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The espresso had gone cold.
Agatha stood in the center of her meticulously landscaped garden, barefoot on stone. Her robe hung loose at the collar, barely held close by the silk ribbon around her waist. One sleeve was slipping off her shoulder in a way that might have been cinematic if not for the wild look in her eyes.
She was holding the empty espresso cup like it could still offer her comfort, porcelain almost cracked from how tightly her fingers gripped it.
“Scratchy?”
The name came out sharp, strained, more like a command than a call. Her voice echoed once against the hedges, then fell into silence.
She crossed the garden again, faster this time, eyes scanning every inch like a detective at the scene of a crime. She checked the herb beds, the foot of the lemon tree, even beneath the vintage bistro table where Scratchy liked to hide when he was feeling dramatic. Nothing.
“Scratchy, this isn’t funny,” she called again, voice thinner now. “You’re late for your pellets.”
Still nothing.
A breath caught in her throat. Cold panic slid down her spine in one clean, uninterrupted stroke. The espresso cup hit the stone path with a soft, final shatter. She didn’t even flinch.
Agatha spun around, silk robe trailing behind her like a banner of unraveling dignity, and bolted back inside the house. She moved through the rooms fast and graceless: throwing open closets, checking under the claw foot tub, throwing pillows off the velvet couch like they might be harboring secrets.
No Scratchy.
Her hand reached for her phone with muscle memory precision, already dialing the vet. No, animal control. No, Rio.
Agatha froze mid-step in her hallway, thumb hovering over her contact list.
She hated asking for help. Especially from Rio.
Especially when Rio was probably wearing her smug smirk and drinking something herbal and offensive in that scandalously unbothered way she had.
The doorbell rang.
Agatha's heart stuttered, once, twice, before she flew toward the sound, yanking the front door open like she might find salvation behind it.
And there she was.
Rio.
Leaning lazily against the door frame like she lived there. Like it was just another Sunday morning and not the unraveling of Agatha Harkness’s very carefully controlled universe.
Loose grey joggers, cropped tee, hoodie unzipped. Hair pulled into a messy bun that made her look too casual, too unaffected. And in her arms, casually tucked under one arm like a football, was Señor Scratchy.
Agatha gasped.
“You found him!” she breathed, snatching the bunny into her arms with a kind of desperation that left her unguarded. She buried her face in his fur. “Oh, you reckless, hay-munching bastard.”
Rio’s lips twitched.
“He was in my yard,” she said, tone bone dry. “Snuggling Elizabeth like he pays rent.”
Agatha glanced up, brow arching in suspicion. “Snuggling?”
Rio shrugged, arms crossing. “Or something close to it.”
Her smirk widened. “If Elizabeth ends up pregnant, I hope you’re ready to pay child support.”
Agatha scoffed, clinging Scratchy tighter, like he might try to escape again. “Señor Scratchy is a gentleman .”
Rio tilted her head, a dark curl slipping down beside her cheek. “Sure he is. That’s why he was in my rose bush, giving my girl the look.”
“That’s slander.”
Rio leaned in slightly, voice low and amused. “That’s biology .”
Agatha blinked. She hated how close Rio was now, how her voice was soft and teasing and smelled faintly of mint and something wild. She hated the smug glint in her eye even more.
But mostly, she hated that Rio had found Scratchy when she couldn’t. That her chest still hadn’t stopped aching from the panic.
Rio started to turn, already halfway down the porch steps. “Keep him on a leash, Harkness. I’m not co-parenting with you.”
Agatha, still barefoot, still breathless, stood there on her doorstep, cradling her rabbit like a child.
“I’m not paying child support,” she called after her.
Rio didn’t look back.
“Keep telling yourself that.”
And just like that, she was gone.
The text arrived at 9:13 AM. No greeting. No emojis. Just a photo of a vet receipt and two words:
She’s pregnant.
Agatha stared at her phone for a full ten seconds, espresso untouched, a curl of steam rising like judgment from the cup. She blinked once. Twice.
Then her hand slammed flat against the marble counter.
“No.”
Across the room, Señor Scratchy blinked up at her from his tufted velvet pet bed, chewing a piece of hay like he knew exactly what he’d done.
Agatha pointed a finger at him, sharp as a knife. “You betrayed me.”
Scratchy resumed chewing, utterly unbothered.
A few minutes later, the walk next door felt like a march. Agatha was in her silk robe, sunglasses on despite the cloud cover. She knocked on Rio’s door like it had insulted her.
Rio opened it slowly, as if she’d been expecting this exact knock and had chosen the most annoying possible response time. She wore bike shorts, an oversized hoodie, and absolutely no shame.
