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Agatha woke slowly, not with a start, not with panic, but with the kind of gradual, syrup-thick drift from sleep into waking where the world softened at the edges.
Warmth.
She felt that first.
Not sunlight.
Not blankets.
The warmth of another body pressed exactly along her spine, molding to her shape like it was made for it.
Rio.
Still half-asleep behind her, one arm tucked under Agatha’s waist, the other curled loosely near her ribs. Her breath was warm and steady against the back of Agatha’s neck, each exhale brushing the tiny hairs there in a way that made her shiver without meaning to.
Agatha didn’t move for a long moment.
She just breathed.
Listened to the quiet of their shared apartment.
Felt the weight of having someone so close, so constant, so hers.
Sanctuary.
That’s what it felt like.
Rio’s leg was tangled with hers, warm and heavy, anchoring her.
Agatha wiggled her toes experimentally.
Rio’s toes twitched in response, completely unconscious, like her body chased Agatha’s even in sleep.
A soft smile ghosted over Agatha’s lips.
God, she loved mornings like this.
She turned her head slightly, careful, slow, not wanting to disturb Rio, and strands of hair fell forward over her cheek.
Her curls.
Her… chaotic, wild, mutinous curls.
She blinked, pushing them out of her face automatically, only for them to fall right back into her eyes like they had personal vendettas.
Agatha lifted her hand to gather the curls and her fingers stopped three inches in.
Caught.
Hopelessly.
She tugged gently.
Stuck.
She tugged again.
Worse.
“Fantastic,” she muttered under her breath.
Behind her, Rio mumbled something into Agatha’s shoulder and snuggled closer, burying her face into the back of Agatha’s shirt like she was trying to fuse their bodies together.
Agatha froze.
Rio’s face was about an inch from the nest of curls currently retaliating against gravity.
She would absolutely wake if Agatha started a hair battle right now.
Agatha sighed softly and let her tangled hand rest on the pillow instead.
She stared at the ceiling, listening to Rio’s breathing, feeling the soft vibrations of each exhale against her own back.
Her heart ached with something warm.
This wasn’t where she expected to be a year ago.
This wasn’t the version of her life she thought she’d ever get to have, a morning so safe she could wake slowly.
Wake to warmth.
Wake to the gentle reality of someone who loved her enough to wrap around her in their sleep.
She tilted her head again, curls dragging across her cheekbone.
Okay.
Now she really had to get up.
She nudged Rio’s arm gently, trying not to disturb her too much.
“Sweetheart,” she whispered, touching her wrist lightly.
Rio made a sound that was more vibration than word, something soft and heavy with sleep.
Agatha’s chest melted.
She kissed the back of Rio’s hand, soft, slow, just a brush of lips against skin.
“Gotta get up,” she whispered.
Rio didn’t wake.
Instead, she loosened her hold by about half an inch, just enough for Agatha to slide out from under her arm.
Agatha shifted carefully, becoming acutely aware of every place their bodies touched as she pulled herself free. The mattress dipped. The blankets whispered. Rio murmured something that sounded vaguely like don't go before settling deeper into the sheets.
Agatha froze.
Then swallowed.
Then smiled, slow and involuntary.
“Not going far,” she whispered, even though Rio couldn’t hear her.
She slipped her feet onto the cold floor, wincing when her hair slapped into her eyes again and padded quietly toward the bathroom.
The apartment was still dim, only a pale wash of early morning filtering through the curtains. Dust motes hung in the golden slant of light. The faint hum of the fridge filled the silence. The soft squeak of the floorboards under her bare feet felt like home.
She switched on the bathroom light.
Immediately wished she hadn’t.
Because the mirror reflected an absolute catastrophe.
“Oh, for the love of—” she whispered, leaning closer.
Her curls had clearly had a traumatic night.
One section had flattened itself sideways.
The other had knotted itself into a mass so thick she could’ve hidden contraband inside it.
The back of her head looked like she’d rolled around on a small woodland creature.
Agatha stared at herself.
“Alright,” she muttered. “This is fine. Totally fine. We’ve seen worse.”
