something we didn’t understand yet.”

Nicky wriggled, absorbing that slowly.

“I just didn’t think people did that,” he mumbled.

Rio smiled, shifting Violet to her shoulder to burp her. “Most people don’t talk about it. But babies need to eat somehow, and this is one way. Some babies drink from bottles. Some drink from their moms. It’s all okay. And none of it is something to be ashamed of.”

“But you said I was all serious and stuff,” Nicky said, lifting his head again with an accusatory look. “You said I glared when you hummed!”

“You did!” Agatha said, laughing now. “You were very intense about your meals.”

“Like a dragon guarding a milk treasure,” Rio added with a playful wink, imagining the scene in her head, wishing she had been there.

Nicky looked like he wanted to argue—but then he smiled despite himself, sheepish and a little proud. “Well. I guess if I was a dragon…”

Agatha and Rio both exchanged a glance over his head, love thick in the air between them.

“You still are,” Agatha said, holding him close. 

Nicky sat up a little straighter from where he’d been slumped against Agatha, his small brow furrowing in concern as he eyed Rio and Violet. “Does it hurt?” he asked quietly, his voice serious in that rare, careful way only he could manage when he was truly worried.

Rio shifted Violet slightly, adjusting her in the crook of her arm as the baby snuffled in her sleep, full and satisfied. “Not usually,” she answered, her tone soft and honest. “Sometimes it’s a little uncomfortable, but I don’t mind. She needs it. And I’m okay.”

He considered this. “And that’s all she eats?”

“For now,” Agatha said. “In a few months, she’ll start trying other things—like mashed sweet potatoes, mushed-up bananas, maybe oatmeal.”

Nicky made a face. “That sounds yucky.”

Rio laughed softly. “I said the same thing when Mama first tried to make me eat oatmeal.”

Agatha gave her a playfully reproachful look. “You still say that.”

“I’m right.”

Agatha turned back to Nicky, her eyes twinkling. “You thought so too at first. But then you changed your mind. You decided bananas were your favorite food in the world for a while. I couldn’t get them into the shopping cart fast enough.”

Nicky stared at her, eyebrows raised. “I did?”

“You did,” she said, tucking a strand of his hair behind his ear. “You’d eat three a day if I let you. You called them ‘na-nas’ for months.”

Nicky wrinkled his nose. “I don’t remember any of this.”

“That’s okay,” Agatha said softly, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. “I do.”

He sighed, snuggling further into her lap like the conversation had worn him out, resting one hand gently on her arm. “Babies are a lot,” he muttered.

Rio and Agatha shared a glance across the room—one of those silent, familiar exchanges only two very tired but very in-love parents could pull off. Agatha gave an exaggerated whisper: “Tell me about it.”

Nicky smiled sleepily and leaned his head on Agatha’s chest, watching Violet with new, slightly less baffled eyes.

“She’s still weird,” he murmured.

“Yeah,” Rio agreed softly, brushing her fingers over Violet’s soft hair. “But she’s our little weird.”

Agatha kissed the top of Nicky’s head. “All the best people are.”

And for a little while, everything was quiet again, just the four of them curled up under the soft light of home. A family, completely tangled in each other, completely perfect.

*

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Chapter Text

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Later that afternoon, after mugs of cocoa and warm milk had been drained, after Nicky had launched a full investigation into the mechanics of breastfeeding complete with diagrams on a napkin, the house settled into a gentler rhythm. The sun, low in the sky, cast golden light through the windows, soft and drowsy. Violet had fallen asleep again, full and content in Rio’s arms, her tiny lips parted and her breath slow, one hand curled loosely in the fabric of Rio’s dress.

Agatha, moving with quiet reverence, knelt beside them on the couch. “Let me take her for a bit,” she murmured, brushing her knuckles over Violet’s rosy cheek. “She’s out like a little lantern.”

Rio nodded and, with a soft sigh, surrendered their daughter into Agatha’s waiting arms. Violet barely stirred, her body molding easily to Agatha’s chest, where she nestled with a sleepy sigh, her face squished gently against her mama’s sweater.

Agatha smiled. “Let’s show her the nursery.”

Rio stood with a small wince and a soft sound of protest, and Agatha was immediately there with her free hand, steadying her, thumb brushing comfortingly over her wrist. Her muscles ached, her body still tender from birth, but her heart—oh, her heart was full to the brim, spilling over.

Across the room, Nicky popped up from where he’d been lying half-buried in a fort of pillows, his dragon tail dragging behind him. “Wait for me!” he cried, already halfway to the hallway, his feet slapping against the hardwood. “I’ll open the door!”

By the time they reached the nursery, he was already waiting at the door, hands planted firmly on either side of the frame. “You ready?” he asked over his shoulder, grinning from ear to ear.

Agatha gave a theatrical nod. “Lead the way, Sir Nicholas.”

Agatha came to a stop, cradling Violet against her, and Rio beside her, every step aching, but made lighter by the sight of Nicky—wild and eager, flinging open the nursery door with both hands like a grand unveiling.

“Welcome to your room, Vivi!” he announced proudly, throwing his arms out like a magician.

Agatha chuckled, the sound quiet and warm, and stepped into the room.

Agatha laughed softly as she followed him inside, cradling Violet. Rio stepped in after them, and her breath caught the way it always did when she saw the space they’d poured so much love into. The nursery still smelled faintly of wood and lavender. Everything was just as they’d left it, but with Violet in Agatha’s arms now, it felt alive for the first time.

One blue wall was covered in the sprawling tree mural Agatha had painted by hand, each branch winding and reaching as if stretching protectively over the crib. Tucked into its green leaves were tiny purple blossoms, and hidden stars, all done in careful strokes, details added late at night when Agatha would hum softly and say, “She’ll see this before she sees the sky.”

Stuffed animals were tucked into corners, and above the crib, the dragon mobile they’d picked out together spun gently in the low light.

Nicky ran straight to the corner and flipped on the star-shaped nightlight. It glowed softly, casting golden stars across the ceiling. “So she knows where home is,” he explained seriously.

Rio smiled, hand going to her chest.

“Good thinking, love,” Agatha said.

Nicky beamed, then took Violet’s introduction very seriously. He walked slowly across the nursery, pointing to each object with the authority of a seasoned tour guide. “This is your dragon mobile,” he said in a soft voice. “It spins when the wind blows. And this—this is the tree Mama painted. She said it’ll grow with you.”

Agatha turned slightly, just enough to catch Rio’s eyes. They shared a quiet, knowing look.

A plush armchair sat in the corner, the handmade quilt from Lilia draped across its back—the one Rio had cried over when Lilia had dropped it off. A stack of picture books was already leaning at a crooked angle on the low shelf by the wall.

Nicky darted ahead of them, circling the room. “And this one’s the giraffe I picked! I named him Toffee! And that one’s Mr. Wobbles—he’s weird-looking but he’s nice, I had him when I was little like you. And this blanket,” he said, tugging at the edge of the quilt, “is so soft, Vivi, like a cloud. You’re gonna love it.”

“This basket,” Nicky continued proudly, kneeling beside a woven bin lined with pale blue muslin, “has ribbons. Mom and Mama picked them all for you. Some are purple, some are green, some are gold. One has sparkles. Real sparkles.”

He held up the sparkly one like it was treasure, eyes wide with excitement. “They’re for your hair later when you have more. Or your tail. If you grow one.”

Rio laughed softly, sinking into the rocking chair with a grateful sigh.

Agatha stood nearby, Violet still pressed to her chest, the baby’s head nestled beneath her collarbone. Nicky had risen again, hovering close, his small hands clasped in front of him like he was about to witness something important.

“Want to help me tuck her in for the first time?” Agatha asked softly, turning toward him.

She dropped her voice to a hush, reverent. “She won’t sleep here right away. She’ll stay in our room for a while, with Mom and me. But we can have a practice run. Just to show her it’s hers.”

Nicky nodded solemnly, his chest puffing slightly like he’d just been entrusted with a secret task of great importance.

Together, they leaned over the crib, and Agatha laid Violet down with the kind of care reserved for only the most beloved. She adjusted the light blanket over Violet’s legs and brushed a finger across her forehead. Nicky reached through the crib rails and gently tucked one of Violet’s dragon paws under the blanket.

“Welcome home, little one,” Agatha whispered, her voice a thread of love in the hush.

Rio, watching from the rocking chair, blinked back the sting of tears. Her hands had curled up near her chest, one gently resting over her heart, the other across the place where Violet used to be. Her chest rose slowly with each breath, rocked by something too vast to name.

“She’s going to love it here,” Agatha murmured, though she was looking at Rio when she said it, not the baby.

Nicky looked between his moms, then up at the ceiling where soft, faint stars began to flicker across the paint like constellations in slow motion.

“Can she sleep with the stars on?” he asked quietly, like it mattered very much.

“Yes,” Rio said, her voice low, almost caught in her throat. Her palm swept over her belly in slow motion, muscle memory and emotion intertwined. “Leave them on while we’re in here.”

So they did.

Agatha dimmed the overhead lights with a slow turn of the dimmer switch, and the star projector came to life in full, bathing the ceiling in a slow swirl of soft silver and pale lavender. Stars drifted over the branches of the tree mural, flickering through the leaves, casting soft, dappled light across the crib and the room.

Nicky clambered up into the rocking chair beside Rio, careful not to jostle her, his small body pressing close into her side. She pulled him in instinctively, her arm wrapping around him as he rested his head against her shoulder.

Agatha stayed near the crib, resting one hand gently on Violet’s side, her thumb tracing slow circles over the blanket.

The house was quiet again, wrapped in a stillness that came only with love—quiet not because nothing was happening, but because everything that mattered was. In this small room under starlight, a boy watched over his sister, two women held the shape of their life between them, and a newborn baby slept, safe and deeply loved, all together in a room where stars lit the ceiling and dragons stood guard.

After a long moment of peaceful silence in the softly lit nursery, where the star-laced ceiling glowed and the branches of the painted tree reached like open arms above the crib, Agatha rose from where she stood beside Violet. Her movements were slow, unhurried, as though afraid to disturb the stillness they’d all settled into. She crossed the room with that quiet grace that Rio had always loved, her bare feet barely whispering across the rug.

She reached for the shelf above the changing table, fingertips brushing past rows of folded cloths and stacked diapers until she found what she was looking for: a small wooden box, the one they had prepared weeks ago in hushed, hopeful anticipation. Its surface was hand-painted in soft detail, delicate violets blooming along the lid, green vines curling around the edges like a frame. The box was light in her hands, but full of promise, the kind of promise made not with words, but with careful hands and time set aside.

The inside was lined with soft, ivory fabric—barely creased, still waiting—for the first treasures of Violet’s arrival. The kind you couldn’t buy, only collect. Moments, really. Fragments of a story only just beginning.

Rio looked up from the rocking chair, where she still held Nicky loosely in her lap. Her fingers had been drifting through his curls, absent and loving. She blinked slowly, her eyes falling to the box in Agatha’s hands.

“Are we doing it now?” she asked softly, her voice a breath of wonder, not resistance.

Agatha nodded, her eyes warm, then turned toward their son. “Want to help us, big dragon?”

Nicky’s face lit up with the importance of the moment. He scrambled gently from Rio’s lap, whispering, “Yes!” like it was a secret mission. “I’ll be really careful. I promise.”

They all sat on the rug together, forming a quiet circle—Agatha cross-legged with the box in front of her, Nicky kneeling beside her, and Rio in the rocking chair still, watching them with a smile that wobbled at the edges.

With tender hands, they opened the box, the tiny click of the latch sounding louder than it should in the stillness. Inside, the soft lining waited like a page awaiting the first words.

Agatha reached first. She unfolded the small hospital blanket—the one Violet had been swaddled in her very first night. Its pastel stripes still held the shape of her somehow, the way memory lingers in fabric. Agatha smoothed it out across her lap with deliberate care, then folded it again, each crease placed like a blessing. She laid it neatly at the bottom of the box.

“This is where it begins,” she murmured.

Rio exhaled, leaning forward slightly. In her hand, she held Violet’s first tiny hat—soft cotton, pale lavender. “They put it on her just after we held her,” she told Nicky, the words quiet, like she was talking to herself more than anyone else. “It almost swallowed her whole.”

Agatha smiled gently and took the hat from her, brushing her thumb along the little edge. She held it for a moment—feeling its weightless weight—before nestling it above the folded blanket.

Then, from the pocket of her dress, Rio produced two narrow plastic bracelets. The hospital kind, flimsy and practical, yet somehow profound. One read her name. The other, Violet’s. They were still looped loosely together, as if refusing to be separated.

“I kept them close the whole time,” she said. Her fingers brushed over the text as she spoke, her voice thick with the memory of those first hours—tender, terrifying, holy.

Agatha reached over and kissed the crown of Rio’s head, right above her temple. She took the bracelets and laid them in the box beside the hat, gently resting her palm over them for a moment. No words. Just presence.

Nicky, who had been watching with wide eyes, reached into his pocket and pulled out something of his own: a small, smooth stone. Purple, a little sparkly, like amethyst. He held it out, eyes solemn.

“It’s my lucky rock,” he said. “I want my sister to have it too. For double luck.”

Agatha’s breath caught softly. She opened a corner of the blanket inside the box and tucked the stone underneath, like it was being cradled too.

“Perfect,” she said. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

They all sat still for a long moment after that, gazing at the little box—now heavier, filled with the gentle weight of beginnings.

Nicky, who had been rocking gently on his knees beside the memory box, suddenly perked up. His eyes went wide.

“Wait! My drawing! It has to go in the box too!”

Before either Agatha or Rio could respond, he was already up and bolting out of the nursery, his little dragon tail bouncing dramatically behind him with every determined step. The sound of his feet pattering down the hall faded briefly, followed by the rustle of paper and a clatter that neither mother seemed too concerned about. He returned seconds later, breathless, triumphant, and holding a carefully folded sheet of paper in both hands like it was ancient treasure.

“I made this at the hospital,” he declared seriously, lowering his voice like he was revealing something sacred. “It’s Violet as a fairy princess. She’s breathing sparkles. And she has three crowns.”

Agatha smiled, amused and touched all at once, as she took the paper from his outstretched hands. “That’s a very pretty fairy princess.”

“She is,” Nicky agreed proudly. “She was born very strong. Like Mom said.”

He held the drawing out. Agatha took it with care, unfolding the bright lines of crayon where Violet—depicted in yellow and purple with fairy wings too big for her body—floated across the paper, surrounded by stars and wearing three glittering crowns, a trail of magic that lit up the page like fireworks.

Rio laughed softly behind them. “Three crowns, huh?”

“She’s royalty,” Nicky said confidently, glancing back at her. “One for each of us who love her.”

Agatha stilled for just a beat, her heart catching. Then Rio let out a whisper of breath, full of tenderness. “Oh, my heart.”

Agatha touched the drawing gently, as though it might fly away. “It’s perfect,” she murmured. “We couldn’t leave this out.”

She folded it back with care, the paper now softened slightly from being held so tightly by small hands. With a deliberate, reverent motion, she placed it atop the other keepsakes—the hospital blanket, the little hat, the rock, the twin bracelets. Somehow, it was the final piece the box had been waiting for.

The lid remained open just a moment longer, as though honoring the collection inside. Then Nicky stood up straighter and tiptoed forward to peek inside again, his head tilting thoughtfully.

“Do we close it now?” he asked softly, like he wasn’t quite ready to let go.

“Yes, love,” Agatha said gently, her voice wrapping around the room like a lullaby. “Let’s keep everything safe.”

Together, they guided the lid down. Nicky’s small hand rested atop Agatha’s as the wooden box clicked softly shut, the hand-painted violets and curling vines locking it closed like a whispered spell. The box was no longer just a box—it was a beginning. A keepsake of firsts, of magic, of love stitched into the fabric of their family.

Agatha rose and returned it to its place on the high shelf, her fingers lingering for a moment on the wood before stepping back.

“That’s her story box now,” she said, looking at them both—her voice gentle, full of warmth. “And we’ll keep adding to it. All the firsts, all the things that matter.”

“All the magic stuff,” Nicky whispered, gazing up at the shelf with quiet awe.

“Yes,” Rio said, her voice low and full of feeling as she pulled him close again, brushing his curls back from his forehead. “All the magic stuff.”

Agatha crossed the room back to her side. She knelt beside the rocking chair and pressed a kiss to Rio’s temple, her hand resting briefly on her wife’s belly – honoring their daughter’s first home - before curling over Rio’s.

“We’re all part of her story now,” she whispered. “Every one of us.”

“And she’s part of ours,” Rio added, her palm splayed gently over her chest. “Forever.”

After dinner, the house settled into a hush, the kind that came only after a day full of emotions and soft chaos. Nicky padded quietly down the hallway, his bare feet making the faintest pats against the floor. He wore his favorite dinosaur pajamas—after finally agreeing to take off the dragon costume after a lot of wrangling with Mama—and carried a well-loved picture book clutched beneath one arm. Under the other was Blue Dragon, his ever-faithful companion, a little more worn around the snout than he’d been last week.

He entered his moms’ bedroom without a word, his movements instinctively soft. The bedside lamp was already on and the sheets had freshly been changed. Beside the bed, Violet slept in her bassinet, impossibly small and serene, swaddled in a pale blanket with her tiny fists curled near her chin.

Nicky climbed onto the bed with the kind of abandon only sons in their mothers’ bed seemed to understand. He nestled into the green quilt—one Lilia had sewn years ago for Rio, full of soft textures and quiet history—and curled up near the pillows, settling in like it was the most natural place in the world for him to be.

He didn’t ask or say anything. He opened his book and began reading to himself in a hushed, murmuring tone, the rhythm of his voice blending with Violet’s steady, sleeping breaths. Together, they made a harmony: not a song exactly, but a hum of life. Of beginnings.

Across the room, Agatha and Rio stood side by side near the dresser, dim silhouettes in the golden light. Agatha’s arms wrapped gently around Rio from behind, her hands resting over the soft curve of her wife’s waist. Her chin tucked naturally into the crook of Rio’s shoulder, the way it always did when she wanted to keep her close without saying a word.

They watched the bed—the boy reading to himself, the newborn dreaming beside him—and neither of them dared to speak at first. The sight was too sacred, too whole.

Eventually, Rio tilted her head just slightly, her voice low and roughened with the gentle fatigue that came with giving everything she had to something she loved.

“She really likes him already,” she murmured, eyes soft as they followed the tiny rise and fall of their daughter’s chest.

“She knows he’s hers,” Agatha replied, brushing her lips to Rio’s neck, her voice like velvet against the hush. “Just like we’re all hers.”

Rio exhaled, a quiet, sleepy laugh stirring from deep within her chest. She leaned further back into Agatha, letting herself be held, soothed, protected. Every movement was slow, her body still tender and healing, still trying to remember what it meant to be hers again after birth had asked so much of it. But here, in this quiet moment, wrapped in the scent of her wife’s skin and the sounds of her children, rest didn’t seem like a distant promise anymore. It was here. It had found her.

“Can we stay like this forever?” she whispered, eyes fluttering shut for just a second.

Agatha smiled, her fingers stroking small circles against her waist. “I’ll make time stop for you if I have to.”

“You already do,” Rio said, a smile tugging faintly at her lips.

For a little while, they stayed like that. Nicky’s voice continued its soft rise and fall from the bed. Violet sighed in her sleep. The night wrapped its arms around the house, and in that room, under that light, nothing else in the world needed to exist.

Agatha turned Rio in her arms with a tenderness that spoke of everything unsaid between them—the years they’d spent building this life together, the quiet bond that only deepened with each passing moment. She placed a soft kiss on Rio’s forehead, feeling the weight of her love settle between them like a comforting blanket.

“Come on, my love,” Agatha murmured, her voice low and soothing. “Let’s get you cleaned up and comfy. You deserve it.”

Rio gave a small sigh of relief, leaning into Agatha for a moment longer, savoring the safety of her touch. The warmth of her body against hers was a balm for the fatigue that had settled deep into her bones. She wasn’t sure how long she could go without more rest, but she knew that Agatha would make sure she didn’t have to go without anything.

Before they made their way to the bathroom, Agatha crouched down by the side of the bed, her gaze softening as she looked at Nicky. The little boy, still curled up in his pajamas, was gazing up at his moms with wide, solemn eyes, as if carrying the weight of his new role as big brother with the utmost seriousness.

“Sweetheart,” Agatha said, her voice full of care, “we’re going to take a quick shower. If Violet wakes up or needs anything, can you come get us right away?”

Nicky’s eyes flickered with understanding, his brows furrowing slightly as if taking this responsibility to heart. “I promise, Mama,” he said seriously, the weight of his promise adding a new level of maturity to his small voice. “I’ll protect her.”

Agatha smiled, the warmth of her love for him blooming across her face. She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, her touch both reassuring and proud. “I know you will, sweetheart. Thank you.”

Rio leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to the top of Nicky’s head, inhaling the familiar scent of his hair—a mixture of sweetness and innocence. “You’re so good,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “Thank you, little love.”

With the baby monitor securely attached to Agatha’s hand and Nicky stationed like a vigilant little dragon sentry beside the bed, the two of them slowly made their way to the bathroom. The quiet hum of the monitor was a constant comfort, a reminder that they were never too far from their baby girl.

Agatha moved with practiced care, her hands brushing over Rio’s skin in a way that was both tender and deliberate, each movement a promise of affection and respect. She could feel the faint tremor in Rio’s body, the remnants of fatigue and soreness that lingered after the intensity of childbirth. Agatha was attuned to every shift in Rio’s energy, her touch gentle, almost reverent, as if she was savoring the privilege of caring for her after everything they had just been through together.

As she slid the soft cotton shirt from Rio’s shoulders, Agatha’s fingers lingered, caressing the bare skin beneath. She leaned in, pressing a kiss to the delicate curve of Rio’s collarbone, her lips warm and slow. The kiss wasn’t rushed, wasn’t just a simple gesture—it was a promise, a reminder of the quiet intimacy they shared. Her lips hovered there a moment longer than necessary, savoring the soft pulse beneath the skin, the warmth of Rio’s body against hers.

Rio closed her eyes, savoring the touch. Her body still ached from the birth, each movement reminding her of the strength it took to bring their daughter into the world. But here, in Agatha’s embrace, she felt herself begin to soften, to let go of the tension that had taken root. It was as if time itself had paused—nothing mattered but Agatha’s touch, the love that flowed between them, deep and unspoken. She was safe. She was loved.

“Agatha…” Rio whispered, her voice thick with affection, a thread of longing lacing through the simple sound of her name. “You make me feel… so safe. »

Agatha’s smile was slow, deliberate, her lips curling with a mix of tenderness and something more, something deeper. She didn’t answer right away, instead trailing a finger down the length of Rio’s arm, sending a shiver through her as the touch burned soft and slow.

“You are safe, » Agatha murmured, her voice low, almost a purr as her fingers danced along the curve of Rio’s spine, feeling the warmth of her skin against her own. “And I’m here. Always here.”

With that, Agatha guided Rio toward the shower, her movements still slow, each action imbued with care and attention. She watched as Rio stepped into the stream of warm water, the droplets glistening on her skin. Agatha’s gaze softened with appreciation, her heart thumping in her chest as she undressed in turn. Each piece of clothing she shed felt like a step closer, not just physically – not yet, not with Rio still healing - but emotionally, to the connection they shared in this moment.

Rio’s eyes never left her as she undressed, and Agatha could feel the weight of her gaze, the way it roamed over her with a mixture of admiration. Agatha met her eyes, a teasing glint flashing in her own.

“You’re beautiful,” Rio breathed, her voice rough with emotion.

Agatha stepped into the shower after her, the warm water cascading over her body as she moved closer to Rio, their skin now slick with heat. She cupped Rio’s face gently, her thumb grazing the line of her jaw, before leaning in to kiss her. It was slow at first, their lips brushing in a soft, tender meeting, but then the kiss deepened—just slightly—until the world outside the shower faded completely.

Rio pressed into her, a quiet hum of need escaping her as she wrapped her arms around Agatha’s neck, pulling her closer. Their bodies fit together with an ease that came from years of knowing one another, from the quiet and the loud, the highs and the lows. In this moment, there was nothing else—only them, only the heat between them, only the gentle rhythm of their breathing.

Agatha broke the kiss, her lips trailing a path down Rio’s neck, her hands sliding down the wet skin of her back, pulling her closer still. “You’re perfect,” she whispered against the delicate curve of Rio’s throat.

Rio let out a soft sigh, her hands moving to Agatha’s waist, the touch intimate. She wanted more of this—more of Agatha, more of the warmth that only she could give - but she couldn’t have it yet, not when everything still hurt and was still so sore. Her body ached with the memory of their connection, and she felt herself leaning into Agatha even more, as if she couldn’t get close enough.

With a slow, purposeful movement, Agatha guided Rio gently against the wall of the shower, the water swirling around them. She kissed Rio again, this time deeper, more urgent, the world outside this moment forgotten as they lost themselves in each other’s presence.

The warmth of the water, the softness of Agatha’s touch, and the shared rhythm between them created something magical, something entirely their own.

And as they just stood there, wrapped in each other’s embrace, there was a silent promise in the air—this was only the beginning.

Agatha’s hands moved with gentle precision as she reached for their soap, her fingers lathering the rich, soft suds before she turned to Rio. She brought her hands to Rio’s hair, massaging her scalp with the practiced care that spoke of years spent understanding exactly how to soothe her. Her fingers moved in slow, deliberate circles, working through the strands with a tenderness that made Rio’s whole body relax under her touch.

Rio closed her eyes, feeling the tension melt away from her shoulders, from her mind, as she surrendered to the sensation of Agatha’s hands in her hair. Each movement felt like a quiet song, a symphony of care and connection. Safe, grounded, loved. The world outside this small moment didn’t exist; all that mattered was the rhythm of Agatha’s touch, the sound of water cascading over them, and the feeling of her presence.

Agatha’s voice was a soft whisper as she helped Rio rinse, pulling her closer, holding her steady with an ease that came from knowing each other in ways words couldn’t fully express. She helped Rio clean herself, the quiet intimacy of the moment grounding them both, and Rio returned the gesture, her hands gentle, wanting to feel connected, to stay near Agatha, and the sensation of her touch against Agatha’s skin felt like something sacred, something precious.

Then Agatha guided her wife out with a warm towel waiting. She dried Rio’s skin carefully, her fingers brushing over her body with the same reverence she used when tending to her most cherished things. Soft reassurances left her lips as she worked—words of comfort, of love, and the quiet promise that she was here, always.

Agatha helped Rio into one of her favorite pairs of pajamas—the soft cotton ones that felt like a second skin. The green fabric, cloud-like and gentle, was a comfort she often sought on cool evenings, and Agatha made sure each movement was slow and thoughtful, taking care with every detail. When Rio’s body was settled into the soft material, Agatha pulled on her own matching set and pulled Rio close, breathing in the warmth of her skin.

Once they were warm, dry, and cocooned in comfort, Agatha led Rio to the vanity stool. She sat her gently, her hands brushing through Rio’s damp hair with a sense of ritual—one that had been shared between them countless times over the years. Agatha’s fingers were steady, threading through the wet strands with a precision that never faltered. She braided the two sections of Rio’s hair with practiced hands, fingers gliding with the kind of reverence that came from knowing not just the texture of Rio’s hair, but her very moods, her every cue, the way her body responded to touch.

There was a quietness in the room, a peacefulness that came from this small, shared moment of care. Agatha’s movements were slow and deliberate, the sound of the comb and the quiet rhythm of her breathing the only noise that filled the space. She wasn’t just braiding Rio’s hair—she was weaving moments of connection, silently reinforcing the bond they had forged over the years.

When the braids were done, Agatha tied them off with two soft purple hair ties, the final touch to her quiet masterpiece. She stepped back, her gaze soft, taking in the sight of Rio in the mirror—her wife, both beautifully familiar and always new in the way Agatha saw her.

“There,” Agatha murmured, her voice low and tender, “Perfect.”

Rio met her gaze in the mirror, her eyes half-lidded from the comfort and warmth that surrounded her, a smile tugging at her lips. “You always make me feel brand new,” she said softly, her voice thick with emotion.

Agatha leaned forward, her lips brushing against Rio’s cheek, a soft kiss that felt like it carried all the affection she had for her. “That’s because you are,” she whispered against her skin, “Every single day.”

When Agatha and Rio returned to their bedroom, Nicky’s little voice floated toward them before they even reached the door, his words carrying a sense of wonder.

“…and then the dragon flew all the way over the mountain to find the golden star,” he was saying, his tone low and serious, as though each word mattered. His small hands carefully turned the page of his picture book, his eyes wide with concentration. He was propped up on his side in the bed, his moms’ soft sheets tucked around him like a cocoon, his attention focused entirely on Violet, who was sound asleep in her bassinet beside the bed. He held the book open, angled just so, so that Violet—tiny, serene and completely unseeing—could see the pictures.

“This one’s the best part,” he whispered excitedly, his finger tracing the illustration on the page. “That’s when the baby dragon finds her magic.”

Agatha’s heart swelled at the sight. She paused in the doorway, her hand pressing lightly against her chest as she watched her son, his face alight with joy and purpose. Rio leaned into her side, her head resting against Agatha’s shoulder, a soft sigh escaping her lips. There they stood for a moment, just taking in the sight of Nicky—this little boy with the biggest heart—narrating his story with such dedication, as if every word he spoke was sacred, as if he knew that in this small moment, he was playing an essential part in his sister’s life, even if she didn’t yet understand.

The room felt alive with love, the soft cadence of Nicky’s voice a perfect harmony to the quiet peace that had settled over the house. The tender rhythm of their new life as a family was starting to feel like a song that they had been singing for years, even if they had only just begun.

“Hey, little love,” Rio said softly, her voice a quiet murmur that cut through the silence like a lullaby. She took a step forward, her voice wrapping around Nicky with the same warmth she always gave him. “Still reading?”

Nicky’s head snapped around at the sound of his mom’s voice, his face lighting up like a sunrise, all smiles and dimples. He quickly straightened, clearly proud of himself, but the excitement never left his eyes. “She likes it,” he said confidently, his voice a little louder now, as if Violet could hear him. “I can tell.”

Agatha couldn’t help the soft chuckle that escaped her lips, her heart full. She crossed the room to sit on the edge of the bed, the mattress shifting slightly under her weight. With a gentle hand, she reached over to smooth Nicky’s hair, the tenderness in the motion something that came naturally. She looked at her son, eyes filled with affection and pride. “You’re a wonderful storyteller, sweetheart,” she said softly, the words full of warmth.

Nicky beamed at her, his chest puffing out just a little with pride, his eyes flicking back to Violet, who was still peacefully asleep, unaware of her brother’s bedtime performance. He gently turned the page, making sure Violet could follow along, his voice dropping to a whisper once again as he continued the tale.

Then, with a pause in his reading, Nicky’s eyes flickered toward his sister, a silent question passing through his gaze as he watched her sleep peacefully. He looked back at his moms, his big eyes wide with that unmistakable look of hope—genuine and unspoken. “Can I sleep with you tonight?” he asked, his voice small but filled with earnestness. “Just for one night? So I can make sure she’s okay?”

The question hung in the air, innocent and pure, and Rio, already crawling into the bed with deliberate slowness, couldn’t help but smile at the tenderness in his voice. She shifted carefully, mindful of her still-healing body, and as she settled against the pillows, she glanced over at Agatha, her smile warm and understanding.

“How are we supposed to say no to that?” she murmured, the words coming with a mixture of love, amusement, and a touch of sweetness that only a mother could truly understand. Then, with a soft chuckle, she added, “Just so you know, she will cry during the night, and it will wake you up too.”

Nicky’s eyes brightened, his small, eager face full of determination. “That’s okay,” he said, his voice full of sincerity, as if the possibility of being woken up in the middle of the night didn’t bother him in the slightest.

Agatha’s lips curled into a soft laugh, the sound rich with affection. “You won’t say that at 3 a.m.,” she teased, her voice light, but there was a deep tenderness in the way she said it, a promise of the loving chaos they’d face together as a family.

Rio’s smile widened, and she reached out to cup Agatha’s cheek, her touch gentle, and Agatha couldn’t help pressing a kiss to her wife’s palm. “We’ll survive,” she whispered, her voice low and soft, laced with both amusement and the unspoken understanding that no matter how much their lives had changed, this—this was exactly where they belonged.

Agatha reached over to help Nicky close his book, her fingers brushing lightly against his as she did. Then, with a gentle motion, she lifted the blankets and guided him into the space between them. He slipped in with practiced ease, curling up almost instinctively, his small body finding comfort and warmth in the space between his moms. He nestled in, his arms winding around Rio’s like a small, protective vine, and his little head tucked itself into the crook of her shoulder as if claiming his place in their embrace.

Agatha leaned over, dimming the lights to a soft glow. She moved with quiet care to check on Violet one last time, her gaze softening as she looked at her daughter, tucked peacefully in her bassinet, a serene expression on her tiny face. Agatha brushed a finger lightly over Violet’s cheek, the motion delicate and full of love. The baby didn’t stir, lost in her own world of dreams, and Agatha smiled gently before turning back to the bed.

She climbed in on the other side of Nicky, and once she was settled, she wrapped her arms around both of them—her wife and her son—drawing them close, close enough that she could feel their warmth against her skin, their presence like a protective shield around her. She rested her head near Nicky’s, inhaling the familiar scent of his hair, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest as he relaxed into sleep.

The three of them—Nicky nestled securely between the two women who loved him more than anything—lay there in a warm, sleepy tangle, a cocoon of love and safety. The soft glow of the nightlight cast its gentle hue across the room, making the shadows look like soft blankets themselves, while the quiet of the house wrapped around them like an invisible lullaby. The rhythmic sound of Violet’s soft breaths filled the room, a reminder of the family they had created, the life they were building together, and the bond that tied them all in a perfect, unspoken unity.

Rio, her voice barely above a whisper, murmured into the quiet night, “This is everything.”

Agatha’s heart swelled with the weight of the words, and she pressed a soft kiss into Rio’s hair, the kiss slow and lingering, as though she was trying to imprint this moment into her very soul. “It really is,” she whispered back, her voice low and tender, the words carrying all the truth of her love.

As the room fell silent, the deep calm of the night settling over them, Nicky murmured something too soft to catch, his words slipping into the stillness like a secret only he and his dreams shared. He was already halfway into sleep, his breath evening out, safe and secure in the arms of his moms, with his little sister just a breath away, sleeping soundly in her bassinet.

The house settled into a deep, quiet hush, the only sound the soft, rhythmic breathing of the family wrapped together in their own little world of warmth and love.

They were whole.

They were home.

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Chapter Text

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Violet had kept them up all night.

With cries first—there were a lot, soft and sudden like raindrops—but also with the quiet restlessness of someone still learning how to be alive. She was new, fresh to this world, her every breath an unfamiliar rhythm, her every need still forming itself in the dark. She didn’t know how to sleep through the night, not yet. She didn’t know that the rustle of her swaddling blanket, the little snuffling noises she made when she rooted blindly, or the twitch of her tiny fingers would summon both her mothers from even the deepest edge of sleep.

It had been a night of shifting turns and soft footsteps. Of hushed lullabies and shared glances over her little head. Rio had walked the floorboards slow and barefoot, swaying gently with Violet pressed to her chest like something sacred. She’d hummed old folk songs under her breath, her voice thin and quiet from exhaustion, but still sweet. Her arms ached from the weight—not from Violet herself, who was feather-light, but from the holding, the repetition, the deep and aching tenderness of it all.

Agatha had taken the hours just before dawn, slipping Violet into her arms like it was instinct, cradling her in the crook of her elbow while her other hand ran slow, hypnotic circles across her daughter’s back. She’d murmured nonsense stories—tales of moonlight puddles and sky-whales, the kind that didn’t need to make sense—just sound, just presence, just the warmth of a voice grounding Violet to the world. Occasionally she’d press a kiss to the baby’s crown, where the fine, dark curls were still damp with sleep-sweat and dreams.

Even Nicky, cocooned in the nest of their shared bed, had stirred once or twice. He’d lifted his head blearily, mumbled something indistinct, and blindly reached for whichever mom wasn’t on duty at the moment. Agatha had let him curl into her side, one arm instinctively wrapping around him while the other continued to rock Violet. Rio, when it was her turn, had kissed his forehead and whispered, “Go back to sleep, little love,” and he had, each time, as if her voice was a spell that pulled him gently under again.

Now, the first hints of morning slipped through the bedroom window in thin lines of gold. The air was still, as if the world outside knew better than to disturb the quiet peace that came after a long, sleepless night. The bassinet was finally still, its tiny occupant tucked in and breathing deep, her impossibly small chest rising and falling with the soft rhythm of new life.

Agatha woke first.

Her body was heavy with fatigue, her limbs aching with the kind of tiredness that settles into the bones. Her back ached, her neck was stiff, and her hands tingled faintly from holding too long, too tenderly. But her mind—though dulled at the edges—was awake, held in that liminal clarity born of maternal instinct, the kind she hadn’t needed in seven years but remembered instantly.

She turned her head and saw Rio, curled on her side, fast asleep. Her face was relaxed in the way it only was when she was deeply, truly resting. Nestled close against her was Nicky, tucked into the curve of his mom’s body like he’d been born to fit there. His small hand had claimed the hem of Rio’s shirt, still clutching it even in sleep, as though he needed just that one tether to stay grounded. His cheek rested against her ribs, his breaths warm and even, his long lashes creating soft shadows on his skin. They were tangled in the blankets, both of them soft and safe and utterly unaware of the world outside their little cocoon.

Agatha felt something pull in her chest at the sight. There was always something impossibly tender about the way they clung to each other in sleep—like a small echo of the bond they’d had since Rio had entered his world, unspoken but unbreakable.

She almost stayed.

But then a small sound caught her attention—a soft, warbling cry, more like a question than a demand, floating up from the bassinet near the bed. It was a hesitant little thing, as if Violet was still deciding whether she was really awake, or just momentarily misplaced in her own tiny universe.

