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Karl is feral this morning.
San Francisco has decided to get into the holiday spirit by suffocating itself in fog and stringing lights over whatever the fog does not manage to swallow. The result is a strange, glowing watercolor of a city, half-blurred, half-twinkling.
Rio pulls her scarf tighter and pretends it helps. The air tastes like cold salt. Her hair is already damp and curling at the nape of her neck, her lashes clumping with moisture. Her keep cup warms her hands through her gloves, and she focuses on that, the heat anchoring her to something real.
She sees the first wreath of the morning as she rounds the corner toward the N-Judah stop. Red ribbon, plastic berries, a spray of holly. It hangs crooked on the door of a surf shop. A tiny battery-operated candle flickers behind the glass.
It nudges at something deep in her. She ignores it.
Two months. She and Agatha have been doing this for two months. Commuting together, sleeping together, cooking, watching movies, sharing slow, easy mornings that make Rio's chest go warm. Not completely girlfriends, not just casual, something else.
Something fragile enough that she is scared to poke at it.
She gets to the tram platform a few minutes early, which she tells herself is coincidence even though she knows it never is anymore. A handful of people huddle in the cold, breath fogging the air. The lights from the holiday banners cast pale yellow onto the wet pavement.
Rio pretends she’s not looking for a deep purple coat.
Agatha arrives, and it’s like the fog parts just for her. She comes from the side street, hair already frizzing at the ends, curls sticking to her cheekbones. Her coat is buttoned wrong. Rio smiles before she can stop herself.
"Morning," Rio says, voice a little breathier than it should be.
Agatha starts slightly, then her shoulders drop. The softening is small, but Rio sees it. She always sees it.
"Good morning," Agatha says. She glances at Rio's keep cup. "Successfully managed to keep hold of your coffee so far?"
“It’s a work in progress, I think,” Rio says. “I slipped on something on my way over, so the morning nearly took it from me.”
“This city tries to take everything,” Agatha says, looking Rio over to make sure she’s unharmed. “San Francisco’s holiday cheer in its purest form.”
Rio laughs. “Those lights are doing their best.”
Agatha looks over the platform as if noticing the decorations for the first time. A garland has been wrapped around the railing, but the moisture has already soaked it into a darker shade, drooping slightly. A row of string lights flickers overhead, one bulb buzzing like it is reconsidering its life choices.
"I suppose it is cheerful," Agatha says. She sounds unconvinced.
Rio doesn’t push. She just sips her coffee, before handing it to Agatha, and lets the quiet settle. It is a good quiet, a comfortable quiet.
The tram appears as two blurry headlights in the white-grey wall of fog. Agatha steps closer instinctively, the way she always does when the tram is approaching and the other bodies start shifting forward. She’s protective, always protective. Rio doesn’t say anything about it. She just stands next to her and lets her body be enveloped by Agatha and her warmth.
The doors hiss open.
Inside, the tram is warm and dim. There are more holiday decorations. Someone has taped a paper snowflake over the route map, the edges are curling.
Rio stands near the pole, Agatha beside her. Agatha's fingers hover like she might reach for the pole but is considering simply holding on to Rio instead. Then she chooses the pole. Rio deflates a little bit at that.
"So," Rio says lightly, "the city is really going for it this year."
"Mmm," Agatha says, staring out the window with a neutral expression.
"You’re not much of a Christmas person?" Rio asks, tentatively.
Agatha's lips pull tight, almost a smile, almost not. "I prefer the quieter seasons."
"Quiet like... quiet quiet? Or quiet like avoiding quiet?" Rio asks. It’s meant to be light, but she feels the edge of it in her own voice.
Agatha watches the fog-laced window. Her profile is clean lines and tension. "A little of both, I suppose."
Rio wants to ask. Wants to pry gently, wants to say something like tell me why. Tell me what happened. Tell me who hurt you. I want to know everything about you. But she doesn’t want to step wrong. Not with this, not with Agatha.
Instead she says, "My brothers used to put tinsel on the dog. He hated it."
Agatha blinks, startled out of her thoughts. "You had a dog?"
"Rolly. He’d start hiding every December when he saw the decorations come out."
Agatha's mouth twitches. "I would like to see photos of this."
"They’re around," Rio laughs. "Somewhere back home in Kansas with my parents."
The words land between them heavily.
Kansas. Home. Family.
Agatha's fingers begin worrying at the loose thread on her pocket. It is the first real tell Rio ever learned from her. It’s what she does when she’s nervous, when she’s guarded and thinking too hard.
"You are not going back to Kansas this year?" Agatha asks gently.
