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not-so-secret-nerd · 2 days ago

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Ten Minutes

Summary: “You don’t get to say that now. Not after every time I walked out of this office wishing I’d said something, and you just let me go.”

Tags: Museums & Archive Life. age gap, friends to lovers, hurt/comfort, chronic pain, very slight emotional and verbal abuse & recovery, love confessions, kissing.

Giving 🌹☕️

The museum had always smelled like old wood and possibility.

Long halls wrapped in glass and shadow. Brass plaques catching afternoon light. The ghost of wax polish in the air, like the building had exhaled something ancient and wanted you to notice. You’d been hired as the Educational Director eight months ago. Brought in to breathe new life into the outreach program, to reimagine docent scripts, to craft hands-on stations that didn’t feel like afterthoughts. You weren’t supposed to have anything to do with acquisitions or placement. But somehow, you found yourself in Agatha Harkness’s office nearly every week.

As the Lead Curator, Agatha was the type of woman who didn’t suffer fools, and certainly didn’t seem to have time for cross-department collaboration. Yet here you were again, seated in her guest chair with a half-drunk coffee in hand, going over the floor plan for the “Witchcraft and Folk Belief” exhibit for the third time.

“You’re doing it again,” she said without looking up, pen paused over her annotations. That voice. Smoky, deliberate. Like someone who’d learned a long time ago that silence was more powerful than volume.

“Doing what?” you asked, though the smile was already tugging at your lips.

Agatha glanced over the rim of her glasses. “Trying to sneak education into interpretation. You know that’s not how this works.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you deadpanned. “I thought the museum’s purpose was to teach people things.”

“It is. But quietly. Elegantly.” She reached for her tea, lifting it with long fingers that had ink on the tips. “Not by smacking them over the head with an ‘interactive corner’ made of papier-mâché and moral outrage.”

You rolled your eyes, leaning back in the chair. “It’s not papier-mâché. It’s resin. And it helps contextualize the persecution narratives.”

“You’re contextualizing them with cartoon goats.”

“They’re historically accurate goats, thank you very much.”

She huffed through her nose, not quite a laugh but not a dismissal either. And that was how it always went. Push and pull. Head and heart. You teased the stiffness out of her exhibits; she sharpened the sentimentality out of yours. Somewhere between the professional debates and the sarcastic coffee orders, a friendship had rooted itself like ivy through stone.

You didn’t know when it stopped being strictly about work. Only that she started asking if you wanted to stay and read through the gallery proofs after hours. That she started saving the last pastry from the café cart for you. She noticed when your knee bounced from too much caffeine and placed a warm mug of chamomile beside you without a word.

Then there were the nights you stayed late—too late—working on rewrites or script notes only to find a coat draped over your shoulders that wasn’t yours. Agatha always claimed she’d been “passing by,” but you’d stopped believing that months ago. The first time you mentioned staying late, she’d barely looked up from her tea before saying, “Come work in my office, then. Mine actually has heat.” She lingered too long in the education wing. Knew too much about your rotating staff. Could quote your programming language back to you, mockingly, but with a kind of fondness in her voice that made your stomach twist.

You’d fought once—nothing dramatic, just a difference of vision about a children’s exhibit on ancient medicine. She thought your approach was too modern, too sanitized. You thought hers was too grim. But it ended not in cold silence, but in a rare dinner out. A real one. Just the two of you. Wine and candlelight and arguments over Latin pronunciations, until your cheeks hurt from smiling.

She walked you home that night. Didn’t touch you, but her hand hovered at the small of your back, like she would catch you if you fell. You never talked about that moment. Not really. But it hummed between you in the quiet ways—like when she adjusted your scarf in the winter without asking, or when you straightened the hem of her blouse before a donor event. You knew each other’s tells. Her sighs. Your overexplaining. She always knew when you were lying about being fine. You always knew when she was guarding something behind her eyes.

She’d lean in during strategy meetings, voice low and dry with something conspiratorial—little comments meant only for you. Sometimes, mid-conversation, her hand would reach out instinctively to brush lint from your sleeve, like it was the most natural thing in the world. And when she said your name—just your name—it always landed a beat too heavy, like there was something unsaid tucked beneath it.

You tried not to think too hard about it. About how, somewhere along the way, you stopped dressing like you had something to prove and started choosing what made you feel like yourself—softer fabrics, warmer tones, the kind of comfort that didn’t beg for approval. Agatha noticed, though she never said much. Just a glance that lingered a moment too long. A quiet “That color suits you” as she passed. Her attention was never loud, but it always landed. Most days, that alone was enough to make you feel seen in ways you didn’t have words for.

Your breath still caught sometimes, like when she’d twist her hair up with a pencil on long curatorial days, or when she leaned over your shoulder to read something and didn’t move away right away. She never said anything. Never crossed a line. But you were already standing at the edge of it, heart tilted forward, waiting.

All of it lived just beneath the surface, soft and steady—until the present pressed in.

Agatha didn’t look up from her proofs when she asked, “Are you staying for the staff tour preview tonight?”

You were curled on the leather chaise across her office, your legs tucked beneath you, a half-eaten granola bar balanced on the stack of docent scripts in your lap. You hadn’t eaten lunch. She hadn’t asked. She didn’t need to.

“I was going to,” you said. “But Kate asked if I’d join her for a drink. She wants to talk about the Slavic section.”

A pause. Not long. But heavy. Agatha’s pen stilled over the page. “Kate,” she said slowly. Then—“The guest curator?”

