Chapter Text
The first time Agatha saw Rio should have been a warning about what life in Westview was going to be like.
She’d slipped into Jen’s General Store with the quiet hope that no one would notice her—just a city girl trying to figure out what seeds could keep her from starving on a half-wild farm. Rows of burlap sacks and hand-lettered signs lined the walls; the air smelled faintly of soil and dried lavender. Agatha crouched by the display, picking up packets and turning them over as if the answer to “how do I farm?” might be printed in fine print on the back.
The bell over the door chimed, and a warm, confident voice called, “Morning, Jen!” Whoever it was sounded like they belonged here—easy, casual, not at all like someone trying to memorize a seed chart.
Agatha hunched a little closer to the shelf, hoping whoever had come in would leave her in peace.
Instead, a voice right beside her said, “Parsnips are always a good choice in spring. But if you’ve got a little extra, grab some green beans too. They keep giving you goods during the season.”
She turned, startled, and took in the woman next to her: sun-browned skin, hair tucked under a faded cap, a faint smear of earth along one forearm. Agatha couldn’t decide if she was more annoyed or grudgingly grateful for the advice. With a sigh, she said, “Thanks,” in a tone that clearly meant now go away.
The woman didn’t. She tilted her head, studying Agatha with amused curiosity. “You’re new here, right? Harkness kid?”
Agatha scoffed. “I’m a long way from being a kid. But yeah, I just moved into my grandpa’s house.”
Color rose faintly in the woman’s cheeks. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant you look young—well, younger than me. I—uh—”
Agatha bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing at the awkward backpedal. “Got it. Thanks for the tip, grandma. Careful on your morning walks; we wouldn’t want to test Doctor Strange’s ability to fix your hip.”
Jen chuckled behind the counter, clearly enjoying the exchange as Agatha dropped her chosen seeds on there. She paid, muttered a quick goodbye, and headed for the door.
It wasn’t until she was halfway down the dusty road back to the farm that she realized she had no idea what the woman’s name was, but the image of a teasing smile and dirt-stained hands lingering in her mind.
🌸🌿🌼🍂
Agatha blamed her second encounter with Rio entirely on Lilia. Or Bucky. Or both actually.
She had been three beers in at the Lilia’s Saloon after a day that had been nothing but weeds, rocks, and sore muscles. The place was warm and golden, smelling faintly of cider and frying onions. Lilia, wiping down the bar with practiced ease, caught Agatha’s eye and beckoned her over with a grin that promised she wouldn’t take no for an answer.
“Agatha, come meet Bucky!” she said, introducing the broad-shouldered fisherman with a metal prosthetic who was nursing a pint at the end of the counter.
By now, Agatha had learned there was no good way to avoid people in Westview. You either got pulled into conversations, or you spent the evening sulking alone—and even she wasn’t ready to be known as the town loner. So, with the resignation of someone bracing for small talk, she joined them.
To her surprise, Bucky turned out to be…fun. He had the easy manner of someone who’d spent most of his life on the water, spinning stories about legendary catches and half-mythical lake creatures. Agatha found herself laughing more than she’d expected. So when he offered her an old rod he had lying around, something in her sparked—a flicker of excitement she hadn’t felt since before she inherited the farm.
By the time she left the saloon that night, she was absurdly sure she could ace this fishing thing. How hard could it be? She’d been hauling rocks, chopping wood, and tilling fields for months now. Compared to that, coaxing a few fish out of the water would be a breeze.
🎣🎣
A few days later, she strolled out of Bucky’s little shop with the rod and headed straight for the pier behind it, with determination bubbling in her chest.
To her credit, she never half-assed her shenanigans. She was determined to excel in this fishing thing. So she planted herself on the edge of the dock, boots swinging just above the water, and flung the line with the confidence of someone who had no idea what she was doing.
She hadn’t bothered to ask Bucky for instructions. Fishing was simple, right? Throw the line in, wait, reel in dinner. Easy.
Except an hour later her certainty had dissolved into a dull ache in her shoulders. She was seriously debating whether to admit defeat when suddenly the line jerked in her hands.
“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god!” she shrieked, knuckles white on the rod.
Whatever was on the other end fought like a demon. Agatha braced herself, digging her heels against the slick planks, but the pier was against her. The rod bowed, the line sang, and her boots slid closer and closer to the edge.
“No!” she cried as the fish—or kraken—gave one final, savage tug. Her boots skidded across the slick wood, balance gone in an instant. With a yelp she toppled forward, landing in the bay with an enormous splash.
Cold water swallowed her whole. Agatha surfaced sputtering, hair plastered across her face, her sweater dragging her down like an anchor. Somehow she was still clutching the ridiculous rod.