She held the door open wider.
“Well, well. Look who’s here for the paternity talk.”
Agatha pushed past her. “Where is she?”
“In the sun room. Feet off the furniture. Emotional damage surcharge if you insult her figure.”
Agatha found the rabbit lounging in a patch of morning light, looking positively smug. Elizabeth blinked up at her, serene and undeniably rounder.
Agatha folded her arms. “This doesn’t prove anything.”
Rio leaned against the doorway, sipping something green and offensive out of a mason jar. “She hasn’t been outside the yard. Your boy tunneled in like a horny fugitive. Do the math.”
“There could’ve been a mix-up at the vet.”
“Sure.” Rio nodded slowly raising her hands in an equally slow movement, as if she was conjuring up some magic. “Maybe the immaculate conception. In a raised garden bed. Classic.”
Agatha narrowed her eyes. “You don’t know it was him.”
Rio moved in closer, not enough to touch, but enough to crowd her personal space. “Do you know it wasn’t?”
A beat passed. Agatha hesitated just long enough to give herself away.
Rio grinned like a woman who’d just won an unspoken bet.
“I see,” she said softly, drawing out the vowels just to be insufferable. “So what I’m hearing is denial.”
“I’m not denying anything,” Agatha snapped.
“You’re not confirming anything either.”
“I’m being cautious.”
“You’re this to close to move to Egypt.”
Agatha huffed, brushing past her to the kitchen. “Fine. If, and I mean if, this is Señor Scratchy’s fault, I’ll contribute to supplies. But only essentials. No organic nonsense or boutique bedding.”
Rio raised a brow, trailing her with that infuriatingly calm energy. “We’re talking about living creatures, not pillows.”
“Same budget rules apply.”
Rio pulled a slim book from the counter and dropped it in front of her. The Complete Guide to Rabbit Pregnancy: From Nesting to Newborns.
Agatha stared at it like it was contagious.
Rio flipped it open to a bookmarked page. “There’s a checklist. We’ll divide and conquer.”
Agatha looked at her, finally, like really looked at her. Hair in a loose braid. That hoodie she always wore when she was pretending not to care. The faintest smudge of soil under one fingernail.
Agatha sighed, long and dramatic, like a heroine making peace with her tragic fate. “Fine. But I want visitation. Full weekends. Alternating holidays.”
Rio snorted. “Already trying to win custody? We haven’t even named them yet.”
“I just want a fair agreement.”
“You want control.” Rio leaned in again, just a little, her voice low and warm. “If you want control, you can have it. But babies are chaos, Harkness. You ready for that?”
Agatha’s jaw twitched. “I have a spreadsheet already.”
Rio blinked. “Of course you do.”
The first draft of the shared calendar appeared in Rio’s inbox within the hour. It was color-coded. There were tabs. One was labeled ‘Emergency Protocols .’
She replied with a hand-drawn version on scrap paper featuring crude sketches of tiny bunny ears and a recurring note that just said: “ Mondays are mine. ”
They compromised.
Kind of.
The agreement, unofficial, unspoken, deeply passive-aggressive, went as follows:
- Pregnancy Period: Bunnies stayed at Rio’s. "More outdoor space,” she claimed.
- Birth: Agatha took over. She had charts. A nesting checklist. And a room with plush cushions, temperature control, and classical music.
Because that was the real fight now: the babies.
Not Scratchy. Not Elizabeth.
The tiny, unborn, innocent fuzzballs to be.
Agatha wanted them. All of them.
“They’ll have structure,” she argued. “Routine. Dignity.”
Rio scoffed. “They’ll have freedom. Personality. Spotify.”
“Animals don’t need playlists, Rio.”
“They do when their nursery smells like imported mahogany and emotional repression.”
Scratchy and the expectant mother were carted back and forth in a basket lined with gingham, which Rio insisted on carrying just to be petty.
Agatha started labeling the bunny food containers. “ Her diet needs to be consistent. ”
Rio responded by replacing all the pellets with oat hay and writing “ They like options ” on the lid in Sharpie.
A whiteboard went up on Agatha’s fridge: “ Bunny Preferences Log. ”
Rio added a sticky note:
“They also prefer me. Just FYI.”
By week two, there was a joint Google Doc.
By week three, there was a full-blown argument in the PetSmart about probiotic supplements for rabbits.
“You’re buying them kombucha?”
“It’s a gut health tonic, Harkness.”
“They eat dirt. Their guts are fine.”