You nodded. “Yeah. She’s only here for a few weeks, just covering the Slavic materials project.”

Agatha didn’t look up. But her stillness sharpened. “She asked you out,” she said. Not a question.

Your heart skipped. “Not technically,” you offered. “She just wants to go over materials. Offsite.”

Agatha looked up at you, gaze steady. “Offsite. After hours. With wine involved, I’m guessing?”

You blinked. “Okay, fine. Yes. She asked me out.”

Agatha made a quiet sound in the back of her throat—more breath than voice. You offered a half-smile, the kind you’d mastered in meetings, meant to ease tension, to smooth over the sharp edges of difficult conversations. “Is that a problem?”

“Yes,” Agatha said, voice quiet but immovable. “It is.”

The words hit harder than they should have. Something in the room shifted—stilled. She stood slowly, every movement deliberate, and crossed to her desk. Her hands braced the edge like she needed the wood to keep herself upright. Her eyes didn’t meet yours. They fixed on the window, distant and cold.

That stopped you. “What?”

“I don’t like the way she talks to you.”

The admission landed with a thud in your chest. “At the board meeting,” she continued, measured but tight, “she interrupted you mid-sentence, then turned your analysis into a joke. Called your approach to ‘educational storytelling’ adorable. Like you were a clever little intern just playing in the big leagues.”

You flushed. You’d clocked it too, but… “She was just trying to keep things light.”

Agatha turned her head slightly—not enough to face you, but enough that you could feel the heat behind her words. “No. She was minimizing you. Turning your expertise into novelty. That’s not levity. That’s strategy. She dressed it up as flattery so you wouldn’t push back.”

You shifted your weight, something unsettled crawling under your skin. “You don’t even know her.”

“I don’t need to.” Her voice was flat. Certain. “I’ve seen the type.” You said nothing. Let it sit in the space between you. “She’s, what—twenty-seven years older than you?” Agatha went on. “Which shouldn’t matter—except she carries it like a badge. Like it grants her authority. She’s polished. Controlled. She knows exactly how to charm someone who wants to be taken seriously in a field this small.”

Finally, her gaze cut back to yours. “And you do want that. You deserve that. But not like this.” There was no condescension in her tone. Just a quiet, aching care—worn at the edges, like it had lived in her too long without air.

Your throat tightened. “Are you saying I can’t tell the difference?”

Agatha’s voice softened, but it didn’t waver. “Of course not. I’m saying I don’t like that she’s trying to take advantage of the part of you that’s still hungry to be taken seriously.”

You looked down at your hands. Fidgeted. Your heart pounded in your ribs. “She sees me,” you said. Quiet. Almost ashamed.

Agatha’s eyes darkened. “No,” she said, “she studied you.”

“So what then?” you asked, heat prickling up your throat. “I’m supposed to keep orbiting around you, just waiting for someone to show enough interest and want me?”

Agatha flinched—subtle, but unmistakable. Like the words grazed bone. She didn’t speak at first. Just stared at you with something raw in her expression, something that looked like regret turned inside out. “I do want you. I’ve wanted you before she ever walked in here with her knowing smiles and curated charm,” Agatha continued, voice cracking at the edges. “But I didn’t know how to say it. I didn’t know if I had the right.”

You stared at her, blinking hard. Something inside you twisted—too many emotions, too little space. “Don’t,” you said, voice sharper than you meant. “Agatha, don’t you dare.”

“I didn’t want to be another person who made you doubt yourself,” she said, stepping forward. “You’ve worked so hard to be taken seriously. I didn’t want us to be something people whispered about. I didn’t want to be a complication.”

“No,” you said, your voice trembling. “You didn’t want to risk anything. That’s what this was. You didn’t want to reach for me unless it was safe.” She swallowed, pain flickering behind her eyes. “You think Kate’s dangerous?” you asked, laughing bitterly. “At least she asked me. You just… waited for me to guess.”

Agatha’s jaw tightened.

“She told me I was beautiful,” you added, quieter now. “Not impressive. Not promising. Not full of potential. Just… beautiful. Like she saw me, not the work, not the reputation, not what I could be.”

Agatha's lips parted, then closed again. Her hands curled at her sides. “I always thought you were beautiful,” she said finally, barely above a whisper. “God, you walk into a room and I forget how to breathe. But I told myself you needed to be seen for your mind, for your conviction. Not your face. Not your body. Not by me.”

You stared at her. “You really think those things are separate?”

Her expression cracked open. “No,” she admitted. “I think I was just scared of how much I saw you. All of you.”

You swallowed, throat tight. “So instead, you stood back. You let me sit on that couch and wonder if I was crazy. If I was reading into things that weren’t there.”

Agatha looked away. Her voice broke slightly. “You weren’t.”

“Then why say nothing? Why stay silent when you saw it written all over my face?”

Her answer came without hesitation. “Because I didn’t want to cross a line that made you question if your success was yours—or something I gave you.”

“So, it was the age thing?” you said. Not accusing. Just exhausted.

Agatha shook her head instantly. “No. It wasn’t that… I don’t care that you’re younger than me. I cared that you were still fighting for a place in a field that doesn't listen to young women. I didn’t want to be one more reason someone in this fucking field doubted your voice.”

“And in doing that,” you said, voice raw, “you made me doubt everything else.”

She looked stricken. Truly stricken. Like your words had peeled something open she couldn’t hide anymore. You kept going. “You don’t get to stake your claim on me now that someone else has shown interest.”