She grabbed her comb off the counter, paused, and exhaled a long, defeated sigh.
Right.
If she tried to tackle this disaster before caffeine… she’d probably rip out half her hair and start the morning on a terrible note.
Agatha stared at the comb.
Stared at her reflection.
Stared at the comb again.
God, she did not have the energy for this.
Her hair needed a whole ritual, patience, conditioner, detangling and she wasn’t even fully awake yet.
She didn’t want to wrestle them this early.
Not today.
Not before coffee.
Not with her brain still half-asleep and her body still warm from Rio’s arms.
She sighed.
“Later,” she muttered to herself.
She set the comb down.
Fine.
Her hair could exist in chaotic rebellion for a little while longer.
Which meant coffee came first.
She left the bathroom, dragging her fingers through her curls, getting stuck every four seconds and wandered toward the kitchen.
The apartment was quiet.
Still warm from their bodies.
Still smelling faintly of last night’s comfort food.
Agatha yawned, stretching her arms carefully as she entered the kitchenette.
She reached for the kettle—
And froze.
Because Rio was standing there.
Awake.
Barefoot.
Drowned in one of Agatha’s shirts.
And staring directly at Agatha’s hair like it was a religious experience.
Agatha blinked.
Rio blinked.
Agatha frowned.
Rio blinked again.
Rio blinked at her like her brain had crashed and needed a reboot.
Agatha stood frozen in the kitchen doorway, hair sticking out in twelve directions, fingers still half-stuck in the mess of curls, doing her best impression of a raccoon after a trash can explosion.
It would’ve been funny.
If Rio didn’t look like she had just witnessed the divine.
Her eyes were wide, not horrified wide, not judgmental wide, but soft, stunned, absolutely captivated wide.
Agatha’s groan died in her throat.
“…Don’t say anything,” she repeated, pointing a warning finger.
Rio said nothing.
But she did tilt her head in that slow, fascinated way she only used when something scratched her curiosity instinct and set her entire brain on fire.
Agatha narrowed her eyes suspiciously.
“Rio.”
Rio did not respond.
She took a tiny step forward instead, barefoot, quiet, almost soundless, until she was close enough for Agatha to smell the soft mint of her toothpaste.
Rio’s gaze traveled from Agatha’s eyes…
to her hair…
back to her eyes…
and then dipped again, softer, slower, almost tender.
Agatha blinked. “What?”
Rio swallowed.
A deep, careful swallow that made her throat bob visibly.
“You…” She paused. “Your hair is…”
Agatha raised her brows. “A mess?”
Rio shook her head immediately.
Too immediately.
Vehemently.
“Not a mess.”
Agatha snorted. “Oh, sweetheart, it definitely is.”
Rio didn’t smile.
Her focus didn’t break.
“It’s… different,” Rio said, voice pitched low, almost shy.
Agatha let out a disbelieving laugh. “You can say it looks wild, you know.”
Rio glanced down, a tiny break in eye contact, then back up, cheeks faintly pink.
“No,” she said softly. “I wasn’t going to say that.”
Her voice had changed, something gentler threading through it, something careful, something that made Agatha’s stomach flip with a warmth she wasn’t ready for before coffee.
Rio lifted a hand halfway, as if reaching toward Agatha’s curls, then froze mid-motion.
Stopped.
Hovering.
Fingers curled slightly, like she sensed how much permission mattered here.
Rio never took liberties with Agatha’s body.
Not without checking.
Not without watching her face, her shoulders, her breath, waiting for cues.
And now, that hand hovered in the air like a question.
Agatha softened instantly.
“Sweetheart,” she said quietly, “what’s going on in that head of yours?”
Rio’s eyes flickered, the smallest, most fleeting flash of vulnerability.
She lowered her hand slowly, like retracting it hurt.
Agatha stepped one foot closer.
“Tell me.”
Rio inhaled, sharp, breathy, as if she wasn’t sure whether she was allowed to want what she wanted.
Then, barely audible:
“…I want to help.”
Agatha blinked.