“You know,” drawled a voice from somewhere above, dry and far too amused, “usually when we are fishing, we don’t join the fish in the water.”
Agatha groaned. She didn’t even need to look up to know who that was.
Of course it was Rio.
Determined to salvage some dignity, she swam to the edge of the pier and slapped the rod onto the boards, where it clattered accusingly. Then she braced her hands on the slick wood and tried to haul herself out. Her boots slipped. She flopped back into the water with an ungraceful splash.
“You want some help there?” Rio’s voice floated down, full of laughter she wasn’t bothering to hide.
Agatha clenched her jaw, pretending she hadn’t heard. She tried again, using all the strength she’d gained in the past few weeks. But the pier remained maddeningly high, and her soaked clothes didn’t help. She slid back down, sending another wave sloshing against the posts.
“Ugh, fine,” she muttered, finally looking up.
Rio’s face was framed by the sun, which turned her dark hair into a gleaming halo. For a second, Agatha forgot how to scowl.
“Here,” Rio said, offering a hand, smile softening the usual sharpness of her expression.
For a fleeting moment, Agatha considered yanking her smug rescuer straight into the bay as a poetic justice. But exhaustion won out. She just wanted this over with. So she slipped her fingers into Rio’s calloused palm and let herself be pulled up.
Rio’s grip was strong, steady, and in one swift motion Agatha was standing on the pier, dripping a small lake at her feet. Her shirt and jeans clung stubbornly to her body.
Without thinking too much, she peeled off the heavy shirt she’d been wearing and wrung it out, water streaming between her fingers.
When she finally glanced up, Rio was staring—openly, shamelessly—and only when she realized she got caught did she look away, a flush creeping up her neck.
“You okay there, honey?” Agatha teased, fighting a victorious grin.
Rio’s blush deepened to an impossible shade of pink. She cleared her throat, still studiously avoiding looking at Agatha's direction.
“Thanks for the help,” Agatha said breezily as she walked past, each squelching step making her want to laugh.
Behind her, Rio mumbled something under her breath—words Agatha couldn’t quite catch—but she didn’t slow down. She was already halfway off the pier, pleased that she’d managed to recover from her spectacular fall with her pride (mostly) intact…and with the added bonus of leaving Rio flustered in her wake.
🌸🌿🌼🍂
By the time the Egg Festival came around, Agatha had come to accept one undeniable truth about Westview: there was no such thing as coincidence when it came to Rio.
She had tried to avoid her. Truly. She’d taken longer routes home, ducked into buildings at the sight of that familiar cap, even pretended to be deeply invested in reading the town notice board once. It didn’t matter. Rio had an infuriating ability to appear precisely when Agatha was least prepared. Usually dirty, flustered, or mid-mistake.
So when she stepped into the pastel chaos of the festival and immediately spotted Rio laughing beside one of the booths, she didn’t even feel surprised.
The town square was bright with banners and paper flowers, children running in shrieking circles with wicker baskets. Alice stood behind a table of decorated eggs, and Rio leaned against it like she’d been carved there — relaxed, sun catching in her hair, grin easy and familiar.
Agatha turned sharply on her heel.
Dr. Strange was hovering near the refreshments, looking like a man who regretted leaving his clinic. Perfect.
“Doctor,” Agatha inserted herself beside him, nodding as though they were mid-conversation. “Lovely… poultry-adjacent celebration.”
Strange blinked. “Ah. Yes. The agricultural symbolism is—”
“Overwhelming,” Agatha supplied.
He nodded gratefully and launched into something about seasonal allergies and sugar intake. Agatha tried to look fascinated. She really did. But she was so bored that she couldn't help being hyper-aware of footsteps approaching behind her.
“Hey, Doc. How you doing?” Rio’s voice slid in, warm and amused.
Agatha closed her eyes briefly. Of course.
“Oh! Rio,” Strange said. “Everything is fine, though I have been having some trouble sleeping.”
“And I’m sure that has nothing to do with your alarming intake of coffee,” Rio replied.
Agatha snorted before she could stop herself.
Rio’s eyes flicked to her immediately.
Caught you.
“Well,” Strange straightened, “even a doctor can have his vice.”
“Sure,” Rio said lightly. “Just don’t prescribe yourself espresso shots, you are our only medical practitioner”
Agatha bit back a smile, but she felt Rio glance at her again — that sideways look, like they were sharing a joke.
Like they were… friends.
It unsettled her more than it should have.
Strange checked his watch and excused himself with visible relief, muttering something about supervising children that have been running a little too close to the food table.
And just like that, Agatha was alone with Rio.
“How are you doing, kid?” Rio asked.