"No," Rio says. She keeps her voice even. "My brothers are all over the place at the moment. One is in Montana, one in Chicago. Everyone’s doing their own thing, my parents are on a cruise. We haven’t had a real Christmas together in years, anyway. I usually work. Or ignore it."
Agatha's shoulders lower a tiny bit. Like something in her eases at Rio’s response.
"That sounds lonely, honey," she says quietly.
Rio shrugs. "It’s just another day."
Agatha looks like she wants to argue, but she doesn’t.
The tram rattles while a little boy in a puffy jacket announces loudly to his seat companion that Santa has been watching them all. Agatha winces at the volume.
Rio grins.
There is a warm pocket of silence. The good kind again. But it feels... precarious.
Rio clears her throat. "Do you... have plans?"
The question hangs there, fragile and hopeful.
Agatha inhales sharply, the slightest hitch in her breath.
"I might spend it with my ma–Lilia," she says finally. "I usually do. Or I stay home. I’ve been out of the country across the holidays for so many years that they had to become... flexible." She smooths her coat sleeve. "My family isn’t–I don’t have a place to go home to, other than Lilia."
Rio steps towards Agatha, gently. "No?"
Agatha's jaw moves, it’s a tiny shift, a contained storm.
"My mother is..." She stops, recalculates, reassembles the word. "Difficult."
The way she says it makes Rio's ribs pull tight.
"Okay," Rio says softly. "You don’t have to tell me more now, but you can if you want."
Agatha looks at her, something grateful flickering behind her eyes. "Thank you."
Rio opens her mouth again. She’s going to ask. She is. It is right there, the question on the tip of her tongue.
Do you want to spend Christmas with me? Would you please spend Christmas with me? Also, I think I might be in love with you?
Before she can speak, the tram jerks violently around a curve, sending both of them swaying. Rio's free hand shoots out to steady herself. Agatha grabs the pole, her shoulder bumping into Rio's chest. There is the briefest, precious brush of warmth through two layers of winter fabric.
The moment snaps cleanly in half.
Rio lets out a soft breath, and Agatha looks away.
The tram steadies. People shuffle past. The kid starts singing Jingle Bell Rock with zero pitch control, which is fine, but it’s also a recognized torture method. Agatha looks like she might exile herself to Antarctica, or the moon.
They ride in silence for a few stops. Not tense, just suspended. Like the conversation stalled somewhere in the fog and they haven’t quite figured out how to retrieve it.
At Civic Center, Agatha shifts to leave.
"This is my stop," she says quietly.
Rio nods, smiling softly. "Yeah. I know. Mine too, today, I have a meeting."
They step off together into the cold morning. Fog still curls between the buildings, soft and intrusive. Agatha pulls her scarf higher, fighting the cold, and her curls stick to her cheek.
Rio wants to reach out and tuck them behind her ear, but she doesn’t. Agatha looks…sad.
They stand at the corner a moment longer than necessary.
"Have a good day," Agatha says. Her voice is gentle, far too gentle.
"You too," Rio says.
Agatha hesitates. Just for a heartbeat. Then she turns and walks toward her office building in the university, her coat flaring slightly behind her.
Rio watches until she disappears.
She lifts her cup and takes a sip. It’s gone cold.
She walks to work with the quiet, nagging feeling that she might have just made a mistake and ruined something.
Something she is afraid of wanting too much.
Saturday morning comes for them eventually, and it greets Rio by waking her with the sound of keys in the door.
For a disoriented second, she thinks she’s back in Kazakhstan in the field, her half-asleep instinct kicking in before her brain catches up. Her eyes snap open. The room is unfamiliar in the way Agatha’s apartment always is in the mornings when she sleeps over, all clean lines and books and quiet, the windows pale in the early morning hue.
Then a voice carries down the hallway.
“Buttercup, I need you up. My greenhouse lights are flickering again and Sharon is convinced it’s a bad omen this time of year.”
Rio freezes.
She rolls onto her elbow, heart already racing. Agatha is beside her, completely bare and unbothered under the sheets, hair a soft mess, blinking awake.
Rio is just as exposed, the covers twisted somewhere around her legs.
“That’s my ma,” Agatha murmurs, voice rough with the morning. There’s fondness there. Also resignation. “She never knocks.”
As if summoned by the acknowledgment, Rio hears Agatha’s front door open wider.
“I am assuming you’re decent, darling,” the voice continues, creeping closer down the hall. “If you’re not, that is your problem. I’m coming in anyway.”
“Oh fuck, that’s my ma,” Agatha nearly shouts, leaping from the bed.
Rio scrambles. Her jeans are somewhere near the chair. Her shirt is not. She can’t find her shirt. She grabs the first thing within reach, which turns out to be a potted fern from the windowsill, and presses it to her chest like it might make her invisible.