Agatha blinked and stirred, the weight of exhaustion shifting beneath her skin. She moved slowly, careful not to jostle the mattress. Her legs protested as she sat up, her spine crackling faintly as she stretched. Bare feet touched the floor—cold, of course, like always—and she winced, but didn’t pause. She rose, steady and quiet, her movements practiced, almost automatic, like muscle memory resurfacing after all these years.

She crossed the room with the silence of someone who had long since mastered the art of not waking anyone else. The light through the window was still soft and pale, barely enough to cast shadows. Morning was near, but not quite here.

She moved to the bassinet and looked down at Violet, who was beginning to stir. Her little fists were waving gently, her mouth working in quiet motions, her brow furrowed in the smallest, most serious expression Agatha had ever seen.

“Shhh, sweetheart,” Agatha whispered, her voice hoarse but warm as she leaned down and scooped Violet into her arms. The baby curled instinctively against her chest, nose burrowing into the crook of her mother’s neck.

Agatha swayed on her feet, rocking gently as she padded out of the room on quiet steps, letting Rio and Nicky sleep just a little longer. They deserved it. Rio especially—her body was still healing, and she hadn’t slept more than a handful of hours at a time since they’d come home from the hospital.

She made her way to the kitchen, the baby tucked securely to her chest, her arms forming a cradle of warmth around her. The house was still wrapped in sleep, the early morning silence like a blanket in itself.

Agatha didn’t turn on the main lights. The sudden brightness would’ve felt wrong, too harsh for the hush that wrapped itself around her and the baby like another blanket. Instead, she reached for the small lamp on the windowsill, its shade old and familiar. The light pooled gently across the floor, brushing over the counter and the chairs, making everything feel softer, smaller, like the world itself had shrunk down to this single room.

Outside, the sky had begun to pale, the deep navy of night lightening into a watery blue-gray. There were no birds yet, no traffic. Just the slow unfurling of the world in silence.

She moved to the living room and sank onto the couch with a quiet sigh, careful to shift her weight in a way that wouldn’t jostle Violet. She adjusted the baby gently, resting her against her shoulder, one cheek pressed to Agatha’s skin. Violet stirred only slightly, letting out a faint breathy noise, then settled again.

“There we go, little one,” Agatha whispered, brushing her lips against Violet’s forehead. Her fingers traced along her daughter’s soft cheek, marveling again at how impossibly small she was—how every inch of her seemed made of something lighter than flesh, like cotton and starlight and all the softness in the world. Just you and me for a moment.

And for a while, they sat in silence. Agatha’s hand moved in slow, soothing strokes across Violet’s back. She breathed in the scent of her baby’s skin, that sweet, delicate newness that had already started to feel like home.

“I’m going to forget all of this someday,” she murmured to the quiet. Her voice barely rose above a whisper, but it felt important to say it out loud. “The exhaustion, the way your cry makes my chest hurt, how your fingers curl when you sleep, how your hair smells like warm milk and the beginning of everything. How you fit right here—” she shifted Violet a little, pressing her even closer “—like you were always meant to.”

She paused, brushing her thumb along the baby’s impossibly soft jaw. “I’ll forget. Life gets loud again. Fast. You’ll grow. And this part—this sleepy, aching, holy part—will start to fade from the edges of my memory. I won’t mean to let it go. But I will.”

The lamp flickered slightly as the wind passed outside, brushing against the windows like a whisper.

“But not now,” she whispered. “Right now, I remember everything. Every beat of it.”

And she did.

The way Violet sighed in her sleep. The way her weight shifted slightly when she was content. The way the early morning light touched her dark curls, catching on her tiny ear. The way her heartbeat felt, pressed so close to Agatha’s own, steady and sure.

Agatha tightened her arms around her daughter just slightly, kissed her once more, and held the moment close—knowing it would pass, yes, but choosing to live it fully anyway.

Agatha stood slowly and started moving slowly through the house, her steps quiet on the wooden floors as she cradled Violet close. The baby had settled down again, small breaths puffing against her collarbone, her fingers curled into the fabric of Agatha’s shirt like tiny anchors. The house was so still in the early morning hush, the kind of stillness that only arrived in those slivers of time before the day fully began. Since bringing Violet home, it was as if the whole house had adjusted to her presence—slowed its rhythm, softened its edges, listened in the silence.

Agatha’s legs were tired, her arms aching in a way that wasn’t unpleasant—just a reminder of the weight of love and responsibility she carried. The weight of her daughter, pressed close to her heart.

The living room was dimly lit by the golden-gray light leaking in from the windows. The wildflowers and violets Lilia and the others had left before they came home were still fresh in their vases, their petals gently bowing each time Agatha passed, as if nodding in approval or offering a blessing.

Agatha moved slowly, not with urgency, but with purpose—the rhythmic, swaying steps of a mother trying to soothe. Not just the baby in her arms, but something in herself, too. There was no destination. Just motion. Just the quiet bond that formed in the hush before the day began.

“You see this?” she murmured to Violet, her voice rough-edged from sleep but gentle, like worn silk. Her hand gestured toward a familiar photo on the side table: Nicky, age three, covered in red and blue finger paint, mid-laugh, his cheeks dimpled, his hair wild and stuck to his forehead. A masterpiece in chaos. “That’s your big brother. Back when he was convinced painting himself red made him a superhero. He was so sure of it. Still is, if I’m being honest.”

Violet stirred slightly, a soft, breathy sound escaping her, the turn of her tiny head pressing even closer to Agatha’s collarbone. The warmth of her settled deeper into Agatha’s skin, a weight that grounded her in the best way.

Agatha smiled, brushing a slow hand down Violet’s back, her fingers moving in small, soothing arcs. “He’s going to drive you absolutely mad one day,” she whispered. “But he already adores you. Yesterday he told me he’s going to teach you how to roar like a dragon before you can even talk. I think he believes that’s part of being a good big brother.”

They reached the kitchen, and Agatha leaned against the doorway for a moment, taking in the scene. Mugs from last night’s tea still sat by the sink. A half-finished drawing—Nicky’s interpretation of “Mama, Mom, and Violet as dragons”—was taped to the fridge. There was a kind of beautiful chaos in it all, even in the mess. It was the chaos of a house becoming something more than just a home. A nest. A sanctuary.

“This,” Agatha whispered, letting her gaze linger on the drawing, “is where life happens. Where cocoa gets made after long days. Where your brother insists on stirring it himself, even though he always spills half the milk on the stove and somehow gets marshmallows in places marshmallows shouldn’t be.”

She kissed the top of Violet’s soft, downy head, and the baby let out a tiny sigh, one of those new-soul sounds that made Agatha’s heart ache in ways she didn’t have words for.

“And that little table by the window,” she added, pointing softly, “is where he made your first welcome home card. Covered in glitter, of course. I’m pretty sure we’ll still be finding it in your hair and the floor when you’re five.”

She stepped fully into the kitchen, letting the silence wrap around them again. It was a quiet kind of joy—the kind that didn’t announce itself, didn’t need fanfare or applause. Just a mother and her child in the early hush of morning, in a house that bore all the marks of love and laughter and life in motion.

Agatha swayed slightly, her hips rocking in time with Violet’s breath. She closed her eyes for a moment and breathed it all in: the sweet scent of her baby, the lingering tea, the dusty sparkle of Nicky’s glitter masterpiece catching the morning light. The sound of the world holding still.

And in that moment, she wasn’t thinking about the laundry or the dishes or the thousand things that would clamor for her attention later. All that existed was this room, this warmth, and the tiny heartbeat curled against her chest.

She moved slowly through the rest of the house, her bare feet whispering against the wooden floorboards, as if trying not to wake the memories tucked into every corner. Violet lay nestled against her chest, warm and soft, a weight so small and yet impossibly vast in meaning. Agatha held her securely, arms instinctively curled in a cradle that had learned this shape only recently, and already couldn’t remember being anything else.

“This way, my love,” she murmured, her voice a low thread of sound in the hush of the morning. “A tour of your very quiet, very magical kingdom.”

She passed through the hallway, pausing briefly outside the music room—really just a corner of the house that held a beloved upright piano, a collection of mismatched sheet music, and a sense of calm that always seemed to follow whoever sat there.

“Here’s where your Mom and I play the piano sometimes,” Agatha said softly, tilting Violet so she could see the instrument’s silhouette in the dawn light. “Mom loves it here—claims the acoustics are perfect. But really, it’s because I won’t let her have a drum set in the house. She’s already way too loud on her own.”

A smile ghosted across her lips.

“She hums while she plays, not that she realizes it. You’ll hear it soon enough—soft and low, full of things she doesn’t say out loud. Little bits of herself she wraps in the melody.” Agatha’s voice softened as she thought of Rio—of the quiet moments when music slipped through the air like a secret. “And Nicky… well, he dances like he’s got too many feet and not enough floor. He’s always spinning, always tumbling about, all arms and legs, trying to catch the music in his hands. It’s chaos, darling. Beautiful, unstoppable chaos.”

She paused, her fingers gently stroking Violet’s back as she continued the journey down memory lane.

“You know,” Agatha said with a warm sigh, “it’s actually me who taught your Mom how to play the piano, way back when we first got together. She was younger, sharper around the edges, but always wanting to learn something new. I was already playing when I was little, but I didn’t have the best memories of it. It wasn’t a happy time, and that piano became something different for me. But when your Mom came into my life… well, she changed that. She made it into something beautiful again. I taught her the basics, but it was really her that made it hers, you know? She made it feel like home.”

A thoughtful silence passed between them, Agatha’s hands moving instinctively to soothe Violet, her voice dropping to a softer tone. “I promise I’ll teach you, and I’ll teach your brother too, when you’re both old enough. Music, like everything else in this house, is something meant to be shared. Mom agrees, of course. She says everyone should know how to make music—it doesn’t matter if it’s perfect or not. It’s about the joy of it, the way it makes the heart feel.”

Agatha lingered for a moment, her gaze resting on the piano. She could already picture Rio sitting there, fingers grazing over the keys in the quiet hours, humming those low, intimate tunes that felt like pieces of the world that only they knew, with a child on her lap, mismatched notes in the air, mingling with songs and laughter.

Agatha continued on, her steps slow but sure. The soft creak of floorboards felt familiar, like a lullaby only the house could hum. When she reached the nursery, she nudged the door open with her elbow, careful not to jostle the bundle in her arms.

“And here,” she said with a little breath of wonder, “this is your space.”

The nursery smelled faintly of lavender and clean cotton, with a whisper of the woodsy balm she’d used to polish the old rocking chair. The mobile of stars ad dragons spun gently overhead, catching a glimmer of the morning light that filtered through the curtains. The tree mural stretched up one wall, its branches full of leaves and flowers in shades of green and purple. Nestled on the shelf was the basket of ribbons they had picked out together, each one tied with a wish whispered just under their breath.

“Your stars,” Agatha murmured. “Your tree. And your ribbons—Nicky says they’ll give you sweet dreams, but only if you promise to tell him what they are when you wake up.”

She didn’t linger in the nursery. There would be time for that later—for rocking chairs and storybooks and lullabies at midnight. For now, she turned quietly, moving back down the hall. Each step back toward the living room felt heavier, as though her body was slowly remembering just how much it needed rest. Her shoulders ached. Her legs moved slower. But still, she didn’t rush. Not when time was such a fragile thing, already slipping through her fingers like mist.

The days ahead would blur into each other, she knew. A rhythm of feeding, soothing, changing, swaying, singing. Time would be measured in the rise and fall of tiny breaths, in the weight of Violet’s head on her shoulder, in the way her tiny fingers curled around Agatha’s thumb like they were made to fit.

She reached the living room again—the heart of their little world. The couch was still soft from where she had left it, a blanket draped over the side, a forgotten toy nestled in one corner. The room still held the echo of laughter from the nights past, of shared cocoa and sleepy giggles, of Rio’s voice reading Goodnight Moon in a terrible British accent just to make Nicky squeal with laughter.

Agatha sat down slowly, careful not to wake the baby. She leaned back, letting her body sink into the cushions with a quiet exhale, and pressed her cheek gently to Violet’s head. The baby sighed, a small sound full of trust.

“You are so loved, baby dragon,” she whispered, voice barely more than breath. “More than you’ll ever know. More than the stars on your ceiling or the ribbons in your basket. More than I knew I could hold in a heart that already felt full.”

Outside, the morning grew brighter. But inside, everything was still, safe, and held.

Violet began to fuss again, her little whimpers rising in pitch, her tiny fists bunching near her chin as she squirmed restlessly in Agatha’s arms. Agatha rocked her gently on the couch, murmuring soft, soothing words that had worked not long ago. But this time, she recognized the signs—this wasn’t a need to be walked or held. It was hunger.

She rose carefully, cradling Violet close, and padded softly down the hallway, the early morning light now seeping gently into the house. The door to their bedroom was half-open, and the air inside was still and heavy with sleep.

Nicky had rolled over and was now curled like a little cat on the far side of the bed, his small body tangled in the covers, breathing deep and steady. Agatha’s eyes went to Rio, lying on her back, one hand resting protectively against her belly even in sleep, as if her body had not fully registered the sudden emptiness of not having a baby in there anymore. A few strands had slipped free from her braids and were sticking to her cheek, soft and tangled with the weight of the night.

Agatha stood there for a moment, watching them—their little family, peaceful in their shared rest. Her heart swelled in that quiet, overwhelming way it always did when she took a step back and realized how deeply she loved them all.

But the moment passed, and with Violet still fussing softly in her arms, Agatha crossed to Rio’s side of the bed. She sank slowly to her knees beside the mattress, keeping Violet close against her chest, her free hand reaching out to gently brush the loose strands of hair from Rio’s face. Her fingers moved tenderly, almost reverently, as she touched the soft skin of her wife’s face.

“Rio,” she whispered. “Love… she’s hungry.”

Rio stirred slowly, her eyes fluttering open with that soft, sleepy disorientation that always seemed to accompany too little rest and too much everything else. For a moment, she blinked, her gaze unfocused, as if she couldn’t quite pull herself from the threads of sleep. Then, her eyes landed on Agatha, and the confusion faded, replaced by a gentle warmth. Her gaze dropped to Violet, who was still fussing in Agatha’s arms, and instantly softened, her entire demeanor shifting to one of quiet love and maternal instinct.

“Oh,” Rio breathed, her voice thick with sleep, and she started to sit up, her body moving slowly, unsure.

“No, no—easy.” Agatha placed a steadying hand on her shoulder, guiding her back down, her voice soothing and calm. “Let me help.”

With careful hands, she supported Rio, helping her prop herself up against the pillows, adjusting them until her back was well-supported. She made sure Rio’s body wasn’t straining in any way—she was still healing, and Agatha knew exactly how fiercely Rio tried to pretend she was fine when she wasn’t.

Once Rio was settled, Agatha placed Violet gently into her arms. Rio gave her a sleepy, grateful smile, and without a word, she unbuttoned her pajama shirt, the soft fabric falling open easily. She guided Violet to her breast, and the baby latched on quickly, her little body instinctively moving toward the comfort and safety that only Rio’s touch could offer. The tiny cries quieted, replaced by the soft, rhythmic sound of sucking, and Violet relaxed instantly, her body calming as she fed.

Agatha sat beside them on the edge of the bed, one hand resting lightly on Rio’s knee. Her eyes were fixed on the two of them, as if she were trying to memorize every detail: the way Violet’s tiny hand rested against Rio’s breast, the way Rio instinctively cupped the back of her daughter’s head, the way her body relaxed despite the exhaustion.

It was a quiet moment, but sacred. Agatha felt it in her bones.

“You’re incredible,” she murmured. “You know that?”

Rio didn’t answer—her eyes had closed again, her body already sinking back into sleep. She cradled Violet with a kind of gentle instinct, even almost unconscious, her breathing evening out as her body took what it needed: rest.

Agatha waited until Violet had finished nursing and slipped her gently from Rio’s arms. The baby stirred but didn’t cry, just let out a tiny sigh that seemed to say she was content, for now. Agatha rose and placed her carefully in the bassinet beside the bed, covering her with the light blanket Lilia has stitched. The one with the little stars and flowers embroidered across it.

Then she climbed back into bed, curling beside Rio carefully, pulling the covers over them both. Nicky was still sound asleep beside them, turned onto his side now, his small hand resting against Rio’s hip.

Agatha laid her head close to Rio’s, their faces inches apart, and closed her eyes.

She didn’t even realize she was asleep until she dreamed.

But as she dreamed, it was of them—of Rio, of Violet, of Nicky. It was a dream that felt as real as the beat of her own heart.

The morning came slow and golden, spilling through the windows and softening everything it touched. The house was filled with that specific kind of quiet that only comes after a long, sleepless night—the kind of hush that wraps itself around a new family adjusting to new rhythms.

Rio sat curled on the couch dressed in Agatha’s softest purple sweater —oversized and worn in the sleeves, the kind that carried the scent of lavender and something distinctively Agatha. It pooled around her small frame, draping over her leggings-clad thighs like a blanket. She had a warm cup of tea between her hands and her braid a little messier than usual. She looked out the window absently, blinking slow and soft, the weight of exhaustion still heavy behind her eyes but something more steady beneath it—something like peace.

Violet was asleep on her lap, swaddled in a pale blanket with a print of tiny moons and stars, her face relaxed and pink. Agatha had just reappeared from the kitchen, a plate balanced expertly in one hand with two slices of toast stacked neatly on it, and Nicky’s favorite green dragon cup in the other. The steam wafting up from the mug suggested cocoa, and she carried it the way only a mother of two could—graceful, practiced, and a little sleep-deprived.

And then—

Thump. Thump. Thump.

A stampede of small, energetic feet came hurtling down the hallway, each step growing louder as it approached. In an instant, Nicky burst into the room like a whirlwind, now fully dressed in jeans, a hoodie, and his dinosaur socks that didn’t quite match.

“Can we go to the park today?” he asked brightly, his hair tousled and cheeks flushed with excitement. “Please, please? I want to show Violet the tree I climbed last week! She doesn’t have to climb it, she can just look!”

Agatha couldn’t help the laugh that spilled from her lips as she crossed the room to intercept him. “Whoa!” she said with theatrical effort, lifting him into her arms as he squealed with laughter. “Did you grow overnight? You feel heavier. You’re practically a grown man now!”

Nicky wrapped his arms around her neck, giggling into her shoulder, and clung to her like a little monkey before wriggling free with a determined squirm.

“Shoes, mister,” Agatha instructed, kissing the top of his head and smoothing his hair down. “And maybe grab the green scarf too—it’s still chilly out there.”

“Okay!” he called as he spun around, already halfway down the hall, his socks slipping a little on the hardwood floor. “I’ll get it! I’ll get it! I know where it is!”

Agatha turned, toast now forgotten, and knelt beside her wife where Violet had started to stir. Her tiny mouth puckered in her sleep, and one small fist stretched toward her mother as if seeking warmth.

“Time to get bundled up, little star,” Agatha murmured, her voice all hush and softness as she lifted Violet from her cozy nest in Rio’s lap.

She settled herself carefully into the armchair near the window, slipping on the baby wrap with practiced ease and tucking Violet close to her chest. The baby let out a soft sigh and curled instinctively against her mother, tiny hands fisting in the fabric of Agatha’s shirt.

Rio watched them with a sleepy smile from the couch as she finished her tea. She shifted forward, rising slowly with a hand braced on the cushion beside her. Her movements were careful, mindful of the soreness that lingered in her healing body, but there was purpose behind them. She crossed to the door and reached for her jacket hanging on the hook, fingers brushing against the fabric like she was reminding herself she could do this—one motion at a time.

Agatha turned her head to glance back at her, brows gently arched. “You sure you’re okay to come?” she asked in that low, grounding tone that always carried more care than question. “You can stay and nap if you need. We’ll be back before lunch.”

Rio met her gaze, steady despite the shadows beneath her eyes. That flicker of stubbornness danced across her face—the kind Agatha had fallen in love with long ago, the kind that never quite dimmed, even when the rest of her was bone-tired. “I want to come,” she said simply as she eased into her jacket. “I don’t want to miss anything.”

Agatha’s expression softened as she adjusted Violet slightly higher against her chest, tucking the baby’s head beneath her chin. “Alright then, my love.”

By the time they were both ready, Nicky was already bouncing in place near the door, practically vibrating with seven-year-old excitement. His scarf trailed behind him in one hand like a banner, and his sneakers—adorably—were on the wrong feet.

Agatha crouched down to fix them, chuckling under her breath as she untied the laces and gently swapped them. “You’re lucky your shoes still fit when they’re backwards,” she teased, pressing a kiss to his flushed cheek.

Nicky giggled, hopping from one foot to the other, clearly ready to sprint the second the door opened, while Rio grabbed the diaper bag and slipped on her scarf.

Violet let out a soft coo from her spot against Agatha’s chest, her face tucked into the hollow between her mother’s collarbone and shoulder. Agatha kissed the top of her soft, fine hair.

The door swung open to a crisp, clear morning, the promise of spring hanging in the air just barely, and the scent of earth and dew waiting to greet them. The sun lit up Nicky’s curls like gold as he ran ahead to the porch steps, arms outstretched like wings.

And just like that, all four of them stepped out into the day—together.

The walk to the park was slow and peaceful, the kind of walk where time didn’t quite matter. The sun hung low and warm in the spring sky, casting a gentle light over the quiet neighborhood streets. Agatha and Rio strolled side by side, their fingers laced together, the world hushed around them save for the occasional chirp of a bird or the far-off hum of a passing car. Violet was snuggled against Agatha’s chest, her tiny face barely visible above the wrap, one hand curled near her cheek in sleep.

Nicky ran a few paces ahead, arms out like wings, narrating his own imaginary adventure.

“I’m a dragon!” he declared, leaping over a crack in the sidewalk as though it were a canyon. “A super-fast, super-strong one! And I’m flying! Watch out, evil trees! I’m coming to rescue the baby princess!”

He spun in place dramatically, swinging an invisible tail, his voice growing louder with every twist of the fantasy. “Mom! Mama! Are you watching me?”

Agatha laughed under her breath, that low, warm sound Rio loved, and called out, “Always watching, sweet boy. We wouldn’t miss a second!”

“We’re your biggest fans!” Rio added, tugging her scarf up a little tighter around her neck as the breeze picked up. She gave Agatha’s hand a quick squeeze, grounding herself in the warmth of her wife’s palm.

Agatha turned slightly, her eyes catching Rio’s, and the smile that passed between them was the kind only built over time—one layered with memories, comfort, exhaustion, and love. The kind that didn’t need to be explained.

“This is nice,” Agatha said after a quiet moment, her voice low and content, as if she didn’t want to break the morning with anything too loud. “Being out in the world again. Just the four of us.”

“It is,” Rio agreed, the corners of her eyes crinkling with the kind of joy that didn’t need to be loud. “It really, really is.”

When they arrived at the park, Nicky took one look at the wide expanse of green, the cheerful clang of swings and the shriek of delighted children, and took off like a shot, making a beeline for the playground, his small legs pumping as he sprinted toward the jungle gym. He barely paused to wave over his shoulder—“Watch me!”—before launching himself onto the steps , as if the whole structure had been built just for him, and in his mind, maybe it had.

Agatha and Rio followed at a slower pace, drifting toward a shaded bench beneath a young tree in full spring bloom. Pale green buds dotted its branches like tiny lanterns, and a few petals—white with the faintest blush of pink—fluttered down to land in the grass. The breeze stirred around them, carrying the scent of damp earth and fresh leaves.

They settled onto the bench carefully, with the practiced grace of new parents who had learned how to sit without disturbing the baby. Shoulders brushing, knees angled slightly toward each other, they formed the kind of quiet, steady presence that only came with deep love and shared exhaustion.

Agatha adjusted the wrap around her shoulders, tightening it just a little, though Violet remained still as ever, her face tucked into the curve of Agatha’s chest. One tiny hand poked out near the collar, curled like a pale seashell.

“She’s still so light,” Agatha murmured, eyes soft as they flicked down to their daughter. “Sometimes I worry I’ll forget she’s in there. Like she’s part of me now. Like breathing.”

Rio smiled, her body folding in closer as she leaned her head against Agatha’s shoulder. “You won’t,” she said quietly. “You never forget what you love. Especially not when they snore like baby hedgehogs.”

Agatha huffed a soft laugh. “She does, doesn’t she? The tiniest snore I’ve ever heard.”

She kissed the top of Rio’s head, letting her lips linger in her wife’s hair, soaking in the moment. The quiet between them wasn’t empty—it was thick with contentment, with relief, with the fullness of a life rebuilt one small morning at a time.

Across the field, Nicky had already made friends. He raced another boy to the top of the slide, shrieking in victory, then zoomed down with both arms in the air. When he hit the sand, he rolled dramatically, leapt up, and dashed toward the swings.

He took a moment to push an empty one, narrating its journey like a mission control officer. “And lift off! This rocket is going to the moon!” He sprinted back to the bench a moment later, breathless and beaming.

“Mom! Mama! There was a ladybug on the slide!” he reported urgently. “A red one with seven spots. That means good luck, right?”

“Definitely good luck,” Rio said, lifting her head with a sleepy smile.

He leaned in close, standing on tiptoe to peek at Violet. “She’s still sleeping!” he whispered with wide-eyed awe, like it was the most miraculous thing in the world. He patted her little foot gently through the wrap, his hand lingering there for a second. “Do you think she likes the park?”

Agatha brushed her fingers across Violet’s cheek, feather-light. “I think she loves it,” she said, her voice full of quiet joy. “Especially because her big brother is making it so much fun.”

Nicky’s whole face lit up with pride. “I’m her favorite person,” he whispered conspiratorially, as if Violet might wake up just to confirm it.

“I think you might be right,” Rio said, reaching over to tousle his curls before he could dash off again.

And dash he did, hair bouncing with every step, already caught in another whirlwind adventure that only he could see.

As they sat beneath the soft canopy of spring leaves, the occasional burst of laughter from the playground rolled through the air like music. Time slowed in that sun-dappled corner of the park. Birds trilled overhead, their songs weaving in and out of the hum of distant conversations and squeaky swings. It was the kind of quiet that came not from silence, but from peace.

Other children wandered over now and then, drawn by that instinctive magnetism babies seem to have—especially new ones, swaddled in soft fabric, barely making a sound. Children noticed everything, asked everything, and did so with the kind of honesty adults rarely dared.

“Is that your baby?” a little girl asked, barely more than four, her eyes wide and full of wonder as she tugged gently on the hem of Rio’s coat.

“She’s really small.”

“She is,” Agatha replied warmly, shifting slightly so the girl could get a better look. “Her name is Violet.”

“She looks like a strawberry,” the girl added with solemn admiration, then skipped away without another word.

A moment later, a boy of about six came up, clutching a pine cone in one hand like a rare treasure. He didn’t say hello—just leaned forward a little, peering at Violet like she was a new species of butterfly.

“Does she cry a lot?” he asked.

Agatha chuckled, her voice low and fond. “Sometimes. She kept us up all night.”

“Why?”

“She’s still figuring out the world,” Rio answered, brushing a thumb gently over Violet’s foot through the wrap. “She’s only been here a few days.”

The boy considered this, eyes narrowing with great thought. “Oh,” he said solemnly. “I used to cry when I was a baby too. But I stopped.”

“Good for you,” Rio said, straight-faced.

He nodded, satisfied, and ran off again, pine cone raised like a sword.

Violet stirred just then, her nose scrunching, mouth twitching in sleep. A little mewl escaped her lips, the kind of soft sound that wasn’t quite a cry but close. Agatha instinctively shifted, rocking ever so slightly, her hands moving without thought—calm and practiced.

“She’s okay,” she murmured, pressing her cheek gently to the top of Violet’s head. “Probably dreaming about something enormous. Like milk.”

Rio smiled, eyes tracing the small bundle that barely made a dent against Agatha’s chest. “She really is tiny.”

Agatha nodded, her gaze fixed on her daughter. “She doesn’t feel real sometimes.”

Rio rested her head against Agatha’s shoulder, the weight of the moment grounding her. “Do you remember when Nicky was this small?”

Agatha exhaled, a sound caught between a laugh and a sigh. “Like it was yesterday,” she said. “And like it was a hundred years ago.”

Rio’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I wish I could have seen him like that.”

The ache in her words was quiet but deep, not regret, not longing—just the weight of time that couldn’t be rewound.

Agatha turned her head just slightly and kissed Rio’s temple, slow and sure. “You’re seeing him now, my love,” she said. “And you’ll get to witness his shenanigans for the rest of your life.”

They both looked toward the playground, where Nicky was halfway across the monkey bars, legs swinging, tongue stuck out in concentration. He dropped triumphantly onto the sand below and threw both hands in the air like a gymnast.

“I am the jungle gym champion!” he yelled to no one in particular.

Rio laughed softly, her smile crooked. “He’s got your confidence.”

“And your chaos,” Agatha replied.

They fell into a quiet again, but not the heavy kind. The kind that held them together. Violet shifted in her wrap, her face so still and new that it almost glowed. Agatha looked down at her, then back to Rio, and something inside her clenched with a love that was almost too big to hold.

“We really did this,” she said, voice hoarse and hushed.

Rio didn’t speak right away. She just leaned in, pressing a kiss to Agatha’s shoulder like a promise, her lips brushing the cotton there.

“We really did,” she whispered back.

And for a few long, sacred moments, there was nothing else but the four of them. A boy discovering the world one leap at a time. A baby just beginning to dream. Two women on a park bench, soaked in sunlight, wrapped in the soft, dizzying miracle of what they’d made together.

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Chapter Text

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Just before lunch, once they were back from the park, as soft baby sounds, the distant thump of Nicky’s footsteps upstairs, the rustle of Rio leafing through the mail echoes in the house, like a somestic lullaby—the doorbell rang.

Agatha, who had just settled Violet down into her little padded lounger in the living room, glanced toward the door. “I’ve got it,” she said gently, pressing a quick kiss to Rio’s temple as she passed.

She padded to the door barefoot, still in her soft gray house sweater, and opened it.

The smell arrived before anything else. Warm spices —cumin, rosemary, thyme—followed by the richer undercurrent of roasted garlic and something sugary and comforting, like cinnamon folded into butter.

And there stood Lilia, slightly windblown, cheeks pink from the breeze, arms full of life and love disguised as groceries. Two heavy canvas bags dangled from her hands, brimming with neatly packed containers, foil-wrapped surprises, and the unmistakable corner of a wine bottle poking out like it had something to say.

“Hi, darling,” Lilia said with a grin that went straight to the heart. “Step aside before I drop the dessert.”

Agatha let out a breath of laughter, already reaching to help. “Come in, come in. You didn’t have to do all this—”

“Oh, please,” Lilia cut in, brushing past her with an expert hip-bump and a kiss to the cheek in one seamless motion. “You haven’t been sleeping. Don’t pretend. None of you have. New baby, wild boy, two exhausted mothers? You’d be lucky to remember to eat toast, let alone cook anything worth tasting.”

Agatha gave her a tired-but-glowing smile. “Still. This is too much.”

“It’s exactly enough.” Lilia dropped the bags onto the kitchen counter with a satisfying thud and began unpacking like she owned the place.“I made all of your favorites. Lemon rosemary chikcen for you. That ridiculous peanut noodle thing Rio pretends isn’t her favorite. And dinosaur-shaped butter cookies for Nicky. And yes, I know about Violet, but I’m not cooking for a creature who can’t chew yet, I’ll leave that to Rio.”

Agatha snorted, following her in. “You know Rio can’t drink, so is that wine for us or a threat?”

“For me,” Lilia said sweetly. “But if you manage a glass without falling asleep on the floor, I’ll be proud of you.”

Agtaha chuckled. “You’re amazing.”

Lilia just gave her a look like of course I am, and marched straight into the living room.

By now, Rio had drifted into the kitchen, mail forgotten, her face lighting up the second she saw who it was.

“Mom!” she called, voice so bright it could have lit a fire. “Did you bring the noodle thing?”

“Of course I did, sweetheart. And yes, I made it extra creamy like you like it. Don’t burn your throat.”

“You’re an angel.”

“No, I’m your mother,” Lilia shot back, already bustling toward the kitchen with her bags like a one-woman army. “It’s worse. Angels don’t show up unannounced and reorganize your kitchen.”

She set the last of the containers down with a determined thud, then rolled up her sleeves with the precision of someone about to conquer an entire afternoon of chaos and cuddles. Her earrings jingled faintly as she moved. “Now—where are my grandbabies?”

“One’s in here, the other is being a dragon upstairs!” Rio called from the living room, where she’d flopped back onto the couch with a sleepy smile. “He declared war on gravity about ten minutes ago. It’s a whole thing.”

From the foyer, Agatha raised an amused brow and followed the sound of voices into the living room, just in time to see Lilia zero in on Violet like a hawk made entirely of affection and muscle memory.

“Ohhh, there she is,” Lilia breathed, her voice as she knelt beside the padded lounger. Violet was just beginning to stir, tiny fists stretching above her head, her nose wrinkling as she made a small grumbling sound like the beginning of a complaint that hadn’t quite found its teeth yet.

“My little moonflower,” Lilia whispered, brushing the back of her finger along the baby’s warm cheek. “Even smaller than I remembered. Look at you… those cheeks, that perfect nose. Have you been eating well, darling? Of course you have, your mom’s a star. Probably milk drunk half the time.”

She bent forward and pressed her nose to Violet’s forehead, inhaling the baby scent like it was a holy thing. Her voice turned into a hum, a low, soothing melody that didn’t quite became words but wrapped around Violet like a lullaby only grandmothers knew how to sing.

With ease, Lilia scooped the baby into her arms and stood, boncing her gently on her shoulder. Violet blinked once, twice, then melted against her as though some part of her recognized this comfort immediately.

“She likes you,” Agatha murmured with a small smile.

“She better like me,” Lilia replied without turning, still swaying gently. “I’ve been dreaming about holding her since the minute I left the hospital. It’s been agony.”

From upstairs came the unmistakable thunder of Nicky on the move—charging footsteps, a brief silence, and then an impressive crash.

“I’M OKAY!” he shouted heroically.

Lilia’s eyes sparkled. “Ah. The dragon cometh.”

“I told you,” Rio called, already laughing as she pushed herself up from the couch. She crossed the room in a few long strides and wrapped her arms gently around her mother from behind, careful not to jostle Violet in her arms.

Lilia tilted her head back slightly, resting it against Rio’s for a second as they stood together.

“Thanks for coming, Mom,” Rio murmured against her shoulder, her voice low and thick with the kind of tired that came from being pulled in a hundred directions at once. “I missed you.”

“I wasn’t going to miss today,” Lilia said simply, reaching back to squeeze Rio’s hand. “I’ve been counting the hours. I didn’t come here to just drop off food—I came to see my girls and my boy.”

Agtha stood nearby, watching them with her arms folded across her chest, heart full to the brim and then some. There were moments in life, she thought, that didn’t need to be explained—they just arrived, soft and luminous, and wrapped themselves around you before you even noticed you were being held.

There, in front of her, were the three women who had changed her life entirely.

Rio, all sharp humor and fragile edges, softened now by the kind of love that couldn’t be undone. Her fire dimmed but never gone, replaced for now by something quieter: a sacred, unspoken pride that clung to her like a second skin.

Lilia, radiant as ever, half storm and half sanctuary, the kind of woman who walked into a room and made it feel like home had arrived with her. The mother she never had.

And Violet, nestled between them like the tiny sun their worlds now orbited around, her eyelids fluttering and her mouth working in sleepy, contented movements.

Agatha stepped closer and wrapped one arm around Rio’s waist, leaning in to kiss the top of her head as she glanced at Lilia.

“You know we love you, right?”

Lilia didn’t look up, but her mouth twitched at the corners. “Good. I expect bribes and handwrittten letters from all of you when I’m old and dramatic.”

“You’re already dramatic,” Rio said.

“And I’m barely old,” Lilia shot back.

From upstairs came another loud thud.

“Oh, Nicky—” Agatha started, but Lilia waved her free hand in the air with the confidence of a woman who’d raised Rio.

“He’s fine,” she said. “You can always tell by the tone of the crash. That one was pure joy. Just meanshe’s invented a new trick.”

Rio chuckled and leaned more fully into Agatha’s side.

Nicky thundered down the stairs at precisely then—because of course he’d heard his grandmother’s voice, and of course he wasn’t about to miss a reunion. His footsteps were a storm, his energy a tidal wave, and his joy utterly uncontainable.

“Grandma!” he shouted, bursting into the room like a small but determined rocket.

“Careful, careful!” Agatha called out with instinctive alarm, already reaching to steady a side table that trembled under the seismic force of her son’s enthusiasm.

But Lilia, ever the seasoned matriarch, had already braced herself with an almost preternatural calm. She turned just enough to free one arm and caught Nicky mid-charge, absorbing the impact with the grace of someone who had caught generations of exuberant children in her arms before.

“Hey, my favorite dinosaur!” she beamed, squish him into a hug that was more fortress than embrace. “You’ve grown an entire inch since I saw you last.”

“Maybe two!” Nicky replied proudly, lifting his chin with all the dignity of a knight in mismatched socks. “And guess what—I made Violet a comic book! It’s all about her being a space witch with a jetpack and laser eyes!”

“Oh, that sounds epic. I have to read it,” Lilia said with mock seriousness, brushing a kiss to the top of his curls. “But first… cookies. They’re in the green box on the counter. Mission: snack share. Think you can handle it?”

“Totally. I’m the best sharer.” Nicky darted off toward the kitchen without hesitation, already narrating his upcoming cookie performance under his breath like a sports commentator. “And now the dragon finds the treasure—chocolate chip! The best. He’s a genius.”

Agatha watched him disappear into the kitchen, her smile soft and full of something deeper than amusement. She turned just as Rio, now sunk comfortably back into the couch, gave the cushion beside her a gentle pat in invitation.