Agatha turned slowly. “If you call me that one more time, I’m reporting you to the mayor.”
“For what?”
“Emotional harassment.”
Rio laughed. “That’s not a real charge.”
“It should be.”
Rio tilted her head, studying her openly. “So. How’s the farm?”
“Standing. Mostly.”
“Crops?”
“Alive. Mostly.”
“Wow,” Rio said. “Glowing review.”
Agatha crossed her arms. “Don’t you have someone else to bother?”
“Not really,” Rio replied, though the corner of her mouth betrayed her. “You’re the one who gets defensive when I check how you're doing.”
“I’m not defensive.”
“You’re bristling.”
“I do not bristle.”
Rio raised an eyebrow. “You absolutely bristle.”
Agatha huffed. “I was fine before you showed up. So if you have nothing else to say—”
“Okay, Agatha.”
That was it. No teasing follow-up. No smug comment. Just her name, said casually. It threw Agatha off more than the banter.
She turned to leave, mostly because she wasn’t really sure how to proceed after that awkward moment.
“You should grab some of the strawberry seeds Jen brought,” Rio added, almost lazily. “You can probably squeeze in two harvests before summer hits. After that, it’s going to be too hot for them.”
Agatha stopped mid-step. She hated how Rio always did this. Slipped practical advice into conversation like it wasn’t a gift. Like she wasn’t quietly helping.
Without turning around, Agatha said, “I didn’t ask.”
“No,” Rio agreed easily. “You never do.”
Agatha clenched her jaw.
After a beat, Rio added, “But you’ll thank me when you’re swimming in strawberries.”
Agatha pivoted just enough to glare. “I am not swimming in anything ever again.”
Rio grinned. “It’s for the best, considering your track record.”
Agatha stared at her a moment longer than necessary — at the confidence, at the way she looked entirely too pleased there — then marched toward Jen’s stall.
“One batch of strawberry seeds, please” she muttered.
As she handed over the coins, she could feel it — that awareness again. Rio wasn’t hovering or crowding. Just… annoyingly there.
When Agatha turned, packet in hand, Rio was already watching her with that same unreadable expression.
“Look at you.” Rio said. “Taking my advice.”
Agatha walked past her shoulder deliberately close. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
Rio leaned slightly toward her as she passed. “Wouldn’t dream of it, kid.”
Agatha didn’t look back.
But she did tuck the strawberry seeds carefully into her jacket pocket instead of stuffing them in carelessly like she usually did with the rest.
And she absolutely refused to examine why.
👩🏻🌾🥚👩🏻🌾
Agatha had fully intended to stay as a spectator. She had already been peer-pressured into small talk, festival punch, and tolerating Rio’s presence within a ten-foot radius. That was her civic duty fulfilled.
She’d positioned herself strategically near the cider table — far enough from the starting line to avoid being “accidentally” handed a basket, close enough to look supportive. It was a perfect plan.
It lasted approximately forty seconds.
“Agatha, dear!” Mayor Hart materialized beside her in a cloud of floral perfume and civic enthusiasm. “You’re joining the egg hunt, right?”
Agatha blinked. “Oh. I don’t think I’ll–”
“Oh, nonsense,” the mayor insisted, clasping her hands together with the kind of cheerful authority that made refusal socially impossible. “We need more adult participants! It’s good for community morale.”
Agatha blinked. “Isn’t this primarily for children?”
Mrs. Hart leaned in conspiratorially. “Wanda has won five years in a row. The children have stopped trying.”
As if summoned, Wanda strutted toward the contestant line with the confidence of a seasoned athlete. She was stretching. Actually stretching.
Agatha stared. “Is she… limbering up?”
“She takes this very seriously,” Mayor Hart said proudly.
Before Agatha could form a polite refusal, she spotted Rio slipping into line beside Wanda, hands in her pockets, posture relaxed like she hadn’t a competitive bone in her body.
Agatha hesitated.
On one hand, she wouldn’t be the only adult running around like a fool with a wicker basket.
On the other hand, she would have to compete with those two.
Rio caught her staring.
Smirked.
Raised her brows in silent challenge.
Oh, absolutely not.
Agatha stepped into line.
Rio tilted her head. “Didn’t peg you for the festive type.”
“I was coerced,” Agatha replied flatly.
“Sure you were.”
“You’re participating voluntarily?”
Rio shrugged. “Wanda refuses to let anyone forget her streak. Figured I’d try to humble her.”
Wanda, overhearing, turned with a bright smile. “You’re welcome to try, dear.”
Agatha exhaled slowly. This was a mistake.
The mayor raised a hand. “Remember! Most eggs collected when the alarm sounds wins!”