The bedroom door swings open.
The woman standing there is older than Rio expected, silver curls pulled back messily, eyes bright and teasing. She takes in the scene without missing a beat.
“Well,” she says. “It appears you are both decent.”
Agatha groans, blushing. “Ma.”
The woman looks at Rio properly then, her expression softening into something warm and curious.
“Oh,” she says. “Hello, sweets.”
Rio’s brain empties completely. “Hi.”
“What are you doing there?” Lilia asks, genuinely interested.
Rio glances down at the fern, then back up. “Um, I like plants.”
Agatha drops her head into her hands.
Lilia smiles, amused. “Excellent. Me too.”
She turns away and clicks her fingers at Agatha. “Agatha, trousers. Kitchen. Now.”
The conversation moves without Rio. She hears footsteps retreating, cabinet doors opening, and the low murmur of voices. She exhales shakily and finishes getting dressed, finding her shirt flung across Agatha’s bookcase, fingers clumsy, cheeks burning.
By the time she steps into the hallway, the apartment smells like coffee. She slows as she approaches the kitchen, not meaning to eavesdrop, just moving quietly out of habit.
“You should invite her to family Christmas,” Lilia says.
Rio stops.
“Ma, that’s presumptuous,” Agatha replies immediately. Her voice is controlled, but Rio knows her well enough by now to hear the tension threaded through it.
“It’s not,” Lilia says. “It’s kind. She’s your sweetheart, we’d love to have her.”
“It’s not like that, I’m not doing that,” Agatha says. “I’m not putting that kind of pressure on her.”
Rio’s chest tightens.
“She likes you,” Lilia says gently.
“That’s not what this is,” Agatha says, too quickly.
Rio’s stomach drops.
There’s a pause. The soft clink of a mug on the counter.
Rio doesn’t hear the rest.
The sentence keeps looping, louder than anything else.
That’s not what this is.
Her chest tightens. She steps back before her body can betray her, before hope can creep in and get any ideas. The apartment suddenly feels too small, too intimate, like she has wandered into something she was never meant to be part of.
She grabs her coat and slips her shoes on quietly by the door.
Behind her, Lilia says something. Agatha’s voice follows, softer, urgent. Then Agatha’s voice drifts down the hall. “Rio?”
Rio pauses, hand on the doorknob.
She could say something. She could step back into the kitchen and laugh it off and ask what everyone will be doing for Christmas, like a normal person. She could ask Agatha what she meant.
Instead, she opens the door and steps into the embrace of the San Francisco fog.
Outside, the air is cold and wet. The city hums faintly, holiday lights blurred into soft halos. Rio walks until her breath steadies, until the tightness in her chest dulls into something manageable.
Her phone buzzes.
Baby, where did you go?
She stares at the screen for a long moment, then types.
Needed some air. See you later.
She puts her phone away and keeps walking, trying not to think about the pressure in her chest, about how quickly something good can feel like it is not meant for her.
For the next few days, she’s careful.
She laughs when Agatha jokes. She kisses her hello. She doesn’t lean quite as close on the tram. She definitely doesn't bring up Agatha’s plans for the holidays again.
She tells herself she is being respectful. She tells herself she is not pulling away.
Agatha notices.
By Monday morning, Agatha is certain something is wrong.
It’s not dramatic. Rio still meets her at their stop. Still smiles. Still brushes her fingers against Agatha’s knuckles as if by accident. But the space between them has shifted. It’s small, almost imperceptible, the kind of change only noticeable if you’re looking for it.
Agatha is looking for it.
The morning is lighter than usual, sunshine filtering in patches as the tram approaches. Someone has added new tinsel to the shelter railing. It sags damply, catching droplets of water that fall and shatter on the concrete.
Rio stands with her hands tucked into her coat sleeves, shoulders slightly hunched. She looks tired.
“Morning,” Agatha says.
“Hey,” Rio replies. Her smile is there, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
They board together. The tram smells like wet wool and coffee, and something sweet, cinnamon maybe, clinging to the air. A paper Santa has been taped crookedly to the window.
Agatha reaches for Rio automatically, leaning in to kiss her.
Rio turns her head at the last second.
Agatha’s lips brush cheek instead.
It is a small thing. Barely anything at all. But it sinks hard in Agatha’s gut.
“Oh,” she says, before she can stop herself.
Rio winces, then leans in, quick and uncertain, and presses a brief peck to Agatha’s mouth, like an apology more than a kiss.
“Sorry,” she says softly. “I just wasn’t ready.”
Agatha nods, frowning. “Okay, yeah.”
They stand side by side, the hum of the tram filling the space. Agatha grips the overhead rail, her knuckles whitening.