Agatha took her seat without a word, schooching in until her hip pressed lightly against Rio’s. Rio leaned her head against Agatha’s shoulder, and Agatha tilted her own just enough to rest against her wife’s hair.

Together, they watched.

Lilia paced slowly across the living room with Violet tucked snugly in her arms, rocking her with the gentle rhythm of someone who knew how to hold without crowding, to soothe without smothering.

And Violet seemed to melt into her grandmother’s warmth like she already knew this was a place she could rest. Her eyelids fluttered, her fingers curled and uncurled against Lilia’s shoulder, and her tiny lips pursed and relaxed, completely lost in dreams.

Agatha exhaled slowly. “She looks like she’s done this a thousand times.”

“She has,” Rio murmured, her voice more breath than sound. “She did it with me, even if I was much bigger and I came to her, like a whole sixteen years old, but being held by her in the beginning felt just like that. And with every kid she ever fostered before me. And now she’s doing it with our baby like she’s been waiting her whole life for her.”

Agatha’s throat tightened, and she blinked hard. “I didn’t realize… how much I needed to see this. Her with Violet. All of us in the same room. I didn’t know how much it would matter.”

Rio shifted, just enough to press a kiss against Agatha’s shoulder. “It matters. She belongs here. We belong here.”

Agatha reached down and found Rio’s hand, threading their fingers together in the quiet warmth of their lap.

From the kitchen, Nicky’s voice rang out with unmistakable glee. “Grandma! Wanna see my impression of a cookie-eating dragon? It’s very relaistic!”

Lilia didn’t hesitate. “Oh, absolutely. I want a full performance. With sound effects!”

Agatha let out a low laughand closed her eyes.

This. This was the dream she never dared to put into words. A home full of noise and quiet. Of chaos and care. Of dragon impressions and lullabies. Of Rio, and Nicky, and Violet. Of Lilia.

Of love—messy, living, enduring love.

Lilia moved around the kitchen like it had always been hers, and it kinda was. Not by deed or lease, but by something deeper: the natural claim of someone who had poured herself into the space not just with hands but with heart. She didn’t hesitate when opening drawers or reaching for spices. She knew where the potholders lived and which cabinet held the mismatched mugs Rio insisted on keeping. This was the kind of knowledge you only earned through presence—and Lilia had been. present.

Through long weekends during Rio’s pregnancy, she’d come and gone like a gentle storm—quietly sweeping through the house, cooking meals, folding laundry that no one had asked her to fold, rearranging the spice rack (it was always the spice rack) with a muttered “honestly, chaos,” and then sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of tea, telling stories from her own girlhood in Sicily. Sometimes she’d just sit in silence, offering nothing but her steady company while Rio cried or napped or paced restlessly.

And now—now that her granddaughter was here—there was a brightness to her that hadn’t been there before. She moved like someone who had just remembered her favorite song.

“Alright,” she announced, rolling up her sleeves with the authority of someone about to solve every problem that had ever existed. “This is not all going to fit in the fridge, so guess what? We’re eating now.”

The room quickly bloomed with scent and comfort, the air thick with herbs, and warmth. She unpacked with practiced hands: a lemon rosemary roast chicken with glistening, golden skin; a dish of grilled vegetables still warm and fragrant with citrusy sweetness; buttery, herb-laced pasta curled neatly in a serving bowl; crusty bread that cracked as she sliced it, revealing a steam-soft center. And then—centerpiece, crown jewel, offering and order all in one—she pulled out a container and set it directly in front of Rio’s place setting.

The peanut noodle bowl. Still warm, the sauce silky and fragrant with ginger and sesame, perfectly portioned for someone who hadn’t been remembering to feed herself.

“That’s yours,” Lilia said firmly, giving her daughter the kind of look that brooked no argument. “I mean it. All of it. You finish it. You’ve got someone to feed, sweet girl, and you can’t do that on half a sandwich and three cups of cold tea.”

Rio blinked at the generous heap of noodles and swallowed hard. She wasn’t sure if it was the food or the way her mother’s voice softened on sweet girl, but her chest ached a little. The kind of ache that comes (came ?-> check conjug later) from being seen. She opened her mouth to make a joke, maybe about how she had in fact eaten half a sandwich (yesterday), but it didn’t come out. Instead, she nodded, her voice a little hoarse when she said, “Thanks, Mom.”

The truth was she was starving. Something about breastfeeding had made her hunger come in fierce waves, and she hadn’t yet learned to get ahead of it. She smiled at her mother, grateful beyond words.

Agatha had already started setting the table, placing glasses and cutlery while Violet snored soflty from her little lounger near the window. The baby monitor gave off its low, constant hum, a rhythm of breathy sighs and rustles that anchored the room like a heartbeat.

Nicky was already perched in his usual chair, his legs swinging in quick, excited kicks under the table. At some point during the food parade, he’d stealthily acquired a slice of bread, which he was attempting to nibble on without being noticed.

He wasn’t nearly as subtle as he thought he was.

“Hey!” Agatha called out, catching him mid-bite. “That’s not for dragons who haven’t washed their claws.”

“I did!” Nicky said, affronted. “I’m a very clean dragon! I used sanitizer. It burned, but I didn’t scream.”

Agatha narrowed her eyes, half amused, half mock-stern. “Did it now?”

“It sizzled! Like magic.”

“Well. I suppose any dragon brave enough to face the fire of citrus hand sanitizer deserves a slice of bread.”

He grinned, victorious. “Told you.”

Lilia chuckled from the stove, where she was spooning pasta into a serving bowl. “You two are ridiculous.”

Rio looked around the kitchen—at the table filling with food, at her wife teasing their son, at her mother stirring noodles with the same care she used to comb Rio’s hair when she was a teenager—and felt something she felt more and more these past few years: safe.

Once everyone had found their places—Rio easing into her chair with the carefulness of someone still remembering how to sit without a baby in her arms or in her belly, Lilia fussed over her water glass and fluffing the napkin in her lap as if hydration alone could solve every problem, and Agatha settled beside her, her linen napkin folded neatly and her hand resting on Rio’s knee. And dinner truly began.

Nicky, of course, had no such sense of ceremony. He was already bouncing with anticipation, gleefully dragging his bread through every sauce he could reach like he was at a five-star buffet. There was pesto on his fingers, a smear of peanut sauce near his mouth, and he hadn’t even touched his actual plate yet.

Then, for a little while, there was just the music of dinner: the clink of silverware against ceramic, the soft swirls of steam rising from bowls, quiet chewing, quiet sighs. No talking—just that comfortable silence that fills a house when bellies are being filled too.

“This chicken is unreal,” Agatha said at last, voice low with contentment and mouth half-full in a way that betrayed just how good it was.

Lilia hummed her satisfaction inside her water glass. “The secret is the lemon. And patience. And magic. But mostly lemon.”

Nicky let out a tiny gasp. “Do you actually use magic?”

“Not the kind you’re thinking of, sweet boy,” Lilia replied with a wink, nudging a napkin toward him as he reached for more bread. “But a little love in the pan does wonders. Love and butter, mostly. And not burning the garlic.” She added tunring to Rio who had the decency to lower her gaze as she returned to her plate.

Rio gave a soft laugh around a mouthful of noodles, and Agatha glanced sideways at her. She was eating—really eating. Not nibbling or picking, not trying to convince someone else she was fine. Just forkful after forkful, slow and steady, like her body was finally catching up to its own hunger. Her eyes were tired, yes, and the faint purple shadows still clung beneath them, but they weren’t the kind that worried Agatha. They were earned shadows. The kind carved by midnight feedings and early dawn lullabies. She looked softer, a little dreamy, like she was wrapped in a haze of good food and gentle company.

She was radiant.

Agatha reached under the table and found her hand, squeezed it again. No words, just a reminder: I love you.

Rio glanced at her and smiled, a little bashful but full of love. Then she looked at Lilia and said, “Thank you, Mom. Really. It’s all so good.”

Lilia’s gaze softened, her entire posture shifting from matriarchal authority to pure maternal tenderness. “Of course, baby. You’re doing the hardest thing there is—keeping a tiny human alive and remembering your own name in the process. Your body made someone. That’s not small. That deserves noodles, and seconds, and anything else you want.”

“And cookies,” Nicky added, his voice muffled by rice and importance. “You forgot cookies.”

Lilia turned to him with theatrical offense. “I would never forget cookies. There’s a new batch cooling on the counter. But cookies only visit the stomachs of children who finish their vegetables.”

Nicky groaned, slumping in his chair like he’d just been asked to move mountains. “Broccoli hurts my feelings,” he muttered.

Agatha raised an eyebrow. “Broccoli doesn’t have feelings.”

“It gives feelings,” Nicky insisted, fork poised with reluctant determination. “Sad ones.”

Rio laughed again, her voice a little clearer this time. A little brighter. She reached across to steal a piece of grilled zucchini off Nicky’s plate and popped it into her mouth with a mischievous smile. “I happen to love broccoli. You should give it another chance.”

Nicky pushed his plate towards her. “Good, you can have it all then if you like so much.”

After dessert—Lilia’s homemade cookies still warm from the oven, their chocolate chips and hearts perfectly gooey and the sugar on top just barely crisp—everyone eased back in their chairs with the collective sigh of the well-fed.

Nicky had devoured two, possibly three cookies, and washed them down with a glass of milk that left a mustache across his upper lip. The front of his shirt bore the evidence of his conquest: a generous dusting of crumbs, a suspicious smear of chocolate on his sleeve, and the undeniable glint of triumph in his eyes. He was currently attempting to gaslight Rio into believing he definitely hadn’t dropped one of his cookies under the table, even though Señor Scratchy—the ever-vigilant family bunny—was licking something suspiciously sticky near the leg of the chair with the determination of a forensic investigator.

Lilia dabbed at her mouth with a napkin and then turned to Rio and Agatha, her tone gentle but firm

“You both look like you’ve been hit by a very small, very adorable truck,” she said, as her eyes swept over them. “Go take a nap. I’ve got my grandchildren.”

Rio blinked at her, her posture still alert but her body betraying her. The tiredness had crept in behind her eyes again, dragging her shoulders down just a little. She tried to smile, but it faltered halfway, landing somewhere between gratitude and surrender. Beside her, Agatha gave a soft laugh—low, tired, the kind that made it obvious just how thin her energy had been stretched.

“We’re fine,” Agatha started, though there was no conviction behind it.

“No, you’re exhausted,” Lilia said firmly. “Don’t argue with me. You’ve both been up all night, and you’re surviving on adrenaline and residual cookie magic. Go. I’ve held babies before, you know.”

Rio hesitated, her gaze flickering toward the purple bundle in Lilia’s arms. Then her eyes moved to the living room, where Nicky had gone horizontal on the rug, legs kicking the air, humming to himself while spinning a toy car between his palms like it was a Formula 1 track. “What about Nicky?”

At the sound of his name, Nicky shot up like someone had hit a button. “I’m not sleepy!” he declared with the wild-eyed insistence of a child who absolutely was.

“Of course you’re not,” Agatha muttered under her breath, just loud enough for Rio to hear.

“I want to stay with Grandma and Violet!” he continued, already bouncing in place. “I need to show her my drawings, and the dance I made up, and tell her about the duck at the park that tried to eat my snack.”

“That was your fault, by the way,” Rio mumbled, already slumping sideways into Agatha’s shoulder.

Nicky gave her an offended look. “It was a very aggressive ducky, Mommy.”

Lilia let out a warm laugh, her eyes dancing with affection. She held out one hand toward him, and he darted over to grab it. “He can stay with me. We’ll be quiet. Right, baby?”

Nicky nodded enthusiastically, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “I’ll be so quiet. Like a cat. Like Violet.”

Rio blinked at Agatha, who shrugged, already standing up and helping her wife to her feet. “He’s made up his mind.”

“I wonder where he gets that from,” Rio muttered with a pointed glance that Agatha chose to ignore entirely.

With one last kiss on Nicky’s curls, and another soft brush of fingers across Violet’s fine baby hair, Agatha guided Rio toward the stairs and back to their bedroom. The moment the door clicked shut, Lilia moved to the living room with her granddaughter in her arms and Nicky right on her heels.

They settled into the couch, Lilia leaning back with Violet cradled against her chest. Her tiny fingers curled against Lilia’s shirt, impossibly small, impossibly soft.

Nicky climbed up beside them, his legs tucked under him like a frog, and leaned in close. “She’s really small, you know?.”

“She is,” Lilia said softly, brushing a thumb across Violet’s cheek. “You were this small once, too. I’m sure.”

“I was?” He looked deeply skeptical.

Lilia chuckled softly, careful not to jostle the baby. “Oh yes. Your mama showed me pictures. You used to fall asleep on people just like this. A little lump of cuddles and cheeks. Had I known you back then,” she added with a wink, “you would’ve curled right up on me, too.”

Nicky looked pleased by the idea, like he’d been told he was part of a noble tradition. “She didn’t even cry,” he said after a moment, with a mix of wonder and pride. “She likes you.”

“Of course she does. I’m her grandma,” Lilia said, smiling. “Grandmas are very likable.”

Nicky nodded gravely, as though confirming this for future reference. “Do you think she liked the star nightlight I picked for her? The yellow one that glows like the moon?”

“I know she did,” Lilia whispered. “It’s the perfect light for dreaming.”

Nicky beamed, his chest puffing out just a little. He scooted closer until his shoulder brushed hers, his gaze fixed on Violet’s peaceful face, watching every tiny twitch and sigh as if he were memorizing the choreography of her sleep.

“I already told her about the dragon mobile,” he said softly. “And the tree Mama painted on the wall. And the basket with the ribbons. I told her about the music box, too. And how sometimes we let Señor Scratchy hop in the room, but only if he promises not to nibble on the toys.”

Lilia tilted her head toward him, her expression full of love. “You told her all that?”

He nodded. “And I told her she’s gonna have the best big brother in the world.” He turned to Lilia, his voice gentle but certain. “That’s me.”

Lilia leaned in and kissed the crown of his head, her lips lingering in his curls. “She’s very lucky,” she said, her voice thick with emotion.

He was quiet for a while, watching the baby breathe. Lilia could see the wheels turning behind his eyes, his little mind processing something so big, so new, in the only way it knew how: by collecting moments and holding them close.

And then he started talking. And talking. And talking.

About the walk to the park earlier that day, how the wind had made the trees shake like they were laughing. About the cookies they’d eaten—“still warm, like they just came out of the sun,” he explained, about how Mom cried when she saw Violet in her crib for the first time and how Mama whispered “Welcome home” like it was a secret spell, and how he had known that it had worked and that Mama was secretely a witch.

“Vivi likes to curl her fingers when she stretches,” he said, almost like he was giving Lilia a very important piece of information. “And she scrunches her nose a little when she yawns. She cries louder at night, but that’s okay. I don’t mind. We’re gonna help take care of her. All of us. Me the most.”

Lilia didn’t interrupt. She just rubbed soft, slow circles on his back with one hand. She didn’t need to say a wordas he kept talking—about the dragon mobile, about the name he wanted to give the stuffed bunny in Violet’s bassinet (“Princess Marshmallow,” which he said was “extremely royal”), about the duck at the park that had chased him for his snack.

And then, slowly, his words began to taper off, as if he were running out of steam. His sentences got shorter, quieter, until eventually, there was nothing left but the soft, even sound of his breathing—slow and steady against her arm.

He’d talked himself straight into sleep.

Lilia looked down and found his head resting against her shoulder, one hand still loosely curled near Violet’s blanket. His mouth hung slightly open in the way of true, dreamless sleep, and his chest rose and fell in sync with hers.

So there she sat.

Violet nestled to her chest, warm and small. Nicky asleep against her side, full of wonder and crumbs and love. Outside, a bird chirped once.

She didn’t dare move.

She was the last one awake, the only soul keeping vigil. The quiet sentinel. The grandmother. The matriarch of this messy, beautiful, unfiltered show she would give her life to, without hesitation, again and again and again.

And in that stillness, with two hearts pressed close to hers, she let herself breathe deeply and smiled.

This was everything.

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Chapter Text

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Two weeks passed in the strange, suspended rhythm of newborn days—days that felt too long and somehow too short at the same time. Time bent itself around the needs of a tiny being with no sense of clocks, turning hours into blurs of feedings, lullabies, and blinking moments of half-sleep. Nights melted into mornings without warning, and the space between dusk and dawn stretched thin like gauze, wrapped tightly around the household.

But time, in all its relentless stubbornness, did what it always did: it moved forward.

And now, with the spring sun still hidden behind the blooming branches of the trees, light just beginning to press faintly at the edges of the curtains, it was Agtaha’s first day back at the university.

The alarm hadn’t even gone off yet.

Not that she needed it.

She wasn’t sure if she had actually slept at all, or if she’d just dozed upright for stretches of time with Violet tucked in her arms and her head bowed, like a priestess keeping watch at a sacred altar. Her neck ached. Her back throbbed. But her body had long since learned to ignore those things.

Violet had been restless all night again, hungry and fussy and demanding a rotation of swaying, rocking, humming and bouncing—none of which had lasted longer than twenty minutes before she’d scrunched her tiny face and let out another wail. Agatha had taken the early shift, trying to let Rio rest, for once, as she had been awake till 3am. And now, before sunrise, the baby had finally quieted, and Agatha found herself standing in the soft morning gloom of their bedroom, cradling her daughter in her arms, barefoot and wrapped in one of Rio’s oversized cardigans—sage green, warm, smelling faintly of baby shampoo and peppermint tea.

She didn’t need to rock her anymore. Violet was out, nestled against her chest, breathing in those soft little sighs that made something swell in Agatha’s chest.

She didn’t want tomove. She wasn’t ready. Not for real clothes, not for structured sentences, not for the world of syllabi and lectures and brisk academic nods. 

The truth was she was ready—she had lectures prepared, books already stacked on her office desk, her students to rejoin. She’d even laid out her sharpest black blazer the night before, the one with the clean, strong shoulders and narrow waist that made her feel like she could walk into battle. But standing there now, barefoot in her pajamas, Violet curled into her neck, the idea of putting on a blazer at all felt vaguely absurd.

Still, the clock on the dresser ticked on, and Agatha knew if she didn’t move soon, she’d end up crying into Violet’s onesie. So she did the impossible: she pried herself away from her babygirl, kissed her head one last time, and gently, gently tucked her back into the bassinet beside the bed. The baby stirred but didn’t wake. Agatha hovered there for a second, her hand resting briefly on Violet’s chest, waiting for the familiar rise and fall.

Then she straightened and turned to the bed.

Rio was still curled beneath the covers, tangled in them like she had lost a fight. Her braid had come loose in the night, a cascade of dark hair fanned across her pillow and trailing down her shoulder, soft waves brushing her cheek like ivy. One hand still reached out, fingers gently curled toward where Violet had been sleeping against her not long ago.

Agtha didn’t wake her.

She stood there for a moment longer, watching and daydreaming. Then she turned, quietly slipped out of the room, and went to get dressed.

By the time she stood in front of the hallway mirror—blazer buttoned, collar sharp, her hair braided and pinned up with a precision that had once come naturally but now felt like a memory—she could have cried. But the mirror offered her a different reflection: clean lines, strong posture. The dark fabric of the blazer squared her shoulders, carved a silhouette that said: I am here. I am in control. Her lipstick, a deep wine-red, was applied with the kind of care that felt ceremonial more than cosmetic. A war paint of sorts. She looked like Dr. Harnkess again—professor, scholar, institution.

But her eyes… Her eyes betrayed her.

Not just tired. Not even exhausted.

Mother-tired.

The one no amount of caffeine or concealer could hide away. It lived in her bones now, in the tight muscles of her neck, in the awareness that something fragile slept just down the hall. A tiredness that came from giving parts of herself away one heartbeat at a time—through lullabies, through midnight pacing, through the simple act of being needed so completely.

She stared at herself for a moment longer. Then exhaled through her nose, smoothed her lapels, and turned toward the kitchen with the deliberate pace of someone walking back into a version of their life that no longer quite fitted.

She flicked the kettle on and reached for the cupboard without thinking, pulling down Rio’s favorite mug—the green ceramic one with the golden stars. She chose the same herbal tea Rio always brewed in the mornings, even though Agatha herself had never particularly liked the taste. Too floral. Too mild. But she’d grown used to it over the years, sipping from Rio’s mug out of laziness or affection, passing it back and forth during those groggy, pre-dawn hours when words were few but comfort came easily.

Now, in the stillness of the kitchen, she took a sip and immediately winced.

Too sweet. Too quiet. Too wrong.

Not half-stolen by her sleepy wife.

She set the mug down and leaned against the counter, pressing her palm to the cool marble like it might steady her. The silence was too loud. No soft footsteps from Rio shuffling in half-asleep. No baby cries from the hallway. No Nicky making a dramatic case for cookies before breakfast.

It was just her, dressed for battle and nowhere near ready.

This wasn’t the first time she’d returned to work after a seismic shift in her life. She’d done it after learning she was pregnant. After her mother died. After the first time Nicky had been sick. Each time, she had pulled herself together, stepped back into her role, and gotten on with it. It was what she did. What she was known for.

But this time, she was leaving behind more than just a quiet house.

She was leaving them behind.

A wife curled protectively around their daughter, both of them tangled in blankets too soft for the outside. A baby still so new she didn’t yet fully belong to the world, only to the people who loved her. And Nicky—who still needed a goodbye hug and someone to zip his jacket sometimes and double-check his lunch.

That at least she could do. She could take Nicky to school. That part wouldn’t change. She’d fasten his shoes, remind him he was the best big brother in the universe, and send him off with one more thread connecting her to the life she wasn’t quite ready to leave behind, even temporarily. And for Nikcy, it wouldn’t change anything, both his moms would be there before and after school.

But the truth was, part of her would stay here. No matter how many steps she took toward her lecture hall, no matter how confidently she walked across campus with her coffee and her notes and her armor of intellect—part of her would still be in this kitchen, wrapped in the scent of lavender tea, listening for the soft cries that only a mother could hear.

And that part?

That part would ache until she was home again.

Right at that moment, Rio appeared like a dream—soft-footed and rumpled, emerging from the hallway like some fragile morning ghost, her steps silent against the hardwood floor. Her unraveled braid leaving long waves of dark hair cascading past her shoulders.

“She’ll want me to cut it soon,” Agatha thought absently, a flicker of wistful amusement tugging at the corners of her mind.

Her pajamas were slipping slightly off one shoulder, the neckline loose and open down the middle where sleepy fingers had failed to open it properly. In her arms, Violet was bundled tight against her chest, tiny mouth already latched at her breast like instinct had guided her straight from sleep to feeding. Neither mother nor daughter looked fully awake. They were still wrapped in the cocoon of the night—slow-blinking, heavy-limbed, bonded in a rhythm too old to be interrupted.

“Well, there they are,” Agatha murmured/. She smiled, not just with her lips but with her whole face. “You look like you floated here.”

Rio blinked again and rubbed her eye with the back of one hand. “I’m sleepwalking,” she croaked, voice hoarse from too little rest and not enough water. “Don’t wake me. I’ll vanish.”

Agatha moved toward her without thinking. She took the hand that wasn’t curled around their baby and pressed a kiss to the back of it, right on her wedding band “You’re amazing,” she whispered against her skin, wrapping an arm carefully around her waist. Violet made a soft sound, barely a sigh, but Agatha hushed her automatically, hand coming up to cradle both her girls. “Come sit. I’ll make you toast.”

“Bless you,” Rio mumbled, forehead dropping to Agatha’s shoulder for just a moment before letting herself be guided to one of the stools at the counter.

Agatha settled her gently and then handed over the still-warm mug of tea—now with oat milk, the way Rio liked it. She hadn’t even realized she’d made it with Rio in mind until she was placing it in her wife’s hand. Rio sipped it sleepily with one hand, the other curled protectively around Violet, whose tiny fingers gripped her pajama shirt like it was a lifeline. Her free hand pawed clumsily at her breast, tiny and blind and determined, like a kitten.

Agatha turned back to the kitchen and began working with quiet efficiency. She sliced fruit, dropped bread into the toaster, cracked eggs into the pan (skillet?). The sizzle was the loudest sound in the room. But her eyes kept drifting to the two of them at the counter—her wife sitting barefoot and bleary-eyed, nursing their newborn like it was the most ordinary thing in the world.

And yet… it wasn’t. Not to Agatha.

To her, it was holy. Like a painting she didn’t deserve to look at too long.

The kind of moment that made you understand why people believed in miracles.

She wanted to bottle it. Just this: Rio in her pajama top slipping off her shoulder, hair wild and eyes soft, their baby clutched against her like a secret. She wanted to remember this even when the days blurred again, when the sleep deprivation turned brutal, when they fought about stupid things like laundry or fridge magnets or drumsticks being taken away because stop being so loud or you’re sleeping on the couch.

She wanted this frozen in wood or amber.

“Your tea,” Rio said eventually, her voice a little steadier now, “tastes better now that I’m here, doesn’t it?”

Agatha smirked without looking up. “Infinitely.” She flipped an egg with practiced grace, then glanced over her shoulder. “You’re the secret ingredient.”

Rio gave a breath of a laugh. “Of course I am.”

Agatha paused, watching the way her wife cradled their daughter with easy, absolute love that couldn’t be taught. “I’m going to miss this.”

Rio blinked up at her, sleep still clinging to her lashes. “It’ll be waiting when you get home.”

Agatha smiled softly, and this time, it was morer eal. “I know.”

They ate breakfast like that: Agatha leaning against the counter with her plate, Rio still holding Violet and working slowly through her toast with one hand.

A few minutes later, the quiet of the kitchen was broken by the unmistakable thunder of little feet pounding across the upstairs hallway, followed by the clumsy thuds of someone taking the stairs two at a time. Agatha turned toward the noise, already smiling.

Nicky came barreling into view in his favorite space-themed pajamas, his hair shooting in every possible direction like he’d slept in a wind tunnel. He had the wild-eyed, unfiltered energy of a boy who had slept well and dreamed even better.

“Mama! Mommy! I’m awake!”

Agatha bent down just in time to catch him as he launched himself into her arms like a cannonball. She scooped him up with a dramatic “Oof!” and spun him once in the air, his giggles bubbling over into the quiet kitchen like sunlight through the blinds.

“There you are, my love,” she said, settling him on her hip with practiced ease. “Did you dream of the moon again? Or were you racing comets this time?”

Nicky leaned back and looked at her very seriously. “Nope. The circus. And Violet was there. But she was a baby acrobat. And also a dinosaur.”

Rio let out a sleep-rough laugh from her stool, her head still resting on one hand. “Well, that explains the shrieking.”

“Hey!” Nicky pointed at her like she’d uncovered a secret. “She does do dinosaur noises! You heard her too!”

Agatha gasped in mock horror. “A baby acrobat dinosaur? What kind of circus is this?”

“The best kind,” Nicky said solemnly. “There were lasers. And popcorn. And Mommy was the ringmaster. You had a big sparkly hat.”

Rio made a sound that was somewhere between a chuckle and a groan. “Sounds exhausting.”

Agatha set him down gently and nudged him toward the stool next to Rio, ruffling his wild curls on the way. “All right, my little velociraptor. Sit and eat. School starts in an hour and I don’t think the teachers are ready for circus energy this early.”

Nicky clambered onto the stool and pulled the cereal box toward him with great urgency. But before pouring, he looked over at Rio, who was now sitting with Violet curled against her chest, still sleepily finishing the last of her toast.

“Mommy,” he asked, wide-eyed, “can I show Violet my Lego circus later? I made a trapeze and everything. She’ll love it.”

Rio reached over and smoothed his hair back with a gentle hand. “Of course, baby. She’ll love it. But after school, okay? Or you’ll be the one flying through the air trying to catch up with Mama.”

Nicky giggled and returned to his cereal, feet swinging under the stool.

By then, Violet had finished nursing and fallen back into a peaceful doze, her tiny fist curled under her chin like she was dreaming important baby dreams. Agatha leaned down and kissed the crown of her daughter’s head before carefully gathering her into her arms, letting Rio rebutton her pajamas and finish her food. She held Violet against her chest for a moment, tucking the baby’s head just under her chin. Her blazer stretched awkwardly around the bundle of warm softness, but she didn’t adjust it. She didn’t care.

Some mornings were too sacred to worry about tailoring.

Rio watched them both with half-lidded eyes and the faintest smile. “You gonna survive today?” she asked, her voice rough and quiet, the words barely above the steam rising from her tea.

“I’ll do more than survive,” Agatha said, brushing a hand over Rio’s back as she passed behind her. “I’ll be home by four. On the dot.”

“You better be,” Rio murmured, resting her head against Agatha’s shoulder again, just for a moment. Her voice was still full of sleep, but something in her eyes was clear and steady now. “We’ll miss you.”

Agatha swallowed the sudden knot in her throat and kissed her wife’s forehead, soft and lingering. Then she leaned down and kissed Nicky’s curls, then Violet’s downy hair, and stood still for a heartbeat, just holding her family in the morning light.

“I already do,” she whispered.

Just before leaving and after making sure Nicky was all dressed and packed for school, Agatha moved through the house one last time like her feet weighed more than they should. She was all polished now—black blazer sharp against the pale blue button-down she wore underneath, her long hair swept into a low, controlled twist. She looked every inch the professor she’d always been, but there was something fragile in her eyes this morning. Something reluctant.

She walked with Violet a little, still tucked in the sling around her chest for just a few more moments.

Then, slowly, she turned to Rio. Her wife was now on the couch, empty tea mug between her palms, hair now swept back too, violet circles still beneath her eyes. And yet she looked luminous—lovely in the smudged, backlit way only very early mornings could make someone look, like a painting with chiaroscuro.

Agatha leaned down, kissed her temple and didn’t move. She stayed right there, her forehead pressed to Rio’s hairline, breathing in the familiar scent of sleep and raspberry conditioner and the skin she knew better than her own. Her hand drifted up and touched the back of Rio’s neck, thumb brushing the hair at her nape.

“You’ve got this,” she murmured into her hair. “Text me if anything feels off. Or even if it doesn’t and you just want to say hi.”

Rio gave a small smile, sleep-soft and crooked, and reached for Yellow Dragon—the plush toy that had become Violet’s honorary sibling and their co-parent through the last few weeks—and waved it like a flag of domestic triumph.

“We’ll be fine, Dr. Harkness. You go teach things. Enlighten the youth. Terrify them with that face you make when they try to sneak in late.”

Agatha huffed a laugh, though it caught slightly in her throat. They were both trying to keep it light. But it felt like trying to walk on a tightrope with a stone in your chest.

Neither of them was quite pulling it off.

This was the first time they’d be apart since Violet had been born. The first time Agatha wouldn’t be just a room away if Rio’s body started to give out or if Violet wouldn’t settle or if the loneliness crept in quietly around lunchtime, the way it sometimes did. The first time Rio would have to do the whole dance solo, and Agatha wouldn’t be there to pass the baby, refill the mug, kiss the tension out of her shoulders.

Agatha hovered at the edge of the kitchen, near the door, one hand still cradling Violet protectively as she tried to convince herself to leave.

“You’re really sure?” she asked, softer now. “You’ll be okay for a few hours?”

Rio tilted her head and reached lazily for Agatha’s sunglasses, abandoned on the counter after their last park trip. She slid them on with theatrical flair and lifted her chin like she was channeling an old-Hollywood starlet.

“Don’t worry. I’ll teach Violet how to recite Macbeth in iambic pentameters by noon. Maybe sprinkle in some T.S. Eliot for nap time. Nothing like existential despair to lull a baby to sleep.”

Agatha smiled, despite herself.

From across the room, Nicky looked up from his cereal, spoon in hand. “Is Violet gonna be a poet too?” he asked between mouthfuls. “Like you and Mama?”

Rio grinned and reached out to ruffle his curls. “She’s already got the dramatic crying part down. We’ll work on metaphors next.”

Agatha exhaled—part laugh, part release—and finally, slowly, let Violet shift into Rio’s arms, placing her gently on her wife’s chest, whose arms opened instinctlty. Her hands lingered longer than necessary.

She didn’t want to leave.

Everything in her—mind, heart, body—resisted the movement, the transition from here to there, from warmth and softness to lecture halls and fluorescent lights. But time marched forward, relentless and indifferent, and duty always knew how to tug her forward even when her soul lagged behind.

Rio, sensing it, sat up a little straighter, shifting Violet gently in her arms. The baby stirred against her chest, sighing in her sleep, one tiny hand curled into the fabric of Rio’s shirt. With practiced tenderness, Rio reached out and adjusted the lapel of Agatha’s blazer and then her necklace—her quiet ritual every time Agatha had to leave. She smoothed the collar, tugged it into place, and then, with infinite gentleness, pressed a kiss to the tip of Agatha’s nose.

She smiled, sleep still clinging to the corners of her eyes, but her voice was clear and steady. “We’ve got this, love,” she whispered. “Go make the university kids cry over Yeats.”

Agatha huffed a quiet laugh, her chest tightening in that place where love and worry always met. “They only cry because I’m too smart for them.”

From across the room, Nicky leapt up. “That’s what Mommy said the other day!”

Agatha turned, raising an amused brow. “Did she now?”

Rio grinned, unabashed. “I only speak facts.”

Agatha kissed them both one more time—Violet’s forehead, Rio’s lips—and straightened, watching as Rio laid down more comfortably on the couch, with Violet laying on her chest in her purple onesie. In return, Rio’s eyes were already tracking her every movement.Nicky had his backpack on, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, ready and waiting. Agatha dropped one last kiss onto Violet’s head.

“Bye, my moonbeam,” she whispered into the baby’s hair. Then to Rio, with barely a breath between them, “Take it easy today, okay?”

“Only if you do too,” Rio murmured, her hand briefly catching Agatha’s wrist and holding it, just for a heartbeat longer.

“I’ll be home by four,” Agatha said again, softer this time.

Rio nodded. “We’ll be waiting.”

She bent slightly and called out, “Nicky, you ready?”

“Yeah!” he chirped, running to grab his lunchbox and nearly dropping it before catching it with a triumphant flourish.

“Let’s go then, baby. Don’t want you to be late for school.”

Agatha opened the door, the morning air cool and crisp against her skin. Nicky darted ahead, full of energy, a blur of lightning sneakers and excitement. And as she finally walked out the door, the quiet behind her didn’t feel like absence—it felt like home holding its breath until she returned.

The hum of the engine filled the car with a low, steady rhythm as Agatha drove through the soft shimmer of early morning. The trees outside lined the road in tall silhouettes, their leaves catching the sun as it rose higher, dappling the world in glimmers of green and gold. The sky still clung to the pale pinks and sleepy lavenders of dawn, not quite ready to let go of night.

In the back seat, Nicky was a small, chattering whirlwind of energy. He swung his legs, sneakers tapping the edge of the seat in a syncopated rhythm as he launched into a running monologue—his cereal had been “too soggy but still good,” his favorite class that day was art “because I’m drawing a dragon baby with a dinosaur for a big brother,” and he was absolutely certain Ms. Owens would let him use glitter glue because “it’s a special drawing, Mama, for Vivi.”

Agatha nodded along as he spoke, murmuring the occasional, “Mm-hmm,” and, “That sounds amazing, sweetheart,” but her mind was drifting. Not far. Just a few streets back. Just through time, not space.

Drifting back to the quiet house, to Rio cradling Violet with one hand and half-eaten toast in the other. To Violet’s soft weight on her chest earlier, how small she felt even though she’d been growing stronger every day. To the faint scent of Rio’s raspberyy shampoo still clinging to Agatha’s blazer. The house had felt too still when she’d left. Her body was moving forward into the day, but her heart was still in the kitchen, wrapped in flannel and baby skin and sleepy domesticity.

“Mama?”

The word pulled her gently back. She blinked, focused, and met Nicky’s eyes in the rearview mirror.

“Yes, darling?”

He was clutching something in both hands, holding it like a treasure. His face lit up with that particular sparkle she loved so much—the one that meant he was proud of something, the one that always reminded her of Rio, that same glint of mischief and gentleness combined.

“I’m gonna miss Vivi,” he said seriously, lips forming the words with care. “But Mom gave me a picture. For my backpack. In case I miss her too much.”

He held it up for her to see, beaming.

It was a photo, small and square and clearly cut out by a pair of very enthusiastic, not-so-steady kid scissors. The edges were slightly jagged. But the picture itself—oh, the picture. Violet in her green and purple dragon costume, the hood flopped slightly sideways over one brow, her tiny mouth mid-yawn, felt claws on her little mittens making her look more sleepy than scary. Pure joy in cotton and fleece and softness.

Agatha felt her chest tighten in that delicate, breathtaking way that only love could manage. She took a slow breath in through her nose, steadying herself, willing her heart not to spill out all over the dashboard.

“Oh, Nicky,” she whispered. Her voice was rough with it. She gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, anchoring herself with the touch. “That was very sweet of Mom.”

Nicky nodded with pride. “I helped pick the picture. It’s the one where she looks most like Mom’s Dragon.”

Agatha smiled, her eyes stinging despite the warmth blooming in her chest. “She really does, doesn’t she?”

He leaned forward a little, voice dropping into that secretive, confident tone only small children possessed. “She’s gonna roar soon,” he said, utterly convinced. “I can tell. She’s almost ready.”

Agatha let out a soft laugh, part delight and part heartbreak. “I believe you,” she said quietly, her voice like a promise. “I think she’s going to be loud and fierce and full of fire.”

“Like Mommy?”

Agatha smiled again, this time with her whole face. “Exactly like Mommy.”

They pulled into the school parking lot just as the last of the golden light broke over the flagpole. Agatha parked with practiced ease, the car gliding to a smooth stop in their usual spot near the second row—the one close enough to the door that Nicky didn’t have to sprint on rainy days, but far enough that he could still feel grown-up walking himself in.

She shifted into park and turned in her seat, watching her son as he gathered his backpack and lunchbox from the floor. His feet dangled as he twisted to reach them, and Agatha noticed—not for the first time—how long his legs had gotten, how the sleeves of his sweater were just starting to look a little short.