Despite the bickering, Rio started staying longer during drop-offs. She lingered in Agatha’s kitchen. Asked where the spoons were. Left her hoodie draped over a dining chair and didn’t take it back.
Agatha pretended not to notice. But she washed it anyway. Folded it neatly. Left it by the door. Also pretended not to notice when it didn’t move for two days.
The babies weren’t even born yet and already had a custody battle waiting for them.
“I’m keeping the girls,” Agatha declared one morning over coffee, not even trying to sound casual.
Rio didn’t look up from her toast. “Fine. I’ll keep the boys. And the gay ones.”
Agatha blinked. “They’re rabbits.”
Rio grinned. “And yet I can feel the drama in the womb.”
The bunnies, blissfully unaware of the turf war above them, continued to nest, stretch, and flop wherever they pleased.
Sometimes on Rio’s lap.
Sometimes on Agatha’s silk blouses.
Once, tragically, inside her handbag.
“They’re drawn to power,” Rio had said, smugly, when Agatha screamed.
Agatha had later on taken a deep breath, and texted:
“You’re not winning custody just because they think you’re fun.”
Rio replied exactly twelve seconds later:
“No. I’m winning because I don’t organize the carrot sticks by length.”
Agatha didn't respond.
But she did switch the basket liner from gingham to satin.
Just to make a point.
It happened at 3:12 a.m., because of course it did.
Rio was woken by scratching. Not the casual, content kind, this was frantic, urgent, primal. She sat up, blinked blearily at the softly glowing baby monitor she had insisted she didn’t need, and then promptly dropped her phone on her own foot trying to dial Agatha.
Agatha didn’t answer.
She showed up eleven minutes later instead.
She didn’t knock.
Rio found her in the hallway in her signature silk robe, hair wild as if she had just woken up, holding a heat lamp under one arm like she was storming a battlefield.
Agatha didn’t speak. She swept past Rio with the precise, impatient efficiency of someone who'd both Googled this at 2 a.m. and already formatted the spreadsheet.
Elizabeth was in the corner of the nursery pen, panting softly, surrounded by fur and straw and the raw, trembling beginnings of life. Her eyes were wide. So were Rio’s.
Agatha crouched down, one hand outstretched. Her tone softened.
“It’s okay. You’re doing so well,” she murmured, to the rabbit, not to Rio.
Rio hovered behind her. Useless. Shirt inside-out. A piece of hay in her hair. “Should we... call someone?”
Agatha didn’t look up. “I am someone.”
There was silence. Then a sound.
A soft, wet, almost pitiful squeak.
Rio peered over Agatha’s shoulder and immediately recoiled.
“Ew. That’s what they look like?”
Agatha didn’t flinch. She was leaning in, eyes bright, hands steady, gaze alight with something close to reverence.
“They’re perfect,” she said, scooping one gently into her palm, cradling it like glass.
Pink. Hairless. Alien. And somehow, impossibly, adorable.
Rio watched from a safe distance, arms folded. “You say that like you didn’t just deliver a handful of jellybeans that scream.”
Agatha ignored her. Or maybe she just didn’t mind the commentary anymore.
“They’re healthy,” she said, checking each one with impossible tenderness. “I've counted nine. She’s done a beautiful work.”
Rio crouched beside her, reluctantly curious. Close enough to see the flutter of tiny, translucent limbs. One was already trying to nuzzle against Agatha’s wrist.
“They kind of are,” she admitted, quietly.
She didn’t say it like she wanted to fall in love with them.
She said it like it had already happened.
Agatha looked at her then, really looked. Their knees touching, the low hum of the heat lamp buzzing in the background. Her hair was a mess. Her coat half-buttoned. She looked like she hadn’t slept, hadn’t blinked, hadn’t breathed since she got the call.
Rio swallowed. “So… what now?”
Agatha turned back to the nest, brushing a bit of hay away from one of the kits. “Now we wait. Feed them. Keep them warm.”
“And then you fight me for custody?”
Agatha’s smile came slow, like the answer was obvious.
“I already am.”
They sat there for a while in silence. Just the two of them. And the newest chapter of their ridiculous shared life, squirming and squeaking in a pile of fur and warmth.
Outside, the sun hadn’t even started to rise.
But the war had.
And maybe, just maybe, something softer had, too.
The house was dark, save for a soft glow spilling from the kitchen window where Rio stood barefoot, hair tied in a loose knot, wearing a sweatshirt that might have once been her college roommate’s. Or possibly her ex’s. Agatha hadn’t asked. Not because she didn’t care, she very much did, but because the sleeves looked too good rolled up on Rio’s forearms to risk hearing an answer she didn’t like.