“Rio,” she says carefully. “Are we okay?”
Rio doesn’t look at her. “Yeah. Sure.”
Agatha is certain that the word sure has never been delivered in such a hollow way.
They get off at Civic Center and separate without their usual lingering pause, just a quick goodbye from Rio and another half-smile. Agatha watches Rio disappear this time, her coat swallowed by the grey, and feels her heart sinking in her chest.
She frowns, but she doesn’t follow.
The day stretches thin and unproductive. Agatha rereads the same below-average paragraph from a graduate student three times without absorbing it. She drafts an email, deletes it, drafts it again, deletes it. She checks her phone far too often, then chastises herself for doing so, tossing it into her desk drawer.
By Wednesday, she can’t stand it anymore.
She texts Rio during her lunch break.
Do you want to get something to eat today, sweetheart?
The reply comes quickly.
Sure.
They meet at a small café near Rio’s office. It’s warm inside, windows fogged, fairy lights strung along the counter. Agatha arrives early and chooses a table by the wall, back straight, hands folded around her mug.
Rio arrives a few minutes later, cheeks pink from the cold.
“Hi,” she says.
“Hi,” Agatha replies.
They order food and sit. The conversation skims the surface. Work. Weather. What they’re each doing for the weekend. The apparent vendetta of the cold San Francisco winter against humanity.
Agatha waits until their plates arrive, waits until Rio takes a bite.
“So,” she says, keeping her tone light. “I know we spoke about it briefly, but what are your actual plans over Christmas?”
Rio freezes, just for a fraction of a second.
“Oh,” she says. “I’m planning to just work through it.”
Agatha’s stomach drops.
“Oh,” she echoes. “Right.”
She hesitates, then pushes forward, because if she doesn’t, she’ll lose her nerve entirely.
“Well,” she says, “if you want, Lilia has her annual Merry Band of Misfits Christmas. It’s very informal. There are no expectations, but it would be nice if you wanted to come.”
The words feel clumsy in her mouth. Too much and too little. She watches Rio’s face carefully, bracing for rejection.
Please say yes. Please spend Christmas with me. Also, I think I might be in love with you.
Rio’s expression flickers through something unreadable before settling back into neutral.
“Yeah,” she says. “Sure. I’ll let you know.”
Agatha nods and smiles, wounded. Tries to pretend that it didn’t hurt.
They finish lunch. Hug briefly outside, no kiss. Rio leaves first.
The tram ride home that evening is quiet. They stand together, but not touching. Agatha watches their reflections in the window, the way the city blurs past them, and feels like she is watching something slip through her fingers.
That night, Agatha doesn’t sleep.
She replays every conversation, and every glance over the last week. She wonders if she’s misread everything or anything. If she’s wanted more than Rio ever meant to give. The old fear creeps in, familiar and sharp.
By Friday evening, she’s done wondering.
She goes to Rio’s apartment without texting first. The decision feels reckless and necessary all at once.
Rio answers the door wearing a hoodie, hair loose around her face, eyes widening in surprise.
“Agatha?”
“Did I do something?” Agatha asks. The words come out too fast. “You’ve been distant all week and I don’t know why, or what I did, and I am losing my mind.”
Rio hesitates, then steps back to let her in.
They stand in the small living room, Agatha’s coat still on, the space between them taut.
“No,” Rio says slowly. “You didn’t do anything. I just… I overheard some of your conversation with Lilia. And I think I might have thought this was more serious than you did.”
Agatha stares at her.
“More serious?” she repeats. “What do you even mean by that?”
Rio swallows. “I thought you didn’t want me at your family Christmas. That we were not like that, not like the people that have Christmas together. I thought that maybe I was making assumptions about us that you weren’t really on board with.”
Understanding crashes into Agatha all at once, sharp and dizzying.
“Oh,” she breathes. “No. No, Rio.”
She steps closer, hands lifting instinctively, then stopping short, uncertain.
“I finished that sentence,” she says. “I think you might have walked away before you heard the rest.”
Rio’s eyes flicker, fighting back tears. “You said it wasn’t like that.”
“I said I didn’t want to scare you,” Agatha says, her voice rising despite herself. “I said you were special. That this was different.”
Rio shakes her head. “I didn’t hear that part.”
Agatha laughs once, short and broken on a breath. “Of course you didn’t.”
She presses her hands to her temples, then drops them, looking at Rio fully.
“I want you there,” she says. “I want you with me. I just didn’t really know how to ask, or what your plans were. I didn’t want to rush into something like that and scare you off. You’ll meet my whole, chaotic little family.”
Rio’s voice is barely audible. “You could have asked me.”
Agatha’s composure cracks completely then.