Nicky leaned forward without being asked, eyes bright, ready for his morning goodbye. It was their ritual. Agatha pressed a kiss to his forehead, then one to his cheek, and finally rested her palm gently against the side of his face. Her fingers curved around his soft skin like they were made to fit there.

“Have a good day, okay?” she murmured. “Be kind. Be curious.”

“I will,” he promised. But he lingered, his little brows tugging together for a moment. “Are you gonna show your students the dragon picture too? They’re my friends, you know!”

Agatha let out a quiet laugh, eyes crinkling. “I know you like them. But maybe not today. I don’t want them to get too jealous of your excellent taste in baby sisters.”

“But you’ll tell them about me and Vivi, right?” he asked, eyes wide with hopeful urgency.

She smiled, brushing a stray curl away from his forehead. “I’ll tell them about a very brave big brother I know who sings lullabies to dragons and keeps his backpack full of courage.”

That seemed to satisfy him. He puffed up with pride, like someone had just pinned a medal to his chest. Slinging his backpack over one shoulder, he reached for the door handle, but paused just before opening it.

“Tell Mom I said I’m gonna give her a new dragon song when I come home!” he said over his shoulder, voice full of bubbling excitement.

Agatha nodded, her throat tightening. “She’ll love that.”

He gave her one more grin—gap-toothed and sunny—and then he was off, jogging toward the building. His curls bounced with every step, his lunchbox swinging wildly in one hand. She watched until he reached the front steps and turned to wave with both arms, the photo of Violet safely tucked into the side pocket of his bag, guarding him like a talisman.

She lifted a hand in return but stayed in her seat long after the doors had closed behind him.

The car was quiet now. Too quiet.

Her hand still rested on the steering wheel. The other sat in her lap—open, unused, empty in the strangest way.

She missed them.

Rio, probably still barefoot in the kitchen, humming something tuneless as she tried to remember what she meant to do next. Violet, maybe stirring again, making those soft baby snuffles like she was dreaming in color. Nicky, now inside the school, talking someone’s ear off and likely pulling the dragon photo out the very moment a teacher looked distracted.

Agatha’s whole world was scattered across the morning, and yet sitting inside her chest all at once, so full it hurt.

She let a single tear fall down her cheek and didn’t wipe it away.

Instead, she closed her eyes, let herself feel the ache of love and the ache of leaving, the kind of ache that made you stronger even as it softened you.

Then she pulled in a long, slow breath. Rolled her shoulders. Smoothed her blazer collar, tugged the cuffs of her sleeves like armor.

“Okay, Harkness,” she said to the empty car, voice barely above a whisper. “Go teach things. Break a few hearts over Modernism.”

And with that, she shifted into drive and pulled out of the parking lot, the road to campus unfolding before her.

She already missed them so much.

But she was already counting the hours until she’d be home.

The familiar creak of the faculty lounge door greeted Agatha like an old inside joke, followed immediately by the sharp, almost confrontational scent of overbrewed coffee and the faint tang of printer toner. The room looked exactly as it always had—same cluttered bulletin boards layered with years of forgotten flyers and passive-aggressive announcements, same mismatched chairs surrounding the wobbly table, same graveyard of dented mugs crowding the sink, many with names scrawled in Sharpie and at least one with peeling glitter letters that read “WORLD’S OKAYEST PROFESSOR.”

It should have felt like home. It used to.

But stepping into it now—back from the slow, soft orbit of maternity leave—Agatha felt a jolt of alienation, like walking into a play mid-act. The coffee pot was still half-full. Someone’s lunch hummed in the microwave. The department’s conversations hadn’t paused in her absence. Life had gone on. And for a second, absurdly, she found herself resenting it.

That second didn’t last.

Because before she could even step fully inside—

“AGATHA!”

The shriek cracked across the room like a starting gun, followed by the staccato rhythm of heels on tile. Juliet came barreling toward her, arms half-raised like she couldn’t decide between a hug or a touchdown dance.

“YOU’RE BACK!!” she cried, beaming, breathless, eyes sparkling behind oversized red frames.

“OH MY GOD SHE’S BACK!” Kristen yelped, mid-chew, flinging a half-eaten granola bar onto the counter like it had personally offended her. “How’s Violet?! DO YOU HAVE PICTURES?! WHERE IS SHE?!”

Agatha barely had time to set her travel mug down before she was swept into a cyclone of limbs and perfume and overlapping squeals, like a rock star ambushed by overly affectionate groupies. Juliet’s hug was exuberant and just a bit too tight, while Kristen circled around, bouncing on the balls of her feet like she might physically combust from excitement.

“She’s got to have pictures,” Juliet said to no one in particular. “If she doesn’t, I swear to God—”

Agatha, exhausted and slightly disheveled beneath her always-impeccable blazer, raised a hand like a traffic cop and gave them her driest, most withering look—one she had perfected in her years of grading freshman essays at 2 a.m.

It lasted approximately three seconds before her expression cracked, and the corner of her mouth curled up into something warmer.

With an air of quiet ceremony, she reached into her bag and pulled out her phone. One flick of her thumb and the lock screen lit up.

She angled the screen toward them, her voice steady and deceptively calm. “Here. Prepare yourselves.”

The photo was simple, unedited, and utterly perfect—Violet, maybe twelve days old, bundled up like a burrito in an outrageously oversized blue blanket, her wide eyes blinking up at the camera as she yawned with all the solemnity of a baby discovering oxygen. One hand was fisted near her face like she was mid-monologue. Her little feet were tucked in, one sock already halfway off.

Juliet audibly gasped.

Kristen made a noise that could only be described as a whimper and clasped both hands over her heart.

“Oh my God,” Kristen breathed, practically trembling. “Look at her hands. She’s so small. That’s illegal.”

“Wait, wait, wait—” Juliet leaned in closer like the baby might whisper secrets from the screen. “She has your nose, Agatha. Look at the bridge. Right there. Tell me I’m wrong.”

Agatha arched a brow. “She really doesn’t.”

“She does!” Juliet insisted. “The top half of your nose! Rio’s got the tip. It’s a collaboration.”

“She is all Rio,” Agatha replied, but her voice had softened, and there was a small smile in her eyes that hadn’t been there five minutes ago. “But thank you for the fiction. It’s touching, really.”

“Okay but can I see, like, ten more?” Kristen asked, already craning her neck for a better angle. “Just to be sure. For science.”

Agatha rolled her eyes—but unlocked her phone and began scrolling nonetheless. And just like that, the tension that had clung to her shoulders all morning began to loosen, tugged gently loose by the chaos of this silly, ridiculous, wonderful place. The faculty lounge hadn’t changed. But it had, in its own way, waited for her.

And she hadn’t realized how much she’d missed it until she’d walked back through the door.

They scrolled through a few more photos, cooing like pigeons with a group brain cell. One of Rio slumped on the couch, mouth slightly open, Violet starfished across her chest like an octopus. One of Nicky holding Violet for the first time, his face scrunched in concentration, cradling her with both hands like she might dissolve if exposed to air. Then one where Violet was screaming directly into the camera at 3:07 a.m., her tiny fists raised like she was casting a baby hex.

“Oh my God, this one—this one is her iconic era,” Kristen declared, holding the phone aloft like it was a Renaissance painting. “She looks done with everything. Just like me during staff meetings.”

“She’s all banshee chic,” Juliet added with a sage nod.

“I call this one ‘Portrait of the Artist as a Screaming Bean,’” Agatha muttered, sipping her now-heroically-lukewarm tea.

“How’s Rio?” Juliet asked as Kristen continued scrolling with the determination of a cryptid researcher. “Did Violet keep you both up last night?”

Agatha gave her a look—a long, soul-deep look—the kind only someone who’s negotiated with a furious baby at 2 a.m. can manage. Her voice, however, remained surprisingly even. “Oh, she did. Our darling daughter found the volume knob and turned it to eleven. Baby girl is finding her lung. She couldn’t stop crying.”

“Violet or Rio?” Juliet asked sweetly, batting her lashes.

Agatha chuckled, rubbing her temple. “Honestly? Both. Rio cries in sympathy now. Like, resonance crying. One wails, the other leaks. It’s a duet.”

“God help you when they harmonize,” Kristen murmured, eyes wide.

“She went strong from two to four a.m. Just… opera. No intermission.”

Kristen winced like someone had stepped on her soul. “Yikes. Violet, right?”

Agatha sipped again and said, deadpan, “No. Rio.”

A beat of silence.

Then Kristen choked on her granola bar.

Juliet dropped her head onto Agatha’s shoulder and wheezed.

“Stop. My heart can’t take this,” she whispered through laughter.

From the corner of the lounge, Luke finally stirred. He had been pretending to grade papers but was mostly just spinning a pen between his fingers and radiating unrepentant chaotic energy. God, he missed Rio.

“Well,” he said, without looking up, “I hope Rio cried. It’s healthy. Therapeutic. I cry every time I open the course registration spreadsheet. That’s self-care.”

Juliet turned her head slowly to him. “You also cried when we ran out of the good coffee beans last week.”

Luke shrugged. “Injustice comes in many forms.”

“You look good, Harkness,” he added, finally meeting her eyes. “Like someone who’s been hit by a very small but very determined truck. A pink one. With bows.”

“Actually her bows are purple, but that would be accurate,” Agatha replied, smoothing her hair back like that might disguise the fact that she hadn’t slept more than four hours in a row in two and a half weeks. “At one point, I hallucinated a Muppet in the kitchen. Rio told me it was the dish towel.”

Juliet snorted into her coffee.

“Did Violet cry when you left this morning?” Kristen asked more softly now, glancing up from the phone.

Agatha paused. Something in her chest flickered—an ache, delicate and deep.

“No,” she said finally. “She was asleep. On Rio’s chest. Nicky and I tiptoed out.”

Juliet reached out and squeezed her forearm gently. “That must’ve been hard.”

Agatha gave a soft, tired smile—the kind you give when you’re holding yourself together with tea and pure spite. “She’s in good hands.”

Luke leaned forward in his chair, unusually earnest. “So are you.”

That stopped her.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t even loud. But it landed somewhere real.

She looked around at them—Juliet still clinging to her sleeve, Kristen sniffling at another baby photo (“her ears, I can’t breathe”), and Luke, grinning like a gremlin who’d accidentally said something wise—and something in her chest untwisted.

Maybe this ridiculous lounge, with its bad coffee and worse lighting, was a kind of home too.

“Thanks,” she said quietly. “Really.”

She picked up her tea again, took another sip, and stared blankly into the middle distance.

Gods, she missed them. Her girls. Her Nicky. His dragon songs. The smell of their house in the morning.

Just a few more hours.

Then she’d be home again.

And maybe, if she remembered, Rio would have showered. But honestly? That was negotiable. And Agatha was more than happy to help.

*

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Chapter Text

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Agatha sat at her desk, mid-spring sunlight pouring through the narrow window and warming the edge of her papers as she slowly worked through the backlog of emails, syllabi edits, and a stack of ungraded essays that had somehow accumulated in her absence despite her best efforts to stay on top of things remotely, now this close to being baptized by her mug perched precariously near the corner on a pile of unopened books.

She moved through her tasks with discipline. Emails were answered with clipped, polite efficiency. Notes were scribbled in a careful hand. She adjusted reading deadlines, rearranged assignment dates, made sure her office hours didn’t conflict with school pickup.

The scratch of her fountain pen against paper was oddly comforting, but her focus wasn’t all there. Her eyes kept drifting to the small framed photo she’d placed beside her books—a candid of Rio and Nicky curled up on the couch, both asleep – Nicky sprawled on top of Rio like a cat. In between them, nestled like a kitten, was Violet. Barely a week old in that photo. Wide awake for once.

Agatha stared at the picture longer than she meant to, a small ache blooming beneath her sternum. She had thought, foolishly, that she’d be fine being away for a few hours. That the return to structure, to work, to something with edges and calendars and syllabi, would help her ease back into herself.

She hadn’t expected the quiet to feel so loud.

Her phone buzzed beside the mug, screen lighting up with a familiar name.

Rio: [photo]

Agatha tapped it open—and immediately grinned. The image was blurry, obviously taken one-handed and mid-motion, but it was perfect. Violet was yawning, her whole face stretched into a cartoonish O, eyes scrunched up, hands sprawled at her sides like she was embracing something, little legs in the air. Morning sunlight spilled over her, turning her downy dark hair into something golden and soft.

She looked like a baby lion caught mid-roar.

Another message arrived a second later.

Rio: Your daughter is the boss of me. She just yelled at me in bird noises. I think I’ve been overthrown.

Agatha let out a laugh, breathy and in love, her shoulders dropping just slightly as she leaned back in her chair. She could practically hear Rio’s exasperated voice, full of dramatic despair and secret glee.

 She typed back, fingers moving fast.

Agatha: Typical Harkness girl behavior. Loud. Demanding. Completely adorable.

A typing bubble appeared. Disappeared. Reappeared.

Rio: She spat all her milk up directly onto my shirt as a power move. I think she is marking her territory.

Agatha: A war crime.

Rio: A power play. She made direct eye contact. I am no longer her mother—I am her servant. 

Agatha pressed a hand over her mouth, trying not to laugh too loudly and startle the grad student loitering in the hallway.

Another message pinged across her screen.

Rio: Also, fun update: she kicked me in the boob while nursing on the other. I’m filing charges. My left breast has been declared a hostile zone.

Agatha snorted into her tea, nearly spilling it across the essay she was pretending to grade.

Agatha: Parenthood is beautiful.

Rio: Beautifully painful. You Harkness girls are OBSESSED with my boobs. First you, now her. They haven’t known peace since the second trimester. Even before, if you know what I mean.

Agatha did know what she meant. Unfortunately, she now also had an extremely vivid memory of exactly what Rio meant, and it chose that moment to replay in full color across her mind. She choked slightly on her tea and flicked a wary glance at the door, lowering her phone behind her laptop like it was smuggling national secrets. She should’ve known better than to read Rio’s messages in full view of students. Or the department chair whose office was next to hers. Or Jesus.

Or she should have closed the door.

The grad student pretending to reread the same flyer for the fourth time lifted his eyebrows meaningfully—possibly at her, possibly at the ancient seminar flyer he’d been pretending to study for the past ten minutes. It was hard to tell. But the eye contact lingered a beat too long for comfort.

She ignored him with the deadly grace of a woman who knew exactly how much of her sex life could be subpoenaed if Rio’s texts were ever leaked.

She really should’ve closed the door.

Another buzz.

Rio: She just latched onto my shoulder. Not even close to a nipple. She’s gum-chewing like she thinks I’m made of candy. I’m afraid to move.

Agatha: She’s a Harkness.

Rio: She’s a TERROR. She cooed directly into my mouth earlier. I think she’s trying to possess me. My soul is no longer mine. Neither are my boobs.

Agatha stilfed a laugh so forcefully she almost dislocated something. She glanced at the door again, then back at her phone, now holding it like contraband beneath the desk. Her cheeks were warm. So was the memory still sizzling at the edges of her mind.

Agatha: Darling, I warned you. Harkness girls take what they want. You should’ve known what you were signing up for the moment I made you mine on the university copy machine.

There was a dangerous pause. The typing bubble appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

Rio: Dr. Agatha Harkness, if you send me into a hormonal spiral right now while I’m covered in spit-up and one breast is still out, I will walk to campus and drag you into the janitor’s closet myself.

Agatha: You promise?

A long pause.

Then:

Rio: You’re evil. Violet just stared me dead in the eye like she’s in on it. You’ve created a demon. I’m surrounded.

Agatha dissolved into helpless laughter, clutching her stomach and pressing the phone to her chest like it might soothe the ache of missing them. Violet, their tiny chaos engine. Nicky, usually narrating her every movement like David Attenborough. Rio, texting her with one hand and holding hell together with the other.

God, she loved them.

God, she was screwed if anyone walked in right now.

She wiped her eyes, glanced again at the hallway, and finally—finally—got up to shut the door.

Too late. The grad student offered her a slow, knowing thumbs-up as he passed.

She would be filing her own charges.

She picked up her phone again, smirking, and typed back.

Agatha: Tell Violet I’m proud of her. The force is strong in that one.

A response arrived instantly.

Rio: Violet says “wah.” It probably means “I love you.” It might also mean “Offer your boob, peasant.” Jury’s out. She’s drooling and smacking her lips at me. I fear for my life. I don’t know if she’s hungry or asserting dominance.

Agatha: You’re a terrible influence. I love you.

Rio: I’m leaking. From both eyes AND boobs. Come home soon or I SWEAR I’m sending you a photo of my lactation disaster. This is not a drill.

Then another text.

Rio : Why am I talking about my boobs so much?? I used to have thoughts.

Agatha paused, blinking at the screen, weighing the chances of her laptop combusting from the sheer hormonal chaos bleeding through her texts.

She typed, slowly.

Agatha: Darling, you do realize that a picture of your tits is not a punishment to me, right?

There was a moment of silence—brief but loaded—followed by an aggressively fast reply.

Rio: Ma’am. I am soggy. I am soaked. I am 90% milk and 10% despair. There is nothing remotely sexy happening over here unless your kink is “milk-soaked human burp cloth.”

Agatha: You underestimate how deeply into you I am. You could be wrapped in a potato sack and I’d still want to bend you over the kitchen counter.

Rio: Do NOT test me, Harkness. If you don’t walk through that front door in the next three hours, I will pin YOU to the fridge. But not in the fun way you’re imagining. I mean in the “full rage, sobbing, covered in spit-up, wild-eyed hostage situation” kind of way. I’m crumbling. Violet is our tiny purple tyrant and she’s winning.

Agatha laughed. She turned her head to glance again at the framed photo beside her books—the peaceful one, the lying one—of Rio and the kids, peacefully asleep on the couch. Violet tucked between them, a perfect cherub. Nicky’s little arm flopped across his mother’s ribs. Rio’s face soft and still.

Liars, she thought. All of them. Smiling assassins in fleece pajamas. It was a scam. A wholesome trap.

God, she missed them.

But this? This kept her breathing.

Rio: This is Stockholm Syndrome with nipple pain. I need backup. I need tequila. I need YOU, wife.

Agatha blinked, glanced at her inbox, then at the clock, then back to the screen like it might auto-destruct. She rubbed her temples and typed back, grinning like a woman on the edge.

Agatha: On my way home in three hours and thirty-seven minutes. Tell our tiny warlord I kneel in her honor and I’m bringing reinforcements.

Rio: If the reinforcements aren’t a triple espresso, a heating pad, and your mouth on my neck, don’t bother. I am spiraling. You’re legally obligated to fix it. It’s in the vows. It was implied.

Agatha: Tell our tyrant to prepare her royal court. I’ll be home by four. With Nicky. And probably nipple balm.

Rio: Wife of the year. Bring chocolate or perish. And I don’t mean your tragic dark chocolate with 90% sadness. I mean the filthy kind. Caramel. Sea salt. Lust in a wrapper.

Agatha had to set her phone down and actually breathe for a second. Her cheeks were sore from grinning and her shoulders were doing that thing where they rose with every breath like she was trying not to laugh in a funeral procession. She shook her head, utterly doomed.

She missed them. Violet’s tiny gurgles. Nicky’s nonstop narration of the universe. Rio’s sleepy voice and warm shoulders. Rio’s boobs, yeah, she had to admit that. The smell of baby lotion and cereal and that particular scent of home that couldn’t be bottled.

She picked up the phone again.

Agatha: I miss you. All of you. Even your deranged lactation updates. Especially your deranged lactation updates.

Rio: Agatha, I’m going crazy over here, like death warmed over. I don’t think you will find anything when you come home. Maybe Violet dancing on my corpse. Call me Lady Death, because that’s how I’m feeling right now.

Agatha: You’re so hot when you’re losing your mind. I can practically hear your hair frizzing through the screen. I want to ruin you on the kitchen table and then make you soup.

Rio: You’re not helping. You’re making it worse. I’m horny, hormonal, leaking, and I just stepped on a rattle that played “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” in demonic slow motion. I nearly cried. 

Agatha had to bite her knuckle to keep from howling. This woman. This absolute catastrophe of a wife. Her beautiful, foul-mouthed disaster.

She was in so deep it wasn’t even funny anymore.

Agatha: Just three hours and thirty-seven minutes. I will walk through that door with espresso, caramel chocolate, and lips ready to worship the ground you walk on. Prepare yourself.

Rio: I swear to God if you don’t kiss me the second you walk in I will start crying and never stop. 

Just three hours and thirty-seven minutes.

And she was so getting pinned to the fridge.

Three hours and thirty-seven minutes.

She could do this.

Probably.

Assuming she could deliver a coherent lecture with a deeply unholy photo of her wife incoming.

She sighed and reached down to grab her charger from her bag—her mind still half on the photo—the one Rio had threatened to send as a form of emotionally manipulative foreplay-slash-lactation documentation. Agatha had been bracing for it to arrive. She was already mentally composing a paryer and thank-you note to whatever divine force that would make sure Rio didn’t send it right in the middle of class. Because if she opened that picture in front of her students, her soul would permanently leave her body.

Still slightly flustered, her fingers brushed something crinkly and unexpected in the side pocket of her bag. She paused, frowned, and pulled out a folded piece of thick construction paper—creased in all the wrong places, smudged in fingerprints, one corner suspiciously sticky. She opened it carefully, heart already softening before she even saw what it was.

A drawing.

From Nicky.

God help her.

Stick figures. Bold colors. A rainbow sun. And crooked little letters that made her vision go blurry the second she looked at them too long.

There she was—Agatha—unmistakable in a triangle-with-arms-shaped purple blazer (iconic), standing at the front of a classroom. On her chest, a large pink blob with two black dots for eyes and one for a smiley mouth was strapped to her via what appeared to be a very ambitious baby sling. Clearly Violet. Clearly unimpressed.

Rio was off in the corner, waving dramatically with both arms and sporting bright red shoes for reasons only Nicky could explain. Honestly, Agatha hoped they were symbolic. A Dorothy thing, maybe. A cry for help. Either way, she was going to buy Rio red shoes immediately.

And there was what seemed to Lilia in the corner, floting around in what looked like to be a colorful shawl and a sword.

In the foreground were a bunch of lumpy, uneven stick-kids—some with wild hair, some with glasses, one with what looked like a wizard hat—sitting at desks and beaming up at her like she was the Sun herself. Across the top, in jagged, charmingly chaotic capital letters, it read:

MAMA TEACHES WHILE VIOLET HELPS!!!!

Agatha stared at the drawing like it was the Rosetta Stone of joy. Like it held all the proof of her life working—being loved, being seen, being mothered and mothering in return. All of it, captured in a single page that smelled faintly of glue stick and apple juice.

Tears pricked her eyes without permission. Her chest felt full to the point of ridiculous. The kind of full that made her dangerous if anyone dared interrupt her in this precise moment.

She swallowed, stared harder, and nearly burst into laughter at a new discovery: one of the students in the drawing had a speech bubble. It said, “Your baby is so LOUD!!!!” And Agatha, also with a speech bubble, was saying, “She has IDEAS.”

God, she loved that kid.

God, she loved all of them.

Agatha let out a long, helpless breath that turned into a giggle halfway through. She folded the drawing and tucked it into the inside pocket of her blazer like it was treasure. Like it was armor.

Because honestly?

It kind of was.

The armor you wore into battle against leaking breasts, screeching infants, and overwhelming devotion. The kind you needed to survive long days apart and photo threats from your absurdly beautiful wife.

She looked at the clock.

Three hours and twenty-nine minutes.

She was going to make it.

She had her charger, her drawing, and the slowly mounting threat of Rio’s unsent horny chaos hovering over her like a hormonal Sword of Damocles.

She was doomed.

And utterly, scandalously, blissfully happy.

Before she could fully recover from the emotional gut-punch of Nicky’s drawing—and the equally dangerous anticipation of That Photo—Agatha’s phone rang.

She didn’t even look at the caller ID. “Hi,” she breathed, already bracing herself as the sounds of baby crying and what might’ve been a panicked chaotic scholar on maternity leave.

“Oh thank God,” came Rio’s voice, somewhere between ragged desperation and delirious affection. “Forget everything I texted. Scratch the horny stuff. Redact the photo threat. This is DEFCON 1. She won’t nap. I’ve tried walking her, rocking her, swaddling her, nursing her twice. She’s arching her back like she’s in The Exorcist. I think she wants the dragon song, but I can’t remmber the damn words. What did Nicky sing again? Please, I’m begging.”

Agatha pinched the bridge of her nose, grinning. “I love it when you beg. But anyway, the Yellow Dragon anthem?”

“Yes!” Rio cried, and Agatha could just picture her—milk-stained, hair wild, holding their daughter like a live grenade. “The fabled lullaby of our tiny cult. If you don’t help me, your daughter is going to incinerate this house with her furious little stare. I saw smoke. I saw it, Agatha.”

Agatha leaned back in her office chair “Alright. Let’s summon the beast.”

She cleared her throat with theatrical gravitas.

“Okay, it goes like this—ready?”

And then, in her low, soothing, slightly sarcastic voice, she began:

Oh yellow dragon, soft and sweet,

You wrap around my tiny feet.

You guard my dreams and make me bold,

With dragon wings and heart of gold.

Sleepy puffs and gentle roar,

Keep me safe forevermore.”

There was silence on the other end of the line—except for the unmistakable sound of Violet settling in with a long, almost suspicious sigh.

Rio spoke after a moment, breathless. “You witch. She’s blinking in slow motion. I think we’ve achieved… drowsy. Drowsy with a side of suspicious.”

“Drowsy,” Agatha said sagely, “is the gateway drug to unconsciousness.”

“I am tattooing that lullaby on my chest. On both boobs. Symmetrically. I never want to forget it.”

Agatha laughed. “You’d have to make room between the other things you promised to tattoo there.”

There was a very loaded pause. Then Rio replied, low and sutlry: “You mean like your name?”

Agatha groaned softly and let her head fall back against her chair. “Stop. I’m at work. I am literally one second away from undergrads ambushing me for office hours, and they must think I’m grading midterms and not getting turned on by my wife whispering dirty tattoo ideas into my ear.”

“Tell them this is academic,” Rio purred. “This is the study of love and suffering. Pure scholarship.”

Agatha rolled her eyes so hard it almost counted as cardio. “Go lie down. Take the dragon and the baby and go lie down before you start reciting your vows again.”

“I would,” Rio said dramatically, “but I’m leaking. Again. And not just milk. I might be crying too? Or sweating? My body’s confused. My nipples have PTSD. I love our child, I do, but she’s a menace. A beautiful, gurgling tyrant who feeds on my life force and then bites me.”

“Darling,” Agatha said, trying and failing not to laugh, “she doesn’t have teeth. Go lie down. You’ve earned a medal. And tequila.”

“Bring me both,” Rio sighed. “A medal and a margarita. And your mouth. Not in that order.”

“I will kiss you so hard you won’t remember your name,” Agatha whispered.

“Good,” Rio said softly. “But I like my name. It has yours in it.”

Agatha blinked, struck still.

“Smooth,” she managed finally, voice uneven.

“I practice while she’s screaming,” Rio said, sniffling now. “It keeps me sane.”

Agatha closed her eyes again, overwhelmed. “I’ll be home by four.”

“Go teach your class, Dr. Harkness,” Rio murmured. “We’ll be here when you’re done. Possibly napping. Possibly forming a baby-led coup.”

“I love you.”

“I know. Don’t forget your promise.”

“I never do.”

And just like that, the weight of the day shifted. The distance felt smaller. The hours ahead didn’t seem quite so daunting.

She slipped the phone back into her pocket and lookedat the crooked little drawing again.

The world could wait.

She had a yellow dragon to sing for, a tiny tyrant to kiss, and a wife to pin to the fridge.

Scandalously. Repeatedly.

After four.

*

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Chapter Text

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At home an hour later, the house was now quiet save for the soft creak of floorboards beneath Rio’s bare feet as she paced in slow, measured steps. Violet was tucked against her chest in a sling, her tiny head nestled just beneath Rio’s chin, the steady rise and fall of her breath grounding them both. The living room was a chaos Rio had been too exhausted to face—unwashed mugs, burp cloths draped lover the couch like badges of despair, and a half-eaten piece of toast abandoned on the coffee table. But thank God, Violet was now settled and not being a menace anymore.

Rio’s arms ached from holding her, her back ached from rocking her, but she couldn’t stop. Wouldn’t. It wasn’t just for Violet anymore—it was for her too. For the rhythm. For the ritual. For the grounding.

Motherhood, in still life.

Her voice, low and clear, floated through the house like a prayer, the cadence deliberate and sure, grounding them both in something older than the mess and bigger than the exhaustion. She didn’t have music. She didn’t need it. She had words.

“At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless;

Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is,

But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity,

Where past and future are gathered…”

Violet stirred against her chest, a little murmur escaping her lips, like she was trying to make sense of the rhythm, or echo it in her own new language. Rio smiled softly, not stopping the sway of her steps, the gentle arc of her rocking. Her body was tired, her nipples were raw, her hair had long since escaped its braid—but in this moment, she felt impossibly strong. Rooted and anchored.

“Neither movement from nor towards,

Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the still point,

There would be no dance, and there is only the dance.”

She paused by the window, her body instinctively continuing the soft sway. Outside, the world rolled on. A couple strolled past, pushing a stroller and laughing. A dog barked down the street. A breeze tugged at the trees like curious fingers. It all felt distant—like looking at the future through glass. A reflection of where she was, and where she might be, again and again.

Rio kissed the top of Violet’s head. “That’s T. S. Eliot, baby girl,” she whispered, her voice catching slightly. “You’ll meet him someday—probably sooner than you want to. Maybe you’ll love him. Maybe you’ll call him a pretentious bastard and throw your annotated copy across the room. That’s okay. You’ll argue about him, like your Mama and I do. Two in the morning. Chamomile tea gone cold. Footnotes like battle plans.”

She chuckled softly, the sound cracked but full of affection. “You’ll roll your eyes. And you’ll come back to him when you least expect it. Like this. Barefoot. Bone-tired. Holding something you love more than language itself.”

Violet didn’t respond except to breathe, long and steady, her small form melted against Rio’s chest like she had always belonged there. 

A tiny sigh escaped from her—half contentment, half surrender.

“I used to read this when everything felt like it was falling apart,” Rio said, her voice a hush now, meant for no one and everyone. “When I couldn’t breathe without counting the days until the next deadline. When I wasn’t sure if I’d ever finish my thesis, or survive the weight of wanting so much. When I felt like I didn’t belong anywhere—too loud for the quiet people, too intense for the calm ones, too much and never enough at the same time.”

Her steps slowed as Violet’s breathing began to soften into sleep, their rhythms synchronizing as if by instinct. Rio’s fingers, light as starlight, brushed over the curve of her daughter’s back, tucked safe in the sling. Her body ached from the day, but her heart… her heart was full of stories she hadn’t known how to carry until now.

“And then Mama came along,” she murmured, voice fraying at the edges, fragile with memory. “She didn’t quiet me down. She didn’t ask me to be less, or smaller, or easier to manage. She didn’t flinch when I spiraled. She just… held me steady. Like I was a storm she’d already mapped out. Like she’d seen it all before and loved it anyway.”

Her eyes closed as she kept swaying, her mind conjuring up the woman who had become her anchor and her wildfire both. Agatha—elegant and disheveled in equal measure, brilliant and weary, fierce in her convictions and devastatingly tender behind closed doors. She could command a room with a glance, dismantle an argument with a single well-placed word—and still curl her fingers around Rio’s wrist in the dark and ask, “Did you eat today, my love?”

“She didn’t tell me to sit still,” Rio went on, the words flowing like water. “She made me believe I could still dance. Even when I was breaking apart. Especially then. She didn’t tame me. She gave me back to myself.”

A breath. A pause. A shiver of something close to gratitude beneath her skin.

“I used to look at her across crowded rooms and think—there you are. Spotlights on her cheekbones, lecture notes in her bag, something clever always on the tip of her tongue. She was everything I wasn’t supposed to want, and all I ever did. My professor. My undoing. My map home.”

Her voice broke into a whisper, a secret passed between clouds. Words for herself, for Violet, for Agatha, for their family.

“She was my guide,” she said, “and then she became something else. My inspiration. My partner. My person. My home.”

Violet gave a final sigh, deep and fluttering, her little body melting into sleep like sugar in warm tea. Her fingers twitched against Rio’s chest before going still.

Rio kissed the top of her head, breathing in the soft scent of milk and dreams.

“Sleep, little one,” she whispered, the words more spell than sentence. “The world turns. The work waits. But right now, this—” she drew her arms more tightly around the tiny bundle curled against her, heart aching with a love too big for language, “—this is our still point. This is our everything.”

Outside, a wind stirred the trees. Somewhere, a clock ticked forward. But inside their home, in the golden hush of an early afternoon, time stood still.

And in Rio’s arms, the future slept.

“You see, my love,” she said softly, voice thick with warmth and memory, “I used to obsess over time. Eliot’s kind of time. The not-linear, overlapping kind—where everything echoes and folds in on itself. Past and future bleeding into each other until you can’t tell them apart. Spirals instead of straight lines. Fractals instead of calendars. How it isn’t straight. Not forward, not backward. Just… spiraling, looping, overlapping like echoes. Time as memory, time as possibility. I even wrote a whole thesis about it.”

Her hand moved instinctively to cradle Violet’s head as she walked, slow and steady, the creak of the floor beneath her feet the only rhythm she needed. Rio’s voice lowered into a lullaby, as if the words were as much for her daughter as for the girl she used to be—the girl who stayed up too late with footnotes and bibliogrpahies and philosophical dread.

“Eliot said that if all time is eternally present, then all time is unredeemable.” She paused, brushing her thumb across the delicate peach-fuzz curve of Violet’s cheek. “But your Mama and I—we never really believed that. Not all the way. Because then what’s the point of love? Of healing? Of second chances?”

Her eyes drifted toward the window, where afternoon sunlight poured in gold and forgiveness, painting halos across the hallway walls. “Sometimes… someone walks into your life and time doesn’t just stop. It softens. It gathers itself around them. It changes shape to hold them better. She did that for me. Your Mama.”

Rio rocked gently side to side, letting the words unfurl the way they always had—poetry first, clarity after. “We were both a little wrecked when we met. Mama wore her loneliness like perfume, and I… well, I was all fire and nerves and abandonment. I was trying so hard to matter, I forgot to exist. And then she looked at me like I already did.”

She glanced down, eyes wet but not crying. “With her, I wasn’t lost anymore. I wasn’t too much. I was just enough. We were two people who didn’t know how to stop spinning, and somehow, we found a still point together. She didn’t anchor me—she danced with me. That’s the difference. She didn’t ask me to change. She didn’t dim me. She didn’t tether me to the ground to keep me safe. She just held out her hand and said, ‘If you’re going to spin, at least let me spin with you.’ And so I did. And so we did.”

She closed her eyes, the memory of Agatha’s hands, her voice, her gaze washing over her like spring rain on scorched earth.

Violet twitched in her sleep, lips parting slightly as she let out a tiny sigh, like she understood everything Rio had said. Like it made perfect sense to her.

“I thought love was supposed to ground you. She taught me that love can be movement. Love can be the dance itself. That the still point isn’t really still. It’s just quieter. Deeper. Slower in all the right ways.”

Violet twitched slightly, her tiny fingers uncurling against Rio’s chest, splaying over her mother's heart. A sigh left her mouth, more breath than sound, but it broke Rio open by its holy simplicity.

“We call it the still point,” she whispered, “but you’ll learn—it pulses. It breathes. It hums like poetry. Mama and I… we’ve lived a hundred lives together already, we’ve seen so many versions of each other. She was my professor. I was her student. We became something magic in the in-between. Friends. Lovers. Wives. And now, mothers. And it’s all one story now. Not separate chapters, but stanzas in the same poem. It’s all one line to me now. One poem.”

She paused again, heart swelling with a wonder that hadn’t dulled since the moment Violet was placed in her arms.

“And then you came,” she murmured, pressing a kiss to the crown of her daughter’s head. “You and your brother. And suddenly… our little epic wasn’t just about the two of us anymore. It was about building something lasting. A place for you. A language for you two to grow up in. A world for you to belong to—where you’re never too loud, never too much, always just enough. A whole universe just for you. And maybe for more poems still to come.”

Her voice cracked, but the smile that followed steadied her.

“You and Nicky made us permanent, Violet,” she said. “You took the love story Mama and I wrote in the margins of seminar rooms and midnight conversations, and you turned it into a family. A messy, beautiful, impossible kind of family. One I never even dared to imagine.”

She rocked a little longer in the hush, light pouring over her and the small bundle in her arms like some old, golden promise fulfilled.

“Sleep now, little flower,” she whispered. “Time will spin and bend and lose its shape again tomorrow. But today, we’re here. We’re real. And we are so, so loved.”

She crossed the room slowly, each step deliberate, soft, like she was walking through the final note of a lullaby. She approached the bassinet, heart still echoing the rhythm of Violet’s breathing. Carefully, she loosened the sling and lowered her daughter into the soft nest of blankets, her hands sure even though her arms trembled with exhaustion.

Violet settled instantly, as if the universe itself had placed her there. Her limbs went loose, her tiny mouth relaxed into a perfect bow, and a sigh of pure trust slipped from her chest. Like she knew—somehow, in the way babies know without knowing—that she was safe.

Rio didn’t move right away. She stayed there, fingers curled over the edge of the bassinet, her body leaning forward like she could keep holding her without touching her. Her eyes, heavy with love, never left Violet’s face. There was so much still unsaid—so many stories folded inside her ribcage, waiting for the right time to unfold.

The first kiss in the alley behind that too-loud bar, all hesitant and electric. The quiet glances they’d stolen across lecture halls, pretending not to mean what they meant. The way Agatha had let a tear slip—delicately, reverently—the first time Nicky had called Rio Mom. And the way she’d wept harder when Violet, no more than a few hours old, had curled her impossibly small fingers around Agatha’s and held on like she’d always known her.