The square fell into tense silence.
Rio grinned lazily. “What’s wrong, kid? Afraid of a little competition?”
“I’m afraid of you spraining something unnecessary.”
“Like your pride?”
Agatha walked straight toward the line. “Move.”
Rio’s grin widened. “That’s the spirit.”
Agatha leaned closer. “If you trip over your own ego out there, I’m not helping.”
“Wouldn’t expect you to, kid.”
The whistle blew.
Children scattered in every direction with feral determination.
Agatha lunged for the nearest bush at the same time Rio did. Their shoulders collided.
“Mine.”
“Absolutely not.”
“I saw it first.”
“You blinked. That forfeits it.”
“That’s not how this works!”
They both grabbed it at the same time, tugging back and forth like two feral cats. The egg popped loose and rolled away.
They both dove for it.
Rio reached past her and snatched a pastel egg from beneath the leaves with triumphant flair. “Speed matters, newbie.”
Agatha immediately grabbed one from behind Rio’s elbow. “So does awareness.”
They split off in opposite directions—only to converge again near the fountain.
Agatha spotted an egg tucked behind a flowerpot. Rio saw it too. They both dove again. Rio got there a fraction faster, but Agatha caught her wrist mid-reach.
“Unbelievable,” Rio laughed, trying to shake her off. “Are you tackling me for a painted egg?”
“Yes.”
“That’s deeply concerning.”
Agatha twisted, slipping the egg from under Rio’s hand and dropping it into her basket with smug satisfaction.
Rio narrowed her eyes. “Oh, it’s war now.”
From that point on, it completely stopped being about the competition. Rio would spot an egg and Agatha would block her path. Agatha would crouch to grab one and Rio would distract her.
Rio fake-gasped and pointed behind Agatha. “Golden egg!”
Agatha whipped around.
Nothing.
When she turned back, Rio was laughing, another egg in her basket.
“Oh, you absolute menace.”
“You fell for it!”
“Because I momentarily assumed you had integrity!”
“That was your first mistake.”
They were laughing now, breathless, weaving between benches and booths like children themselves. At one point Rio tried to sneak an egg from Agatha’s basket, and Agatha retaliated by attempting to tip hers.
“You’re cheating!”
“You started it!”
Across the square, Wanda moved with terrifying efficiency, calmly collecting eggs with laser focus while the two of them engaged in what could only be described as competitive sabotage.
“Wait,” Agatha said suddenly, glancing around. “How many do you have?”
Rio looked into her basket. “Four. You?”
Agatha stared at her own. “…Three.”
They both froze.
The alarm blasted through the square. For a long, stunned second, neither of them moved.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Rio said.
They slowly turned toward the center of the square where Wanda stood, basket brimming.
Mrs. Hart clapped her hands together. “And once again—Wanda is our Egg Hunt Champion!”
Polite applause mixed with children groaning.
Wanda beamed. “Six years running. Practice makes perfect.”
Agatha looked at Rio.
Rio looked at Agatha.
“You distracted me,” Agatha accused.
“You tackled me.”
“You deserved it.”
Rio snorted. “You’re the one who started the war.”
Wanda approached them, serene and victorious. “Maybe next year, you two can focus less on flirting and more on competing.”
Agatha choked. “We were not flirting.”
“At all,” Rio added quickly.
They glanced at each other.
Paused.
Looked away at the exact same time.
Wanda’s eyes flicked to them and her smile widened. “Well, better luck next year.”
Agatha forced a tight smile. “Oh, I won’t be participating next year.”
Rio crossed her arms. “We’re absolutely participating next year.”
Agatha turned to her. “I am not.”
Rio’s grin was slow and dangerous. “Oh, we are. And this time? We strategize.”
Agatha should have walked away.
Instead, she found herself saying, “You’re the reason we lost.”
Rio leaned closer. “Admit it. You had fun.”
Agatha opened her mouth to deny it. Paused. Closed it. Rio’s smile softened just slightly.
Wanda lifted her trophy again as the crowd dispersed, already basking in her inevitable victory speech.
Agatha glanced down at her pitiful three eggs, then at Rio’s four.
“This doesn’t count as a win,” she muttered.
Rio bumped her shoulder lightly. “Sure it does.”
And despite herself, Agatha felt something dangerously close to anticipation at the thought of next spring.
🌸🌿🌼🍂
A few weeks after the Egg Festival disaster, Agatha found herself lingering in front of the town board under the very reasonable excuse that she was looking for extra work.
Which wasn’t exactly ideal considering the amount of work she already had.