“I want every day with you,” she says, words spilling out now. “Every boring, simple, completely textbook day. I want to wake up with you and argue about coffee and stand on that ridiculous tram and complain about the weather. Of course I want to spend Christmas with you. You’re mine.”
The room is very quiet.
Rio looks at her like she has been struck dumb.
“Oh. Okay,” she says.
Agatha exhales shakily. “I’m not good at this,” she admits. “I’m very afraid of wanting things.”
Rio steps forward. This time she doesn’t dodge the kiss. She presses her forehead to Agatha’s shoulder, arms wrapping around her waist.
“I want you too,” she says. “I don’t think I’m very good at wanting things either. I want you, though.”
Agatha closes her eyes, holding her, relief flooding through her so fast it makes her knees weak.
“Okay,” she murmurs into Rio’s hair. “Okay, baby.”
They stand there for a long moment, breathing each other in, the tension easing.
Two weeks later, Lilia’s house looks like it’s been possessed by a wicked Christmas demon.
Agatha stands just inside the door, coat still on, hands full with a paper bag of bread, and takes it in with a kind of stunned resignation. Strings of lights are woven through every available surface, draped over shelving and rafters and the backs of mismatched chairs. Candles glow in jars on every flat space. Someone has hung ornaments from the larger plants in the space, which feels like a safety violation but looks good enough that Agatha doesn’t comment on it.
The air smells like pine and gingerbread, something sweet and something very alcoholic.
“This is excessive,” Agatha murmurs.
Lilia, already moving past her with a tray of mugs, smiles joyfully. “This, darling, is restrained.”
Rio steps in beside her, eyes wide, taking it all in. She looks beautiful in a way Agatha is trying very hard not to stare at; cheeks flushed from the cold, hair curling softly around her face. She had chosen to wear her burgundy linen button up, the fabric falling loose over her frame, sleeves rolled to her elbows, exposing the strong lines of her forearms. The shirt tucked into simple black trousers. It is very unassuming, which somehow makes it worse.
Agatha looks away before her inappropriate thought can fully form.
Rio looks nervous, too, which twists something deep in Agatha’s chest.
“You okay, baby?” Agatha asks quietly.
Rio nods, then nods again. “Yeah. Just… wow.”
Before Agatha can say anything else, Sharon Davis barrels toward them wearing a red cardigan and clutching a large festive tin.
“Agatha!” she says. “I brought a ham loaf.”
Agatha blinks. “You always bring a ham loaf.”
“And I always will,” Sharon says firmly. Her gaze slides to Rio. “You must be new.”
“This is Rio,” Agatha says, a touch too quickly. “Rio, this is Mrs Hart. Sharon.”
“Davis, dear, Mrs Davis,” Sharon chastises, brightening immediately when her eyes land on Rio. “You must be the one.”
Agatha feels heat creep up her neck. “Sharon. She’s not the one.”
Rio looks between them, bewildered. “I’m not?”
Sharon pats Rio’s arm. “You will do just fine, dear.”
She moves on, tin held aloft like an offering.
Agatha exhales. “I am so sorry.”
Rio laughs, it bubbles out from her chest. “What the fuck is ham loaf?”
“Seriously, don’t touch it. Definitely don’t fucking eat it.”
They don’t get a moment longer, because Jen and Alice are arguing near the table about whether their candles should be closer together or farther apart.
“They’re crowded,” Alice says.
“It’s festive, honey,” Jen replies. “It’s meant to look like it’s on fire. It’s a warm aesthetic.”
“It is not an aesthetic, Jennifer, and it won’t just look like it’s on fire when you cause a fire.”
Rio drifts toward them without thinking, offering to help rearrange things. Agatha watches her step easily into the chaos; hands gentle, voice warm. She laughs at something Alice says. Jen smiles at her, which is notable, because Jen has only ever liked one person on sight, and she married her.
Agatha’s chest tightens again.
Wanda arrives next, late and apologetic, already steering Billy and Tommy through the door while murmuring reassurances. The boys are mid-argument.
“He got the purple one,” Tommy says, indignant.
“Because I grabbed it first,” Billy replies, tugging proudly at his sleeve.
“I wanted the purple sweater, Mama.”
Wanda exhales like a woman who has been arbitrating disputes since dawn. “Boys, please. We talked about this. You can trade in a couple of hours. I have a timer on.”
She spots Agatha and makes a beeline for her, relief written all over her face. “I’m so sorry we’re late. My morning has been a fucking nightmare. I spend eight years making sure they’re never in identical clothes, and one purple sweater is my fucking downfall. Should’ve got two.”
Agatha smiles. “Purple will do that, it’s a superior color.”