“We’re all connected, little one,” Rio whispered, her voice barely above the hush of the room. “Me, your Mama, your brother, you. The past. The future. Memory and hope. Desire and regrets. Every breath between.”

She lingered another moment, memorizing the curl of Violet’s lashes, the way her tiny hand twitched in sleep like she was already reaching for the world. Then Rio stepped back, quietly, as though not to disturb the magic that had settled like a mist over the room.

She drifted toward the kitchen, each motion dreamlike but purposeful, guided not by thought but by muscle memory—a kind of sacred ritual. Her body ached in ways that were both ancient and brand-new, the kind of ache that said: you are changed forever, and this is what it costs.

As she passed the bookshelf, her fingers brushed the spines like she was greeting old friends. Dickens, Plath, Woolf. Eliot. She paused, hand resting on the worn cover of Four Quartets. The corners were soft with age, the pages underlined in a dozen colors—highlighters from college, red pen from her thesis days, purple ink from the years when Agatha had borrowed it and left notes in the margins like love letters, to return a favor she herself had once received.

It felt like holding a map she no longer needed, but could never throw away.

She pulled the book gently from the shelf, cradled it in one arm as she set the kettle on the stove. The water began to hum and then sing, filling the quiet with something domestic, something grounding. The scent of chamomile rose around her like breath.

Her mind, however, was still back in that cradle—still in the hush of a sleeping child, still in the memory of Agatha’s steady hands, of candlelight and footnotes, of lives slowly folded together like origami into something sturdy and whole.

Today, she had whispered a single verse of their story to Violet. Just one stanza, one page of a story still unwinding. But there would be more. There would be first days of school, scraped knees, ballet recitals, heartbreaks, rebellions. There would be late-night talks and fights and forgiveness. There would be books passed down, poems recited over tea, and the safe, strange beauty of a home that held all of it.

When the kettle clicked off, she poured the hot water into her one of her favorite mugs—Agatha had given it to her their first Christmas together, painted with the phrase all shall be well in delicate script. It had a small chip in the rim now, but she loved it more for that.

Rio wrapped both hands around the mug and stood in the golden spill of light across the kitchen floor, sipping slowly.

This, she thought, not as a conclusion but as a revelation, this is what literature feels like.

Messy, unfinished, sacred. Full of ellipses. Full of wonder.

This was their still point in their loving world.

*

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*

Chapter Text

*

*

*

The second Agatha stepped into the lecture hall, the air shifted like someone had cracked open a window on a spring morning. Funny because it was a spring morning.

It wasn’t the usual pre-class murmur or the anticipatory hush of students bracing themselves for a rigorous hour of note-taking. No, this was something entirely different. It was pure, joyful chaos—the unfiltered energy that only this particular group of students could generate. And they were already halfway to a riot.

“DR. HARKNESS!” Emma practically shrieked before her brain could catch up with her mouth. She shot to her feet so fast her pencil case launched itself off the desk with a dramatic clatter, pens scattering like confetti across the floor.

“Emma, don’t yell at her,” Nina scolded immediately—and then turned around and yelled herself, “WELCOME BACK!” Her grin stretched from ear to ear as she shoved Emma back into her seat with a slap to the arm.

Josh let out a celebratory whoop so loud it echoed off the back wall like a stadium cheer. Max, for reasons unclear, began clapping with the intensity of someone applauding a presidential address. Liam stood, bowed deeply and dramatically like a tragedy performer, and declared, “We are not worthy!”

Sophia, who had arrived fifteen minutes early just to maybe catch Agatha walking in, didn’t rise or shout. But her smirk betrayed her delight. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and  crossedher arms like she hadn’t been checking the door every thirty seconds for the past quarter hour.

Agtaha froze at the threshold, momentarily stunned. Her leather bag hung from one shoulder, her coffee cup still warm in her hand. Her mouth parted slightly, and a slow blink followed as if she were genuinely unsure whether she’d just walked into a university seminar or a surprise party.

“Is this… applause?” she asked dryly, arching one elegant brow, though the corner of her mouth twitched—threatening to become a full smile.

“Yes!” Josh confirmed, hands still in the air like he was welcoming a rock star to the stage. “You brought life into the world! That deserves a standing ovation and, like, at least a muffin basket.”

“I made a sign,” Liam added, pulling a slightly crumpled piece of paper from his backpack that read in red Sharpie: “CONGRATS PROFESSOR MAMA.”

“Technically, Dr. Mama,” Nina corrected, snatching the sign and waving it in the air.

“I was going to bring balloons,” Emma added, “but then I remembered I have no money and also failed to plan anything.”

Agatha, caught somewhere between overwhelmed and vaguely horrified, stepped further into the room. The applause, if it cold even still be called that, had spiraled into some kind of rhythmic table-pounding led by Max, who had taken it upon himself to start a slow clap just to be a menace. Liam followed with an off-key whistle. Someone else had clearly opened a bag of chips mid-commotion.

She raised one graceful hand in the air—less a wave, more the regal motion of a queen silencing her court. Or perhaps Moses parting the Red Sea. Either worked.

“Alright, alright,” she said, her voice the same cool and commanding tone that had once shut down a flock of drunken first-years in a bar with a single eyebrow. “Let’s all take a collective breath before campus security thinks I’ve staged a coup d’état.”

Josh nodded solmnly. “We’d follow you into battle.”

“Of course you would,” Agatha said dryly, but her mouth twitched with the beginnings of a smile.

Emma bounced in her seat like a kid on a sugar high. “You have to tell us the name. We’ve been dying. I’ve had literal dreams about this.”

“Same,” Nina added. “It’s cruel, Dr. Harkness. We’ve respected your privacy—didn’t stalk either of your Instagrams, didn’t break into your office, didn’t even interrogate Dr. Vidal before she left—”

“She swore us to secrecy anyway,” Max muttered, looking bitter. “And threatened to set her drumsticks on fire and chase us across campus.”

“Honestly, I think she meant it,” Liam added, a little too seriously.

“She did,” Agatha grumbled.

“—but we’re reaching critical emotional threshold here,” Nina finished, throwing her hands in the air. “We deserve something. A syllable. A vowel. The first letter at the very least.”

Agatha let out a quiet breath as she walked to the desk at the front and set down her bag. For a moment, she simply looked at them—this utterly chaotic, overdramatic, ridiculously lovable group of students. It was hard not to feel something warm bloom in her chest.

“If I tell you the name,” she said slowly, “can we agree not to name the class group chat after her? I know you have one.”

Instant chaos.

“Define agree,” said Josh.

“Too late,” Liam chimed in. “We already renamed it last night. It’s currently ‘Harkness-Vidal Evil Offspring,’ but that’s a placeholder.”

“Dr. Vidal will murder us,” Emma said wistfully. “But like, in a cool gay way.”

Nina leaned forward. “We’re brainstorming alternatives. But we’re waiting for the name of the little devil to settle on a new one.’”

“She’s a baby,” Sophia muttered from her seat, but even she was grinning now. “She’s not the Antichrist.”

“I bet she already knows Latin,” Josh whispered conspirationally.

Agatha dropped her gaze for a moment. The classroom quieted just a touch, sensing the shift. Her voice, when she finally spoke again, was softer, gentler.

“Her name is Violet.”

There was a collective, synchronized gasp. It was honestly embarrassing how coordinated they were. Emma clutched her chest like she was having a fainting episode. Josh whispered, “I knew it would be something poetic,”. Liam pretended to wipe away a tear. Max let out a choked “That’s so on brand. That’s so sapphic.”

“Violet Harkness-Vidal,” Agatha added, her gaze rising to meet theirs again, hers full of raw pride, quiet awe, something luminous. “She has a temper. A scream like a banshee. She already drives my wife absolutely insane. And her brother is convinced she has superpowers. He might be right.”

Several of them audibly melted. Max let out a sigh. Emma whispered, “Oh my god she’s a menace. I love her already.”

“I volunteer to babysit,” Liam declared. “I have zero qualifications and children usually hate me, but I’m ready. And Nicky liked me.”

“I’ll knit her something,” Nina said, already typing into her phone. “A tiny scarf. Or a cape. She deserves a cape.”

Agatha raised a warning brow. “She’s three weeks old. Please do not arm her with accessories of power.”

“Too late,” Josh whispered. “We’re already planning her legacy.”

Sophia rolled her eyes, but she was smiling, pink in the cheeks. “You people are insane.”

Agatha sighed deeply. « Please, for the love of all that is holy, do not draft a fanfic about her.”

There was a long silence. Then Emma raised her hand, dead serious.

“Too late.”

Agatha pinched the bridge of her nose. “God help me.”

she looked at them—all of them—and for a long moment, she said nothing.

They weren’t even trying to be quiet now. Nina was nudging Josh with her elbow, Emma was bouncing in place like a wind-up toy someone had forgotten to turn off, Max was trying (and failing) to balance a pen on his nose while Liam offered loud, unnecessary commentary. Even Sophia, who usually maintained some level of academic dignity, was biting back a grin as she typed something in the group chat.

And yet, despite the noise, the fidgeting, the inevitable minor chaos that came from teaching this specific pack of lovable disasters, something warm settled deep in Agatha’s chest. A stillness, almost. Like stepping into a familiar room after a long time away.

Like a Queen returning to her queendom.

Something like… home.

She let herself linger in the moment for one more breath, then flipped open her notebook with a flick. “Well,” she said, voice dry yet full of affection, “now that I’ve indulged your curiosity, surrendered my daughter’s anonymity, and handed over all leverage in our dynamic—shall we begin?”

Josh raised his hand. “Only if we can dedicate today’s lecture to Baby Violet.”

Agatha didn’t quite roll her eyes. But the look she gave him was the academic equivalent of “I swear on every bibliography I’ve ever written, do not test me right now.” Still, her fondness was unmistakable.

“Fine,” she said with a sigh. “But only because she is, among other things, a symbol of duality, rebirth, and the ineffable nature of time.”

Emma blinked, hand halfway to her mouth. “Wait. Is she… like… thematically relevant to today’s topic?”

Agatha smiled, that subtle, quietly devastating smile that always made her students feel like they were standing at the edge of a great discovery. “Isn’t everything, Miss Carter?”

The room practically exhaled all at once—some version of collective delight and awe and “oh we missed this so much” that none of them bothered to put into words. And with that, class began—papers rustling, laptops waking up, pens scratching into margins.

But no one was ready to let go of the baby conversation just yet.

“We’re sure she’s perfect,” Nina gushed, already digging into her tote bag. “I also brought you a little bib, by the way. Because unlike Emma, I have a job and my own money, thank you very much. It says ‘Future Chaos Gremlin.’ It felt appropriate.”

Agatha raised an eyebrow, her mouth twitching dangerously close to a smirk. “Should I be worried that you’ve all coordinated in my absence?”

“Absolutely,” Max said without hesitation.

“Are you kidding?” Emma added. “We’ve been insufferable without you.”

“She means more insufferable,” Liam clarified, adjusting his hoodie like he would a suit

Agatha pressed her palms together like she was praying for strength—or divine intervention. “One of you is going to write an unauthorized biography of my children, and I fear there’s nothing I can do to stop it.”

“We already voted,” Max announced with far too much. “Nina’s writing. I’m doing the illustrations. Josh is handling marketing. Sophia’s on fact-checking. Ema’s composing a series of emotionally devastating poems tailored to each child’s personality and astrological sign.”

“We’re calling it Born of Chaos: The Harkness-Vidal Saga,” Josh added helpfully. “The cover is gonna be two dragons fighting six wolves under a blood moon.”

“Why a wolf again?” Sophia asked, genuinely curious.

“Because it’s symbolic,” Max said with great authority, “and also because I learned how to draw wolves last night.”

Agatha pinched the bridge of her nose, shoulders stiff with long-suffering dignity. “I hate that Rio’s going to love this. She’s going to frame the poems. She’s going todemand three copies.”

“Already planned for it,” Nina said, pulling a very real spreadsheet up on her iPad. “Hardcover, softcover, and deluxe annotated collector’s edition, obviously.”

“Also a calendar,” Emma piped in. “Every other month is a different quote from Dr. Vidal about how much she loves her kids and wife and/or how unhinged they are. The other months are some of your best comments on our essays.”

“We’re doing merch too,” Liam said with a straight face. “Tote bags, mugs, probably a sticker set that says things like ‘My sibling is a banshee’ and ‘Dr. Harkness looked at me once and I haven’t known peace since.’”

Agatha didn’t say anything. She was just staring at them now—expression blank, mouth parted slightly, like she was reassessing every life choice that had led her to this moment.

Josh leaned in, grinning. “We also considered doing dramatic audiobook readings. Emma’s working on her Nicky voice.”

“It’s just me yelling everything in lowercase,” Emma explained proudly.

Agatha closed her eyes. “I’m going to burn this classroom to the ground.”

“Please don’t,” Max said. “We haven’t recorded the trailer yet.”

And somewhere in the group chat, the name changed once again. Sophia’s doing.

From Harkness-Vidal Evil Offspring to Nicky and Violet’s Army of Doom.

Someone even added a little baby emoji. And a fire one. And two hearts, one purple, one green.

But Dr. Harkness didn’t need to know that.

Sophia crossed her arms but couldn’t quite hide the fond smile tugging at her lips as she looked up at Agatha. “We’re just glad you’re back. It wasn’t the same without you. The existential dread hit harder without your voice to narrate it.”

Agatha paused, blinking—surprised, maybe, by the sincerity underneath Sophia’s sarcasm. Her posture eased. “Thank you,” she said softly, with the kind of genuine warmth that rarely made it into her lectures. “It’s good to be back. And yes—before anyone asks, because I can feel the chaos brewing like a storm—I brought photos.”

She hadn’t even reached for her phone before a full-blown cheer erupted.

Emma slapped both hands on the desk like she was summoning ancient spirits. “YES.”

Max leapt out of his chair like it was a race. “Make way! My eyes need healing!”

Liam cupped his hands around his mouth. “Baby content! Move, move, move!”

Agatha held up a hand, the professor still present even amidst the chaos. “Five minutes. Five. You get five minutes of baby content, and then we return to Eliot and the terrifying vastness of the Modernist void.”

“Deal,” Max said, already halfway to the front of the room, with Emma hot on his wheels like a very excited duckling.

Agatha unlocked her phone and calmly navigated to the photo Rio had sent that morning: Violet, yawning hugely in a patch of golden sunlight, arms thrown over her head, swaddled in her frankly absurd lavender dragon onesie with soft felt wings. The photo was chaos and serenity in equal measure.

She turned the screen toward the students.

A reverent hush fell over the room.

“Oh my god,” Nina whispered, eyes wide. “She’s a bean.”

“She’s a Harkness-Vidal,” Agatha corrected, dryly, but with unmistakable pride as she passed the phone to the front row. “But yes. She is also a bean.”

“She has tiny wings,” Max breathed.

“She looks like she’s going to conquer the world,” Emma added. “While napping.”

“She looks like Dr. Vidal,” Sophia said quietly, smiling down at the photo. “Same mouth.”

“She yells like her too,” Agatha muttered. “Bird noises. No actual words. Just fury.”

Josh grinned from the back. “That’s the exact sound Dr. Vidal made when I turned in my final essay two days late. She really is her daughter. I respect it.”

Agatha’s expression softened again at that, her gaze flicking to Sophia, who was watching her closely.

“Dr. Vidal’s okay?” Sophia asked gently, her voice low, her foot tapping nervously against the floor. “You both doing all right?”

For a moment, the energy shifted—not solemn, but sincere. Agatha offered a smile that wasn’t guarded or composed, but quiet and deeply honest.

“We’re tired,” she said, brushing a lock of hair from her face. “Really tired. Violet doesn’t believe in sleeping. She believes in chaos. But we’re good. Rio sends her love, and also a warning: if any of you ever cross Violet, she will scream at you in animal noises and probably cast some kind of baby curse.”

“We deserve it,” Nina said immediately.

“Speak for yourself,” Liam whispered. “I’m terrified and also deeply in love.”

Emma held the phone like it was a sacred artifact. “Can we get this printed as a poster? I need something to live for.”

“You have your essays,” Agatha replied, a touch of sharpness returning to her tone.

Emma didn’t miss a beat. “I said what I said.”

And somewhere near the back, Josh began updating the group chat name again—this time adding a dragon emoji and, for reasons no one fully understood, a sword.

Agatha didn’t notice.

Or maybe she did.

And chose not to say a word.

After a few more coos, two utterly sincere gasps, and several very serious offers from the students to babysit again (“We’ve been training for this moment our whole lives,” Emma insisted, deadpan), Agatha gently reclaimed her phone and tapped the screen off.

“Now,” she said, smoothing the front of her navy blazer with a flick of her wrist that felt like a spell in itself, “back to Eliot.”

A wave of groans rippled through the room like a protest at a concert encore.

“Oh, hush,” Agatha said, her voice lighter than it had been in weeks. “You had your five minutes. Don’t make me assign bonus footnotes just to remind you what suffering feels like.”

A chorus of exaggerated whines followed. Josh threw his head back like she’d physically wounded him. Nina mimed collapsing onto her desk. Liam muttered something about academic cruelty being outlawed in civilized countries.

But they were all smiling.

Still buzzing with warmth and affection, they settled—fidgeting with pens, flipping open notebooks, shifting just enough to refocs. When Agatha turned to the whiteboard, something in her shoulders straightened, and it was like watching a door swing open to reveal the sea. Exhausted or not, blazer slightly rumpled, dark circles faint beneath her eyes—Dr. Harkness still had it. That quiet, commanding presence that filled the room, sharpened their focus, and made even the driest of literary concepts feel like holy scripture.

Violet may have kept her up all night, but here—Agatha Harkness-Vidal was still exactly herself. And her students? They wouldn’t trade her for the world.

She launched into her lecture. And just like that, they were in it again—Modernism and its ghosts, Eliot and the end of time, meaning scattered like fragments in the wind.

But she was tired.

And Sophia noticed first.

Of course she did.

Posture perfect, highlighters already uncapped and arranged like weapons of mass destruction, Sophia tilted her head like a hawk spotting prey. She squinted.

A slight hesitation before the word “polyvocal.” A tiny, nearly imperceptible wobble in Agatha’s wrist when she adjusted her blazer. And the blink. The lingering, slow blink that lasted just long enough to reveal the exhaustion beneath the lacquer of her usual elegance.

“Dr. Harkness looks really tired,” she whispered to Nina beside her, in the tone of someone reporting a crime.

Nina, glittery pink stars in her braids and not a single thought of shame in her body, barely glanced up. “Yeah. And? She literally just had a baby.”

Sophia frowned. “And it’s unlike her.”

“It’s hot,” Nina said, unbothered. “Soft MILF Agatha is kind of my Roman Empire.”

Sophia blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You know what I mean,” Nina said, twirling her pen like it was a dagger. “Like… the way she’s clearly running on three hours of sleep and vibes? The way her blouse is just barely unbuttoned at the collar and you can almost see—”

“She’s married,” Sophia hissed.

“To Dr. Vidal,” Emma added from two rows behind, leaning forward like this was suddenly a reality tv show. “Which, let’s be honest, only makes it hotter.”

“I’m literally right here,” Josh muttered. “And I thought you were supposed to objectify me in class.”

“Objectify you?” Nina snorted. “Honey, your greatest contribution to this course is that doodle of T.S. Eliot with a tiara and a scepter.”

Josh flipped his notebook around proudly. “He rules the Wasteland. Like, literally.”

Max and Liam were already shoulder-deep in sour gummies, observing like it was a nature documentary. “Ten bucks says someone says ‘MILF’ again before Harkness finishes the next paragraph,” Max said.

“Double if someone says ‘mommy,’” Liam whispered.

As if summoned by demons, Emma straightened in her seat. “Okay but—hear me out—Dr. Harkness is not just a MILF. She’s like… a MILF who could destroy your life and then correct your grammar while you begged for mercy.”

Sophia buried her face in her hands. “This is a seminar.”

“I’d let her correct me,” Nina murmured dreamily.

Josh, choking on suppressed laughter, reached for his water. “Stop. Stop. You’re all going to get us exorcised.”

Max was half-hunched over his desk. “Soft MILF Harkness,” he whispered reverently. “Powerful. Exhausted. Possibly armed. With a dagger she borrowed from her wife.”

Liam choked on a gummy worm so violently it sounded like a curse.

And from the front of the room—without turning, without breaking her sentence—Agatha raised one eyebrow and said, in a voice like velvet over steel, “Gentlemen, if you expire in my classroom due to oxygen deprivation, I assure you I will step over your corpses and continue my lecture without lifting a finger. There are fifteen people on the waitlist for this seminar. I can replace you within the hour.”

Dead silence.

Then Max whispered, almost tearfully, “I would die for her.”

“I would haunt her,” Emma whispered back.

“You’re all going to hell,” Sophia muttered.

But Agatha kept speaking, calm and measured, as though she hadn’t just threatened to academically replace their souls. And still—despite the chaos bubbling beneath the surface—she was the storm and the still point at the center of it. Tired, yes. Soft around the edges, maybe. But luminous. Commanding.

A legend. A mystery. A war crime in heels and waist-length hair.

And every one of them, without exception, was absolutely feral about it.

The class settled, the earlier chaos melting into a hush that felt almost forced. Not the rigid silence of fear or obligation, but something warmer. Familiar. Loving. They were hers, and she was theirs, and every one of them knew it now—knew how to read her moods, how to follow the rhythm of her tempo, how to rise to meet her standards not out of pressure, but out of devotion.

Agatha let the quiet linger. Just a beat. Long enough to feel it settle into the bones of the room. Then she turned back to the board, chalk poised between her fingers like a conductor with her baton. Her posture was still impeccable, her presence still commanding—but something in the tilt of her shoulders was softer than it had been before Violet. Not diminished. Just… human.

She ran a tight ship, and they adored her for it. Every sharp look, every biting witticism, every bone-dry joke folded between lines of poetry—it all meant something more now. Meant trust. Meant love.

“Now,” she said, with the kind of weary affection only sleep-deprived mothers and long-suffering professors could truly master, “back to The Waste Land. Please open your copies. And someone—for the love of everything sacred in literature—explain to me why there’s a dragon sticker in mine?”

She peeled it from the inside cover with two fingers, holding it aloft like evidence in a courtroom. The sticker was holographic, no less—iridescent, ridiculous, and beaming.

A few students tried (and failed) to suppress laughter.

“Ah,” Nina said brightly, as though this had been part of the plan all along. “Glad you asked. Dr. Vidal gave them to us before maternity leave. She said, and I quote, ‘Be feral, but academically responsible. Also, decorate the hell out of my wife.’ So. Surprise?”

Agatha stared at the sticker. Then at the class. Then back at the sticker.

She sighed. “Of course she did.” And she sticked the sticker back on her book.

she was fighting a smile. The kind that threatened to betray her carefully calibrated authority. Her eyes flicked skyward as she muttered, barely audible, “I married into this madness.”

Emma stage-whispered, “And we thank you for it daily.”

Josh made a small heart with his hands.

Agatha ignored them, mostly. She adjusted the papers on her lectern, tapped the chalk twice against the side, and resumed the lecture with the her steady precision that made note-takers scramble to keep up. But still—her cadence was a touch slower than before. Her transitions a little more generous. Her hand lingered on the sticker as if grounding herself with the thought of her wife speaking through their beloved students. A tether to the moment. To them.

There was something about the way she stood there now—like she’d returned from a storm with wind still tangled in her coat, but stars in her pockets.

And her students, wild and loyal, would have followed her into any wasteland she led them to.

Esmecially one with dragon stickers.

Emma raised her hand halfway through the lecture, not even pretending it was for a relevant question. She didn’t wait to be called on, either. “Dr. Harkness?” she said, voice full of theatrical urgency. “We want to know more about the baby.”

A ripple of laughter moved through the room—some snickers, some groans from way less invested students, and one exaggerated gasp from Liam in the back, who clutched his chest like the very thought of Violet had blessed him. But at the front of the room, Agatha only arched a brow, and then—almost against her will—smiled.

Not the polite academic kind. Not the tight-lipped “you’re on thin ice” smirk she gave when someone misquoted Yeats. This one was rare. Real. Soft in the corners, unguarded in the eyes.

“She’s well,” Agatha said, setting her chalk down like she’d known this was coming. And honestly, she had. There was no fighting it. “Exhausting. Loud. Beautiful. I left her napping on Dr. Vidal’s chest before I came here.”

A collective awwwww swept through the room like a wave. Nina collapsed dramatically over her desk, arms splayed as if struck by the weight of domestic perfection. “That’s so unfair,” she groaned into the sleeve of her sweater. “Why do your lives sound like a Nora Ephron film?”

“Because they are a Nora Ephron film,” Josh muttered. “But gayer, with better lighting and more eyeliner.”

Agatha gave him a flat look, but there was no real heat behind it.

Sophia, still composedthough her cheeks were slightly pink from secondhand embarrassment—tilted her head. “How’s Dr. Vidal really?” she asked gently. “Like… really?”

There was a beat of quiet, the air shifting slightly into something more genuine.

Agatha adjusted the edge of her sleeve. “Tired,” she said, and there was no pretending in it. “Heroic. Possibly forming a cult of personality around our daughter.”

“She’s the Yellow Dragon,” Max added from the back like it was common knowledge.

Agatha blinked. “How… do you even know about Yellow Dragon?”

“Josh,” the entire class said in perfect, weary unison.

Josh lifted his hands in mock innocence. “Okay, first of all, Nicky left his manifesto out in the open. If a child tapes a crayon-labeled document to a filing cabinet in his mother’s office at work, it’s public record. Second—have you read it? It’s got a flag. And bylaws.”

“There’s a theme song apparently,” Liam added helpfully. “Josh sang it to us in the library.”

Emma nodded solemnly. “It rocks.”

Agatha closed her eyes for a long moment like she was summoning the patience of every English professor who’d ever lived. When she opened them again, there was laughter lurking just behind her exhaustion.

“Of course he did,” she muttered. “I’m going to have to start locking that office,” Agatha said under her breath.

“You say that,” Sophia said sweetly, “but we all know you won’t.”

Agatha exhaled and rubbed the bridge of her nose with two fingers. “One day,” she murmured, more to herself than to them, “I’m going to come in here and assign a pop quiz so brutal it’ll make you beg for MLA formatting.”

The class dissolved into laughter, but it was loving—a chaos she’d missed more than she could admit. And behind it all, beneath the teasing and declarations of crayon kingdoms, Agatha could feel it: their care. Their joy for her joy. Their loyalty not just to her syllabus, but to her.

She picked up the chalk again. “Now,” she said, fighting a smile. “Back to The Waste Land, or I swear I’ll bring back the annotated bibliography assignment.”

The rest of the class passed in a way that was quietly golden—productive, yes, and intellectually charged, as always, but softer than usual. There was room to breathe in it. Laughter slipped in around the edges—Nina’s whispering commentary, Josh’s increasingly surreal doodles of Modernist poets as mythical creatures, Max’s half-whispered conspiracies about the Yellow Dragon’s rise to power. Yet beneath the jokes and scattered glitter from Nina’s hair clips, there was something steadier threading through the hour. Like a bond strenfgtened.

They were good kids. Chaotic. Relentless. A little absurd, frankly. But good.

They were hers, and today, perhaps more than most days, they made sure she knew it.

By the time the final discussion question was met with a mix of thoughtful nods and gummy-bear-fueled debate, the afternoon light was stretching long across the lecture hall’s windows. The students began to pack up slowly, reluctant in the way that students sometimes are when they know they’ve just had a real class—one they’ll remember, even if they don’t realize it yet.

Agatha closed her notebook with a quiet finality and slid her reading glasses off, her fingers pausing briefly on the temple. She was tired—more than she had let on. But the tiredness was not empty. It was full of something alive.

Sophia lingered.

She always did. First in, last out—devout in her academic rituals and fiercely loyal to her professors, even if she pretended otherwise.

“Dr. Harkness?” she asked gently, hovering a little closer now that the room had mostly cleared. “You sure you’re okay?”

Her voice was low. Not performative. Not worried in the way young people sometimes are when they want to be perceived as caring. Just… nice.

Agatha glanced over, the corner of her mouth curling. “You’re very kind, Miss Kennedy.”

Sophia didn’t drop her gaze. “It’s just… we’ve never seen you like this. You’re always so—” She hesitated, searching for the right word. “Sharp. Focused. Powerful. And today it’s like… you’re here, but also somewhere else.”

Agatha tilted her head slightly, considering that. Her fingers stilled on the clasp of her satchel. “I suppose that’s the nature of transformation,” she said, her voice quiet but steady. “Even the sharpest among us must soften sometimes. And new motherhood—” she paused, like the word still surprised her, “—is a different kind of power. One I’m still relearning.”

Sophia didn’t quite know what to say to that. But something in her eyes softened.

“I think you’re still powerful,” she said. “Just… in a cozier way today.”

That made Agatha laugh—a low, tired, genuine sound. “Cozier,” she echoed. “I’ll take that.”

Sophia hesitated again, then shifted her stack of color-coded notebooks under her arm. “Tell Dr. Vidal we miss her. And Nicky. And the baby, obviously. And that we expect more pictures. Like… weekly. Or daily.”

Agatha smiled—real, wide, and achingly fond. “I’ll let her know. Though if you start getting photo updates in your student inbox, don’t blame me when your data plan collapses under the weight of baby cheeks. Blame my wife. »

“I accept the consequences,” Sophia said solemnly, as if it were a vow.

Agatha picked up her satchel and made her way toward the door, heels clicking softly against the polished floor. She paused at the threshold, casting one last look back.

The room was nearly empty now, save for the faint echoes of laughter and the ghost of Eliot’s lines still floating in the air. The kind of day she’d remember later. The kind that made the fatigue worth it.

Outside the lecture hall, the halls were loud again—students spilling from rooms, catching up, shoving gently past one another in that particular chaos that only existed in the late afternoon of a university campus.

But inside, in that fleeting moment, it was still warm.

They were chaotic. They were exhausting. They were hers in a way they’d never fully understand.

And she loved them more than she’d ever let on.

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Chapter Text

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After gathering her lecture notes and the half-drunk cup of coffee she’d forgotten on her desk that morning, Agatha finally locked up her office and made her way to the car. She was careful not to let the tiredness sink too far into her bones—not yet, at least, not when she was about to drinve her son home. The drive to Nicky’s school felt longer than usual, her body aching for the quiet kind of joy that only came with stepping back into her house, into her family.

Traffic crawled. Her mind wandered. She replayed fragments of student laughter from her lecture, the way Sophia had lingered, the crayon manifesto Josh had mentioned. It warmed her, but it didn’t quite fill the ache. She wanted home.

By the time she pulled into the driveway, the sun had already started its descent. Agatha cut the engine and exhaled deeply, fingers tightening once around the steering wheel before she gathered herself. Nicky was already chattering behind her about something—his day, a snack he’d bartered with, possibly a class coup involving a fake fire drill—and she nodded along, smiling softly. It was the kind of nonsense that meant she was home.

But the real exhale didn’t come until she opened the front door.

The first thing that hit her was the warmth—not just physical, though the house was cozy against the evening spring chill, but something deeper. That impossible-to-define feeling of here, it’s all mine.

The second thing that hit her was the mess.

Not a catastrophic mess. Not a guest-panic mess. A lived-in, domestic whirlwind of affection and small hands. Stuffed animals were strewn across the living room floor like they had recently hosted a teddy bear summit. Picture books lay open mid-page on the armchair, as though interrupted by a dramatic reading. Blocks, rattles, and a suspicious amount of glitter marked the trail of Nicky’s earlier imagination. It was, Agatha thought, the exact opposite of her lecture hall’s pristine whiteboard. It was chaos in technicolor—and she loved it.

She dropped her bag gently by the door, the click of the lock a quiet ritual. She stepped forward, her gaze scanning for the source of the hush that had settled over the house. That’s when she saw them.

On the couch, Rio and Violet lay in a puddle of soft exhaustion. Rio was sprawled on her back, one arm tucked protectively around their daughter, the other trailing off the side of the couch, fingers curled loosely a few inches away from a dropped book, like she’d fallen asleep mid-read, and Señor Scratchy curled on her legs near her thighs. There was a smudge of something—probably milk—on her shirt. Her hair was wild and beautiful in the dim light, a few strands caught in her lashes. And yet, despite the obvious fatigue, her face was serene. Peaceful. Happy. A ghost of a smile hovered at her lips, like her dreams were still laughing at something Nicky had said.

Violet, still so small, still so perfect, was curled against her chest, her tiny fingers balled into fists near her mother’s collarbone. Her breath rose and fell in rhythm with Rio’s, so gentle it was almost imperceptible. A tuft of dark hair was pressed against Rio’s neck, and one sock had half-fallen off, hanging from her tiny foot in a way that made Agatha’s heart ache with tenderness.

She stood there, motionless for a moment.

Just looking.

Letting herself feel it.

This was the answer to the ache in her chest that even the best lecture couldn’t soothe. This was the reason she didn’t mind being bone-tired, or why the chaos didn’t irritate her the way it might have years ago. Because it was home. All of it. The glitter, the socks, the lounger with no baby inside it.

And gods, she had missed them.

She tiptoed in, careful not to disturb the stillness, and bent to press a kiss to the crown of Nicky’s head as he darted off to his room, already mid-monologue about dinosaurs and needing tape for a Very Important Project. Then, straightening again, she looked at the living room one more time.

She’d had plans. Emails to answer. Papers to grade. A lecture outline to finish. A stack of books she needed to reshelve. And of course—Rio’s latest artwork had been pinned to the fridge in the shape of a suspiciously dramatic To-Do list. Somewhere on there, in a splash of green glitter pen, was the phrase “Find more pacifiers before war breaks out.”

But Agatha didn’t move toward the kitchen.

Instead, she leaned on the doorframe, crossed her arms, and let herself smile—slow and deep, the kind that curled into her eyes and settled in her chest.

Yeah. Being pinned to the fridge could wait.

This… this was better than anything she’d taught all day.

Nicky’s voice broke the quiet like sunshine through a curtain. He came tumbling back down the stairs at full speed, socks half-on now, arms flailing, already mid-sentence about something only partially coherent. His words, his laughter, his bouncing off every couch cushion like a pinball—it all flooded the room with life. It was chaos, yes. Beautiful, unmistakably Nicky chaos. But Agatha couldn’t tear her eyes away from the quiet stillness on the couch.

Rio and Violet remained motionless in their little cocoon of sleep. Agatha stood in the doorway, caught in the pull of them—the rhythm of Violet’s tiny breaths, the warmth of Rio’s slack limbs and faint smile, the kind of peace that only existed here, in this home, with them.

Just one day away had felt like an eternity. She hadn’t realized how hollow the hours had been until she stepped back into this room and felt it fill her lungs again.

Her heart ached, full to the brim and spilling over.

The soft rise and fall of Rio’s chest, the near-silent puffs of air from Violet’s nose—it was grounding, anchoring her like a swimmer finding shore.

Then Rio stirred.

It was slow, gentle—just the twitch of her fingers, the subtle shift of her spine as awareness crept back into her limbs. Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first, until they landed on Agatha’s silhouette. And when they did, a smile bloomed across her face, sleep-soft and full of familiarity.

“How’d it go, Professor?” she mumbled, her voice husky and warm, like silk sheets and rainy mornings.

Agatha’s lips curved as she moved closer, the tension in her spine easing with every step until she was kneeling beside the couch, her hand brushing a lock of hair from Rio’s cheek.

“I survived,” she said quietly, and bent to kiss her wife’s forehead. Her breath lingered there for a moment, just resting in the curve of Rio’s skin. “But I hated being away from you two. I felt like I was walking around with only half a soul.”

Rio chuckled, her eyes heavy-lidded with sleep but twinkling with mischief. “Did you cry?” she asked, tilting her head just enough to raise an eyebrow.

Agatha didn’t miss a beat. Her face went utterly serious. “Only during office hours.”

Rio snorted, laughter bubbling up so fast it startled Violet, who stirred with a soft little sound and nestled deeper into her mother’s chest.

“You’re ridiculous,” Rio murmured fondly, her fingers brushing lightly against Agatha’s arm.

“You married me,” Agatha replied, deadpan, but her eyes sparkled as she reached out.

Carefully, she slipped her hands beneath Violett and lifted her from Rio’s chest, the baby curling instinctively into the new hold. She was warm, and heavier than she looked—all softness and trust and tiny murmuring breaths. Agatha held her like something precious, as if the very act of cradling her daughter reset the entire world into alignment.

She swayed a little on instinct, the way you do when holding a baby even if you’re not moving anywhere at all.

Violet sighed, utterly content, and tucked her face into the crook of Agatha’s neck.

She looked down at her daughter. There was no room for anything else—no student questions, no papers, no faculty meetings. Just this. Just her.

And then came Nicky.

He darted back over, buzzing with excitement, his energy so big it barely fit inside his small frame. “Mom! Guess what? I made a new friend at school!” he announced, hopping from foot to foot. “His name’s Leo, and he loves animals just like me! We’re gonna start a lion club. Can I show you the drawing? I already made our badge!”

Rio, still half-reclining, smiled at the sight of him like he’d just painted joy into the room. “Of course, buddy,” she said softly.

Agatha crouched, balancing Violet with easd. “I’m also very excited to see this lion badge. But you’ll need a meeting charter and bylaws, obviously.”

Nicky gasped. “Yes! I knew you’d say that! I’ll write them tonight!”

Agatha looked back at Rio and smiled, wide and warm, a softness in her eyes that she hadn’t worn all day. “It’s good to be home,” she said.

Rio looked up at her from the couch, her expression open and honest in that rare, vulnerable way she reserved only for Agatha. “Yeah,” she murmured. “It really is.”

And for a moment, the whole house stilled—not silent, not really. Just full.

The fridge list could wait. Dinner could wait. Even the lion club bylaws could wait.

Right now, this was the only thing that mattered.