It was 2:43 a.m. again. Of course.
Agatha was on the floor, knees bent, surrounded by bottles, towels, and what appeared to be a disturbingly advanced baby bunny containment unit made from an old wine crate and two silk scarves.
“This one’s greedy,” she muttered, adjusting a bottle between gentle fingers as a pink nose nuzzled too aggressively for someone the size of a croissant.
Rio leaned against the counter, sipping from a mug that said “World’s Okayest Parent,” which Agatha had absolutely not given her but somehow resented anyway.
“They take after you,” Rio said dryly.
Agatha didn’t look up. “They do not. They’re loud, stubborn, and keep trying to throw themselves off furniture.”
Rio raised an eyebrow. “Exactly.”
One of the kits tried to climb onto Agatha’s slipper. She gently nudged it back toward the blanket nest and sighed like a woman who’d once ruled the world and now spent her nights sterilizing miniature feeding tubes.
Rio knelt down beside her.
Close. Closer than she used to be. She picked up the quietest of the bunch, cupping it loosely in her hands. The baby blinked at her, all soft twitching limbs and zero self-preservation instincts. God, it was so adorable she almost wanted to eat it.
“They’re a lot,” Rio said after a beat.
Agatha glanced sideways. “So are you.”
It wasn’t meant to come out soft, but it did. Like something she’d stopped bothering to keep sharp.
Rio didn’t argue. She just tucked the kit into her palm like it belonged there.
Between the two of them, the room felt warmer. Still chaotic, but… warmer.
The nights had blurred together, lately. Rio had started showing up with groceries neither of them admitted were joint purchases. Agatha brought her espresso over in the mornings. Just one cup. Always black. No comment.
They’d stopped handing off the kits like footballs and started raising them like a joint venture: split feedings, shared calendars, a rotating playlist that featured everything from Chopin to early 2000s pop.
Agatha still had notes on proper bunny nutrition pinned to the fridge. Rio had added commentary in Sharpie:
“Too much kale = bad”
“Tell that to your skincare routine.”
One evening, they built a bunny playpen in Rio’s living room out of couch cushions and baby gates. They’d ended up on the floor, pressed shoulder to shoulder, watching nine baby rabbits hop in random directions like fuzzy particles in a domestic physics experiment.
Now, tonight, they sat in the same place. This time quieter. This time closer.
Agatha leaned her head back against the cabinet, eyes fluttering shut.
Rio didn’t speak. She just set her mug down and gently, without drama, pulled a blanket over both of them.
By the time the kits settled, they were half-asleep on the kitchen floor, limbs tangled and breaths steady.
Agatha murmured something, too quiet to catch.
Rio leaned in. “What?”
“I said…” A yawn. “We make a good team.”
Rio didn’t respond at first. She just let her hand drift, finding Agatha’s in the blanket tangle. Their fingers touched.
“I always knew we would,” she said.
Neither of them moved after that.
And in the quiet, in the soft glow of a bunny lamp and two overgrown gardens finally at peace, something else settled between them.
Not war. Not rivalry. Just… something warm.
And possibly permanent.
Moonflowers spilled over the edges of raised beds. Vines tangled between trellises in patterns only they understood. Somewhere near the fence, a string of fairy lights blinked uncertainly, like they’d been hung with intention and promptly forgotten.
Rio was barefoot on the grass, a wine glass in one hand, the other tucked into the pocket of an oversized hoodie she’d claimed from Agatha’s laundry room and never given back.
Agatha was perched on a lounge chair, legs tucked to the side, silk robe flowing like a femme fatale. Her hair was pinned loosely, a few strands falling soft against her cheek. She looked like a painting. She looked tired. She looked… content.
Between them, a trio of baby bunnies hopped with the restless confidence of children who’d never heard the word “no.”
Rio watched them with a small, crooked smile.
Agatha sipped her wine, slow and deliberate. “They’re almost weaned.”
Rio nodded. “Hard to believe.”
“It went fast.”
“Too fast,” Rio said, then looked away like she hadn’t meant to say it out loud.
Agatha glanced at her. “You okay?”
Rio shrugged. “Yeah. Just thinking.”
“That’s always dangerous.”
“Only when you’re around.”
The air stilled. Just a breath. Just enough for the space between them to feel a little tighter. A little thicker.
Agatha set her glass down, wiped her fingers on the edge of her robe. “I used to think I’d just keep it me and Scratchy forever. He was the only one I could stand sharing space with.”
Rio tilted her head. “And now?”
Agatha looked at the bunnies. “Now I’ve got nine loud, needy children and a neighbor who keeps stealing my hoodies.”