Behind them, Rio crouches down, already level with the twins, listening like this is the most important thing in the room.
“I really like green,” she says thoughtfully. “It’s my favorite color.”
Both boys look at her.
Tommy glances down at his sweater, then back up. “Green is good,” he says slowly.
Billy considers this, then shrugs. “Purple is still better.”
Tommy nods. “Green is good too, though.”
Within seconds, the argument dissolves.
Wanda catches Agatha’s eye over their heads and mouths, who is she?
Agatha smiles, because if she tries to respond verbally she might say something she’s not ready to say out loud. Rio, she mouths back.
Wanda’s eyes light up immediately, her smile widening as more people join the gathering.
“Don’t panic,” one announces to the room at large. “We have arrived and we come with gifts. Ignore the tin. This is not a Sharon special situation, I promise.”
Sharon shoots Yelena a glare. “It is a perfectly respectable Christmas dish.”
Natasha echoes the look. “Lena.”
“What?” Yelena argues. “I am reassuring them.”
“You are antagonising her,” Natasha replies calmly. She turns to Sharon. “Sorry, Sharon. These are cookies, honey and spice.”
Yelena tilts the tin open a fraction. “And also, I supervised.”
“That is not comforting for anyone, Lena,” Natasha says, reaching over to close the lid again.
Rio laughs softly from somewhere near the table.
Everyone is watching Rio, Agatha realises. Not in a hostile way. In a careful way. Measuring, and assessing her.
She wants to tell them to stop. To tell them Rio is hers, and precious, and doesn’t need to earn anything here.
But then something shifts.
Sharon asks Rio to help hang more lights. Rio does, carefully. Wanda smiles and laughs with her like she’s known Rio for years. Lilia watches it all with quiet satisfaction, and Agatha feels the tight fist inside her ribs loosen a fraction.
She turns away before she can be seen watching too closely. She doesn’t get very far.
Wanda drifts beside Agatha, elbowing her gently.
“So,” she says quietly, nudging Agatha’s knee with her own. “How long have you been seeing each other?”
Agatha exhales through her nose. “Two months.”
Wanda hums. “When did you realize you were in love with her?”
Agatha glances at her. “The fuck?”
Wanda smiles into her mug. “Honey, you keep looking at her like you’re afraid she might vanish.”
Agatha opens her mouth, then closes it again.
Across the room, Rio is laughing with Alice over something trivial, sleeves rolled up, hands moving as she talks. Jen hands her a knife, which Rio takes automatically and places on the table, moving like the space is already familiar to her, like she has always known how to move there.
“She looks like she’s very easy to love,” Wanda says, following Agatha’s gaze.
“Yes,” Agatha says, quietly.
Wanda studies her for a moment, then says, “You seem happy.”
Agatha blinks. “I do?”
“You do,” Wanda says. “It’s really nice, you deserve to be happy.”
Agatha scoffs, she doesn’t trust herself to answer.
At the table, Lilia has claimed Rio with quiet authority.
“No, sit here,” she says, patting the chair beside her. “I need proper light.”
Rio sits, obedient and amused, holding her mug with both hands as Lilia peers at her with open fascination.
“What time were you born?” Lilia asks.
Rio laughs and runs her hand through her hair. “Uh. Early, I think. Around eight in the morning.”
Lilia nods, satisfied. “Hmm. And where was that?”
“Kans–Why?” Rio says, smiling in confusion.
“Oh, Kansas.” Lilia says, as she reaches for a notebook. “That explains a few things.”
Agatha watches as Rio’s eyebrows hit her hairline in amusement, that stupid smirk on her face as Lilia launches further into her star chart.
Soon after, Agatha finds herself pressed into a chair she doesn’t remember choosing, a plate appearing in front of her without discussion, courtesy of Wanda. Rio is sitting directly opposite Agatha, one ankle hooked casually around the leg of her chair, still talking animatedly to Lilia while fielding questions from the table. Mostly from Billy and Tommy, who have migrated closer, elbows on the tabletop and very serious about plants.
“So do they sleep?” Tommy asks.
“Some of them,” Rio says. “Sort of. They rest, I guess. You can usually tell when they’re tired.”
Billy frowns. “How?”
“They droop,” Rio says, demonstrating with her hand, her wrist going limp. “Like this.”
Agatha watches her talk, watches the way she leans forward when she is explaining something, hands moving, eyes bright. She looks comfortable, she looks happy. Like she belongs at their table, at their family Christmas. Like she belongs with Agatha.
Agatha’s thoughts are broken when Rio’s foot finds hers under the table.
It is light at first, almost accidental. A brush of shoe against shoe. Agatha stills, breath catching before she can stop it.