Dinner was loud. Messy. Perfect.

Violet, after driving Rio crazy all day, slept through most of it, like the baby chaos she was, snuggled securely in the sling strapped across Agatha’s chest like a tiny queen being carried from room to room. Agatha moved between the table and the stove with the facility  of someone used to orchestrating three conversations and a simmering saucepan at once. Every so often, she hummed softly—snatches of lullabies, old jazz melodies, a fragment of something Rio had invented on the piano last week.

Nicky, perched on his usual chair, had enough energy to power a small nation. He spoke without breathing, hands flying, barely touching his food as he narrated a tale about Leo, his new best friend, their plans to found the “Lion Club” (which, apparently, already had a theme song, and a jungle-themed hideout under the slide) and how “Mrs. Owens said I might be an animal psychologist when I grow up, which is like a vet, but cooler, because you talk to animals about their feelings.”

Rio, still slightly rumpled from her nap and not even trying to hide her amusement, sat curled into one of the kitchen chairs. Her cheek rested against her hand, and she watched them all with a softness that made her look half-asleep and completely awake at the same time. She hadn’t touched the one half glass of wine she allowed herself once a week during breastfeeding. She didn’t need to. Just watching Agatha glide through the chaos with Violet on her chest and Nicky bouncing like a pinball was intoxicating enough.

After dinner, cleanup became something resembling a family effort. Nicky insisted on washing the dishes but mostly just played with the bubbles, declaring he was “training to be a soap witch, because witches can be boys too.” Agatha let him splash, patient as ever, though she silently rewashed most of what he handed her. Rio wiped down the counters with the relaxed rhythm of someone who wasn’t really cleaning so much as lingering in the moment.

Bedtime came. Violet yawned herself into sleep again with only the gentlest rocking from Agatha, her tiny fingers curling into the fabric of Agatha’s shirt like she never wanted to let go. Rio took her upstairs and settled her into the bassinet after nursing one last time for tonight.

Then came Nicky, whose bedtime routine included a dramatic reading of his notebook, two separate songs, a very complex fort made from three chairs and a blanket, and one failed attempt at negotiating for “just twenty more minutes” to finalize the Lion Club’s motto (“Something about bravery and snacks,” he mumbled, already yawning).

Agatha climbed onto the bed beside him, settling on her side as he began reading his scribbled pages aloud, every word brimming with conviction. Rio stood in the doorway, arms crossed loosely, watching them both with an indulgent smile that only deepened when Agatha leaned in to correct the spelling of “courageous” with barely concealed pride.

By the time Nicky drifted off—mid-sentence, mouth slightly open, clutching Blue Dargon so tight he would have choked if he was a real aniumal—Agatha tucked the blanket up to his chin, kissed his wild curls, placed the notebook on his bedside table and whispered something that only he and the night heard.

She paused at the door beside Rio. Neither of them spoke.

Agatha let out a slow breath, her eyes soft. Rio reached for her hand without looking and gave it a small squeeze as they made their way to their room.

The second the bedroom door clicked shut, the air between them shifted—quiet, but heavy with need. A subtle electricity passed between their gazes, a mutual awareness that the day’s final page had turned… and this next chapter was just for them.

Agatha didn’t say a word. She just walked past Rio with unhurried. Her spine straight, chin lifted, her lips still wine-red despite the whole day passing. She was still in her teaching blouse, sleeves rolled up, her scent a blend of chalk dust and perfume and baby. And yet there was something feral in her restraint. Controlled. Focused.

Rio, barefoot and still wearing one of Agatha’s old university sweatshirts that hung off her shoulder, watched her wife like she was watching a storm roll in—terrifying, thrilling, and inevitable.

“So…” she ventured, voice deliberately light, following Agatha around ike a puppy, “you were kind of a champ today. Classroom queen. Mother of dragons. You deserve to put your feet up, maybe take a long bath, let your very hot wife feed you grapes. Just an idea.”

Agatha didn’t answer right away. She placed Violet’s baby monitor on the nightstand, her face unreadable. Then, without breaking eye contact, she reached up and unfastened the twist that held her braid in place. The long thick rope of dark hair tumbled down over her shoulder in a single smooth motion.

Rio’s stomach dropped. The sight always did that to her. She wasn’t sure why—maybe it was the familiarity of it, the quiet unveiling. Agatha didn’t need to strip off clothes to make Rio lose her mind. Just letting down her hair did the job.

“Oh, I fully intend to relax,” Agatha said, finally turning.

Her voice was low. Not sultry. Dangerous.

Rio blinked. “Oh?”

Agatha stepped closer. Slowly. Like a predator in no hurry to pounce. Her hand grazed Rio’s hip with maddening softness, fingers dipping just under the hem of the oversized sweatshirt—skin meeting skin. Not enough. Nowhere near enough.

“I believe,” Agatha said, her lips just brushing Rio’s jaw, “that I made you a promise this morning.”

Rio’s knees nearly buckled.

“Something about what I was going to do to you,” Agatha continued, her mouth grazing Rio’s skin like a secret, “after I got through my first day back.”

Rio opened her mouth to speak. Nothing came out. Her brain was melting at the edges. “Agatha”

“Hush,” Agatha whispered, and her thumb pressed lightly just above Rio’s thigh, drawing an invisible circle. “We wouldn’t want Nicky to wake up, would we?”

Rio inhaled sharply. Her whole body had gone hot-cold-hot again. The contrast of Agatha’s voice—calm, velvet-rich, devastating—against the touch of her hands made her feel weightless and deeply tethered in the best way possible.

“I’ve been thinking about it all day,” Agatha went on, her lips now brushing against Rio’s ear. “Between lectures. During grading. In the car. What I’d do to you the moment this house went quiet.”

Rio’s breath caught in her throat.

“Quiet house. Sleeping children. You,” Agatha said, her fingers now slipping under the sweatshirt fully, skating along Rio’s lower back,”your body under mine again like it’s supposed to be.”

Rio made a soft, helpless sound—something between a whimper and a prayer.

“That’s—” she tried, voice cracking. “That’s a very compelling academic thesis.”

Agatha’s mouth curved against her skin. “My love,” she said, the words honey-thick and dangerous, “you are my field of study. And tonight, I’m publishing.”

She kissed the curve of Rio’s throat slowly, then pulled back just enough to meet her wife’s eyes. “I know your body’s still sore. And I don’t want to take. I want to give. I want to trace every stretch mark and scar and sigh and show you how holy you are. How desired.”

Rio’s eyes fluttered shut, lashes trembling. Her fingers curled in on themselves where they hung by Agatah’s neck. Her whole body felt hot, taut with anticipation, as though every nerve ending had woken up all at once.

“I’m not going to survive this,” she whispered, almost to herself, a laugh breaking faintly through her breathlessness.

“Oh, but you will,” Agatha murmured with a wolfish smile, pressing her palm to the center of Rio’s chest, right over her racing heart. “You’ll survive. You’ll tremble. You’ll fall apart and pull yourself back together with my name on your tongue. And then,” she added, coaxing her backwards with that quiet authority that could silence entire classrooms, “you’ll thank me.”

She stopped when the backs of Rio’s knees hit the bed, and leaned down, letting her lips brush just beneath Rio’s ear. Her breath was hot, laced with intent. “And tomorrow morning, when your legs are too wobbly to carry you to the kitchen and your smug wife insists on making you breakfast while still half-dressed, you’ll remember exactly how much I missed you. And exactly how much I plan to keep making up for lost time.”

Rio’s knees did buckle then, just slightly, but Agatha caught her with practiced ease, hands on her waist, thumbs stroking up under the hem of the sweatshirt she’d stolen earlier.

Rio’s blush bloomed from her neck to her hairline—full-body, heart-stuttering, useless kind of blushing. She was aching in a way that made her dizzy, that made her need. Not want—need.

Agatha’s fingers slid slowly up the backs of her thighs. “Say the word,” she whispered, her eyes gleaming like the sea on a dark day. “Tell me you want this. That you’ve been thinking about me—about this—all day. Because I’ve been holding back, love. Holding back since before lunch, since your deranged texts. And if you don’t stop me now…”

She let the rest hang there like a lit fuse, smiling darkly.

Rio inhaled like she was surfacing from underwater. She was shaking, smiling, almost angry with how turned on she was. “Agatha Harkness-Vidal,” she growled, breathless, “you’re a goddamn menace.”

Agatha chuckled, low and satisfied, brushing her nose along the line of Rio’s. “Only for you.”

And then—finally—she kissed her.

Not soft. Not tentative. This was a kiss that demanded. That promised. That ruined. One hand anchored at Rio’s lower back, the other tangling in her hair, tilting her head just enough to deepen it. Her tongue swept along Rio’s bottom lip like a question and a threat, and Rio answered with a desperate little sound that sent Agatha into full possession.

She kissed her until Rio was leaning back, legs trembling, the sweatshirt hitched up past her hips and breath coming in short, unsteady gasps. Until her hands were buried in Agatha’s shirt, clinging like the world might fall away otherwise.

And outside, the house stayed blessedly still. The baby slept in her crib. Nicky dreamed of lions and jungle hideouts and invisible maps.

Behind the closed door, there was laughter, and moans muffled by eager mouths, and the sound of sheets twisting beneath the kind of desire that only comes after weeks of waiting and whole days of longing.

And somewhere between kisses and worship and whispered confessions against flushed skin, Rio reminded herself—not for the first time—just how lucky she was to have married a woman who wielded intellect like a blade, sarcasm like a weapon, and desire like a sacrament.

And tonight, Agatha was planning to use all three to leave her absolutely wrecked.

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It was one of those Saturday mornings that Agatha loved best—quiet, warm, unhurried. The sun was ascending, warm and Spring-like. A soft breeze carried the scent of blooming lilacs from the neighbor’s garden, and birds chirped rhythmically in the distance like a casual, sweet orchestra.

Agatha stood on the lawn in her weekend clothes—an airy linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, relaxed jeans, and light sandals brushing the grass witb every step. A steaming mug of coffee rested in her palm, perfectly warm between her fingers, rich with the scent of Rio’s favorite hazelnut roast. It had been a long week—her first back at work after Violet’s birth—and she could feel the tension melting from her shoulders like wax from a candle burning at night.

Across the lawn, Nicky shrieked with delight as he chased a foam ball Agatha had kicked and that bounced erratically across the grass, Blue Dragon strategically placed on the porch steps, watching his little friend bounce and play. His curls bounced with every step, his shirt flapping half-untucked like a flag of rebellion. His bare feet slapped the ground with unfiltered joy as he lunged heroically and missed the catch by a mile, crashing into the grass in a dramatic heap.

Agatha arched an eyebrow, raising her mug to her lips. “Nice catch, my little dragon.”

Nicky popped his head up, eyes bright. “I totally meant to fall!” he announced proudly, limbs sprawled like a chalk crime scene outline. “It’s my new ninja move.”

“Oh, of course it is,” she deadpanned, sipping her coffee with exaggerated gravity. “Flawless technique. Your enemies will be… confused, at the very least.”

He giggled so hard he snorted (something he had inherited from her), and she couldn’t help it—her laughter joined his, rich and unguarded. The kind of laugh that triggered the part of her that still remembered what it felt like to run barefoot on summer mornings and collapse into the grass like the world was made only for joy. A joy she had lacked as a child but had discovered later on, when the little bundle of sunchine playing across from her had entered her life seven years ago.

She breathed it in again—the warm mug in her hands, the grass underfoot, the laughter, the lilacs, the sun. From the open kitchen window came the faint sound of music, and beneath it, she could just barely make out the sound of Rio’s voice, lilting and familiar, singing softly to Violet. The image bloomed effortlessly in her mind: Rio barefoot on the tile floor in one of her soft cotton dresses, her dark curls falling into her face as she swayed gently with their daughter tucked against her chest, humming a melody that only mothers ever got quite right.

Agatha let her eyes flutter shut again for a moment.

This was it. The life she never dared to imagine in full color before Rio. The one built out of patience and chaos and choosing each other again and again—through lectures and long nights, through fear and newborn wails and whispered promises in the dark. This was the quiet epilogue to all the battles she’d fought with herself. And the preface to something greater still.

A shout pulled her back—Nicky had found the foam ball again and was preparing what he claimed would be a “double-backflip cartwheel jump thing.” She watched him run, legs everywhere, arms flapping, completely unbothered by physics.

She smiled into her coffee. From inside, Rio laughed—a clear, melodic sound that made Agatha melt and strenghten at the same time..

And then the moving truck arrived.

It rumbled down the street like a disturbance in the force, the groan of the tires on the curb slicing through the tranquility of the neighborhood. The truck stopped directly next door. Agatha glanced up over her mug, already dreading what felt like the beginning of a sitcom episode she didn’t audition for.

A moment later, the back of the truck flapped open, and a man stepped down from the passenger side. Early fifties, maybe, though his gelled hair was doing its best to blur the math. He wore wraparound sunglasses perched high on his forehead like a youth pastor who also moonlighted as a nightclub promoter. His button-down shirt—an aggressive blue with faint pinstripes—was tucked into a pair of overstarched jeans, and the belt he’d chosen looked like it had come with instructions. Everything about him suggested effort—deliberate, slightly off-key effort.

And then there was the cologne.

It hit them before he did, a heavy aquatic assault with citrus overtones and the unmistakable chemical optimism of a man who had once described himself as “a catch” in his dating profile. Agatha had smelled more subtle things in department store perfume aisles.

In one hand, he held a bouquet of purple flowers—store-bought, wrapped in crinkly cellophane, with a price tag still attached. In the other, he dragged a sleek rolling suitcase behind him with the air of someone arriving at a “conference” in Vegas, not relocating to quiet suburban Westview. The suitcase bounced loudly over the cracks in the sidewalk, completing the effect.

Agatha set her mug down on the porch railing with a soft clink, her expression unreadable except for the mild upward tilt of one brow.

Nicky scrambled up from the grass, grass stains already forming on his knees, and pressed close to her side, whispering with awe. “Is that our new neighbor?”

Agatha watched the man consult his phone, frown, then glance around like he expected an audience and was disappointed by the turnout. She sighed.

“Looks like it,” she murmured. Then, after a beat, dry as parchment, “God help us all.”

The man stopped at the edge of his new lawn, sniffed like he was checking for pollen, and called back to the truck with theatrical volume, “Y’all gonna unload that or what? I’ve got expensive things in there!”

Agatha didn’t move. She just stared, letting her silence be the punctuation mark the scene deserved. She could already feel the headache forming—a subtle pressure behind her eyes, the kind reserved for middle-aged men who used Bluetooth earpieces in grocery stores. Agatha smiled at the mental comparison, as she remembered Rio also did it sometimes when she didn’t want to talk to anyone, or when her head was already too loud on its own.

Nicky tugged at her sleeve. “Do you think he has kids?”

“If he does,” Agatha said, lifting her mug again with the resignation of a woman who’d already made peace with chaos, “they’re probably suing him.”

From the open kitchen window came the faint sound of Rio laughing, as if she could hear the whole thing from inside and was choosing not to intervene—yet.

Agatha took another long sip of her coffee. The new neighbor had finally noticed her on the porch and raised a hand in greeting.

She did not return it.

The man stopped in front of the white picket fence that framed their yard and offered Agatha what he clearly believed was a charming smile—the kind that had probably worked on real estate agents and waitresses who were paid to smile back. “Morning,” he said, his voice smooth in the way cheap leather tries to be suede. “Beautiful day, huh?”

Agatha nodded politely. “Welcome to the neighborhood,” she said, with the graceful calm of someone offering a diplomatic handshake while keeping a dagger behind her back—just in case. She was still sun-warmed, soft from play and coffee and the giggles of her son, but her spine straightened just slightly.

The man—Mark, as they were all about to learn—blinked, clearly caught off guard by the sound of her voice. His smile faltered for a fraction of a second, then returned with double the wattage. And then his eyes took her in—slowly. Too slowly. In a way that made Agatha’s mouth tighten almost imperceptibly at the corners.

“I’m Mark,” he said, stepping closer, hoisting the plastic-wrapped bouquet like it was a peace offering or a bribe. “Figured it’s always good to make a strong first impression. You must be…” His eyes flicked, not subtly, to the ring on her left hand—thick, golden, unmistakable. Agatha made no move to hide it. If anything, she let the sun catch it. His eyes returned to her face. “…Mrs.?”

“Harkness-Vidal,” Agatha said, each syllable crisp as glass. “Dr. Harkness.”

Mark’s eyebrows lifted, his face rearranging itself into something vaguely impressed. “Doctor? Wow. Good for you. That’s—impressive. I’ve just come through a rough patch myself, actually. Divorce. New job, new town. You know how it goes.” He chuckled like they were co-conspirators in some shared midlife cliché. “Thought I’d start fresh somewhere quieter. Picked this street because, well—it looked peaceful.”

“It was,” Agatha said pleasantly, with such ease it was hard to tell if she was making conversation or issuing a very mild threat. She didn’t glance at the bouquet, which still dangled awkwardly in Mark’s hand.

Beside her, Nicky pressed closer to her leg, wide-eyed, silent now. His fingers curled around the hem of her linen shirt, his stare trained on Mark with the full suspicion of a child who had not yet learned to hide what he felt. Agatha brushed her hand lightly across his back in silent reassurance, but didn’t look away from Mark.

He, of course, kept talking.

“I mean, it’s just me now,” he said, scanning the house behind her like he expected an invitation to step further. “Looking for a new rhythm, I guess. Simpler living. Maybe get to know the neighbors, you know?” He chuckled again.

Agatha offered him the thinnest curve of a smile. “I find peace is usually something one doesn’t chase through conversation.”

Mark didn’t quite know what to do with that.

“You must be the lady of the house,” he continued, stepping a little closer and lowering his voice. “I saw you last time I came to check out the neighborhood. Hard to forget a woman like you.”

Agatha took a long, unhurried sip from her coffee mug, watching him over the rim with faint, polite interest. Her fingers curled delicately around the handle, pinky extended just slightly, as if to emphasize the contrast between her calm and his misplaced bravado. “Is that so?” she said, the corner of her mouth twitching—not in a smile, but in the quiet irritation of someone humoring a magician during a trick she’d seen a dozen times.

“Are you single, by any chance?” he asked, lowering his sunglasses in what he clearly imagined was a smooth gesture. He followed it with a wink that might have scored him points in a Florida beach bar two decades ago—before the economy tanked, before the gray at his temples, before the strong cologne began to turn sour in the morning sun.

She didn’t answer at once. She let the silence linger in the air between them like incense, head tilted just enough to suggest curiosity but not enough to encourage. Another sip. Another pause. Apparently, wedding bands were not a universal sign anymore. “Not by any chance, no.”

Mark chuckled, as if she were flirting. “Lucky guy. Real lucky. My ex-wife? She never played ball with the kids. Always said it wasn’t her thing. But you—” he gestured broadly toward where Nicky was now crouched low in the grass, stalking a bee like it might befriend him—“you’re clearly one of the good ones.”

Agatha hummed, noncommittal. A low sound in her throat, polite but not enthusiastic. The sort of sound she made when asked to sample a casserole at a PTA potluck.

Mark, emboldened by her lack of overt rejection—and, more likely, oblivious to every social cue—took another step forward. He raised the flowers again, this time with a little flourish, like a magician revealing a dove from a sleeve. “I was thinking I might offer you these. It’s just a thank-you. For the warm welcome. Your husband’s a lucky man.” He flashed a grin so confident it bordered on parody—like the ghost of a toothpaste add from a time when gender roles were sold alongside lawnmowers, whiskey and kitchen appliances.

Agatha didn’t reach for the bouquet. She looked at it the way one might look at a half-flattened party balloon drifting across a street—bright, a bit sad, and best left untouched. “My spouse,” she said, cool and clear, “is very lucky indeed.”

Mark laughed, awkward but persistent “I can tell. You’ve got this elegance, you know? Real grace. But you’re out here tossing a ball with your kid. That’s rare. My ex couldn’t stand grass stains. And the coffee—God, it smells amazing. Bet you make it fresh every morning.”

“I do,” Agatha replied smoothly, her voice syrupy-slow. “Though my spouse usually makes it for me. Very attentive. Very thoughtful. Knows exactly how I like it.”

“Oh yeah?” He leaned in just slightly, as if that last part was an invitation. His eyes dropped again—not subtly—and Agatha briefly imagined a hex that would turn his belt two sizes smaller every time he blinked. “That’s sweet. Real sweet. You know, I always believed in romance. Still do. Just because someone screws you over doesn’t mean you give up on connection. On love. You feel me?”

Agatha sipped again, mostly to avoid laughing outright. Because she was, in fact, enjoying herself now. Not because of him, but because she could feel Rio.

The air was shifting.

There was a hum, just beneath the surface of her skin. A soft tension, like the pressure drop before a storm. Rio was coming. She didn’t know if it was the creak of a floorboard, the flutter of curtains, or simply the distinct electric shift in her chest that always preceded her wife entering the scene—but she felt it, the way animals sense earthquakes before they strike.

She kept her face neutral, but inside she was already bracing. Not out of fear. Out of gleeful anticipation.

Because Rio was sunshine and wildfire and violin strings in a windstorm. And when she would arrive—late, barefoot, with ink on her wrist and probably a baby on her hip—Mark would realize he hadn’t been speaking to the only lady of the house.

He’d been speaking to the tamer one.

Mark pushed on, entirely oblivious—plowing ahead with the confidence of a man who’d mistaken polite restraint for invitation.

“Your husband,” he said with an indulgent little chuckle, “he’s gotta be the luckiest guy in town. If it were me, I’d make sure you never lifted a finger. Hell, I’d be out here mowing the lawn, washing your car, baking muffins before breakfast—blueberry, if that’s your thing.”

Agatha’s mouth twitched, just barely. She didn’t smile. It was more of a flicker. A twitch of amusement, like someone watching a mouse try to flirt with a cat. “That’s quite an image,” she said, her voice light but precise.

“I’m a simple guy,” Mark continued, dropping his voice like he was about to confess a secret. “But I know how to treat a woman. I don’t mean to come on too strong, I just… I figure I’d kick myself if I didn’t ask.”

Agatha tilted her head, her fingers still loose around her mug, her posture languid. She leaned a touch more heavily on the porch railing, the morning sun sliding over her collarbone, the linen shirt catching a faint breeze. Her entire body spoke of ease. But her eyes were flint.

“I think,” she said mildly, “you’re about to kick yourself anyway.”

Mark grinned, unbothered, perhaps mishearing her tone or simply too enamored with the sound of his own voice to process anything else. “Yeah? Why’s that?”

Right on cue—because her wife always had a flair for timing worthy of theater—rio stepped out of the house and onto the front porch.

She was barefoot again, wearing a soft sundress in sun-faded coral that hugged her postpartum curves just enough to drive anyone mad, just enough to make hearts stop, especially those belonging to men who had no idea what kind of storm they were about to walk into. It cinched at her waist, fluttered at her knees, and swayed with her every step like it had been designed solely to haunt the memories of ex-husbands who never stood a chance.

Her hair was down and wild, still a little damp from the shower she must have squeezed in between diaper changes and nursing, curling softly at the ends. Violet was nestled in the crook of her arm, fast asleep against her chest in a wrap, and in her other hand, she carried a small cup of juice with a green bendy straw.

“Hey, Nicky!” she called out, balancing everything with a veteran mother’s grace. “Shoes, baby! I swear, if you step on a bee and traumatize Mama again, I’m gonna start making you wear bubble wrap in the yard!”

Agatha didn’t look away from Mark’s face.

Because his expression had shifted—into something like confusion, panic, and an attempt at rapid mental math.

Rio, glowing and visibly tired and achingly beautiful, stepped onto the grass, blissfully unaware that she had become the epicenter of a slow-brewing existential crisis for the man next door.

“Who’s this?” she asked, in that deceptively light tone she used when she was about to set someone on fire.

Agatha didn’t turn her head. “This is Mark,” she said, with the same serene crispness she might use to name a wine she wouldn’t drink. “He just moved in next door. He brought me flowers.”

Rio blinked once, very slowly, like the space between a match striking and the flame catching.

“Oh,” she said. “That’s nice.”

There was a beat of silence, long enough to notice the way the air shifted slightly around them—like even the breeze wanted to get out of the way.

Mark blinked at her, clearly trying to process what he was seeing—and failing.

Then he glanced at Agatha.

Then back at Rio.

And something behind his eyes clicked—but, tragically, in the entirely wrong direction. You could practically see the gears grinding together and producing nothing but static.

“Oh,” he said, voice dipped in confusion, as if he’d just spotted a unicorn mowing the lawn. “Is that your… daughter?”

Agatha’s mouth fell open. Actually fell open. It stayed like that for a solid second as her brain tried to reboot itself, but her operating system was clearly stuck on “WTF. »

Rio, mid-step, froze like someone had just pulled the emergency brake on her entire nervous system. Violet stirred against her chest but stayed asleep, mercifully.

And then—silence. Not the pleasant kind. Not even the suspenseful kind. The mortifying kind. The kind that crashes over a suburban front yard like a dropped piano, splintering all hopes of dignity and reason.

Because yes—Rio looked younger than Agatha. She always had. Because she was. But not that young. Not generational gap young. Not mistaken for the daughter of her wife young. This was an existential crisis for the ages. The man was clearly out for blood.

Agatha slowly turned her head toward him with the mechanical grace of a woman who had just been personally betrayed by the universe. “I beg your pardon?”

Mark, to his credit, looked immediately panicked. To his discredit, he kept speaking.

“Or, um—maybe your sister?” he offered quickly, like it was the obvious recovery. Like he was tossing a life preserver made of bricks.

Agatha’s expression shifted from affronted to something closer to existential horror. Her eyebrows rose so far they might’ve left her body entirely. One hand came up to her temple like she was trying to press back a migraine summoned by pure idiocy.

Rio, on the other hand, blinked—once, twice—then tilted her head slowly to the side, her expression going from confusion to full-on what-in-the-name-of-all-that-is-holy disbelief. She looked like a cat that had just seen a bird and a dog run off with its favorite toy—confused, angry, and not impressed.

“Sister?” she repeated.

Mark realized too late that he was now plummeting off a conversational cliff. “I mean—she looks younger, sure, but not like, that young—”

“Ah,” Agatha said, with a voice so dry it could’ve mummified him on the spot. “So now you’re calling me old.”

Mark’s face turned red—impressively, almost impressively, red. Like a tomato with heatstroke.

“No, no, I just meant—look, some people just have youthful energy, and she—”

“I’m literally thirty,” Rio muttered under her breath, though there was a venomous edge to the words. 

“If she were my daughter,” Agatha cut in smoothly, sipping her coffee with regal precision, “she would have much better manners. And I would be in prison.”

Rio coughed once—a single, sharp sound that might have been a laugh or a death knell. She adjusted Violet higher on her chest and looked at Mark with the calm detachment of someone observing a man dig his own grave with a salad spoon.

“Also,” Agatha added, leveling her gaze at him, “you’d be suggesting I had a child who is a fully-grown adult. Which is not the compliment you seem to think it is.”

“I didn’t mean—” Mark flailed. “I mean, you don’t look—I’m not saying—”

“Stop talking,” Rio advised gently, adjusting the green bendy straw in the juice cup and passing it off to Nicky, who had wisely retreated to the porch steps to watch the meltdown like it was a matinee performance.

Mark stood there, mouth open, trying to remember how to make sounds that didn’t ruin his life.

Mark laughed nervously. “Okay, okay—babysitter?”

Agatha turned fully toward him now, the morning light catching her profile like a sculpture someone put on a throne by mistake. Or not.

“Babysitter,” she repeated, her voice feather-light but soaked in disbelief, as though the word had personally offended her sense of cosmological order. “You think she’s the babysitter now?”

“I—I mean, I just wasn’t sure—”

“Oh, you weren’t sure,” Agatha echoed, still smiling with the cool poise of someone slowly unsheathing a blade. “I see. Tell me, Mr. Observant, do you think most babysitters breastfeed the baby in the middle of the night?”

Rio, deadpan, pointed to the sleeping bundle on her chest. “She literally came out of me.”

Mark’s jaw dropped slightly. “Then… who are you?”

Rio gave him the kind of smile that would’ve melted glaciers, sweet as honey and twice as fatal. “I’m the wife.”

Mark blinked again.

“And the only reason you’re still standing,” Rio added, her voice lowering into that velvety, syrup-smooth register Agatha loved so much when it was not directed at her—though right now it felt more like poison in a golden goblet—“is because I don’t want to wake the baby.”

She looked down at Violet, who was still blissfully asleep against her, then back up at Mark with a sort of maternal menace that was somehow more terrifying than anything Agatha could have summoned with supposed witchcraft. If this were a battlefield, Rio would be the one smiling gently while planting landmines.

“The baby,” she clarified, with exaggerated patience, “that we made. Together.”

“Ohhh…” Mark breathed, like he’d finally caught the plot twist three chapters too late. “I didn’t…”

“Didn’t what?” Rio tilted her head, taking another slow step forward, now angelically beaming, all teeth and menace, rocking her little angel. “Notice the wedding ring? Or the part where she said ‘my spouse’? Or maybe the part where she was clearly not into you? Not even a little?”

Mark opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. A fish gasping for air and social grace. Nothing came out.

Agatha tilted her head and took a delicate sip of coffee. “This is getting uncomfortable, even for me.”

“I just—” Mark tried again, the gears in his brain grinding loudly. “I didn’t realize—”

“That you were out of your depth?” Agatha finished for him, arching one brow. “That became clear the moment you said muffins.”

Mark looked at the flowers in his hand as if he’d just realized they were cursed. His arm wilted slightly.

“Anyway,” Rio said, already bored of the interaction, “we should probably go inside before the baby gets fussy. And Nicky needs his shoes.”

“Nicky!” Agatha called lightly over her shoulder. “Shoes, darling. Unless you’d like to know what bee stings feel like.”

“Yes, Mama!” came the reply from the other side of the yard.

But Rio’s gaze had already dropped to the sad little bouquet still dangling pathetically from Mark’s hand like it had just realized it was part of a terrible mistake.

She squinted slightly. “Are those… violets?”

Mark nodded, eyes wide, mouth parted like someone waiting for divine intervention.

Rio tilted her head, cradling Violet a little closer as she leaned her cheek tenderly against the baby’s crown. Her smile bloomed slowly—syrupy and amused, a little dangerous around the edges.

“My wife and I love violets,” she said sweetly. “In fact…” She glanced down at the warm, sleeping baby on her chest, then back up, smile widening. “I just gave birth to one.”

Mark blinked, visibly short-circuiting.

Behind her, Agatha didn’t even bother to pretend anymore. The smirk that had been tugging at the corner of her mouth broke free at last. She took a triumphant sip of coffee, eyes gleaming. If victory had a flavor, it would taste like this exact moment.

“Good lord,” she murmured under her breath, “this is better than television.”

Mark finally, blessedly, took several steps backward, stammering a series of sounds that vaguely resembled a cry for help. He was already halfway through the lawn, when Nicky, who had just taken a triumphant sip from the neon green juice cup Rio had just handed him stood square in the middle of the yard and called after him with the brutal clarity of the feral seven-year-old he was.

“Stop flirting with Mama,” he announced to the entire neighborhood, like he was making a public service announcement. “She’s married to Mom. They kiss a lot.”

Agatha choked on her coffee.

Rio blinked, pushing her tongue in her cheek.

“And!” Nicky went on, finger in the air, utterly unfazed by decorum, “Mom just had a baby. And she yells when she’s tired. You’re gonna get yelled at.”

Mark paused, looking like he’d been shot through the chest.

Agatha’s face was buried in her hand now. Her shoulders shook with silent laughter. She peeked out from between her fingers and winked at Nicky, raising her mug in salute. “Thanks for the warning, love.”

“You’re welcome,” Nicky replied cheerfully, taking another slurp from his straw with the confident air of someone who had just saved the village.

But Rio… Rio narrowed her eyes.

Her posture shifted—barely perceptible, but Agatha caught it instantly. The way her spine straightened, jaw tightened. The way her arm around Violet curled a little tighter. Protective. Primal. A little dangerous. The laugh she’d been suppressing evaporated into something quieter and far more serious.

Agatha’s amusement evaporated. Not out of fear—but reverence. Because that shift in Rio was sacred. It was the same instinct that had once snarled at a raccoon trying to wander near Nicky’s little body. That same raw, ancestral chord vibrating through her body, whispering warning.

Mark, took a step back, hesitated—glancing back like he’d felt the air drop ten degrees. Like something unseen had just curled its fingers around the collar of his shirt.

And that’s when Rio took a single, deliberate step closer to Agatha.

Just one.

But everything about it screamed mine.

Her voice dropped an octave—not loud, but low and warning, like thunder rolling just under the surface.

“Touch her with your eyes again,” she muttered, “and I’ll hex your house with bees. A thousand of them. And spiders. And snakes. Every time you open a drawer, it’ll hiss.”

Mark froze. His eyes went wide. He looked like he was trying to figure out whether she was joking. (She wasn’t.)

Agatha, lips parted slightly in surprised awe, slowly turned to face her wife. Her brows arched high, eyes glittering.

“Oh,” she breathed, entirely too delighted. “Marry me again.”

Rio didn’t even blink. “Yes. Let’s do it.”

The smile she gave Agatha was saccharine, dripping with sweetness, but edged in steel. The kind of smile a queen gives just before declaring war. She turned her head deliberately toward Mark, her gaze still fixed like a laser.

“Right now. In front of him.”

Agatha was grinning like a lunatic. “Should we call the officiant? I still have her number. She loved us.”

Rio looked positively feral now. “No need. Nicky can do it.”

“I now pronounce you…” Nicky shouted immediately, juice sloshing dangerously in his cup as he raised it like a ceremonial goblet, “WIVES AGAIN!”

“You may kiss the wife!” he added gleefully, raising his dragon high above his head.

Agatha chuckled—low, warm, undone—and turned toward Rio, her hand rising instinctively to the back of her neck, fingers disappearing into the unruly waterfall of damp, dark curls.

“Hello again, wife,” she whispered, with a softness that made Rio’s breath catch.

Rio’s eyes sparkled. “Hi, professor.”

And they kissed—unhurried and sure and just a little smug. The kind of kiss that said: We’ve been through hell together, and we’d do it all again. Twice.

Nicky whooped, spinning in a circle and nearly spilling his juice. “I’m gonna be the flower kid and ring bearer again!”

Agatha pulled back just enough to rest her forehead against Rio’s, their breath mingling in the space between them. Her eyes were still laughing, lips kissed-slick and curved from being well and truly claimed in public. “You’re terrifying,” she murmured.

“I’m postpartum,” Rio replied. “Fear me.”

Agatha grinned. “I do. Every day. It’s exhilarating.”

Rio leaned in until their noses brushed. “Good.”

“I like it.”

“Of course you do.”

Somewhere next to them, Mark made a noise like he’d just been hit with a very large and unexpected sack of rice.

Nicky clapped. “They’re kissing again!”

Violet made a soft, content little sigh in her sleep, oblivious to the showdown happening right above her nose.

Agatha finally drew back with a dreamy sigh that suggested she could float for the rest of the day off that one kiss alone. Her hand lingered at the side of Rio’s neck, thumb brushing gently along her pulse.

Mark, who was visibly overheating now—his face tomato-red and glistening with the effort of pretending he hadn’t just tried to flirt with a married woman in front of her wife and their babies—fumbled awkwardly with the bouquet like it might grant him safe passage to a better timeline.

“I—I’m sorry,” he stammered, edging backwards up the path like a man walking away from a bear den. “Didn’t know the neighbors were… raging lesbians.”

He said it like he expected it to be endearing. Like a charming observation.

Agatha blinked.

Rio raised a single eyebrow so sharp it could’ve sliced the flowers straight from his hand.

Mark, apparently realizing he had not helped himself, turned hastily—thrusting the bouquet in Agatha’s hand—and made a beeline for his door.

“Raging lesbians?” Rio repeated under her breath, but loud enough for Agatha to hear. “He’s about to be raging and concussed if he keeps running his mouth.”

Agatha burst out laughing.

Mark, as if cursed by Rio’s words, glanced back one final time—just in time to catch his foot on the garden hose lying in a lazy coil across the walkway. Just like the snake Rio had threatened to hex his house with.

It was an explosion of desperate masculinity—and Mark barely caught himself on the railing before disappearing inside, slamming the door a little too hard behind him.

Agatha looked up toward the front door of the neighbor’s house, where Mark had officially disappeared inside. She murmured, “Think he’s gonna move back out?”

Rio snorted. “I hope not. I’m just getting warmed up. I give him three weeks before he starts trimming his hedges in running shorts and telling us about his crypto portfolio.”

“Two,” Agatha murmured. “And he’ll call it a ‘startup’ and describe it as ‘decentralized real estate.’”

Rio stared at her. “That is so stupid it sounds real. Did he really offer to bake you muffins?”

Agatha hummed, observing the bouquet in her hand with a very critical eye. “Right before he tried to romance me with stories about his ex-wife not liking to play ball with the kids.”

Rio groaned into her hands, careful not to disturb Violet. “Gross. I hate that I know exactly what tone he used.”

“Very single dad in a dating app ad.”

“The one where he leans on the minivan and says ‘I’m just looking for someone who gets it’?”

“That’s the one. And you missed the part where he complimented my elegance while looking at my chest.”

Rio pulled back slightly and arched a brow. “I will punch that man so hard he sees God. And if I’m feeling generous, I might even introduce them.”

Agatha smiled. “I know. Thanks for scaring the muffin man away.”

Rio laughed—a bright, unapologetic sound that bounced off the porch and sent birds scattering from the trees. Agatha leaned in again, kissed her temple slowly, and slipped her fingers through hers like it was second nature.

“Come on,” Agatha murmured. “You need pancakes. And I need to watch you threaten more men before noon.”

Rio smirked. “You just like watching me get mad.”

Agatha grinned, unrepentant. “It’s like watching art set itself on fire.”