Farming was starting to make sense in a way it hadn’t during her first chaotic weeks. She knew now which weeds were harmless and which would choke her crops. She’d stopped accidentally watering the same patch three times. Her strawberries were sprouting annoyingly fresh.
But “getting the hang of it” didn’t mean “mastering it.”
Two days ago she’d forgotten to close the coop and spent an hour chasing a chicken across half her property. Last week a patch of potatoes had withered because she’d misjudged the watering schedule during an unexpected dry spell. And she still wasn’t fully confident she understood fertilizer beyond “put it on the dirt and hope.”
So yes. Side gigs were somehow more manageable.
The board was cluttered with handwritten requests — “Need fresh sardines,” “Barn repair assistance,” “Lost scarf (again)” — and the community calendar pinned right in the center.
She barely glanced at it.
At least, that’s what she told herself.
Her eyes slid over the dates automatically — planting schedules had rewired her brain into thinking in weeks — until they snagged on the 21st of Spring.
There it was.
A small, badly cut picture taped beside the square. Rio’s face. That same infuriating, lopsided smile. The sunlight catching in her hair. And that ridiculous little tooth gap she seemed entirely too confident about.
Agatha stared.
It still felt bizarre living in a town where birthdays were communal knowledge. In the city, you could know someone for years and never learn their middle name. Here, your face got pinned up for public celebration like a seasonal crop.
She leaned in despite herself.
Rio – 21st of Spring.
Tomorrow.
Agatha stepped back quickly, like the paper might accuse her of something.
“Couldn’t care less,” she muttered, turning away.
She made it three steps before glancing back.
Stupid smile.
Stupid face.
Stupid tooth gap.
She absolutely did not care.
But as she walked back toward the farm, boots crunching over the dirt path, her mind kept circling back to it. By the time she reached her farmhouse, she was irritated with herself.
She tried to focus on something productive. Watering. Clearing debris. Checking on her crops. But her mind kept drifting back to the board.
By late afternoon, Agatha found herself in her kitchen staring at her small television, which was replaying a cooking segment she’d half-watched weeks ago.
“A chocolate cake,” the host announced brightly.
Agatha folded her arms.
She could probably do that. It was just following the instructions, right?
Two hours later, her confidence had crumbled alongside the cake.
Her kitchen looked like a flour bomb had detonated. The batter had looked promising — smooth, glossy. But the oven had betrayed her. Or the measurements had. Or baking was a scam. The cake had risen unevenly, cracked down the middle, and somehow managed to be both undercooked and burnt. When she tried to level it, the knife stuck awkwardly and tore through the top.
She poked it. It deflated slightly. “God damn it.”
Flour dusted her shirt. There was egg shell in the sink. Somehow honey had made it onto the cabinet door.
She exhaled sharply.
Fine.
If she couldn’t manage delicate, she would stick with efficient.
Protein bars were practical. Reliable. No rising. No temperamental oven nonsense. And one of the few things she had learned how to make since she got to Westview.
She moved through the motions more confidently now — oats, crushed almonds, pumpkin seeds, peanut butter, honey. She pressed the mixture down firmly, like she could compress her overthinking into it.
Rio was annoyingly fit. Always hauling something or moving or looking like she’d just come back from a swim or a run.
She would appreciate something like this.
Probably.
Agatha cut the bars into neat rectangles, wrapped them carefully in parchment, and placed them into a small brown paper bag.
When there was nothing more to do, she stood in her kitchen for a long moment.
This was neighborly.
People here brought each other things all the time. Shared harvests. Traded recipes.
This was not sentimental bullshit. It was practical.
With a sigh she grabbed her jacket before she could argue with herself further and headed south.
The path toward the lake was quieter in the evening. The air carried that damp, clean scent of water and pine. The sky had shifted into softer shades of orange and violet, the lake reflecting it back like glass.
Rio’s house sat close to the shoreline, modest but steady. It looked lived-in. Grounded.
Agatha slowed as she approached.
What was she supposed to do now that she got there? There was no way she was going to knock on the door. Knocking required eye contact. Words. Acknowledgement.
Besides, Rio was weird enough to probably be sleeping by now.
She stepped onto the porch, heart beating faster than it had any right to, and hooked the bag onto the door handle.
For a second, she hovered. Should she leave a note?
Happy Birthday.
Eat these before they fossilize.
She shook her head.
Nope. No note.
If Rio figured it out, she figured it out. Agatha turned and walked back down the path quickly, as if the house itself might call her back.
By the time she reached her farm, the sky had darkened even more and the stars looked brighter. She told herself she’d done it because that’s what people did here.
Definitely not because she was starting to feel something dangerously close to belonging in a town she hadn’t meant to stay in.