That one hit. Agatha looked away. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “You think I’m trying to claim you?”

You nodded, biting your lip to hold back the shake in your jaw. “No. I think you’re trying to rewrite history. To pretend you didn’t have a chance and let it rot.”

Agatha stepped back. Her hands curled at her sides, her whole body gone still. You stared at her, chest heaving. “You waited too long, Agatha.” The silence that followed was ruinous. You turned toward the door. You were halfway to it when her voice came again, low and broken.

“Just…” She swallowed. “Be careful with her.” You froze. Didn’t turn. Couldn’t. “She’s not who she pretends to be,” Agatha said softly. “Kate’s the kind of woman who makes you feel lucky to be chosen— until you realize you were never being seen. Just sized up. Measured. Trimmed down until you fit some mold and own how people look at you.”

That landed like a bruise. You felt your spine stiffen. “And if she hurts you,” she added, voice barely audible now, “it won’t be because you weren’t enough. It’ll be because she never wanted anyone she couldn’t break.”

You turned. Just once. Just enough to see her hands at her sides, trembling, her eyes rimmed red but dry. You didn’t say thank you. You didn’t say goodbye. You opened the door and in that moment, as your body crossed the threshold, you heard her

“Shit, wait…”

The door shut behind you like the last breath of something that could’ve been holy—if only it had come sooner. Maybe if she had spoken before you crossed the threshold, but again, words said at the last moment never landed the way a soul craved.

*****

The walk home blurred at the edges and bled into itself, smeared like watercolor left too long in the rain.

Each step felt heavier than the last, like your body was unraveling beneath you, trying to keep pace with the pressure blooming behind your ribs. Your lungs burned with cold, each inhale like swallowing glass. Wind knifed across your cheeks—sharp, bitter, surgical—finding every seam in your coat, every patch of skin you hadn’t thought to cover.

You hadn’t brought gloves. You hadn’t zipped your jacket. You’d left the bar shaking, humiliated, and furious—and now the night was swallowing you whole. Your breath came in unsteady bursts, clouds that splintered in the air, shallow and too fast, catching in your throat like splinters. Your curls stuck to your face, damp from sweat or tears or the mist curling through the street—you couldn’t tell anymore. Wisps clung to your jawline, lifted by the wind as it screamed through the gaps between buildings. Streetlamps burned halos into puddles and glass, but none of them gave warmth. Not anymore.

Still, you walked. You didn’t cry. Not yet. Not out here. Not where the wind could see. You kept your head down, your boots clicking across uneven pavement and frozen leaves. One foot in front of the other—because that was the only thing keeping you tethered to the world. Your stomach twisted tight, coiled around everything you hadn’t said. Everything you should’ve said.

God, you wished you were wrapped in Agatha’s hoodie. The museum one. Faded black, soft with age, the cracked logo from the early 2000s stretched across the back, the sleeves just long enough to hide your fingers when the cold got too sharp. The stitching had come undone at one cuff. It smelled like red cedar and archival paper, like sandalwood and quiet magic. To anyone else, it was just a hoodie. To you, it was sacred.

It always stayed in her office. Draped casually over the arm of her leather couch like it belonged there, like she’d left it out for herself—but she hadn’t. Not really. It had been meant for you from the moment she first offered it. A gesture unspoken, unexamined, but never forgotten.

It was a night not unlike this one. You’d stayed late, combing through tour scripts while Agatha edited wall text layouts in silent rhythm beside you. You hadn’t said anything. Not about the pain. Not about how your body had begun to stiffen the way it always did when fatigue caught you off guard. Chronic illness and pain had long ago become something you carried in silence—an old rhythm you’d learned not to disrupt other people with. You stopped naming it aloud after too many raised brows, too many uncomfortable silences.

But Agatha had noticed. She always noticed.

The way your fingers had gone pale. The stiffness in your spine. The sharp catch in your breath every time you shifted. She didn’t ask. Didn’t tilt her head or lace her voice with soft pity. She simply stood, crossed the room with quiet purpose, opened the small wooden chest beside her bookshelf—a piece you’d seen a hundred times but never thought to open—and pulled out the hoodie like it had always belonged in your arms.

It smelled like her. Like the cedar oil she used on her desk drawers. Like books older than memory. Like something safe. “Put it on,” she’d said, voice soft but firm. Then, after a beat, “Please.”

And you had.

Since then, it had always been there. Always waiting. Offered, but never assumed. Never brought up again—because it didn’t have to be. It was hers. But when you were with her, it was yours. A silent comfort. A promise written in restraint.

And now, walking alone through the dark with your coat unzipped and the wind cutting through like knives, all you could think about was that hoodie. The weight of it. The warmth. The quiet safety of being seen without having to ask for it. Without having to earn it. You missed it. Not just the fabric, but what it meant. The thoughtfulness folded into it. The way she always seemed to know when you needed softness, even when you couldn’t say it out loud. It had been less than two weeks. But God, you missed her like it had been years.

Your fingers had gone red, then white, then numb. The cold climbed your arms like vines—slow, merciless, invasive. Pain began to pulse in your knees and hips in a rhythm you knew too well. Not sharp. Not sudden. Just deep. Relentless. The kind that didn’t just live in your body—it made a home of it.

Every step was a warning bell. The cold seeped into your bones, sharpening your breath, dragging behind your ribs like a dull blade. It wasn’t just discomfort. It wasn’t just the night. It was exhaustion. It was shame. It was the sick, familiar ache of abandonment, dressed up in frostbite and silence.