Then Rio presses more deliberately, the side of her foot sliding along Agatha’s ankle, a quiet, grounding touch, even as she keeps talking about soil composition and root systems.
Agatha doesn’t move her foot away. She lets it stay there, letting Rio’s foot settle against her own. The table hums with conversation, with clinking cutlery and laughter and Lilia’s running commentary about everyone’s compatibility, but all Agatha can really feel is that small point of contact.
Rio glances up then, just briefly, catches Agatha watching her.
Her mouth curves.
Agatha looks down at her plate before she can be caught smiling back like an idiot, choosing to smile into her potatoes instead.
Under the table, Rio’s foot presses once more, gently.
Later, when the boys have fallen asleep in Lilia’s guest room, Lilia calls everyone together for mulled wine, and the small house glows like something out of a memory.
The lights seem warmer, reflected in glass and leaves, and the condensation gathering on the windows. Someone has turned the music down to a low murmur. Mugs are passed from hand to hand. The air smells sweet and spiced.
Those left behind settle where they land. Wanda perches on the arm of a chair, Natasha in the seat beside her, the two already locked in conversation. Jen and Alice share a loveseat, knees touching, huddled close together and whispering like they have all the time in the world. From the kitchen, Lilia can be heard muttering and laughing to Sharon and Rio about the correct cinnamon ratio for the mulled wine next year.
Agatha stands near the edge of it all, mug warming her palms, watching the room breathe. It feels full in a way she isn’t used to. She notices, after a moment, that Rio isn’t with Lilia in the kitchen anymore.
She spots her near the back of the room, half hidden by a tall shelf of plants, one shoulder leaning against the wall. Rio has gone still in the way she sometimes does when she’s tired but content, mug cradled in both hands, gaze unfocused as she listens to the hum of conversation without needing to be part of it.
Agatha excuses herself without really saying anything. No one notices, or if they do, they let her go.
She crosses the room quietly and steps in behind Rio.
For a second, she just stands there, close enough to feel Rio’s warmth, the faint brush of her sleeve against Agatha’s wrist. Then she slides her arms around Rio’s middle and rests her chin lightly at the base of her neck.
Rio startles, just a little, then relaxes immediately, leaning back into her.
“Hi,” Rio murmurs.
“Hi,” Agatha replies.
They stand like that for a moment, tucked away from the rest of the house, the noise dimmed to something distant and unimportant. Agatha feels Rio’s breath slow under her chin. Feels the steady press of her body, familiar now in a way that still surprises her.
“I was looking for you,” Agatha says.
Rio smiles, soft and tired. “I just needed a second.”
Agatha hums in understanding and tightens her arms slightly in reassurance.
From where they are, Agatha can still see the room. Lilia having returned from the kitchen and gesturing with her mug as she tells a story. Wanda laughing quietly, leaning against Nat. The glow of lights reflected in glass. It all feels suddenly precious, like something she might want to remember later, something she might want to remember forever.
She turns Rio gently in her arms until they’re facing each other.
Rio looks up at her, eyes warm, mouth already curved like she knows what is coming.
Agatha doesn’t rush it.
She leans in slowly, giving Rio time to move if she wants to, to say something, to tease her for being obvious. Rio does none of those things.
Their mouths meet in a kiss that is soft and unhurried, all warmth and familiarity. No urgency. No audience. Just the quiet press of lips and the knowledge that this is allowed.
Rio sighs into it, one hand coming up to rest at Agatha’s waist. Agatha kisses her again, brief and gentle, then lingers close enough that their foreheads touch.
“Mistletoe?” Rio murmurs.
“Hm?” Agatha says, distracted, her gaze fixed on Rio’s mouth. She leans in and kisses her again, slower this time.
Rio huffs a quiet laugh against her lips. “I thought you were going to say there was mistletoe.”
Agatha pulls back just enough to look at her. “I just wanted to kiss you.”
Rio’s smile is soft and unmistakably fond.
“Thank you,” Rio says quietly.
“For what?”
“For this,” She says, glancing back toward the room. “For letting me be here.”
Agatha swallows. “I always wanted you here, Rio.”
Rio smiles at her like she believes it. They stay in the corner a little longer, arms around each other, while the house continues on without them.
They walk home slowly, not wanting the night to end.
Agatha carries a paper bag of leftovers that smell like cinnamon and cloves. Rio has a container of ambiguous leftovers (hopefully not the ham) tucked under one arm, her other hand shoved into her coat pocket, hiding from the cold. The fog is thick again, pooling around the streetlights, blurring the edges of the city into something softer.
Inside the apartment, Agatha locks the door behind them and leans her forehead against it for a moment without really meaning to. When she turns, Rio is watching her with the same open, gentle attention she has had all evening.