“What, with my hair?”
Rio nodded.
One small, decisive nod.
Like she had practiced the motion in her mind.
Agatha stared at her for a beat, then laughed a little. “Sweetheart, you don’t have to—”
Rio cut her off by shaking her head.
A quick, earnest shake.
“I want to,” she said again.
Soft.
Almost whispered.
Very timid.
And Agatha suddenly understood.
This wasn’t about hair.
This was about Rio wanting to care for her.
Wanting to touch her.
To help her.
To show affection in a way that was safe and contained and meaningful.
Rio reached out, slowly, slowly, fingers hovering just inches away from the curls.
“May I?” she asked.
Not Can I fix it?
Not Let me do it.
Not I know how.
A pure, simple, vulnerable may I.
Agatha’s chest tightened.
She nodded softly.
“Yeah. Of course you can.”
Rio’s whole posture shifted then.
Not visibly.
Not a big reaction.
But a small, delicate untensing:
the way her shoulders loosened, the way her breath expanded, the way her gaze warmed in an instant.
Her hand moved carefully, gently, until the pads of her fingers brushed one curl.
Just a brush.
Barely contact.
But Rio’s eyes widened a little, like the texture surprised her.
Like she had to see how it moved, how it felt, how it responded.
She touched again.
A tiny, slow pinch of the curl between thumb and finger.
Agatha felt her stomach somersault.
Rio murmured something under her breath, soft, quiet, reverent.
Agatha blinked. “What?”
Rio didn’t look up.
Didn’t let go of the curl.
“Nothing,” she whispered.
Agatha stepped closer, angled so she could see Rio’s face better.
There was something almost… shy in her expression.
Curiosity.
Tenderness.
Something like awe.
“You want to fix my hair?” Agatha asked softly.
Rio nodded.
“Badly?” Agatha teased.
Rio hesitated, then, with a small exhale, admitted:
“…Yes.”
Agatha felt warmth bloom across her chest in a slow, spreading wave.
She untangled her fingers from the piece of hair that had trapped them and offered Rio the comb.
Rio didn’t take it.
Instead, she shook her head, flushing slightly.
“I want to use my hands first,” she said quietly.
Agatha blinked.
Then warmth spread deeper, richer.
“Okay,” she whispered. “Use your hands, sweetheart.”
Rio swallowed again, a nervous, hopeful swallow and gestured toward the couch.
“Sit?” she asked, voice soft and careful and slightly unsure.
Agatha smiled.
A real, warm smile that softened her whole face.
She reached up, touched Rio’s cheek with two fingers, and kissed the corner of her mouth gently.
“I’d love to.”
Rio exhaled like she’d been holding her breath for ten minutes straight.
Then she stepped back, clearing the path to the couch, her movements still soft, still cautious, still warmed by that earnest eagerness she was trying so hard to hide.
Agatha walked toward the couch, aware of every curl shifting against her neck, aware of Rio’s eyes following her, aware of the soft anticipation humming between them.
This wasn’t just hair.
This was trust.
This was tenderness.
This was Rio gathering courage to ask for a small act of intimacy she clearly wanted desperately but hadn’t dared to initiate until now.
Agatha sat down.
Rio hovered behind her again, timid, gentle, almost breathless.
Agatha pulled her curls forward over her shoulders and looked up at her with a soft grin.
“Come here, baby,” she said. “You can touch me.”
Rio’s ears flushed pink.
Rio hovered behind the couch like she was afraid to disturb the air.
Agatha sat at the edge of the cushion, back straight, legs crossed, curls falling in wild, tangled waves around her shoulders. Her heart thudded softer than a whisper, but steady and warm and strangely fluttery.
She’d had girlfriends touch her hair before.
But Rio…
Rio was different.
Rio stood behind her like this was sacred.
Like this was something she had waited for, not days, not weeks, but months.
Agatha could feel her hesitation in the way the quiet stretched between them:
Not awkward, not tense, but reverent.
Agatha inhaled slowly, grounding herself in the warmth of the moment.
“You can touch it, sweetheart,” she murmured without looking back.