You felt it now, more than you had in weeks. The inflammation building beneath your skin, preparing to lock you up by morning. You’d be in bed for at least a day. Maybe two. And it would take everything you had just to move through it. Just to exist.

And still, you walked. Because there was no other choice. Kate had made sure of that.

The closer you got to your building, the harder it was to keep your legs moving. Familiar blocks blurred past in a haze of neon reflections and late-night hush. Your keys were already in your hand, fingers clutched around the worn tag from the museum gift shop that Agatha had slipped into your coat pocket last winter—something stupid and sweet, a private joke about a misprinted plaque. It jingled softly now, and you hated how even that sound made your throat tighten.

You rounded the corner to your complex and pressed your security pass against the outer panel. The door buzzed open a second later, the warm air rushing out against your frozen cheeks like the apartment was exhaling. Inside, the lobby was mostly empty. Quiet. Washed in low amber lighting that only made your body feel heavier.

The night security guard looked up from his desk. “Evenin’,” he said, though it was well past midnight.

You nodded faintly, managing a thin smile. “Hey, Darrell.”

He glanced at you a little longer than usual—his brows twitching faintly, like maybe he could see something wasn’t right. But he didn’t ask. Just gave you a small smile as you passed. The elevator was waiting. The doors slid open with a groan, and you stepped inside, your body aching in more ways than you could count. Metal groaned as it lurched into motion, the walls rattling faintly like they, too, were tired of holding things up. The floor vibrated softly under your boots, each flickering number above the door climbing like it was dragging you with it inch by inch. You leaned your shoulder against the mirrored wall, eyes fluttering shut for just a second. The cold still clung to you, bone-deep and stubborn, refusing to loosen even as the air around you grew warmer.

Your thighs burned. Your knees pulsed with a low, cruel ache. Your spine throbbed, each vertebra registering its own quiet protest. The fatigue hit you all at once, like a switch flipped, like your body realized it was finally safe to fall apart.

The elevator dinged and the doors sighed open. You stepped out slowly, every joint stiff. Every breath heavier. Keys. Lock. Hall light. Muscle memory guided you through it.

When you pushed open your front door, the heat from inside your apartment hit you like a wall—, thick and clinging to your skin. It wrapped around your face, too sudden and too much after the windburn outside. You winced, blinking hard, momentarily disoriented as your body tried to recalibrate.

Your home smelled faintly of lavender detergent and old dust. The last tea you didn’t finish. The sheets you hadn’t had the strength to wash. A life paused in motion. You shut the door behind you and the click of the lock echoed through the quiet like a verdict.

Your boots came off slowly, your hands fumbling clumsily with the wet laces. One boot. Then the other. You stumbled as you rose, catching yourself on the hallway wall. The socks beneath were soaked through. So were the frayed hems of your jeans. Cold clung to your calves. Your shirt stuck to your back, damp with a mix of sweat and night air, your skin clammy beneath it.

You felt hollow. Raw. Like something scraped clean. Your knees cracked when you stood straight again, your balance swaying. You pressed your hand flat to the wall until the world steadied. Then you looked at the microwave clock, its dull green numbers casting a sickly glow across the room. 1:16 a.m. You had walked for nearly an hour. Nearly an hour with nothing but your thoughts, the sound of your own footfalls, and the ghost of her voice in your ear.

Be careful with her. She doesn’t want you. She wants to own the way people look at you.

You stripped your coat off with clumsy fingers, letting it fall to the floor with a wet, defeated thud. The lining was damp, clinging to your arms like a second skin. Your shirt followed, peeled from your back, sticky with cold sweat. Every motion tugged at your joints—your elbows, your knees, your lower back—all of them resisting, stiff and slow from the cold that hadn’t yet worked its way out of your muscles.

You forced your jeans down next. The denim dragged painfully over your thighs, and you cursed under your breath when you had to bend to pull them off. Your hips flared with pain. Ankles protested. Your spine tensed as the muscles cried out. Your hands shook. The cold had settled in like a second skeleton beneath your skin.

You changed in slow, methodical movements, not because you were calm, but because you didn’t have the strength for anything else. You pulled on the softest long-sleeve shirt you owned. You threw on thick pajama bottoms—worn at the seams, comforting in the way only old things could be—and thick socks you found tucked in your bottom drawer, mismatched but warm. Still, your body locked up. Your shoulders trembled. Your spine curled in on itself as if trying to shield your heart from your own ribs. You moved to the nightstand and plugged in your phone with hands that barely obeyed your commands. The cord caught once on the corner, and you nearly dropped the damn thing. The screen lit up before you could look away.

Kate.

Your heart kicked against your ribs. The first message came in at the top of the stack: “You seriously need to grow the fuck up.”

Then: “I was just trying to help. You’re lucky anyone even tries with you.”

Then, a pivot. A softness that tasted like ash: “I didn’t mean it like that. Babe. Please.”

Another: “You can’t ghost me. That’s not how this works.”

“It’s not my fault you didn’t have a way home. Maybe plan better next time.”

Like she hadn’t insisted she picked you up from your apartment.

Like she hadn’t peeled away from the curb with a smirk. Like she hadn’t chosen to leave you stranded. Like she hadn’t looked you in the face, and driven off into the night.

You stared at the messages, a tremor crawling up your spine. They kept coming.

“I’m sorry. I overreacted. It’s just… You don’t get it.”

“Say something.”

“You’re not gonna find anyone who gets you like I do.”