She slid an arm around Rio’s waist as they started toward the door, her hand splaying deliberately across her lower back, fingers just brushing beneath the belt of her dress.

Rio arched a brow. “Possessive much?”

Agatha leaned in, her mouth brushing the shell of her ear as she whispered, “I learned from the best.”

But Rio didn’t respond. She went back to staring at the porch as she walked, her eyes narrowed and jaw just a little too tight to be casual. Protective instinct still flickering under her skin like the last embers of a blaze.

“I was ready to throw hands,” she said finally, voice lower now. “With the baby in my arms and everything.”

“I know.” Agatha pressed a kiss to her hairline, slow and lingering. “You’re very scary when you’re jealous. It’s hot.”

“I’m not jealous,” Rio muttered, though she leaned into Agatha’s side like she might climb into her skin if she could. “I’m territorial.”

Agatha huffed a soft laugh, drawing her closer as they stepped inside. “Oh, well then. That’s much better.”

“You’re mine,” Rio added, matter-of-fact, her voice laced with something more possessive and wicked. “And I don’t share well.”

Agatha’s breath caught just a little. “Say it again.”

Rio turned her head, just enough to catch her wife’s gaze, something dark and glittering behind her smile. “Mine.”

Behind them —just as the moment threatened to tip fully into scandalous— Nicky raised his cup like he was giving a toast. “Can we have pancakes now? I was promised pancakes. Also,” he added, turning his wide-eyed gaze up to Agatha, “Mom is being spicy again. Which usually means we eat late.” And he disappeared into the house under the bemused eye of his mothers.

Rio sighed, then looked at her wife sideways. “He’s too observant.”

“He’s your son,” Agatha said sweetly, slipping both arms around her waist this time. “He’s right though, Mom is being spicy,” she said under her breath, eyes warm, voice velvet-smooth. “Absolutely scorching, actually.”

Rio tilted her chin, clearly enjoying herself now. “What’re you gonna do about it, professor?”

Agatha smiled with the quiet confidence of someone who had already written the syllabus. “Oh, I’ve got ideas. But first…”

She leaned down and kissed her—slow, thorough, with just enough heat to make Rio sigh against her lips and forget about Mark, and the porch, and even the pancakes.

Behind them, from inside the house, Nicky’s voice rang out like a trumpet: “Okay, I found the pan! Don’t kiss for too long or I’ll start cooking unsupervised!”

Agatha broke the kiss and rested her forehead against Rio’s again with a groan. “He’s too much your son.”

Rio grinned wickedly. “Like you’re not proud.”

Nicky, apparently tired of waiting,  came flying back out of the house like a shot, sneakers flapping wildly from his hands, his face contorted in dramatic exasperation. “MOMS! I called you three times. Are we gonna have pancakes now or not?!” he yelled, as if they’d been keeping him waiting for a lifetime instead of three minutes.

Rio didn’t even flinch. She adjusted Violet’s sling against her chest with the calm of a queen after battle. “Yes,” she said serenely. “As soon as I burn the memory of that man’s voice out of my brain with fire and prayer.”

Agatha reached out and slipped an arm around Rio’s waist, pressing a kiss to her temple, then one to Violet’s tiny head. “You were magnificent.”

Rio gave a soft snort. “I was hormonal. There’s a difference. I leave you alone for ten minutes and you’re already breaking hearts and receiving unsolicited muffins.”

Agatha smiled smugly. “Still magnificent,” she said smugly, brushing her lips against Rio’s jaw.

Rio exhaled heavily, but the corner of her mouth twitched. “Do I really look that young?” she asked, her voice quieter now, somewhere between curious and self-conscious.

Agatha pulled back just enough to meet her eyes, the answer ready in her bones. “No,” she said, slow and certain. “You really don’t, he was just trying to rile you up. You look like my chaos incarnate and the mother of my children. There’s no mistaking you for anyone else’s anything.”

Rio’s cheeks flushed, and she ducked her head slightly, rubbing her cheek against Violet’s soft wrap. “That’s hot,” she mumbled.

“Extremely,” Agatha said, entirely serious.

Nicky tugged at the hem of Agatha’s shirt, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet. “Can I please have syrup this time, or are we still doing the whole healthy berries-only thing because my tummy’s ’sensitive’ or whatever?”

Agatha arched a single brow at him. “Are you going to finish your food this time, or are we still leaving the table halfway through to ‘go check on the moon’?”

Nicky hesitated. “…maybe.”

“That’s a no,” Agatha said flatly. “Berries it is.”

“Ugh,” Nicky groaned, stomping back toward the kitchen like he’d been personally betrayed by nutrition.

Rio snorted, turned, and led the way back into the house, barefoot and dangerous. “I have earned those pancakes, and I will eat them with the full satisfaction of a woman who just annihilated a neighborhood flirt.”

Agatha followed her like a moth to flame, eyes fixed on her wife with helpless devotion. “Should I be worried about you scaring off all our new neighbors before they even learn our names?”

“No,” Rio said breezily, pushing open the front door with her hip. “Only the ones who don’t know how to shut up.”

“Fair.”

As they stepped inside, Nicky had alredy zoomed past them like a juice-fueled rocket, yelling how he wanted pancakes in the shape of dinosaurs this time, please and thank you.

Agatha closed the door behind them and leaned against it for a second. She looked at Rio—wild-haired, barefoot, coral dress, and deadly with sleep deprivation—and thought: I would marry her a thousand times over.

And Rio, as if she’d heard the thought itself, turned back with a glint in her eye and said, “I call the biggest pancake.”

“You earned it, Mrs. Harkness-Vidal,” Agatha said, heading to the kitchen. “You earned all the pancakes.”

“Mrs. Harkness-Vidal,” Rio repeated, amused, taking a sip of Agatha’s coffee. “You’re gonna call me that all day now, aren’t you?”

Agatha didn’t answer. Just smiled.

But before she could so much as reach for the pancake mix, Rio leaned against the counter, narrowed her eyes playfully, and said, “Okay but—did you let him flirt with you on purpose?”

Agatha paused mid-sip, that gleam back in her eyes. “I might have been curious,” she admitted. “To see how long it would take before you materialized like an avenging spirit.”

Rio groaned and pressed her head against Agatha’s shoulder, careful not to jostle Violet. “Ugh. Men.”

“Some of them are tolerable,” Agatha allowed, brushing her lips over Rio’s temple, “in controlled doses. Like wasabi. Or radiation.”

“He’s not one of them.”

“No,” Agatha agreed. “He’s not.”

Rio let the moment linger, her body warm against Agatha’s side. But then she pulled back, arching one of those weaponized eyebrows again.

“Can we circle back again for a second?” she asked, pointing to the bundle on her chest. “Your daughter, really? » She said pointing at herself and then at Violet. « This tiny wrinkly burrito is your daughter. Not me. We’re thirteen years apart, for God’s sake, Agatha. Thirteen.”

Agatha couldn’t help the grin that tugged at the corners of her lips. “What can I say? You have a youthful glow.”

Rio rolled her eyes, but the frustration was clearly laced with humor. “Next neighbor who hits on you gets a pancake to the face,” she said over her shoulder.

“Noted,” Agatha replied, eyes gleaming. “Make it a stegosaurus.”

She looked down at the sleeping baby, then up at Rio. “You know, you’re the scariest, most protective person I’ve ever met.”

Rio sighed. “Damn right.”

Agatha smiled, leaning towards her wife. “And yet the softest.”

Rio glanced at Violet and then back at Agatha, grumbling with a crooked little smile, “That’s just biology. My softness is hormonal.”

Agatha smirked. “Hormonal or not, I like you soft.”

Nicky suddenly called from his stool next to the cupboard, “I heard that! Mama said you were spicy earlier, now you’re soft? Make up your minds!”

Rio shouted back, “We’re complicated women, Nicky!”

Then she turned back to the flowers in her hand.

“You want me to go throw the flowers back over the fence?”

“Usually, I would say we take care of every and any violet we see,” Agatha said, chuckling softly. “But let’s make an exception for those ones. Let’s dry them and feed them to the compost. One by one.”

“Dark,” Rio said proudly. “That’s my wife.”

*

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Chapter Text

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The next morning, the doorbell rang at the precise moment Rio was readjusting her robe, having just finished breastfeeding. Timing, as it turned out, had a wicked sense of humor.

She had Violet propped against her shoulder like a soft, snoring sack of flour, patting the baby’s back with the dazed rhythm of a woman who had been awake since before sunrise—fueled solely by caffeine, adrenaline, maternal rage, and whatever divine force it was that kept her from yeeting a baby monitor across the room at 3 a.m.

Her dark curls were tied in a loose, messy bun that had clearly lost the will to live. A few stubborn strands hung in her eyes, clinging to her forehead. The robe—floral, slightly rumpled, unmistakably Agatha’s—was cinched tightly around her waist in a knot that screamed do not test me today.

From her post on the couch, Agatha looked up with the serene detachment of a woman who knew exactly how funny this was going to be and was very much ready to watch it unfold. She still had Violet’s tiny baby blanket folded neatly in her lap, untouched, and her coffee mug was halfway to her lips.

“Want me to get it?” she asked, her tone neutral, eyes gleaming with anticipation.

Rio exhaled through her nose, tightened the knot of her robe like she was preparing for battle, and squared her shoulders with a quiet but deeply menacing dignity. “No. I got it.”

She opened the door slowly.

And there he was.

Mark stood awkwardly on the front step, smiling in that distinctly nervous way men do when they suspect they’re about to get verbally annihilated. He held a tray of muffins—store-bought, unmistakably, insultingly store-bought—still in the plastic clamshell from the grocery store but transferred onto a ceramic plate in a desperate attempt at deception. It was the breakfast equivalent of putting a bowtie on a ferret and calling it a poodle.

He was dressed like a man who didn’t understand what “casual” meant: polo shirt tucked in too tight, belt cinched like it owed him money, khakis that had been aggressively ironed within an inch of their lives. And the cologne—God, the cologne again—hit Rio in the face like a chemical weapon. She half-expected Violet to sneeze in protest.

“Morning!” he chirped, voice artificially bright, like he thought maybe volume would cancel out awkwardness. “Thought I’d, uh, swing by with a little peace offering.”

He lifted the tray like it was a gesture of goodwill and not a plastic-boxed bribe soaked in secondhand embarrassment.

Rio stared at him. Blinked once.

She didn’t smile.

“Bringing pastries to a lesbian household,” she said dryly, “isn’t going to fix the patriarchy.”

Mark’s smile faltered. “Oh, well—I mean, sure, but—these are blueberry? »

Rio looked at the muffins. Then looked at him. Then looked at the muffins again like they’d personally offended her.

Behind her, Agatha coughed into her coffee mug, which was absolutely not a cough but a full-bodied attempt not to laugh.

Mark, bravely—or stupidly—plowed on. “I just thought, you know, after yesterday… it might be good to start over.”

“Start over?” Rio repeated, her voice deceptively calm, calm just like before a volcano erupts.

“Right! Just a clean slate. Neighborly welcome. No hard feelings.”

She nodded once, solemnly.

Then shifted Violet slightly and said, “Great. And tomorrow, I’ll swing by your house with a feminist reading list and a live tarentula.”

Mark blinked. “A… tarentula?”

Agatha’s voice drifted in helpfully from the couch. “It’s symbolic.”

From somewhere behind Rio, a low, unmistakable growl rumbled through the hallway like a tiny, furry engine of doom.

Mark blinked, startled. “What… was that?”

“That,” Rio said flatly, without turning, “was Señor Scratchy.”

The aforementioned menace—Agatha’s perpetually disgruntled bunny—lurched into view around the corner, ears back, whiskers twitching with disdain. He was roughly the size and temperament of a haunted teapot, and he narrowed his beady eyes at Mark like he knew exactly what kind of man used cologne before 9 a.m.

“He growled,” Mark said, voice pitching upward slightly. “Do rabbits… growl?”

“This one does,” Rio replied. “Usually at men. Sometimes at packages. But mostly men.”

Señor Scratchy let out another guttural grumble, like a warning from the underworld.

Mark took an instinctive step back.

Agatha, still on the couch, finally looked up from her mug, voice light and amused. “Be nice, darling.”

“I am being nice,” Rio muttered, jostling Violet gently on her shoulder. “This is peak nice for me. This is me with my fangs filed down and the sarcasm on low heat.”

Mark, clearly unsure whether to laugh or run for his life, cleared his throat and straightened his already over-straightened shirt. “Anyway—uh. Right. I’m throwing a little welcome BBQ this afternoon. You know, just a casual thing. Some people from the block, burgers, beer, good vibes… I thought I’d officially invite you. Maybe bring the kids, meet the neighbors. Friendly suburban stuff.”

Señor Scratchy let out a long, low hiss like he’d just been personally invited to hell, weird, considering Rio was sure that was where he came from.

Rio tilted her head. “What kind of ‘friendly suburban stuff’ are we talking about? The kind where everyone brings potato salad and someone gets passive-aggressively shamed for using margarine instead of butter? Or the kind where we all pretend we’re fine until someone has a midlife crisis into the pool?”

Mark looked completely lost.

Fortunately for him, Agatha had stood and crossed the room, effortlessly graceful even barefoot, her cup still in hand like a queen descending her throne to make peace. She gave him a polite but unreadable smile.

“That’s very thoughtful of you,” she said, tone smooth as silk. “Thank you for the invitation.”

Mark brightened instantly, like a puppy who’d just been told he might get a treat. “Oh—great! So you’ll come?”

Agatha took a sip from her coffee, her expression pleasant, poised, perfectly noncommittal. “We’ll see if we’re free.”

There was a beat of silence.

And then, from behind her, Rio said—clearly, calmly, and just loud enough to be unmistakably heard—“We’re not.”

From the stairs came the unmistakable sound of thumping feet followed by the dramatic appearance of Nicky, their own pint-sized chaos agent. He wore pajama pants that were unmistakably inside-out, a t-shirt bearing a half-faded dinosaur graphic, and the hair of a child who had been through at least three dreams involving firestorms and zero brushes.

In one hand, he brandished a green lightsaber—activated and humming ominously. In the other, a plastic stegosaurus that had clearly seen some battles. Possibly with the lightsaber.

“Wait—did somebody say BBQ?” he asked, eyes wide with feral morning energy. “Will there be juice boxes?”

Mark blinked like he wasn’t sure if the small boy was real or had been conjured by the house itself.

Mark chuckled, looking between the three of them, clearly still trying to figure out the ecosystem. “Plenty of juice boxes.”

Señor Scratchy, from his perch by the hall table, let out another menacing growl that made Mark flinch a little.

“Ignore him,” Rio said dryly, adjusting Violet against her shoulder. “He’s just upset there’s no rabbit-friendly charcuterie involved.”

Agatha glanced down at the tray of sad grocery-store muffins and gave her wife a conspiratorial look. “We’ll think about it.”

Mark nodded too quickly. “Sure, sure. No pressure. Totally optional. Just vibes.”

He hesitated, eyes flicking to the tray again. “Muffin?”

Rio accepted the plate with the grim resignation of a teacher being handed a failed group project by students who definitely knew they had failed. She did not thank him. She simply shut the door in his face with the slow, deliberate motion of a woman performing spiritual exfoliation.

She turned to Agatha with a grand sweep of the muffin tray like she was presenting a cursed offering to the queen of the underworld. “He’s lucky I didn’t answer the door with one boob out.”

“You were two seconds away from doing just that,” Agatha said, amused, stepping into the hallway and sipping from her now-lukewarm coffee.

Rio gave her a mock-glare, then looked down at Violet, who had nestled back into sleep with her tiny mouth slack and her little fingers clutching Rio’s robe. “I will breastfeed this baby and simultaneously plan a hypothetical legal defense for the moment I smack that man with this tray. He came into my house, Aggie. My house. With store-bought muffins and a tone.”

Nicky slashed his lightsaber dramatically in the air, narrowly missing one of Rio’s plant babies. “We should duel him at dawn!”

“No dueling the neighbors. Not again.” Agatha said gently, though a smile tugged at her lips as she bent down to fix Nicky’s backward pajama waistband. “Especially not over baked goods.”

Rio sighed, looking down at the tray of muffins. “Fine. But if he calls me your daughter again, I’m either smacking him or showing up to the BBQ in pigtails and asking you for lunch money, making everyone real uncomfortable.”

Agatha stepped in, brushing a soft kiss over Rio’s temple, her voice low and fond. “Let’s not smack anyone today, my love.”

Rio gave a noncommittal grunt, eyeing the muffin tray like it still might need defending against. “We’ll see.”

Halfway back up the stairs, Nicky called out again, “Do I get a muffin or not?! Also, what’s patriarchy? Because I heard that.”

Agatha paused, mid-sip, and exchanged a slow look with Rio.

Rio turned to stare up the stairs, locking eyes with her son. “Ask me again when you’re nine.”

Nicky made a thoughtful noise, then shrugged like someone who had decided patriarchy could wait. “Okay, but I do want a juice box at this BBQ we’re not going to.”

Agatha chuckled and drifted into the kitchen, her robe sweeping behind her like she’d stepped out of a soft-focus European film. “Welcome to the neighborhood,” she muttered under her breath, already drafting a mental map of who she’d need to side-eye at this theoretical BBQ should they ever actually attend.

Rio followed her, balancing the tray of muffins with the care one might reserve for a live grenade. She eyed them with suspicion. “I bet he didn’t even get the gluten-free ones.”

Agatha reached for one and took a bite without ceremony. “He didn’t,” she confirmed through the crumb. “But at least the chaos is full of sugar.”

Rio sighed, reluctantly grabbed a muffin for herself, and leaned against the wall in the kitchen. “You want to go?” she asked, flat and incredulous. “As in, physically attend the backyard testosterone festival hosted by our new cologne-scented neighbor who literally tried to flirt with you while I was holding your actual baby?”

Agatha—calm, barefoot, serene in her cream-colored robe and unbothered—just took a casual sip of her coffee. “It’s polite.”

“Polite?” Rio sputtered, half-laughing. “Polite? You’ve officially lost touch with reality. You read Machiavelli. You quote Audre Lorde before breakfast. What part of ‘bringing pastries to a lesbian household isn’t going to fix the patriarchy’ did you not find persuasive?”

Agatha raised a serene hand. “I agree with all of it. In theory. But I also believe in… strategic diplomacy. We live next door to the man. He’s recently divorced, alone in a beige house that smells like Axe body spray and midlife crisis. He has no idea what he’s doing. And I say we go. Not for him. For optics and community. For the sheer power of domestic presentation.”

Rio blinked. “What does that even mean.”

Agatha smiled, slow and sly. “It means we show up, as ourselves. As the very picture of marital stability and postnatal grace. You, glowing and gorgeous, and me, clearly married to the hottest woman on the block. Let him see what he tried—and failed—to flirt with. Let him understand exactly what kind of household he’s moved in next to.”

Rio narrowed her eyes. “You want to weaponize our marriage.”

Agatha beamed. “Always.”

From upstairs came a distant shout, “MOMS? THE STEGOSAURUS IS IN THE BATH!”

Agatha sighed. Rio didn’t move.

Rio squinted at her, suspicious. “You’re enjoying this.”

“A little,” Agatha admitted, setting down her cup and bumping Rio’s hip. “But mostly, I just want him to know what it looks like when love isn’t performative. When it’s real. Messy, and exhausted, and caffeinated, and utterly bulletproof.”

Rio stared at her for a moment, Violet now peacefully drooling on her collarbone, her tiny fists curled against her mother’s chest. Then she sighed.

“Fine,” she said. “But I’m wearing the special dress.”

Agatha stilled. “The special one?”

Rio nodded with the solemnity of a general choosing armor. “The special one. The dress that makes straight men rethink their entire personality and women consider switching teams before the appetizer tray hits the table. And heels.”

Agatha arched a brow. “You’ll destroy the lawn.”

Rio didn’t miss a beat. “I want to destroy the lawn.”

That got a grin out of Agatha, slow and reverent. Her eyes gleamed with the soft awe of someone watching a beloved star go supernova. “God, I love you.”

“I know.” Rio smirked, shifting Violet to her other arm. “We’ll go. But if he tries anything—like even breathes suggestively in your direction—I’m flipping a lawn chair and leaving.”

“Understood,” Agatha said, giving her a mock bow. “My honor is safe with you.”

“And we’re bringing Nicky,” Rio added, heading toward the stairs now, voice trailing behind her like a decree from a queen on the march. “He’s our secret weapon.”

Agatha tilted her head. “Weaponized seven-year-old. Bold choice.”

“Exactly,” Rio called. “He’ll talk about obscure lizard species for two hours, ask ten questions about divorce, and then declare he’s starting a rock band with Scratchy as his drummer. No one survives that kind of chaos.”

Agatha was still laughing when Rio stopped halfway up the stairs and turned. “Oh, and speaking of,  Señor Scratchy comes too.”

Agatha froze. “The bunny?”

“Yes,” Rio said calmly. “Señor Scratchy comes with us.”

“You can’t bring a vengeful, misanthropic rabbit to a neighborhood BBQ.”

“Oh I can,” Rio nodded. “You want to show the power of domestic bliss? Let’s bring the whole circus. He hates men, he growls at polyester, and he once peed in the shoe of a guy who asked if I was here for private lessons. He stays.”

Agatha’s expression slowly morphed into delighted approval. “I married a madwoman. But no bunny.”

Rio gave her a dazzling smile. “Yes bunny. And you did. And you’re welcome.”

With that, she disappeared down the hall, Violet nestled against her shoulder, her voice already bouncing off the walls as she shouted for Nicky to “remove prehistoric reptiles from her perfectly clean bathtub, please and thank you”. Her presence left behind the distinct feeling of a storm rolling in—glorious, inevitable, and entirely underdressed. For now.

Agatha lingered by the kitchen island, sipping what remained of her coffee. It had gone lukewarm. She didn’t care.

She looked out the window toward the offending house next door, smile curving across her lips like a blade hidden in silk.

“Well, Mark,” she murmured, voice barely louder than a thought. “You really have no idea what you’ve just invited.”

She paused.

“And definitely no bunny.”

It had taken Rio two full hours to get ready. Not because she was unsure of what to wear—she’d had the dress picked out since the muffins hit the doorstep—but because presentation mattered when making a statement. And Rio had been, very consciously, preparing for battle.

The bathroom still smelled like rasperry and baby shampoo. A curl of steam lingered in the air as she stepped out in her chosen armor: a flowy deep purple sundress that hugged her in all the right places and fluttered dramatically around her legs. The slit up one side was just bold enough to say I’m hot and I know it, but not so bold as to draw judgmental side-eyes from Christian moms. Her hair was pinned up, with a few intentional wisps falling around her face. Her earrings—thick gold hoops—caught the light when she turned.

And on her lips: the red lipstick. The one that screamed: don’t look at my wife, don’t talk to my wife, and if you even think about flirting with my wife, I will destroy you in open daylight and make it look like performance art.

She gave herself one final glance in the mirror, adjusted the strap of the baby-sized dress she had put Violet in (all in coordinating lavender, naturally), and stepped into the bedroom to grab her sandals.

Agatha stood in the doorway, frozen mid-step, hand still on the knob, her train of thought completely derailed. Her eyes widened slightly, and her breath caught.

“You’re…” Agatha began, but the rest of the sentence fell apart somewhere between her awe and the sundress slit. After a moment, she tried again. “Stunning.”

Rio gave her reflection a quick nod, then turned to her wife with a small, victorious smile. “Thanks,” she said, clipping the second hoop into place. “I plan on smiling sweetly, holding our child like a battle flag, and gently reminding the neighborhood exactly who you married.”

Agatha stepped inside, as if pulled by gravity, her eyes never leaving her. “I don’t think I’m going to be able to form full sentences for the rest of the day,” she said softly.

Rio smirked and leaned down to fasten her sandal. “That’s fine. I’ll do the talking.”

From somewhere down the hallway, Nicky’s voice rang out, casual and slightly suspicious: “Mommy, are you putting on war paint again?”

Agatha snorted, biting back a laugh. “Yes, darling,” she called back. “Mommy’s getting ready for battle.”

There was a pause. Then Nicky again: “Do I need my armor?”

“No, baby,” Rio called back, picking up Violet’s sunhat. “You’re already a weapon.”

There was the sound of galloping feet as Nicky raced down the hall, presumably in search of his dinosaur shield and a pair of mismatched socks. Agatha moved closer, eyes still fixed on Rio like she hadn’t quite decided if she wanted to kiss her or worship her. Definitely both.

Rio grinned, placing Violet gently in the sling. The baby snuffled softly, still asleep, entirely unaware of her key role in this suburban showdown.

“Is it too much?” Rio asked, turning to Agatha and motioning to the ensemble—the dress, the lipstick, the whole don’t mess with me energy. “Be honest.”

Agatha stepped forward and cupped Rio’s jaw in one hand. “No. It’s perfect. You look like a woman who survived labor, pays her taxes, and is prepared to emotionally destroy any man who makes eye contact.”

“That’s the goal,” Rio murmured, brushing her fingers over Agatha’s wrist. “Are you wearing the sexy professor sunglasses?” she asked next.

Agatha reached into her back pocket and produced them like a magician drawing a rabbit from a hat. “Naturally.”

Rio exhaled dramatically, eyes wide. “God help him. And me. For totally different reasons.”

At that exact moment, Nicky came flying into the room like a rocket powered by sheer enthusiasm and sugar. His light-up sneakers blinked furiously as he skidded to a stop in the middle of the room, holding up a wrinkled piece of construction paper with a proud fkick of the wrist.

“I made Señor Scratchy an invitation,” he announced. “For the barbecue.”

Rio blinked. “You… what?”

Agatha closed her eyes and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like oh no.

Nicky shoved the paper toward them. On it was a crude crayon drawing of their family, the neighbor’s grill, and a smiling rabbit holding a hot dog. In one corner, in large letters: WELCOME TO THE BBQ. BRING LETTUCE.

Agatha crouched down, drawing on the last reserves of her teacher patience. “Sweetheart, the bunny isn’t—”

“He has to come,” Nicky interrupted, already rifling through a pile of baby gear for Violet’s backup sling. “It’s a diplomatic mission.”

Rio tilted her head. “Diplomatic for who?”

“For everyone,” Nicky said gravely, hoisting Señor Scratchy with both hands. The rabbit, long-suffering and slightly cross-eyed, hung like a weary veteran awaiting deployment. “He has diplomatic innumity.”

“Immunity,” Agatha corrected before narrowing her eyes. “From what?”

“From the consequences of his actions,” Nicky replied, completely serious, like this was something any adult should already know. “And also because he’s part of the family. And he never gets invited to things.”

Rio let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-sigh. “You know what? Let him come. If we’re showing up, we might as well arrive like the end of Mary Poppins meets Mad Max.”

Agatha gave her wife a look—wry, resigned, and ever so slightly impressed. “You’re enabling this.”

“I’m weaponizing it and you started it,” Rio repeated, tightening Violet’s sling with a deft motion. She gently adjusted the baby’s sunhat—lavender, with tiny white daisies—and straightened her own posture with theatrical elegance. “This is full theater. We’re putting on a show.”

Nicky cheered, already trying to fit Señor Scratchy into the baby carrier like a squirmy puzzle piece. Agatha sighed and gently intervened. “Nicky. Do not strap the bunny into your sister’s carrier. That is not a good use of infant ergonomics.”

“But he wants to be snug!” Nicky protested.

“He can be snug in your arms,” Agatha replied, picking up the invite and tucking it under her arm like a file of damning evidence.

Rio rose to her full height and struck a pose like a woman who knew she was a living threat to fragile masculinity everywhere. She adjusted Violet’s hat, smoothed her dress, and glanced at her reflection in the hallway mirror with satisfaction.

“Let’s go make heterosexuality uncomfortable.”

Agatha grabbed her sunglasses and slid them on, the lenses flashing in the late-afternoon sun. “After you, warrior queen.”

And so they marched—with Nicky bouncing ahead and Violet snoozing on Rio’s chest—toward the battlefield.

Otherwise known as Mark’s backyard.

*

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Chapter Text

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They arrived like a unit, a force, a perfectly choreographed storm of confidence, coordination, and quiet chaos. A living tableau that deserved its own glossy magazine cover—Queer Domestic Powerhouses Monthly.

Agatha moved with the calm authority of a woman who knew exactly who she was and had no interest in apologizing for it. Dressed in sharp, immaculate white linen—tailored trousers, crisp shirt, sleeves rolled just enough to show the line of her wrist and the veins of her forearms—she looked devastatingly serene. Her long brown hair flowed like a curtain of silk down her back, catching the light in chestnut waves as it reached her waist. Her sunglasses sat perfectly on the bridge of her nose, projecting quiet menace with a hint of literary superiority. She could have been walking into a board meeting or a duel. No one could be sure.

Beside her, Rio owned the sidewalk. She didn’t walk so much as glide—every step deliberate, hips swaying, the hem of her flowy purple sundress lifting gently with the breeze like a flag of rebellion. Her lipstick was defiant. Her earrings sparkled. She glowed with a feral calm so potent it bordered on offensive, terrifyingly gorgeous in a way that was neither accidental nor humble. She made no effort to dull the shine.

And at her heart—literally pressed to her chest—was Violet, snoozing peacefully in her sling and matching little outfit. Her little fists curled against Rio’s sternum, one chubby leg dangling loose, daisy-riddled lavender sunhat tilted slightly sideways. She looked like a cherub hand-picked to accessorize this moment of theatrical entrance.

Just ahead of them, Nicky trotted with purpose, legs a little too short for his ambition but heart fully in the game. He clutched the diaper bag with both hands like it was a diplomatic briefcase containing state secrets. His face was comically solemn beneath his wild hair, jaw set with the kind of resolve only seven-year-olds and action heroes could pull off.

From the mesh side pocket, one floppy ear and the bug-eyed face of Señor Scratchy peeked out like a stowaway on a mission.

Agatha glanced at the bunny, then at her son, and sighed. “He smuggled the rabbit in.”

“I helped,” Rio said breezily, without a hint of remorse. “We’re a package deal. You said we were bringing the whole family.”

“I didn’t mean the family plus a mildly haunted rabbit.”

“Well,” Rio said, brushing a hand through her hair as though she were in a shampoo commercial, “you married into chaos. This is just the extended universe.”

Nicky turned back to them, walking backwards now. “He’s here for moral support,” he said. “And surveillance.”

Agatha gave her son a long, measured look over the top of her sunglasses. “If Señor Scratchy spies on anyone’s grill, we’re leaving.”

Nicky nodded solemnly, as if that were a reasonable boundary in this delicate diplomatic mission.

They reached the edge of the alley, the scent of barbecue wafting from a few backyards away, mingling with the sound of laughter, plastic lawn chairs scraping pavement, and someone’s dad trying to be funny too loudly.

Rio slowed, inhaling once through her nose and lifting her chin, violet dress swirling around her legs. “Showtime.”

As they reached the gate to Mark’s backyard, conversation ebbed among the guests. People looked up from paper plates and folding chairs. Somewhere, music drifted from a Bluetooth speaker—classic rock, poorly balanced between bass and treble.

Mark, manning the grill with the exaggerated enthusiasm of a recently-divorced dad trying to reinvent himself, looked up mid-flip and promptly dropped his spatula. It hit the patio with a clatter. He lunged to retrieve it, bumped the edge of the grill, and sent a bottle of ketchup toppling in a slow, tragic arc. It hit the ground with a wet splat, spurting a red blotch across his cargo shorts like a war wound.

Rio smiled at him.

Not a friendly smile. Not even a smug one. The smile of a lioness watching the last wildebeest realize it’s made a fatal mistake.

Agatha nudged her lightly with one elbow, murmuring under her breath, “Steady, tiger.” But even she didn’t bother hiding the flicker of amusement on her face, the upward twitch at the corners of her mouth.

Rio approached the grill with poise, Violet completely unfazed in her sling. She reached into the diaper bag and pulled out a small, carefully wrapped gift. The paper was a deep scarlet with gold ribbon, tied immaculately. It stood out from the sea of grocery-store cookies and forgettable wine bottles gathering on a nearby table.

Mark, clearly nervous now, accepted it with both hands. “Oh! Uh… Thank you. You didn’t have to—”

“It’s hot sauce,” Rio said sweetly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear as though she hadn’t come here to burn a man alive with a smile.

Mark blinked. “Hot sauce?”

“Homemade,” she said. “Pairs well with humiliation.”

Agatha coughed loudly, turning her head just enough to conceal a burst of laughter. Nicky, still standing near his mother, nodded gravely like this was the most normal social interaction in the world.

Mark fumbled with the ribbon. “Is it… uh… really spicy?”

Rio tilted her head. “It’s called Not for the Weak.”

“Oh.”

Agatha finally stepped in, her tone the picture of poise. “Thank you for the invitation. Beautiful weather.”

Mark, still visibly sweating under the weight of Rio’s smile and gift and the social fallout of the ketchup incident, scrambled for footing. “Y-yes! Yes, uh—great day for it, right? Please, make yourselves at home, we’ve got, uh, drinks, burgers, some veggie stuff too… juice boxes for the kids on the table over there…” He gestured vaguely toward a collapsible card table stacked with solo cups, napkins, and a collection of fruit snacks.

That last part was clearly meant for Nicky, who didn’t bother to acknowledge it—he was already halfway across the yard, single-minded in his mission to distribute Señor Scratchy’s presence diplomatically. The rabbit now hung in one arm as the boy approached a confused neighbor child and began listing the bunny’s lettuce preferences like a very small, very serious UN delegate.

Rio leaned in toward Agatha, just enough that her lips grazed the edge of her wife’s ear, her voice a conspiratorial purr that didn’t match the innocent smile still painted perfectly across her face. “I give him thirty minutes before he pretends he needs to check the grill and vanishes into the garage with a beer.”

Agatha adjusted her sunglasses. “You’re terrifying.”

“Good,” Rio said, pressing a kiss to Violet’s head. “Let’s be terrifying together.”

They walked further into the yard like royalty at a garden party, Violet snoozing like a baby angel and Nicky already handing Señor Scratchy to a bewildered neighbor child with a list of dietary restrictions.

All around them, the neighborhood smiled too brightly and kept their judgments politely hidden behind disposable cups.

But Rio just kept smiling.

She’d made her point.

But Mark, to his (dis)credit—or perhaps his growing delusion—kept trying.

Every time Agatha ended up in a new conversation, somehow detached from Rio by the current of neighborly mingling, Mark appeared at her side like a magnet. He hovered with a drink in one hand, his other hand gesturing too much, his voice turning a bit too loud whenever Agatha nodded politely at something he said. She responded with calm grace, as she always did—warm and intelligent, measured in every word. Her linen shirt rippled faintly in the breeze, sunglasses perched on her head, smile soft but impenetrable.

And every single time, like the shifting tide, Rio drifted over from across the yard—quiet but unmistakable.

She moved like a gothic storm cloud in purple silk, dark curls gleaming under the sun, Violet in her arms, sleeping with the serenity only infants and royalty seemed to possess. Without saying a word, Rio would appear beside Agaha, fingers brushing her waist to gently adjust a fold in her shirt, or reaching to tug Violet’s little dress just a little better. Her eyes never left Mark’s. Occasionally, she’d murmur something low and afectionate into Agatha’s ear—just enough to make Mark glance away, suddenly very interested in the condition of the grass.

This happened four times in the first hour.

The fifth time, Mark offered a burger as a peace offering, holding it out with a forced smile. “Fresh off the grill,” he said, “no onions. Thought maybe you’d like one.”

Rio looked down at the burger, then back up at him like he’d handed her roadkill wrapped in a napkin.

“Thanks, but no,” she said coolly. “That looks carcinogenic.”

Mark blinked.

Rio smiled—sweetly, almost pityingly—then passed Violet to Agatha with infinite care. She stepped back and sank into the nearest lawn chair with the deliberate grace of a queen assuming her throne, legs crossed, one eyebrow raised just enough to finish the conversation without saying a word.

From her perch beneath a striped umbrella, Rio surveyed the yard like a general assessing a battlefield. She sat with her spine straight, one arm slung over the back of her plastic chair, and the other holding a juice box that Nicky had just handed her—as if it were a rare vintage wine she’d been invited to evaluate.

Nicky plopped into the chair beside hers with the weary air of a fellow officer returning from reconnaissance. A half-eaten hot dog was clutched in one hand, and in the other, a green felt-tip marker. He raised his arm, inspecting the back of his hand where he had begun tallying something in his uneven scrawl.

“Five,” he said gravely, chewing. “Six if you count the ketchup guy.”

Rio took another sip. “Ketchup guy counts.”

Nicky nodded, then lowered his voice, nudging her with his elbow. “Mom. The guy with the hat tried to talk to Mama again.”

Rio didn’t need to ask which guy. Her gaze had already landed on Mark, who was now aggressively tending to the already overcooked hot dogs with the energy of someone trying to salvage both meat and dignity. He flipped one onto the grass, muttered something under his breath, and then pretended it hadn’t happened.

“Seven,” Rio said softly, eyes still fixed on him. “And I glared at the woman who said Mama looks ‘too put-together to have just had a baby.’”

Nicky let out a muffled cheer, nearly choking on a bite of bun. “She does though,” he said proudly, once he swallowed. “She looks awesome.”

“She always looks awesome,” Rio agreed, a flicker of a smirk playing at the edge of her mouth.

Meanwhile, Agatha moved through the party with quiet command. She charmed effortlessly, nodding through too-long stories, asking thoughtful questions, accepting compliments with ease. She passed Violet to Rio occasionally, but only when the baby stirred or when Rio gave a subtle, possessive tap to Agatha’s arm that meant I need her back now. When Violet dozed deeper, Agatha would take her again, cradling her like a token and precious cargo.

“Eight,” Nicky said suddenly, tapping Rio’s leg. “Cargo Shorts Guy was looking again.”

Rio didn’t even need to find him in the crowd. “He was looking at the ring,” she said. “Not the woman. That’s a different category.”