She felt, more than heard, the tiny breath Rio released.
Then Rio moved.
Carefully.
Slowly.
Like she was approaching a skittish creature, or something fragile, or something beautiful she didn’t want to ruin.
Rio knelt behind her, the couch creaking softly beneath the shift of weight. Her knees brushed the back cushion lightly, a ghost of contact that sent a gentle current down Agatha’s spine.
Rio’s hands hovered inches from Agatha’s curls.
Not touching yet.
Just… assessing.
Agatha felt herself smile.
Rio did everything like this, careful study before action.
The scientist in her never slept.
Agatha waited.
And waited.
And waited.
“Sweetheart,” she said eventually, voice warm, amused, patient, “you’re allowed to touch them.”
Rio made a tiny sound, a soft, uncertain hum, then lowered her hands.
Not in a full grasp, just the tips of her fingers brushing the ends of Agatha’s curls.
A familiar touch
made unfamiliar by its slowness.
Rio let the curls fall through her fingers, studying the movement like she always studied things she found beautiful.
A curl bounced.
Rio stilled, transfixed.
Agatha laughed under her breath.
“You’ve seen my hair before, babe.”
Rio’s voice came soft, barely audible.
“Yes. But not like this.”
Agatha tilted her head a little.
“Not like what?”
Rio didn’t answer.
She lifted another curl, letting it twirl around her knuckle, the motion gentle and almost reverent.
Agatha sighed, a quiet, warm exhale that she tried to hide.
Rio didn’t miss it.
Her hand paused mid-motion.
“Does that hurt?”
“No,” Agatha said quickly. “God, no. It feels… good.”
Rio resumed, slower this time, more careful, as if trying to memorize the texture.
“Your hair is different when it’s like this,” Rio murmured.
“Messy?” Agatha joked.
Rio shook her head, fingers sinking deeper into a knot, gently, expertly, easing it apart with patience Agatha hadn’t realized Rio possessed in this context.
“Untamed,” Rio corrected quietly.
“Soft… and real.”
Agatha’s breath stilled in her chest.
There was something in Rio’s voice, not arousal, not humor, something quieter, deeper.
Admiration.
Tenderness.
Care.
She closed her eyes as Rio’s fingers moved upward, raking lightly through the curls at the side of her head. Not tugging, just stroking, coaxing them free. Each motion was slow, thoughtful, almost meditative.
Agatha leaned into it despite herself.
Rio froze.
“You moved,” she whispered.
Agatha laughed softly.
“I’m allowed to move.”
“I don't want to overwhelm you,” Rio explained.
“You won’t.”
Rio’s hands resumed and this time she touched more boldly.
Still gentle, still slow, but with intention.
She parted Agatha’s hair with her fingers, creating space.
She worked through a small tangle with soft, circular motions.
She smoothed a curl behind Agatha’s ear with a tenderness so careful Agatha felt heat rise to her cheeks.
“Baby…” Agatha’s voice dipped without her permission.
Rio paused again. She always paused when Agatha’s breath changed.
“Too much?” Rio asked quietly.
Agatha shook her head.
“No. Keep going.”
Rio’s fingers traveled to the nape of her neck, where Agatha was most sensitive and began to massage the roots in slow, thoughtful circles.
Agatha inhaled sharply.
Rio froze again.
“Sorry.”
“Do not apologize,” Agatha whispered, leaning back into her hand before she could stop herself. “Please.”
Rio’s breath shook a little.
Her touch resumed, firmer this time, more confident.
The difference stunned Agatha.
This wasn’t Rio being timid.
This was Rio learning.
Adapting.
Realizing this was something she was allowed to do, something Agatha liked and adjusting instantly.
She combed through another section, smoothing the curl gently, careful not to snag.
“You’ve done this before,” Agatha murmured.
Rio shook her head behind her.
“Not like this.”
A pause.
“I’ve touched your hair. But I’ve never… taken care of it.”
The words hit Agatha square in the chest.
She swallowed.
“Well,” she said softly, “you’re very good at it.”