“You don’t belong in this field if a simple argument causes you to ghost someone”

“I saw the way you looked at me. Don’t act like I was wrong.”

You read them all in silence. The degrading and the love-bombing, the cruelty disguised as concern, the lashing and the longing. It was a dance, familiar and well-rehearsed. You saw it now. Too clearly. And you hated that part of you had wanted to believe the earlier version. The charming one. The one who touched your hand at the bar and told you that you were sharp, soft, and interesting.

Tears streaked down your cheeks—first slow, then faster, until they blurred your vision and soaked into the collar of your shirt. They clung to your jaw, slipped into the corners of your mouth, salted the back of your tongue. You didn’t bother to wipe them away.

What was the point? Agatha had been right. Of course she had. She always was. And you had walked away anyway. You looked at the clock again, the glowing numbers casting long shadows against your wall. The world was quiet, and the night branched out around you.

And you were sitting in bed, shaking from cold and pain and the slow, aching realization that you had been nothing more than a toy to someone who claimed to want you, then left outside without a coat that mattered. Without a way home. Without anything but your body screaming at you, and no one there to listen.

Except her.

Your fingers hovered over your phone. The screen trembled in your grip. You shouldn’t call her. It was too late. Too much. You didn’t want her to hear you like this—shaking, crying, small. You didn’t want to need her like this. But your body was locking up again. Your chest too tight, your shoulders curled in like they could protect your heart from splitting open.

And your hands—God, your hands—were trembling. From the cold. From the fear. From the realization that the one person who had always seen you, who had always known, was the same one you’d walked away from. Because it hurt more to hope than it did to be hurt. But before you could talk yourself out of it, before the shame and pride could reach your hands, you pressed her name.

The line rang once. Twice.

“Sweetie,” Agatha’s voice came through the phone, low and warm and impossibly gentle. “You okay?”

You opened your mouth, but the words tangled in your throat. Your breath hitched, and the sound that left you wasn’t quite a sob—not yet—but it cracked like something breaking under pressure.

“Hey, talk to me” she said softly, and you could hear the shift in her tone—gentle concern sharpening to quiet urgency. “What happened?”

You pressed a hand to your chest, like that would steady your breath. It didn’t. But the words came anyway, half-formed and shaking between gasps.

“I—I went out with Kate again…” You swallowed hard, tears spilling faster now. “She left me at the bar. I asked her to stop talking to me like…like I was nothing, and she just…she walked out and got in her car and drove off. I didn’t have my debit card, and Apple Pay kept glitching; I didn’t have a way home, and my phone was about to die. I had to walk home—"

You broke off with a sob, breathing in through clenched teeth. “She’s texting me now,” you whispered. “Just nonstop.” You paused, wiped your face with the sleeve of your shirt. “But it’s scaring me. And I—I can’t stop shaking. My whole body’s locking up and—”

You heard it then. The soft rustle of bedsheets. The sound of movement. Her breath picked up, steady but urgent. A drawer sliding open. The unmistakable jingle of keys. “I’m coming,” Agatha said, her voice lower now, all command and comfort. “It’s going to be okay, I’m on my way.”

You exhaled a shaky sob, still curled up on the edge of the bed, phone pressed to your ear like a lifeline. “I’ll be there in ten minutes,” she added, and you could hear her slipping on shoes, moving with precision. “I still have that spare key you gave me. Try to get under a blanket if you can.”

“Ooo-okay,” you managed, eyes squeezed shut as another tear traced its way along your jaw. “Okay.”

Her voice gentled again, a whisper you could almost feel against your skin. “I’ve got you.”

The call ended, but the silence didn’t. You stared at the screen until it dimmed. Until the battery icon glowed red. Until even that small bit of light felt like too much. Then you let the phone slide from your hand and hit the comforter beside you with a dull thud.

Ten minutes.

You had to make it ten minutes.

Your body didn’t want to cooperate.

You tried to breathe through the tremors in your limbs, but it only made you more aware of how deep the cold had sunk into your bones. Your spine gave a sudden, electric jolt of pain as you shifted, white-hot and blinding, arching from your lower back up between your shoulder blades like someone had set a wire inside you and pulled it taut.

You gasped—sharp and instinctive—curling inward. Your fingers twitched, stiff and pale beneath the sleeves of your shirt, too cold to flex fully. Your legs were numb at the edges, like your skin had forgotten where it ended. You reached for the throw blanket at the foot of the bed and barely managed to tug it over your lap. It was soft. Familiar. It didn’t help.

Tears kept falling—quiet now, steady. They tracked along your nose, your cheeks, your lips. There was no noise behind them, no sobbing. Just pressure. Release. The grief of being right and wrong at the same time. Of realizing you’d chosen someone who could discard you like nothing, and pushed away someone who’d never made you feel like anything less.

You wanted to lie down. You were afraid if you did, you wouldn’t be able to get back up.

So you stayed upright. Barely. On the edge of your mattress. Head bowed. Shivering. The pain in your back was relentless now—deep, creeping, coiled like something alive between your ribs. You pressed a hand to your chest, trying to slow your breathing. Tried to stop the shaking.

It didn’t stop. The apartment was too quiet. You felt like you were going to break into pieces right there in the dark. You heard it first: the click of the handle. The soft creak of hinges giving way. The sounds of shoes coming off. Then the familiar, padded rhythm of socked feet against hardwood. Not rushed. Not panicked. Just steady. Certain.

She didn’t speak at first. The light from the hallway stretched across the floor, soft and golden. Her shadow moved with it. Then her voice, low and close and full of everything you’d needed to hear all night: “Darling?”