Agatha kicks off her boots. Rio does the same, lining them up neatly against the wall without being asked. The apartment is dim and warm, familiar and home in a way that still surprises Agatha. Outside, a strand of holiday lights from a neighboring building smears gold across her windows.
Rio sets the tin on the counter and turns back.
Agatha realises she is staring.
“You look tired,” Rio says softly.
“I am,” Agatha says. “In a good way.”
She steps closer, the space between them closing naturally, like it has done a hundred times before. She hesitates only for a second.
“I hadn’t realised,” she says, choosing her words carefully, “how good days like today could really feel.”
Rio reaches out and touches her cheek, light and gentle. “You deserve to feel good, love.”
Agatha shakes her head, just a little. “Today felt good because you were there.”
Rio’s breath stutters. She looks down at her hands, then back up, eyes bright.
Rio lowers herself onto the arm of the couch, like her legs have forgotten what to do with themselves. Agatha stands between her knees, close enough now that she can feel the warmth of Rio. She rests her palms on Rio’s hips, gently.
“I didn’t know I could fit somewhere like that,” Rio says quietly. “With you, with your people.”
Agatha’s throat tightens. “They could be your people too. If you want that.”
Rio’s voice cracks. “I do. I think I do want that.”
Agatha’s hands tighten just a fraction. She exhales, the last of her composure slipping away.
She lifts one hand and brushes her thumb over Rio’s cheekbone, slow and careful, committing the feel of her skin to memory. She studies her face like she is afraid she might forget it.
“So,” Agatha says, because she has never been good at beginning things cleanly, “I’ve been thinking over the last few days, and it turns out that I’m kind of in love with you.”
The words are out before she can catch them. They hang between them, small and enormous all at once. For a split second, fear flashes across Agatha’s face, hope tangled right alongside it, like she has just stepped off a ledge and is waiting to see if the ground will rise to meet her.
Rio goes very still.
Agatha almost backtracks. Almost makes a joke. Almost apologises for saying it wrong, saying it too soon.
Instead, Rio reaches up and grabs Agatha’s face with both hands, firmly, pulling her in until their foreheads touch.
“Agatha,” she says, and her voice is unsteady. “Are you serious right now, or am I about to embarrass myself by being very fucking serious back?”
Agatha lets out a breath that might be a laugh. “I’m serious. I just didn’t want to scare you by saying it too soon. But yeah, I love you, turns out.”
Rio huffs softly. “You’re an idiot.”
She cups Agatha’s jaw, thumbs warm against her skin, grounding her there. “I love you too,” she says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world once it has been said.
Agatha exhales a breath she feels she’s been holding for weeks. Her eyes close, forehead still pressed to Rio’s, breathing still uneven.
For a moment, neither of them moves.
Then Agatha leans in and kisses her, softly. Rio kisses back immediately, both hands sliding into Agatha’s hair, pulling her closer. The kiss deepens only slightly, staying gentle and unhurried.
They part only because they are both smiling too much to keep going.
Agatha rests her head against Rio’s shoulder, and Rio wraps her arms around Agatha’s waist. They stay like that together in the dim apartment, quiet and content, the city held at bay by fogged-over glass.
“Don’t fuck me over here, Vidal,” Agatha murmurs. “I’m very clingy.”
Rio smiles, tightening her hold just a little. “I wouldn’t dream of it, my love,” she says softly. “You’re too precious to me.”
Agatha grimaces immediately. “Oh, gross,” she says. “You’re disgusting.”
She makes a valiant attempt to pull away. Rio doesn’t let her.
Instead, she ducks her head and starts peppering kisses along Agatha’s cheek and jaw, quick and relentless.
“Stop,” Agatha protests, already laughing. “Absolutely not. This is homophobic, this is a fucking hate crime.”
Rio only grins and keeps going, pressing kisses to her temple, her cheekbone, the corner of her mouth.
Agatha shrieks, twisting in her arms. “Rio, stop, it tickles. I will smother you.”
“You started it,” Rio says cheerfully, kissing her again.
Agatha finally manages to break free long enough to glare at her, breathless and smiling despite herself. “You’re unbearable.”
Rio’s grin softens. “You love me.”
Agatha scoffs, cheeks flushed, hair thoroughly ruined. “Unfortunately.”
They end up tangled together on the couch, limbs everywhere, laughter fading into warmth and ease. Outside, the cold and the fog press close to the windows, the city distant and kind.
Later, Agatha will think about how full the apartment felt. How nothing hurt. How she didn’t spend her day bracing for disappointment or holding herself small.
That was Agatha’s favourite Christmas.
At least, until the next one.