Rio’s fingers stilled briefly against her scalp.
Her voice dropped.
“I like doing this for you.”
Agatha felt her heartbeat trip.
Rio rarely said things like that aloud.
Affection came through actions, gestures, consistent presence, but not words. Not often.
“And your hair…” Rio continued, fingers threading slowly through the freed curls, “it’s something you trust me with.”
Agatha exhaled slowly.
Rio’s touch softened even more.
“So I want to do it right,” Rio murmured.
A single curl slipped between her fingers like silk.
“I want to do you right.”
Agatha shivered, full-body, uncontrollable.
Rio’s hands froze.
“That was— I didn’t— That sounded—”
Rio inhaled sharply, flustered.
Agatha laughed, a warm, low sound, reaching back blindly until her fingers brushed Rio’s knee.
“Baby,” she said, voice warm with affection, “it doesn’t matter how it sounded.”
Rio swallowed audibly.
Agatha leaned her head back into her touch again.
“So long as you keep doing that.”
Rio resumed instantly.
Slow, warm, deliberate motions.
Fingers tracing the curve of Agatha’s scalp.
Palms smoothing curls.
Thumbs brushing tenderly down strands.
A new kind of intimacy.
A new kind of love.
Not passion.
Not desire.
Care.
And Agatha let herself sink into it, into Rio’s hands, into the warmth of morning, into a softness she hadn’t realized she was starving for.
Rio’s fingers moved slowly through her curls, and Agatha let herself tip further into the warmth behind her, not enough to crush Rio’s knees, but enough that Rio would feel it, enough that Rio would know she was wanted there.
Rio didn’t pull away.
She adjusted.
Her knees parted slightly to brace Agatha’s weight; her hands shifted higher, cupping the sides of Agatha’s head momentarily, repositioning so her thumbs brushed the edge of Agatha’s scalp. Then she resumed the steady, reverent motions through Agatha’s hair, every stroke deliberate, calm, loving in a way that made Agatha’s throat tighten.
Rio touched her hair all the time, but this was different.
This was a conversation without words.
A slow, unfolding kind of “I love you” that lived not in grand gestures, but in quiet care.
Her fingers slipped through another curl with a softness that felt like a kiss.
Agatha inhaled shallowly, unable to stop the sound she made, not a moan, but something warm, something vulnerable.
Rio stilled for a breath.
She always did when Agatha made sounds like that.
“Are you sure it feels good?” Rio murmured, her voice low, almost cautious.
Agatha nodded against her touch.
“It feels incredible.”
Rio’s breath shivered out.
And she kept going.
Her hands were warm.
Her fingertips traced gentle arcs on Agatha’s scalp.
The pressure was perfect, enough to ground her, not enough to overwhelm.
Agatha’s eyes fell half-lidded.
Silence wrapped around them, not awkward, not empty, but thick with warmth.
The soft rustle of curls slipping through fingers.
The faint hum of the fridge.
A bird outside their window.
Their breathing, steady, slow, syncing unconsciously.
Rio murmured under her breath, quiet, soothing syllables that sounded almost like a prayer.
Agatha didn’t know the words.
But she knew the tone.
Warm.
Focused.
Honest.
She felt her heartbeat slow under Rio’s hands.
Her muscles loosened.
Her mind quieted.
She had never realized how rare that was.
Rio gently pushed the curls behind her ear, fingertips brushing the delicate spot just below the earlobe.
Agatha shivered.
Rio paused.
“Agatha?”
“Keep going,” Agatha breathed.
Rio did.
Her hands slid down, tracing the curve of Agatha’s neck with tender curiosity, fingertips pressing lightly into the muscles there, easing tension Agatha didn’t know she’d been carrying.
It wasn’t a massage.
It was softer than that.
A gentle exploration.
A quiet question: Is this okay? Is this good? Do you want this? Can I love you like this?
Agatha answered every question by leaning back just a little more, tipping her head so Rio could reach what she needed to.
Rio exhaled shakily.
The breath brushed the back of Agatha’s hair, warm and intimate.