🌸🌿🌼🍂
Somehow — through sheer willpower and an impressive display of evasive maneuvers — Agatha had managed to avoid Rio for several days after leaving the protein bars on her doorstep.
It had not been graceful though.
At Jen’s store, she’d been comparing fertilizer prices when she caught sight of Rio’s reflection in the glass of the drink cooler. Her brain had short-circuited. Instead of acting normal like a functional adult, she’d pivoted so abruptly she clipped an entire display of discounted preserves. Jars wobbled dangerously.
Jen had lunged forward with a strangled noise.
“I meant to do that,” Agatha had muttered while steadying a jar of pickled beets. “Structural testing.”
Jen had stared at her. “On glass?”
“Especially on glass.”
Then there had been the library incident.
She’d spotted Rio’s unmistakable boots between the shelves and attempted a subtle retreat.
Unfortunately, subtlety and panic rarely coexist in her life. She’d stepped backward, caught the edge of a rug, and collided with a cart of returned books.
The crash echoed. Darcy, who was at the front desk cataloguing the books Agatha brought, had peered over her glasses.
“You alright?” Darcy had asked.
Agatha, sitting on the floor surrounded by paperbacks, had nodded with strained dignity. “I’ve always believed literature should be immersive.”
Darcy had blinked slowly. “Right.”
Humiliating? Yes.
Effective? Also yes, because somehow Rio hadn’t seen her.
The only problem was that also meant Rio hadn’t said anything about the bars and Agatha had spent three days oscillating between relief and an unsettling kind of disappointment.
The silence had proven to be somehow worse.
That was precisely why Agatha was already on edge when Mayor Hart’s letter arrived the day before the Flower Dance.
Dear residents, tomorrow we gather in the forest clearing for our annual Flower Dance! Don your best spring attire and join us for music, food, and celebration. If you can find a partner, you might even participate yourself!
Yes. Exclamation point and all.
So of course Agatha had every intention of skipping it.
She woke up before sunrise, fueled by avoidance disguised as productivity. She watered every crop with militant precision. Checked the soil twice. Fed the animals. Cleaned the coop. Repaired a fence board that absolutely did not need repairing.
By the time the sun climbed higher, the farm looked better than it had any right to.
Agatha wiped her hands on a rag and stepped inside the farmhouse, the sudden shade cooling the sweat on the back of her neck. She washed up at the sink, scrubbing the dirt from beneath her nails, then glanced at the clock on the wall.
10:40 a.m.
The festival had supposedly started at nine.
She frowned slightly. There had been no music drifting from the forest earlier, no distant chatter carried on the breeze. Maybe it had started late. Or maybe it was already winding down and she had successfully avoided the entire thing without even trying.
Still… she hesitated.
After a moment, she headed toward her bedroom to take a shower and changed out of her work clothes. Not into anything festive, but into something that didn’t have soil stains baked into the fabric. She pulled on a pair of worn blue jeans and cuffed them at the ankle before stepping into the bright red boots she’d bought on impulse when she was still in the city and had stubbornly decided were practical enough for farm life.
A white shirt came next, simple and soft from too many washes, and over it she shrugged into a dark green jacket that still smelled faintly of fresh fabric and the lavender sachet she’d shoved in the drawer with it. She ran a hand through her hair, brushing it out until it fell loosely around her shoulders, then grabbed a pair of narrow sunglasses from the dresser.
When she finally looked at herself in the mirror, she paused.
Not fancy or festival-worthy. But presentable enough not to get Mayor Hart glaring at her.
“This is not an effort,” she muttered at her reflection.
The woman in the mirror didn’t look particularly convinced.
Agatha rolled her eyes at herself and walked back into the kitchen, pacing once around the small space like she’d forgotten what she’d come in for. She sat at the table. Stood up again almost immediately. Rearranged a stack of mail that had been sitting in the exact same place for three days.
At 11:15, faint music drifted through the trees outside.
Agatha froze.
So it was starting now.
She groaned quietly, rubbing a hand over her face.
“Fifteen minutes,” she told the empty room. “You show your face, grab food, leave.”
The forest clearing had been transformed by the time she arrived. Garlands of flowers hung between trees. Petals scattered across the grass in deliberate swirls. Musicians stood on a small wooden platform, tuning instruments. No one was dancing yet — couples milled about awkwardly, eyeing one another like participants in a social experiment.
She hadn’t missed anything. Awesome.
Agatha scanned for the least dangerous social option and spotted Valkyrie near the refreshments table, arms crossed, looking mildly uncomfortable in a pale green dress that still somehow managed to look battle-ready.
“You look like you’d rather be fighting slimes,” Agatha said, stepping beside her.