You lifted your head, barely. Agatha stood in the doorway of your bedroom, framed by the light, dressed in soft charcoal joggers and a navy hoodie you didn’t recognize—hood down, sleeves pushed to her elbows. Her hair was pulled up into a quick bun, a few strands falling loose at her temples. She wore her glasses—those round, wire-framed ones she never let anyone see outside the office, like she didn’t want the world to catch her soft. But you saw her now.

All of her.

No armor. No sharp heels. Just presence. Her gaze swept over the room, then landed on you. Hunched on the edge of your bed, blanket barely wrapped around your legs, face blotched with tears, body trembling. Her entire expression shifted. Not with pity. But with fury. With grief. With a kind of sacred, quiet rage at the world for letting you be hurt like this.

“Hey,” she said softly, stepping inside. She didn’t ask questions. She just came closer. “I’m here.”

Agatha crossed the room without hesitation. She didn’t sit. Didn’t pace. Didn’t waste time pretending she didn’t see exactly how far gone you were. She knelt.

Right there in front of you, her knees sinking into the rug with a softness that made something inside you crack wide open. Her palms found the mattress on either side of your thighs—close but not touching—her whole frame folding down to your level like she was anchoring herself to the floor before reaching for you.

Her hoodie pulled gently at her shoulders as she moved, soft cotton bunching at the crooks of her elbows. A strand of hair slipped loose from the messy bun she’d tied in a rush. Her glasses had slid low on her nose, and she didn’t bother to fix them.

She just looked up at you. Not as a curator. Not as your colleague. Just Agatha. Unarmored. Unshaken. Steady in a way that made your heart hurt. Her eyes swept over you—your trembling frame, your tear-streaked face, the way your hands clutched the blanket around your waist like it was the only thing holding you together. She saw all of it. And she didn’t flinch.

You blinked down at her, chest rising in a jagged rhythm. The sob that came up caught mid-breath, sharp and raw, and your throat worked against it like it could hold the rest back. “I’m sorry,” you whispered. The words barely came out. Tears spilled freely now, warm and unrelenting. “I should’ve listened. You were right. About her. About everything. And I didn’t—God, I didn’t want you to be right.”

Your voice cracked at the end, ragged with regret. Agatha shook her head once. A small, controlled motion. Not dismissive—refusing. Refusing to let you carry that guilt like it belonged to you. “Sweetheart,” she said softly, voice so low it felt like a balm. “You don’t have to apologize. Just let me take care of you, okay?”

And then, slowly—carefully—she reached for you. Her hand came to rest over yours, palm warm and solid, grounding you instantly. The heat of her touch was almost jarring after so much cold. She didn’t squeeze hard. Just enough. Her thumb brushed across your knuckles in a rhythm that steadied more than your hands.

“What hurts?” she asked, her voice all breath and tenderness.

You shuddered, your breath catching as another wave of pain rolled through you. “My back,” you said, barely above a whisper. “All of me... It’s like—” You swallowed. “Everything’s locking up.”

She nodded once, eyes never leaving your face. Then she gently pressed her palm just above your knee—solid, present. Not possessive. Just there. You felt the heat of her hand through the fabric, and something loosened—not your body, but something else. Something deeper. The part of you that had been bracing all night.

“What do you need?” she asked, not like someone unsure, but like someone who wanted you to name it—so she could give it all.

You took a breath, but it trembled on the way out. “I—I can’t get warm,” you admitted, voice nearly lost in the quiet of the room. Your eyes shut tight against the tears threatening again. “I’m shivering. My body won’t stop.”

Agatha’s expression shifted—gently, but all at once. Her mouth softened, her shoulders rounded, and something behind her glasses cracked wide open. Not pity. Not fear. Just that deep, quiet kind of knowing. She looked at your bed, then back at you, already moving with the kind of practiced care that came from months of paying attention.

“Okay,” she murmured, her voice wrapping around you like something solid. “Let’s lie you down, alright?”

She reached for the edge of the blanket still clutched around your lap. Her fingers brushed the back of your hand in passing—warm and patient—and then she moved slowly, deliberately, like you were something fragile and holy. She didn’t pull. She guided. One arm curled around your upper back, the other bracing beneath your knees as she shifted her weight.

“Lean into me,” she said, quiet and sure.

You did. You couldn’t not. Her body was a line of heat against yours, steady and grounded, anchoring you with every inch of contact. She moved you with gentle precision, her touch firm where it needed to be and feather-light where it didn’t. You could feel the restraint in her movements—the way she adjusted each hand to avoid the worst of your pain, how she watched your face for the smallest sign of discomfort. Every flinch. Every held breath. She caught it all.

When your spine gave a warning twitch, she stopped immediately. “Here?” she asked, her hand hovering just above the base of your back.

You nodded, barely more than a blink, and her touch softened even further. “Alright,” she whispered. “No more pressure there.”

Together, slowly, she helped you recline onto the pillows. Every shift of weight made your joints ache. Your hips throbbed, your knees resisted, and your lower back flared with heat that felt nothing like comfort. But she never let you fall. Her touch remained steady—never rushed, never careless.

Once you were settled, she reached down to the foot of the bed and retrieved the thickest blanket she could find. You recognized it—the one you kept in the linen basket for cold nights but rarely used, the one that smelled faintly of dryer sheets and oak. She snapped it open once with a sharp flick of her wrists, letting it fall like a curtain of warmth over your frame. The weight of it settled instantly across your legs, your stomach, your chest. You exhaled without meaning to.