Rio didn’t smile. Not yet. “I thought you hated me.”
Agatha turned to her, slow. Her voice dropped to something softer. “I thought I did, too.”
They sat like that for a moment, facing each other, barely inches apart, wine and moonlight blurring whatever lines they'd drawn weeks ago.
Rio stepped closer. She reached up, brushing a bit of lint from Agatha’s shoulder. Her fingers lingered just a second too long.
“I don’t want to go back to before,” she said.
Agatha’s breath caught. “Me neither.”
Their eyes met. And stayed.
It wasn’t dramatic. There was no swell of music, no thunderstorm, no crash of realization.
Just two women, in a garden overrun with love and clover, finally saying what had been obvious to everyone but them.
Rio leaned in first. Slow, cautious, like a dare.
Agatha met her halfway.
The kiss was soft. Familiar. A question and an answer in the same breath.
Then, a soft thump.
Something warm and fuzzy nosed its way between their ankles. One of the bunnies flopped onto Agatha’s foot, squeaked indignantly, and proceeded to chew on the hem of her robe like it paid rent.
They broke apart, laughing.
Agatha sighed, looking down at the tiny saboteur. “Romantic sabotage. They get that from you.”
Rio grinned. “Obviously.”
Agatha nudged the bunny gently away and turned back to Rio, eyes warm, voice low. “So… what are we?”
Rio reached for her hand. “A disaster,” she said. “But I think I like it here.”
They kissed again, slower this time.
And above them, the fairy lights blinked to life for real, like even they’d stopped pretending this wasn’t something real.
Six months later, the house smelled faintly of lavender and hay.
The framed photo sat on the hallway table, tucked between a cracked ceramic bowl and a jar of half-used rabbit treats. In it: Agatha, Rio, Señor Scratchy perched proudly in Agatha’s lap, Elizabeth sprawled smugly at Rio’s feet, and in the middle, a sea of fur. Nine baby bunnies, in various shades of soft brown and snowy white, eyes bright, ears tilted, mid-hop or mid-blur. Chaos in still life.
The house was louder now. Full of thumps and tiny chewing noises and the occasional yell of “Stop eating the baseboards!” followed by an exasperated groan or a laugh that couldn't quite hide the affection underneath.
Agatha stood in the doorway, espresso in one hand, watching as Rio attempted to guide three of the kits out from under the armchair with a feather duster. It wasn’t working.
“I told you not to teach them how to get behind there,” Rio muttered, jabbing gently. A thump. No movement.
Agatha smirked. “I didn’t teach them. They simply inherited my gift for escape and inconvenience.”
Rio turned to look at her, a strand of hair caught in her mouth, eyes exasperated and shining. “You mean your talent for denial and dramatics.”
Agatha took a long sip of espresso. “Pot, meet kettle.”
Another thump. A fourth bunny joined the siege under the chair.
Rio flopped backward onto the rug with a sigh, arms stretched wide, already surrendering. Agatha walked over and sat beside her, knees brushing.
For a moment, they said nothing. Just listened to the tiny storm of life they'd accidentally created.
Then, softly:
“Still think it was just going to be you and Scratchy against the world?” Rio asked.
Agatha hummed, watching the kits tumble over each other. “Scratchy had plans I wasn’t privy to.”
Pause. A smile appeared slowly on her lips.
“Apparently, so did I.”
Rio turned her head, cheek pressed to the rug. “Nine of them.”
Agatha’s fingers found Rio’s, laced them gently. “Overachievers. Like their parents.”
Rio grinned, eyes fluttering shut as one of the kits thumped against the wall behind her. “They’re going to live under that chair forever, aren’t they?”
Agatha leaned over, shoulder brushing Rio’s. “It’s a strategic location. Fortified. Low visibility.”
Another thump. A second bunny popped its head out, stared at them, then darted back into the shadows.
Rio laughed softly. “They’re yours, you know. Every single one of them. Tiny agents of destruction.”
Agatha turned her head toward her. “Ours.”
For a moment, the word just hung there, quiet, certain.
Agatha’s hand found Rio’s, warm against the woven rug. Their fingers curled together.
“Turns out,” Agatha said, watching the chair tremble as the kits collided beneath it, “this wasn’t the life I planned.”
Rio smiled and tilted her head.
“No,” she said. “But it’s the one that showed up at your door with a bunny.”
A pause.
“And chewed through the charger cables.”
Agatha laughed, and this time, she kissed her. Quick. Steady. The kind of kiss that settled everything without needing words.
Somewhere under the armchair, Señor Scratchy sneezed.
And that was that.