“I would,” Valkyrie replied evenly. “At least slimes don’t insist on coordinated spinning.”
Agatha smirked. “I’m assuming Carol made you come”
Valkyrie’s stoic expression softened just slightly. “Yeah, she likes the music.”
Carol stood nearby adjusting a decorative arch. Sunlight caught in her hair in a way that felt almost magical.
Agatha sighed dramatically. “She really has no right to look that good holding a hammer.”
Valkyrie shot her a sideways look. “Careful.”
“Oh, I’m deeply respectful,” Agatha replied solemnly. “Of Carol’s woodworking skills.”
Valkyrie snorted despite herself. “You’re ridiculous.”
“It’s harmless appreciation,” Agatha said. “The entire town has a minor crush on your wife.”
“Yes,” Valkyrie said dryly. “I’m aware.”
It had become a running joke between them. Agatha’s exaggerated admiration for Carol, who was both married and entirely unbothered by it. Valkyrie, for her part, seemed to find it more amusing than threatening.
“So, you dancing?” Valkyrie asked.
“Nope.”
“Smart.”
“You?”
Valkyrie sighed, glancing toward the platform where Carol was adjusting a flower crown with intense focus.
Agatha winced. “You’re doomed.”
“Entirely.”
Carol waved them over enthusiastically.
Valkyrie straightened, resigned but fond. “If I trip, you’re pretending you don’t know me.”
“I would never,” Agatha said. “I would absolutely narrate it in detail to anyone who ask me.”
Valkyrie rolled her eyes and headed toward her wife, leaving Agatha alone just as the music began in earnest.
“You clean up well.”
Agatha froze and then turned slowly.
Rio stood a few feet away, hands tucked into her pockets, watching her with open amusement.
“I’m not dressed up,” Agatha said defensively.
“You’re not covered in dirt,” Rio countered. “That’s an improvement.”
Agatha folded her arms. “Do you want something?”
Rio tilted her head. “I was a little curious so I came to ask why you didn’t show up at Lilia’s for my birthday.”
Agatha’s stomach tightened. “I was busy.”
“Doing?”
“Farm work.”
“At night?”
“Yes.”
Rio took a small step closer. “You’ve been avoiding me.”
“I have not.”
“You absolutely have, you seem to be suspiciously avoiding every place I would be.”
Agatha scoffed. “That’s incredibly self-centered.”
“Is it?” Rio’s voice softened, but her eyes stayed sharp. “Jen said you nearly body-slammed a display when I walked in.”
“You know her, she exaggerates.”
“And Darcy mentioned something about you discovering gravity in the fiction aisle.”
Agatha’s jaw clenched. “Jesus, people in this town need to start minding their business.”
Rio’s smile faded into something more searching. “You left something at my door.”
Agatha stared at a point just past her shoulder. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“Really?” Rio said. “Protein bars. No note. Wrapped like they were ration supplies. Doesn't it ring a bell?”
Silence.
“They were good,” Rio added quietly.
Agatha’s throat felt dry. “Good for you.”
Before the moment could settle into something heavier, Mayor Hart appeared between them like an enthusiastic hurricane.
“Oh! You two!” she exclaimed. “Are you going to be dancing together?”
“No,” Agatha said instantly.
“Yes,” Rio said at the exact same time.
Agatha turned on her. “Excuse me?”
Mayor Hart clapped delightedly. “How wonderful! We’ll start pairing off now!”
“We’re not—” Agatha tried again.
But the mayor had already swept toward another cluster of townspeople, calling, “Everyone gather! First set coming up!”
Agatha stared after Mayor Hart in disbelief. “You did that on purpose.”
Rio placed a hand over her chest in exaggerated offense. “Me? I would never manipulate a civic authority figure for personal gain.”
“You literally just did.”
“I said yes,” Rio replied innocently. “You had every opportunity to say no.”
“I did say no.” Agatha protested.
“Ah, but you lacked conviction.”
Agatha narrowed her eyes. Around them, couples were already forming loose lines on the grass as the musicians struck a brighter sequence of notes. There was still time to walk away. She could slip back toward the refreshments, claim a sudden cramp, fake a chicken-related emergency.
Rio extended her hand. Open. Waiting.
“Come on,” she said, voice lower now, threaded with something less teasing and more certain. “It’s just a dance. It’s not gonna be that bad.”
Agatha’s eyes flicked from Rio’s hand to her face. “That’s what people say before things become humiliating.”
Rio’s grin curved slow and dangerous. “You humiliate yourself just fine without choreography.”
Agatha scoffed, but she placed her hand in Rio’s anyway.