But the tremors didn’t stop. Your fingers curled into the edge of the blanket, jaw clenched against the shivering that had moved deep into your core. Your body was still caught in itself, muscles tight and burning, your skin chilled from the inside out.

Agatha stood beside the bed for a moment, watching you beneath the heavy blanket. Her eyes swept your trembling form—your fingers curled tight, your shoulders hunched, your body visibly shaking beneath the weight of cold and pain. She didn’t rush. She didn’t lean in. She just waited—a quiet pillar of patience in joggers and a hoodie, the soft golden lamplight catching on the rims of her glasses.

You nodded, lips parting to let out a breath that fogged in the room’s lingering chill. “Please,” you whispered.

Agatha settled beside you slowly, the mattress dipping as her body eased under the covers. You felt her weight nearby—close, but not touching. She didn’t reach for you. Didn’t make the first move. She laid there, quiet and steady, letting you have the space to choose.

The blanket rustled as you exhaled. And then, you moved. Your body was trembling, stiff in all the worst ways. Every joint screamed as you shifted, the cold burning sharp beneath your skin. But still, you inched closer. It wasn’t fast. It wasn’t graceful. Your knees ached, and your spine tugged tight as you twisted toward her. Your breath caught somewhere in your chest, half-pain, half-something far more fragile.

You needed to feel her. Needed to know she was real and warm and close. Your hand found the edge of her hoodie, your shoulder nudging into her side.

Agatha startled just a little—not from fear, but from the sheer force of restraint breaking. Her breath hitched, and her hand twitched against the sheets, instinctively wanting to reach for you. But she didn’t—not until you were fully there, until your head came to rest against her shoulder, your arm curling softly across her stomach.

Only then did she move. “Careful, sweetheart,” she whispered, her voice a hush just above your temple. “Don’t push yourself. Let me help.”

You pressed your face against her chest. “I missed you,” you breathed.

She shifted immediately—not to take control, but to respond. Her body curved around yours with practiced gentleness, her arms sliding beneath and around you, adjusting for every tremor. She tucked one thigh under your hips just enough to keep them from locking, her knee bracing behind yours in a way that supported rather than pulled. One hand flattened over your back, the other steadying the weight of your side through the blanket.

Her hoodie was warm beneath your cheek, soft and familiar, and she smelled like cedarwood and something faintly floral—clean, comforting, hers. You shook against her—your body still caught in its defensive rhythm, every muscle unsure how to let go. But she didn’t flinch. Didn’t tighten her grip. She just stayed with you.

Her hand moved in slow, soothing circles across your back, fingers spreading and curling in a rhythm that didn’t rush you, didn’t push. Just reminded you she was there. Her other arm stayed braced beneath your ribs, keeping you steady where your muscles refused to cooperate. The warmth of her hoodie seeped into your skin with every tremble, her body curved perfectly to yours—protective, but not possessive.

And then, her voice. Quiet. Low. Just for you.

“I’ve got you,” she whispered near your hairline. “You’re not alone. I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

The sound of it cracked something open inside you. Your throat clenched as a sob slipped out, your fingers twisting lightly in the fabric of her hoodie. You couldn’t stop the tears this time. Didn’t even try. They fell silently at first, streaking sideways into the cotton near her collarbone.

“It’s alright,” she murmured again, pressing her lips gently to your forehead. “You’re safe. I’m right here.”

The soft drag of her palm beneath the blanket, grounding you in the now while your body continued to betray you—trembling, locking, stiff with cold and adrenaline and everything you’d tried to hold back. Her warmth pressed into your skin with each exhale, each small movement, like she was trying to convince your bones they were safe.

A quiet buzz rattled against your nightstand. Your phone lit up again on the nightstand. Another text. Agatha felt it—the tension that rippled through you at the sound. But she didn’t look toward your phone. She only tightened her hold a little, enough to brace your spine, to offer her shoulder as your head slipped lower.

She didn’t speak right away. But then, softly: “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

You hesitated. Not because you didn’t trust her—you did. God, more than anyone. But saying it out loud felt like dragging something rotted into the open air. “She’s been saying shit more and more for days,” you whispered. “Little things. Snide. During meetings. In front of people. When I was talking with one of the board members, she said I looked like I was playing at the museum. Like I was a kid in grown-up clothes trying to sound smart.” You exhaled shakily, the sting behind your eyes burning. “She even made a comment to a group of parents while I was leading a field trip, about how trashy the exhibit looked. The fucking exhibit you and I created from the ground up. The one you let me mostly design.”

You swallowed hard. “I let it go. I tried to laugh it off. I thought maybe she was just nervous or something, I don’t know. She’s only here for a short time, so I gave her that. But tonight...”

Another buzz.

You flinched. You didn’t even look. Agatha shifted just enough to gently tuck the blanket higher on your shoulder, her other arm still beneath you. Still steady. Still present. You took a deep breath.

“Tonight, at the bar, I ordered food. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and I… I was starving. She barely looked at me after I ordered. Then she started spewing out comments like “Didn’t expect you to eat all that”, or ‘I’m not surprised you haven’t been on a date if you eat that much in front of people,’ then ‘Look at you, I’m surprised your clothes aren’t screaming in protest. I mean, look at your body.’ She kept making those same type of comments over and over—about what I ordered, about my body. All sugar-coated.”