“You’re being very gentle,” Agatha murmured, voice somewhere between fond and undone.
Rio hesitated.
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You’re not hurting me,” Agatha said. “Far from it.”
Rio paused for a long moment.
When she spoke again, her voice was quieter, the honesty in it startling.
“I like… when you let me take care of you.”
Agatha froze.
Her chest tightened.
Her breath hitched.
Her eyes stung unexpectedly.
She didn’t turn around, not yet, but she reached behind her blindly until her hand found Rio’s knee again.
Rio’s fingers stilled mid-motion, resting lightly in her curls.
Agatha whispered, “I do let you.”
Rio’s voice softened. “Like this?”
Agatha nodded.
“Like this.”
Rio resumed her movements slowly, almost cautiously, like she was afraid the moment might evaporate if she breathed too hard.
“Is it strange?” Rio asked quietly after a minute.
“That I want to do this?”
Agatha shook her head.
“No,” she said honestly. “It’s… incredibly sweet.”
Rio made a tiny sound, a soft, embarrassed huff that Agatha recognized immediately.
She smiled.
“Rio?”
“Yes?”
“I love this,” Agatha admitted in a whisper.
“I love you doing this.”
Rio’s hands trembled, barely noticeable but unmistakable.
Then they steadied again, firmer, more confident now, as if something inside her aligned.
The next movements were sure.
Tender.
Purposeful.
She gathered Agatha’s curls, letting them fall over her fingers like water.
She traced her scalp with both hands.
She smoothed the strands down her back.
Agatha melted.
Rio bent forward without warning, gently, slowly, until her forehead touched the back of Agatha’s head.
A soft, grounding press.
Agatha’s breath caught.
Rio didn’t speak.
Didn’t move.
Just rested there, lightly leaning against her, skin to skin through layers of curls.
Agatha lifted a hand and laced their fingers behind her.
Rio’s breath stuttered.
“Agatha,” Rio murmured, a soft plea wrapped in her name.
Agatha squeezed her hand.
“I’m here.”
Rio hummed, a soft, vibrating sound of contentment and rested her cheek against the back of Agatha’s head, just above the nape of her neck.
Warm.
Close.
Holy.
Agatha closed her eyes and let Rio hold her like that, like she was cherished, like she was something worth taking time to care for, like this was a love language neither of them had named out loud yet.
Rio’s fingers moved again, slower now, stroking down a curl that rested over Agatha’s shoulder.
She traced it to the end, then touched Agatha’s collarbone lightly, a whisper-soft caress.
Agatha inhaled sharply.
Rio froze.
“Too much?”
Agatha shook her head.
“No. Not too much. Just—”
She swallowed hard.
“Very… intimate.”
Rio’s voice lowered, a soft, shy murmur.
“I meant it to be.”
That sentence nearly knocked the breath from Agatha’s lungs.
She turned slowly, not pulling away, but rotating within Rio’s touch and looked up at her.
Rio’s eyes were wide, soft, vulnerable.
“Come here,” Agatha whispered.
Rio leaned forward immediately, guided by instinct more than thought.
Agatha lifted a hand to Rio’s cheek, gentle, slow, and kissed her.
Not hungry.
Not rushed.
A slow, warm kiss filled with the same tenderness Rio had been pouring into her hair.
Rio sighed quietly against her mouth.
Agatha pulled back just far enough to rest her forehead against Rio’s, their breaths mingling.
“Baby,” she whispered, brushing her thumb along Rio’s jaw, “anytime you want to touch my hair like that? You don’t even have to ask.”
Rio’s breath caught.
Her cheeks flushed.
“…Okay,” she murmured.
Agatha smiled softly.
The quiet around them thickened again, not heavy, not empty, but full.
A quiet that felt like home.
And with Rio sitting behind her, fingers still nestled in her curls, breath warm against her cheek, Agatha let herself sink into it fully.
Into the moment.
Into the softness.
Into the simple, overwhelming truth that this, caring hands, quiet morning, love in small rituals was the kind of life she never thought she’d get to have.
A quiet built together.