“Oh,” Nicky said thoughtfully. “Do I still mark it?”

She glanced down at his tally, then back up at Agatha—now gently deflecting a neighbor who’d offered to “hold the baby for a minute” with the sheer power of a raised eyebrow and a cordial nod. She didn’t hand Violet over.

“Mark it,” Rio said, sipping again. “You never know when it’ll be relevant.”

“Copy that,” Nicky muttered, making another line on his hand.

A few guests, now emboldened by lukewarm drinks and the illusion of familiarity, began to thingk that circling the subject of Violet’s parentage was a good idea, and they did so with varying degrees of tact. Some tiptoed toward it, phrasing their curiosity in vague, roundabout ways—She looks so peaceful, just like… well, do you see yourself in her? Others had all the subtlety of a crowbar.

“So…” one woman murmured, lowering her voice as if they were standing in a cathedral rather than twenty feet from a bounce house. “Who’s the biological mother?”

Agatha, who had fielded variations of that question more times than she could count, didn’t so much as blink. Her expression remained perfectly composed, the image of quiet composure in espadrilles and linen. She adjusted Violet’s sunhat with a gentle touch, then looked up with the patience of a saint and the precision of a dagger.

“She came from Rio,” she said simply, pressing a soft kiss to the baby’s downy temple. “But she’s ours. We’re both her mothers.”

The woman gave a tight, embarrassed smile, murmured something about “how wonderful that is,” and quickly excused herself in search of another seltzer.

Across the yard, Rio was already watching. She had caught the conversation from afar—perhaps not the words, but certainly the posture, the practiced smile, the tilt of Agatha’s head that always came just before she deflected an invasive question.

Rio didn’t say anything. Her smile said it for her.

From across the yard, Agatha caught her wife’s gaze and gave a knowing, almost teasing smile.

Rio, sitting like judgment in a sundress, glared lovingly.

Their daughter had been born into something unshakable. She would never be asked to question her place. That was a promise carved between them, unspoken and immutable.

A few feet away, Mark lingered near the grill, pretending to rearrange a plate of slightly burnt corn on the cob. He’d caught the exchange—Agatha’s graceful deflection, the subtle territorial communication between the two women, the way Rio sat like she owned the yard and possibly the HOA. His smile had tightened into something brittle.

It was hard to say which unsettled him more: being thoroughly, wordlessly outmaneuvered by a woman who had given birth barely a month ago—or the growing realization that said woman, who hadn’t spoken to him directly in half an hour, was orchestrating the entire social tone of his party from a lawn chair with a marker-wielding child and a juice box.

Because Rio hadn’t just brought Violet into the world. She’d brought a storm with her—and it was beautiful, and calm, and lethal in its stillness.

And Agatha? She simply knew how to hold lightning.

Two hours into the barbecue, just as the sun began to dip behind the roofs and the mosquitos emerged with ill intent, a second wave of guests arrived—latecomers Mark had vaguely mentioned earlier as some friends from the club.

They spilled into the yard with practiced ease, all mirrored sunglasses and boisterous laughter, dressed in variations of polos, tennis whites, and casual superiority. The kind of people who called women “girls” and barbecues “networking opportunities.”

One of them, a man in a polo shirt and cargo shorts who hadn’t even properly looked at anyone yet, nodded vaguely toward Rio as she sat with Violet dozing peacefully on her chest, Nicky and several other kids playing around her.

“So,” he said to Agatha, beer in hand, “is she the nanny?”

The world froze for a split second.

Rio’s head snapped up.

Agatha blinked.

Nicky, mid-bite, froze with a hot dog halfway to his mouth, his eyes wide in a mix of horror and something very much like oh, he’s done for.

It was the second time in two days. And this time, Rio did not have the patience to even attempt graciousness.

She slowly stood up, her movements deliberate, regal and dangerous all at once, Violet still cradled in her arms. Her expression was calm, almost sweet—but her eyes were pure fury.

“Yes,” she said brightly. “I’m the nanny. I also sleep with my boss, birthed her child, and pay half the mortgage.”

The man choked on his beer.

Agatha, to her credit, laughed. A delighted, full-bodied laugh that broke from her so loud it startled Violet. She tried to mask it behind her hand but didn’t bother too hard. There was a sparkle in her eyes now, one that said I knew it was coming, and I let it happen anyway.

But Rio wasn’t done. Oh no—she had merely paused to reload.

She kept going. “You know, just your typical nanny things. Breastfeeding at 3 a.m., sobbing over cracked nipples, dragging myself out of bed after squeezing a baby out of my body to change the diapers of said baby I made with my wife.”

Mark was backing away from his friend, muttering something unintelligible but that sounded like “been there, done that” and clearly trying to pretend he was’t there at all.

Agatha walked over to Rio, still chuckling, and gently slid an arm around her waist. Violet sighed in her sleep and curled closer to her mother’s chest. Rio’s breathing was tight. Her jaw still locked. But she leaned into Agatha’s touch just a little.

“You’re terrifying,” Agatha whispered for what must have been the third time today as she pressed a kiss to her temple. “I’m obsessed with you.”

Rio exhaled slowly, like the tension had just been exorcised from her spine. “Good,” she murmured. “I’ll calm down now. But only because you said that. And only a little.”

From the grass nearby, Nicky—who had apparently abandoned his lawn chair in favor of a juice-box-fueled meditation squat—grinned like a gremlin. “Nine!” he yelled. “That’s nine people Mom has murdered with her eyes today!”

Agatha glanced down at him. “No actual murders, baby.”

Nicky took a dignified sip of his juice box. “Still counting. We’re almost at ten. It’s a good day.”

Rio let out a huff that could’ve been a laugh or a growl—it was hard to say—but her mouth curled at the corner. She looked down at her son, then over at her wife, then back toward the rest of the party where the air had gone suspiciously quiet again.

Most of the new guests were now actively avoiding eye contact. A few shuffled around nervously, pretending to admire the potato salad or debate the merits of sweet relish.

Rio, still smoldering, looked like she could set a lawn on fire with a glance—and frankly, no one doubted she might. But she was also smiling now. That dangerous, pleased kind of smile. The smile of a woman who had defended her family, made her point, and still looked devastatingly good doing it.

She tipped her head against Agatha’s shoulder and murmured, “Remind me why we ever leave the house again?”

Agatha chuckled. “Because eventually, someone’s going to say something stupid, and you’re going to get to say that again.”

“Hmm,” Rio said, thoughtful. “Tempting.”

Violet stirred slightly, and Rio adjusted her, cradling her a little closer. And just like that, the storm passed. But everyone in that backyard—every last guest, neighbor, and unfortunate bystander—would remember exactly where they were the day the nanny question was asked.

As if summoned by divine timing—or perhaps just the honed instincts of someone who’d lived long enough to know when to step in—a sweet older neighbor made her way across the yard. She had the look of someone who brought casseroles to grieving homes and knew every child’s birthday on the block. She approached Rio without hesitation, hands clasped gently before her, a kind smile already forming as she looked down at the bundle sleeping peacefully in Rio’s arms.

“Oh, those dimples,” the woman cooed, leaning in just enough to get a better look at the baby’s face, her voice full of unfiltered adoration. “She’s the most precious little thing I’ve ever seen. Just look at those cheeks!”

Rio’s entire demeanor shifted, her tense body instantly relaxing, the sharp edge of her earlier ire melting into something softer. Her eyes lit up, and her smile bloomed across her face as she glanced down at Violet, her heart in her gaze.

“I know, right?” Rio said, her voice a mixture of pride and awe. “We made her. Can you believe that? We made her.”

She adjusted the sling slightly to show off Violet’s impossibly round cheeks, and smiled as if this moment—this exact exchange—was what all backyard barbecues should be for.

“I mean, just look at her,” Rio whispered, eyes shining. “She’s… perfect.”

The older woman made a soft sound of agrement, her hands now resting on her heart. “She truly is, dear. You can see the love right in her little face.”

Agatha stood a little to the side, watching the exchange with a fond smile, her heart flipping in her chest. Rio’s transformation from fierce protector to soft, glowing mom in the span of a heartbeat never failed to amaze her. It was devastatingly cute.

Agatha smiled to herself, folding her arms as she looked on. The sight was so achingly tender she almost wanted to tuck it away somewhere private, to be savored later in a quiet room when the world was too much.

Violet stirred in Rio’s arms, blinking up at the sunlight before letting out a big yawn. Nicky, who had been sitting nearby with yet another juice box – Agatha immediately though they would have to ban juice boxes for a while after the amount he had consumed that day -  immediately shuffled closer, clearly on a mission. He gently placed Yellow Dragon in Violet’s little hand, his own expression one of total seriousness.

“This is for you,” he whipsered, as though he were handing her the most precious thing in the world. “I packed her just for you. Blue Dragon is here too, just in case.”

Rio watched him, her lips curving into a smile as she looked between Nicky and Violet. The moment was so tender it could’ve been framed in time.“Thanks, little love,” she said softly, and Nicky gave her an exaggerated wink, proud of his contribution.

The older neighbor lady, still nearby, let out a warm little chuckle, her eyes shining behind her sunglasses. “I do believe she’s a little charmer already,” she said, nodding at Violet, who had resumed her gentle snoozing, the dragon now nestled against her cheek.

Rio nodded, still glowing, the protective love she felt for her daughter radiating outward. “She’s got us wrapped around her finger.”

Agatha stepped closer, her heart full as she watched Rio interact with the baby—and Nicky, who was now softly petting Violet’s tiny lavender daisy-riddled sunhat.

“You’re a great mom,” Agatha murmured, reaching out to gently squeeze Rio’s shoulder, letting her affection be clear.

Rio turned to look at her, eyes full of warmth and gratitude. “You’re not so bad yourself, my love,” she murmured. “Though I’ve got the stretch marks to prove it.”

Agatha chuckled, her fingers tightening just a little on Rio’s shoulder. “We both have the scars.”

The older neighbor lady chuckled softly. “What a beautiful family you have.”

The calm didn’t last long, though. As the neighborhood chatter continued, a voice broke through the soft buzz of conversation. Another of Mark’s friends, a middle-aged man with a sunburned neck and a beer in hand, had sidled up to the group, eyes landing on Rio and Agatha with a mildly perplexed look.

“I gotta say,” he began, his tone entirely too casual, “not that it’s any of my business, but—well, I couldn’t help but notice the lack of, uh… you know, male energy around here. Seems a little off.”

A silence fell over the group. Everyone around the grill seemed to stop talking for a beat. The comment had clearly thrown some people off, but no one seemed eager to confront it, almost waiting for Rio to take the bait.

Rio, however, didn’t flinch. She didn’t even blink. The look on her face was calm—too calm—and in that way, it was far more dangerous than any fiery retort.

“Oh?” she said, polite as sunshine. “And what kind of ‘male energy’ were you hoping to find, exactly?”

The man faltered for a second, chuckling nervously. “You know, just… a little balance. All this estrogen in one place—it’s a lot.”

Rio’s smile widened, razor-thin. “Oh, I get it now. You were expecting a man to… balance things out?” She tilted her head slightly, like she was genuinely curious.

“Not expecting, just—well, it’s a family thing, right? Kids need a male role model. That sort of thing. No offense.”

Agatha let out a soft breath through her nose. She stepped a little closer to Rio, arms ready to hold her back if she finally snapped and lunged at him, her eyes never leaving the man. “It’s impressive how often people say ‘no offense’ right after saying something wildly offensive,” she said smoothly.

Rio didn’t take her eyes off him either. Her voice was syrupy sweet. “You’re right. It is a family thing. And lucky for us, we’ve got the best family. Full of love and respect, loud laughter, and—” she glanced briefly at Agatha, who was now opnly smirking, “—occasional lesbians yelling.”

“That’s her,” Agatha added lightly. “She does most of the yelling.”

“And she does most of the glaring,” Rio said, raising her brows at the man.

Nicky, who had been happily chewing and half-listening, suddenly perked up. “Mom yelled at the postman last week,” he offered brightly.

“Because the postman threw the mail onto the porch, baby,” Rio said gently, ruffling his curls.

Nicky nodded sagely. “Mail is sacred. That’s what you said.”

“Exactly.” Rio turned back to the man, still holding her sleeping daughter like the goddess of maternal rage and justice. “Anyway, we’re good. Agatha’s a professor, I am too, Nicky here builds trebuchets out of sticks, and Violet already rules us all. What else do we need? And don’t tell me you’ve never heard of all those lesbian cliches. We’ve got it covered.”

“I also do ballet, and I’m gonna start karate soon,” Nicky added, unpropmted. “And I have a sword. A fake one, but it looks real.”

“See?” Agatha said, placing a hand on Rio’s back and turning slightly toward the man. “We’ve got more than enough energy. Male, female, chaotic neutral—it’s all accounted for.”

The man let out a tight chuckle. “Right, well. Just sayin’. Some kids do better with a, you know… father figure.”

Rio’s eyes went very still.

Nicky looked up at him and squinted. “My mom is my dad,” he said matter-of-factly, then took a huge bite of his hot dog.

Agatha blinked, then tried to hide her grin. “Honestly, that should be on a mug.”

Mark, hovering nearby, finally stepped forward, his voice a little too loud. “Hey, anyone want another round of drinks?” he said desperately. “I’ve got lemonade, iced tea, more beer—let’s keep it light, yeah?”

But Rio was already turning away, her focus back on her kids and her wife, dismissing the man with nothing more than the graceful lift of her chin.

Agatha leaned in close and murmured with a smirk, “Occasionally lesbians yelling?”

Rio didn’t look at her, just gave a sideways glance, amused and sharp. “You know how it is.”

Agatha tilted her head, brushing a kiss to Rio’s temple. “You’re perfect.”

“Terrifying and perfect,” Rio corrected softly, rocking Violet in her arms as Nicky tried to feed Yellow Dragon a piece of hot dog bun.

“Exactly how I like you,” Agatha murmured.

Agatha could feel the flicker of a smile pulling at her lips. She was proud of Rio, proud of how she handled things without breaking a sweat. There was something incredibly sexy about the way Rio could disarm people without even trying, and yet still make them feel small—like they didn’t deserve the space they were occupying.

But Mark’s friend wasn’t quite finished. He shifted uncomfortably, trying to salvage some dignity. “I didn’t mean it like that, it’s just—”

“Oh, I’m sure you didn’t,” Rio cut him off smoothly, her voice dripping with just the right amount of sweetness that it made the man visibly twitch.

Agatha couldn’t stop the quiet chuckle that escaped her. Her gaze softened, and her thoughts wandered back to when they first met. The first year of their relationship was a blur of stolen moments, late-night talks, and trying to make sense of their connection amidst all the chaos. There had been a night, early on, when Rio had broken down after a dinner with Agatha’s old classmates. They hadn’t meant to make Rio feel small, but they had, in their casual dismissals and subtle insults. Agatha had seen it in the way Rio’s confidence cracked that night, the vulnerability beneath the surface that she rarely let anyone see. Afterward, she’d stayed up all night with Rio, holding her as she cried, reminding her that she was enough—always enough.

And now, here they were. Rio was a mother, a partner, and a force to be reckoned with. She didn’t flinch at a poorly worded comment or a misguided assumption. Rio had come so far. Agatha couldn’t help but feel this swell of pride, more than words could express, as she watched Rio stand her ground with such poise.

“Anyway,” Rio continued, still calm, “I’m sure you’ll find plenty of ‘male energy’ around here somewhere. We don’t need it to be a happy home.”

She shot Mark’s friend one last look—cool, collected, and entirely uninterested—before turning to face Agatha. Her hand reached out to briefly rest on her wife’s, squeezing it gently as she grinned.

“I’m good, love,” Rio said, her voice light again, as if nothing had happened.

Agatha leaned in, brushing a kiss against her temple before whispering, “You’re a goddess, you know that?”

Rio’s smirk, that wicked, teasing smile that always made Agatha’s heart race, was answer enough.

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” Rio teased, her voice light but with that edge of mischievousness Agatha adored.

And Agatha, feeling the pull of that smile, felt herself falling even more in love with the woman who had become her whole world. “Good,” she said, her voice soft but full of conviction. “Because I plan on using it as much as I can.”

Mark, watching from the grill like a man who had just witnessed a lioness maul a deer in the distance, made the unfortunate decision to approach again. Clearly trying to salvage something from the flaming wreckage of social awkwardness he had helped ignite, he offered a tight smile, hands awkwardly shoved in his pockets.

“So, uh…” he started, eyes flicking between Rio—who was perched back in her lawn chair like a queen daring someone to challenge her—and Agatha, who stood effortlessly poised behinf her, hands on the back of her wife’s chair, her white linen ensemble catching the late afternoon sun. “You two seem really… solid.”

There was a pause. Violet let out a soft snore against Rio’s chest. Nicky, now bored of the grown-up conversations, had taken to scribbling something on his napkin with a ketchup packet.

Rio turned her head, very slowly, toward Mark.

“Oh, we’re rock solid,” she said smoothly, but there was venom underneath it. “And just so we’re clear—if you ever flirt with my wife again, I will make you deeply regret it.”

Mark blinked, visibly trying not to flinch.

“I will destroy you,” Rio continued, the sweetness of her tone belying the venom beneath. She smiled—just a touch too wide, just a bit too cold. “On the neighborhood Facebook group. I know Canva, Mark. And I’m sure my students would love to teach me how to use TikTok. They adore me.” Her grin grew, turning from unsettling to downright predatory. “I can make infographics. I can make slander videos. I can create an entire campaign, and believe me, it will go viral.”

Agatha, utterly unfazed, sipped her lemonade with quiet amusement. Then, eyes twinkling over the rim of the glass, she tilted her head down to her wife and said with the faintest sigh, “My love, do be nice.”

Rio shrugged, one hand stroking Violet’s back absently. “I am being nice. He still has both eyebrows.”

Mark mumbled something vaguely resembling a goodbye and backed away like someone who had just realized he was playing dodgeball with wolves.

Nicky looked up from his drawings and squinted at Mark’s retreating figure. “Mommy, you forgot to tell him about the HOA violations.”

Rio sighed. “Maybe next time, baby. We’ll keep the ammunition.”

Agatha laughed softly, reaching over to brush a stray curl from Rio’s cheek. “You know, I’m starting to think you enjoy this.”

Rio didn’t even hesitate. “Immensely.”

Back home, Rio padded softly through the nursery. She kissed Violet’s forehead, adjusted the blanket, and whispered something that sounded suspiciously like a promise to protect her from dumb men forever.

Once the baby was down, Rio slipped out and headed straight for the living room, where Agatha was curled up on the couch, a book in hand and a knowing smirk already playing on her lips.

Without a word, Rio moved toward her, her bare feet padding softly on the floor. She climbed onto the couch with a fluid grace, slipping into Agatha’s lap, her legs draping comfortably on either side of her wife’s body. Her dress was soft, the fabric warm against Agatha’s skin as Rio leaned into her, letting the tension of the afternoon dissolve. She rested her head on Agatha’s shoulder, the weight of her body sinking into the comfort of her wife’s arms. With a deep, dramatic sigh, Rio let her eyes flutter closed, savoring the closeness, the feeling of Agatha’s familiar presence.

“Next time,” Rio murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, “I want you to dress intimidating too. Like a Bond villain. You know what I mean.” She shifted slightly, pressing herself closer, her lips brushing against Agatha’s ear as she continued. “Sharp shoulders. Black gloves. Just, evil and stunning.”

Agatha’s chuckle vibrated through Rio’s body as she set her book aside. Her arms moved around Rio, pulling her in closer, encircling her in that warm embrace that never failed to calm her. The sensation of Agatha’s arms around her was grounding, like Rio had found her anchor in the storm.

 “I only dress like that for you.”

Rio’s smirk softened into a smile as she tilted her head, meeting Agatha’s gaze. “I’m glad,” she replied softly. “Because I’d be very disappointed if I didn’t have my very own femme fatale.”

Agatha leaned in then, pressing a kiss to the side of Rio’s hair, her lips lingering there for a moment, breathing in the scent of her wife’s hair. “You’re my favorite person in the world,” Agatha murmured, her voice full of love and quiet devotion. “You know that, right?”

Rio’s heart fluttered at the words, warmth flooding her chest. She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the intimacy of the moment sink in, the comfort of Agatha’s touch and presence wrapping around her like a warm blanket. “I know,” Rio whispered back, her voice thick with affection. “And you’re mine.”

Then Agatha tilted her head slightly with amusement. “You were better-behaved today than I thought you would be.”

Rio sat up, affronted. “Excuse me? I should get a medal. I was a model citizen. I let that man live. I made polite conversation. I didn’t flip a single table.”

Agatha kissed her cheek gently. “You’re my medal.”

The words, spoken so simply, melted Rio instantly. She collapsed back into Agatha’s arms with the weightless form of warm wax, her head resting on Agatha’s shoulder as she sighed in contentment. “Gross,” Rio murmured, but there was no denying the dreamy quality in her voice. “Say that again.”

Agatha smirked, her hand brushing through Rio’s hair as she whispered, her lips brushing just beneath Rio’s ear, “You’re my medal.”

And then, as if to seal it all, they kissed—slow, deep, and full of everything unspoken, familiar and electric that spoke of years together, of quiet evenings in, of battles fought side by side and victories shared. It was a kiss that said: We survived the BBQ. We are unstoppable.

From the kitchen, Nicky’s voice broke through the tender silence.

“Are we still mad at Mark,” he yelled, “or can I ask for more hot dogs next time?”

Rio groaned and buried her face in Agatha’s neck. “Our son is chaos.”

Agatha laughed and held her tighter. “He’s perfect. Just like his moms.”

Rio lifted her head, the slightest smirk playing on her lips despite the slight annoyance. “I don’t know if I should be proud or terrified of how much he’s gotten like me,” she admitted with a playful sigh.

Agatha shifted slightly, adjusting the way Rio rested against her so they could face each other more comfortably. Her gaze softened as she took in her wife’s expression—equal parts mock outrage and adoration. “Oh, I’m certain it’s both,” she said warmly, the corners of her mouth curling in gentle mischief. “Proud and terrified. That’s parenting, isn’t it?”

Rio rolled her eyes, but her smirk only deepened. “Seriously. One more chaotic outburst and I might have to install a padded room just for him,” she muttered, before adding, more fondly, “Though at least he has excellent taste. He’s wild, but he knows quality when he sees it.”

Agatha arched an eyebrow, amused. “Meaning…?”

Rio shot her a look that was half flirtation, half deadpan. “Meaning he worships the ground I walk on, obviously. And that he stole the last bite of my cookie because he knew I wouldn’t get mad.” She paused, then added dryly, “Which only proves he’s dangerously clever.”

Laughing, Agatha tucked a stray strand of hair behind Rio’s ear. “You’re just mad because you’re raising yourself in boy form.”

“Exactly! It’s horrifying,” Rio groaned. Then her voice softened a bit, fondness blooming behind her words. “But he was supposed to be your mini-me. Mine is upstairs, fast asleep like the angel she is.” She tilted her head slightly, eyes gleaming with affection. “It’s like they switched blueprints.”

Agatha let out a quiet, knowing laugh, her fingers now tracing slow, soothing circles against Rio’s back. “It’s true, isn’t it? Violet—dark hair, dark eyes, born with a poet’s soul—she’s all you. And yet she’s so quiet, so patient already. Like she’s just taking everything in, waiting to cry until she has something important to say.” Her voice dropped to a near-whisper. “Like me.”

Rio nodded slowly, smiling at the thought. “Meanwhile Nicky, with his chestnut curls and those absurdly blue eyes, running around like he’s on a mission from the gods of mischief… total me energy. And yet he looks like you. It’s like they skipped the genetics and just swapped vibes entirely.”

“Nature’s little inside joke,” Agatha mused, eyes twinkling.

“Cruel joke,” Rio muttered, though the way she nuzzled back into Agatha’s embrace made it clear she wasn’t too bothered. “I mean, you carried Nicky, I carried Violet, and yet here we are—raising each other’s temperaments like cosmic payback.”

Agatha pressed a kiss to the top of Rio’s head, her voice laced with affection. “And yet, somehow, they’re exactly who they’re meant to be.”

Rio let out a contented hum, the energy in her body slowly shifting from playful to peaceful. “Yeah. They really are. Tiny weirdos. Perfect, tiny weirdos.”

They sat in silence for a beat, the soft hum of the evening settling around them, broken only by the faint clatter of something in the kitchen and the muffled sound of Nicky’s voice attempting to negotiate with the fridge. Rio chuckled under her breath.

“He’s probably bartering with the mustard again,” she said.

Agatha snorted. “Last time he tried to convince it to become ketchup.”

Rio grinned. “See? Brilliant.”

“Terrifying,” Agatha added.

“Exactly what I said.”

*

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Chapter Text

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One ordinary Tuesday, in the middle of a lecture on the seismic shifts The First World War had triggered in modern poetry—how language fractured, how form broke down, how even rhythm lost its confidence—something changed.

Dr. Harkness’s classroom, tucked away on the second floor of the English department, had its own rhythm. The students were used to her cadence: the sharp click of her heels on old linoleum, the graceful arch of her hand as she annotated a Yeats stanza in chalk, the way her voice wrapped itself around Eliot’s despair or Sassoon’s fury and held it aloft, as if examining it against the light. She was elegance and intellect incarnate. Rigorous, articulate, intimidating in the way that made students sit up straighter without quite realizing it. Her expectations were Everest-level high, and her tolerance for laziness—verbal or otherwise—was nonexistent. Phones were never acknowledged. Distractions were eradicated with a look. And when Dr. Harkness lectured, she did not pause. Ever.

Which is why the entire class jolted when her phone buzzed quietly against the edge of her desk, and she looked at it. Her hand hovered over her annotated notes on the war poets, her gaze lingering on the screen longer than it should have.

Then she smiled.

Not a smirk. Not the dry, amused curve of her mouth students knew so well—her signature when someone misinterpreted a stanza or stumbled into the trap of offering a surface reading. No, this was something else entirely.

It was soft and private.

Dr. Harkness recovered quickly, tucking her phone away, clearing her throat , but something had cracked open. A seam in the porcelain. A flicker of something human and unguarded had slipped through.

“Alright,” she said. “Change of plans.”

Emma raised an eyebrow from the front row. “Wait. What?”

Sophia, seated to her left, froze mid-sentence, her pen hovering above her notebook like a glitch in time. She didn’t freeze. Sophia never froze. Her notes were legendary.

Three rows back, Josh leaned over to whisper to Nina, eyes wide. “She’s either about to spring the hardest pop quiz in university history or reveal she has a secret twin who’s been impersonating her this whole time.”

Nina narrowed her eyes. “She’s smiling. Like really smiling. That’s not a normal, murder-your-thesis smile. That’s a… baby video smile. Or a TikTok of a kitten befriending a duckling. Should we be scared?”

From the far side of the room, Liam slouched further into his chair, throwing one arm over his face. “I knew it. This is how we die. She’s been body-snatched. This is classic possession behavior.”

Max, who was half-asleep when the phone buzzed and now fully awake, sat up with a thoughtful squint. “Ten bucks says it’s a guest lecturer. She’s got that look. You know. The ‘I have a surprise and it’s smarter than all of you’ look.”

There was a rustle of laughter and nervous murmuring, but it died down the moment Dr. Harkness stepped around her desk. She didn’t scold them. She didn’t even raise a brow at the whispers, which only deepened the class’s collective unease. Instead, she folded her hands behind her back and gave them that same faint, lingering smile—still soft, still entirely unfamiliar.

“Today, we’ll be looking at a different kind of war poem. One that’s not in the syllabus. One written… a little closer to home.”

Every head snapped up. Every pen hovered. Every spine straightened.

Because suddenly, no one was sure whether they were in the presence of their terrifyingly brilliant professor or someone else entirely—someone with a heart wide open and something worth smiling about. And frankly, neither possibility made anyone feel safer.

“I have a surprise for you,” she continued. “And the surprise has just arrived.”

Now they were fully invested.

“Surprise?” Josh perked up like a kid at a birthday party. “Like… snacks? Because I would kill for snacks.”

“Is it a fire drill?” Liam asked, already halfway out of his seat, hope glimmering in his eyes like a man desperate for freedom.

Emma gasped. “Oh my God. Are we going on a field trip? I knew I should’ve worn better shoes—wait, should I bring my notes?!”

“No, and no,” Agatha replied smoothly, a wry smile brushing her lips, though her tone gave nothing away. “You’re staying right here.”

A collective groan echoed around the room like thunder—thirty variations of disappointment in unison.

“I’ve invited three guest lecturers,” Agatha announced. “One is a scholar. The other two are future PhD students.”

The reaction was immediate. Louder groans, dramatic head-thuds against desks, hands thrown skyward in existential protest.

“Oh no,” Max said. “Is this one of those ‘learn from someone closer to your age’ things? Is it going to be some guy who did a TED Talk in college and thinks he’s Gandhi?”

“Please tell me it’s not another motivational speaker,” Nina muttered darkly. “I swear, if anyone says the phrase ‘you are the author of your own story’ again, I’m walking out.”

Agatha raised a single brow, the universal symbol of you children try my patience. “You all wound me,” she said dryly.

“No offense, Dr. Harkness,” Josh said, already bracing for disappointment, “but when professors say ‘guest lecture,’ it’s always someone named Harold in a corduroy blazer with elbow patches who wants to talk about Latin root words and the healing power of being on time.”

“Hard pass,” Emma agreed. “We came for you. Your lectures are like academic theatre. Don’t replace your greatness with some dude who brought a PowerPoint and his midlife crisis.”

Agatha didn’t answer right away. She merely smiled again—that smile. The one that said she knew something none of them did. The kind of smile people in Gothic novels see right before being handed a mysterious key and a bad idea.

“You may want to adjust your expectations,” she said. “One of them has authored multiple peer-reviewed papers on poetic mortality. The other two… well, they’re about to become the smartest this university has ever seen.”

Liam, slouched as usual, sat up an inch straighter.

“Wait, what?” he asked, looking around. “Is that code for—what is that code for?”

Before Agatha could speak again, a new sound cut through the undercurrent of whispring students: the soft echo of footsteps approaching from down the hallway, accompanied by low, indistinct conversation. The classroom stilled as heads turned toward the source, like a school of fish sensing something shift in the current.

Agatha returned to her desk without a flicker of surprise. She straightened a stack of papers she didn’t need to straighten and glanced at the clock—not because she needed to check the time, but as though everything was proceeding precisely when and how she intended.

“They’re here.”

A ripple of energy passed through the room. Chairs creaked. Eyes darted. Nina sat forward, eyes sharp. Sophia finally set her pen down. Josh mouthed what is happening at no one in particular. Even Liam abandoned his usual slouch.

Then, a knock on the classroom door.

No one moved.

Agatha didn’t react immediately. She simply stood there for a heartbeat, letting the suspense linger before she turned towards the door. She walked to the door with measured steps, like whatever or whoever waited on the other side was no surprise to her at all, and opened it. 

And in walked Rio Harkness-Vidal.

But not the Dr. Vidal they were used to.

Not the hurricane in combat boots who stormed into class ten minutes early every Monday with a triple espresso and three tabs open in her brain. Not the chaotic genius who once climbed onto a chair to passionately recite Sylvia Plath, then immediately pivoted to threatening the projector with a tragic sonnet when it wouldn’t connect. Not the woman who hosted office hours like a stand-up show and somehow made structuralism feel like a rebellion.

This was not that Rio.

The Rio that stepped into the room wore a long gingham dress in soft blue and white, loose around her curves, cinched just enough to hint at her usual boldness but radiating something gentler. Her hair was tucked behind one ear in a lazy braid she probably forgot she did. She looked like she hadn’t slept, but also like she wouldn’t have it any other way.

In her arms—peacefully snoozing against her chest—was a baby.

The baby.

The very reason Agatha Harkness had just smiled like the sun was an inside joke.

Wrapped up like a tiny royal, little Violet Harkness-Vidal was dressed in the purple onesie that sent a wave of recognition through the classroom. Emma’s mouth fell open. Nina sat perfectly still. Max blinked three times in disbelief before jabbing Liam in the ribs. Sophia’s pen stopped moving mid-word and didn’t move again. Even Josh, who rarely went more than ten seconds without saying something, was completely silent.

Until Emma gasped. “Is that—?”

“It is!” Nina whispered, clutching her notebook. “That’s the onesie we gave her at the baby shower!”

Indeed, the onesie - lavender and a little oversized - was emblazoned with a bold, slightly chaotic design: “Made from Science and Chaos.”

It looked simultaneously ridiculous and perfect.

Rio beamed at them, sleep-deprived and gorgeous and glowing like the moon. She swayed gently without realizing it, rocking Violet in that unconscious way only mothers do. And for once, every student in the room was speechless. Agatha, still standing just to the side, looked at her wife like the answer to a question no one else could hear. Her features relaxed into something rare and open, something vulnerable that only Rio ever seemed to unlock.

“You can come in now, my love.”

And Rio did, like she belonged there. Because she did. Because this was her class too, in a way.

Because these students had walked with her through poems and panic attacks, through deadlines and Dante, through birth plans and metaphor breakdowns and unsolicited parenting advice from Josh.

Because they had all—every single one of them—waited for this moment. And it was perfect.

Josh made a sound somewhere between a squeal and a gasp. Sophia blinked like she had just seen a unicorn. Emma’s hand flew to her heart. Liam audibly whispered, “Holy crap,” and Max mouthed, I knew it, with the glee of a kid who had finally won a long-standing bet with himself.

Because now it all made sense. The smiles. The softness. The surprise.

The woman Agatha called my love was none other than Rio Harkness-Vidal.

The Rio Vidal. Dr. Vidal. The youngest faculty member on campus. The firecracker from the literature department. The woman half the school was a little obsessed with and the other half was slightly afraid of.

And in her arms now was the smallest human they had ever seen.

A baby. Their baby.

“Oh my God,” Emma whispered, nearly standing as though the moment required some kind of respect. “That’s Violet! She’s so small.”

Suddenly, Nicky popped in behind Rio like a tiny stormtrooper, holding a rainbow-colored tote bag over one shoulder like a messenger of the baby apocalypse, two little dragon heads peeking out of it, one blue, one yellow. The bag bounced against his side, absurdly oversized for his small frame and filled to the brim with what looked like everything and nothing all at once.

He stopped in the doorway, hands on his hips like he’d just entered a battlefield. “We brought backup diapers and emergency snacks,” he announced with great importance, puffing out his chest as if this made him commander of the family infantry. Then he marched straight to the teacher’s desk and saluted Agatha with a sharpness only learned through careful observation of superhero cartoons.

“Dr. Mama,” he declared solemnly, “we brought Vivi. The soldier said she had a special pass like me.”

A few students blinked.

“Soldier?” Josh whispered.

“He means the registrar,” Sophia hissed, equal parts amused and horrified.

Agatha laughed. She bent down and scooped Nicky into her arms for a brief second, pressing a kiss to his temple before setting him back down on the desk.

“You did good, general,” she murmured, ruffling his hair.

Rio smiled at him fondly and then looked around at the stunned faces. “Hi, class,” she said sweetly, rocking Violet. “I heard you all survived the war while I was on leave.”

“We tried,” Liam said, still mesmerized by the little thing waking up in his teacher’s arms.

“You’re doing amazing, sweeties,” Rio replied with a wink, shifting Violet to one side like she was cradling royalty. “Really. No blood on the floor. Minimal fire. I’m proud.”

Emma’s mouth was open. Max looked like he was calculating the timeline of every faculty rumor they’d ever heard. Liam leaned toward Josh and whispered, “Okay but… who are you and what have you done with our Dr. Vidal? The one who broke the vending machine with a hairpin?”

Josh nodded slowly. “And probably reassembled it. While grading papers.”

Agatha, still somehow the calmest person in the room despite her son commandeering the desk and her wife now co-teaching with a baby on her hip, folded her arms and arched a brow. “They’re here for a brief visit. And before anyone asks—yes, you can look at the baby, after you prove to me you know the difference between Modernism and Postmodernism.”

A collective groan echoed.

Rio grinned. “We don’t let just anyone near the princess.”

Nicky nodded from the desk, now opening a pack of gummy bears. “You gotta earn Violet.”

Violet yawned. Sophia let out a strangled squeak.

Agatha returned to the front of the room, her hand finding its natural place at the small of Rio’s back.

She turned to face the room. “Students,” she started, “please welcome your guest lecturers: Dr. Rio Vidal, and her assistants, Violet and Nicholas.”

“Assistants?” Rio repeated with a laugh, adjusting Violet in her arms. “That’s generous. She mostly throws up and cries during phone calls,” she said, nodding toward the baby, “and he interrupts every twenty minutes to demand snacks, ask what metaphors are again, or share unsolicited opinions about breakfast cereal rankings.”

“Those rankings are the truth, Mom,” Nicky mumbled, indignant.

Agatha didn’t waver. “And yet,” she said, eyes sweeping across the room, “they contribute more than some of you.”

The class laughed, and just like that, the spell was broken, but the magic lingered.

As if on cue, Violet blinked herself fully awake, peered out from Rio’s arms at the baffled audience, and made a noise that landed somewhere between a hiccup and a full-scale war cry, fierce, indignant, and unbothered by public speaking.

Max leaned toward Sophia. “Okay, yeah. That baby’s clearly the boss.”

Rio patted Violet’s back with a smirk. “She’s got a lot to say about Modernist disillusionment. Probably because none of you made eye contact with her mother for two years.”

“That’s not true,” Liam said quickly. “I made eye contact once. I regretted it immediately. Now trying to make eye-contact is my life goal.”

Agatha chuckled softly beside her. “I remember. You dropped your coffee and quoted Eliot backward.”

“I panicked!”

Rio leaned closer to Agatha, her voice low enough that only she could hear. “You know, this is wildly unprofessional. Bringing your hot wife and two kids into the classroom just because you wanted to show them off.”

Agatha’s eyes twinkled. “I don’t recall hearing any complaints.”