Rio’s fingers closed around hers immediately, warm and firm, and before Agatha could rethink the decision she was being guided toward the center of the clearing. The improvised dance floor was nothing more than flattened grass and communal optimism. The musicians struck up the first lively pattern, and the initial line of couples began moving in tentative synchrony.
Rio stepped into position opposite her, then shifted closer as the formation tightened. One hand slid to Agatha’s waist to guide her into place.
The contact was solid. Intentional. Agatha felt it like a spark against bare skin.
She refused to react.
“Stop stepping on my feet,” she muttered as the first turn began.
“I’m not stepping on your feet,” Rio shot back, amused. “You’re anticipating.”
“I am not anticipating.”
“You’re bracing like I’m about to drop you.”
“That seems statistically likely.”
Rio laughed under her breath, and the sound traveled straight down Agatha’s spine. “Relax. I’ve got you.”
The words were casual.
The way her hand tightened slightly at Agatha’s waist was not.
They attempted the next sequence — a side step, a turn, a half-spin that required more coordination than Agatha was prepared to offer.
Rio’s knee bumped hers.
“There,” Agatha said triumphantly. “Terrible guiding.”
Rio raised an eyebrow. “Fine. If you want control, you can lead.”
Agatha rolled her eyes, but there was something deeply satisfying about the concession. “Gladly.”
She adjusted their grip — sliding her hand more firmly to Rio’s shoulder, subtly shifting their weight. Rio followed without resistance, pliant and attentive in a way that sent a strange pulse of pride through Agatha.
“Bossy,” Rio murmured, leaning slightly closer.
“I think you mean competent,” Agatha corrected.
They moved again — this time smoother. The turn landed properly. Their steps synced. The awkwardness that had marked the first few beats began to dissolve into something fluid.
Agatha became acutely aware of the space between them — which was, at this point, almost nonexistent. The music swelled, bright and playful, but underneath it was the steady drum of her own pulse.
“See?” she said, guiding Rio into a pivot. “Perfectly capable.”
Rio’s gaze hadn’t left her face. “You’re full of surprises.”
“I prefer ‘multifaceted.’”
Rio’s thumb brushed, almost absentmindedly, against the fabric at her waist. “I’ve noticed.”
The words landed heavier than they should have.
Agatha tried to focus on their dance. Their steps grew smoother. Less awkward. More deliberate. The circle around them blurred as they found their own rhythm inside the larger pattern.
For a moment, it stopped being about the town watching. It stopped being about the festival. It was just the two of them moving in sync.
Rio’s gaze hadn’t left her face.
Agatha became acutely aware of that. So she tried to look elsewhere.
“Eyes up,” Rio said softly when Agatha tried to look away. “If you’re leading, you have to look at me.”
“That seems unnecessary.”
“It’s part of it.”
Agatha held her gaze.
Big mistake.
Rio’s eyes were darker up close. Focused. Warm.
“Thank you for the gift, Agatha,” Rio said, voice gentler now, threading through the music. “It was really thoughtful of you to make them for me.”
Agatha nearly missed the next step.
Heat crawled up her neck.
“Stop making a big deal of it,” she muttered. “You’re ruining the mood.”
The second the word left her mouth, she regretted it. Rio’s expression shifted — slow, pleased.
“Oh so there is a mood?” she asked, and used the next turn as an excuse to pull Agatha closer — not enough to be scandalous, but enough that their chests brushed on the spin.
Agatha’s breath hitched audibly.
“Oh my God, shut up,” she snapped, attempting to push her away.
It only resulted in Rio’s arm tightening slightly at her waist to steady her.
“Careful,” Rio murmured. “You’ll trip.”
“I won’t.” she replied firmly.
“You’re distracted.”
“I am not—”
Rio leaned in just enough that her lips were near Agatha’s ear.
“You look cute when you’re flustered,” she whispered.
The words slid down Agatha’s spine like heat. A shiver betrayed her. Rio felt it — she had to — because her fingers stilled for half a beat.
Agatha’s pulse thundered in her ears, louder than the music. She wondered wildly if Rio could feel it through her ribs, through the thin layers of fabric, through the small space that no longer existed between them.
“I am not flustered,” she insisted, voice thinner than she intended.
Rio’s smile brushed against her temple as they turned again. “Sure you’re not.”
Agatha focused desperately on the steps. Left. Turn. Pivot. Breathe.
But even as she maintained control of the dance, she was painfully aware of how little control she had over the rest of it — the heat under her skin, the way Rio’s hand fit at her waist like it belonged there, the dangerous, blooming realization that maybe she hadn’t been avoiding Rio because she disliked her.
Maybe she’d been avoiding her because she didn’t.
And that was infinitely worse.
🌸🌿🌼🍂