Agatha didn’t interrupt. She just adjusted her hold on you again, her hand steady at the base of your spine, her fingers splayed protectively. You swallowed hard and kept going. “I asked her, politely, to stop. Just to please stop saying things like that to me.”

“As soon as the words left my mouth, she got pissed. Just… snapped. Leaned across the table, and said I said something like I was making her the bad guy in front of everyone, and that she could say whatever she wanted. Then something about being too immature to deal with real adults. I went to respond, but she stood up. I thought maybe she was going to the bathroom or needed a second, but…”

You let out a bitter laugh, more air than sound. “She walked straight out and threw the door open. I grabbed my jacket and followed her out front, and she was already getting into her car. She looked me dead in the eye, Agatha. Didn’t even flinch. Just… started the engine and drove off.”

Your voice cracked hard on the last word. “I waited ten or fifteen minutes. Just stood there on the gravel parking lot, thinking maybe—maybe—she’d come back. Turn around. But she didn’t.”

Agatha inhaled slowly, and when she exhaled, it shook. Her hand came up from your back and cupped the side of your head, not to control or reposition, but simply to cradle. “I just,” she murmured, barely above the breath you took into her shirt. “I hate that she made you question yourself at all.”

“She didn’t just leave,” you whispered. “She made me feel small. Ugly. Inadequate. She made it seem like I was the one being difficult, and standing up for myself made me weak. Maybe if I…”

“No,” Agatha said, voice like steel wrapped in velvet. “Her actions are not on you. That’s her cruelty. Her cowardice. None of what she said was true.”

You pressed closer into her chest, body still wracked with the leftover tremors of cold and humiliation and grief. But there was something else in your voice now, quieter. A thread of exhaustion knotted so tightly it felt like it might unravel you. “I didn’t even realize how fast my body was crashing,” you murmured. “Not until I was already halfway home. Everything just… started slipping. Like my limbs stopped listening, the cold got in deep, not just on my skin, but in me. Into my bones, my spine. Every step took more than I had to give.”

Agatha’s hand stilled, fingers gently curling at your side. But she said nothing—let you keep going. “I kept thinking about how stupid I was,” you added. “How I’d chosen her over listening to you. And then all I could think about was you.”

Your voice cracked again. “Not just because I knew you’d be right. But because… the whole walk home, all I wanted was you. Your hoodie. Your voice. You looking at me like I matter.”

Agatha inhaled sharply, and when she exhaled this time, it was warm and close, the breath of someone holding back too much for too long. “You always mattered,” she said softly, and the ache in her voice nearly undid you. “You still do. Always will.”

You didn’t trust your words anymore, so you nodded, burying your face in the space where her neck met her shoulder. Her arms tightened instinctively around you, careful even now not to jostle your sore hips, your locked-up back.

“I’m sorry.”

Agatha’s hand stilled on your back. “Sweetheart…”

You shook your head against her shoulder, words tumbling out before you could stop them. “I’m sorry I didn’t listen. About Kate. You were right. You saw her for what she was, and I—” Your throat closed for a moment, and you swallowed hard. “I wanted to believe she saw something good in me. Something unique, I offered the field and others. Maybe I could be wanted.”

Agatha’s hold on you shifted—closer, tighter, protective.

“And I’m sorry I didn��t say anything when you—when you told me how you felt,” you whispered. “I just stood there, and you were brave, and I said nothing. I should have turned back the moment before the door clicked shut.”

Her breath caught faintly at that, but she didn’t speak right away. Instead, her hand lifted from your back and moved slowly, gently up the side of your face. Fingers brushed through your hair, smoothing it back from your temple like something reverent.

“It’s okay. You were overwhelmed,” she murmured. “And I shouldn’t have used that moment to tell you how I felt. I shouldn’t have waited so long or said it all at once.”

You leaned into her touch, eyes fluttering shut at the softness of her palm. “We can talk about it in the morning,” she added. “Right now, you need to rest. You need to feel warm, safe, wanted and I don’t want to add to—”

“No.” Your voice came out small, but certain. Your fingers gripped her hoodie again, knuckles stiff and aching. “Please… I want to hear it. Tonight. I need something real tonight.”

Agatha’s hand paused against your cheek. Then quietly, without ceremony, she spoke. “I’ve wanted you,” she said, voice thick with held-back truth. “For months. Maybe longer. At first I thought it was just admiration. You’re brilliant. You care so damn much about this work, about the people who come through our doors. You made me laugh when I thought I had forgotten how. You challenged me when no one else would.”

She exhaled, the breath warm where it fanned across your forehead. “But then I started watching for your name in my inbox. Saving pastries from the café you liked, just in case you hadn’t eaten. I started hoping you’d knock on my office door—even if it was to argue with me. I made sure that damn hoodie on the couch because I noticed how you shivered. Because I wanted you to be comfortable around me.”

Her thumb brushed gently along your jaw. “And when I saw you smile at her that first day, I felt it like a punch. Because I wanted you to look at me like that.”

Your heart thudded painfully in your chest, every word anchoring deeper than the last. “I didn’t say anything sooner because I didn’t want to risk it. Your career. Our friendship. I didn’t want you to feel like I was crossing a line. I just…” She trailed off, then whispered, “I never stopped wanting you.”

You blinked, tears fresh again but softer this time. Less like breaking. More like opening. You shifted just enough to see her face—her glasses slightly fogged, her expression raw and unguarded in a way she almost never allowed. And you whispered, “I’ve waited so long to hear you say that.”

Agatha didn’t respond. Didn’t fill the air with something light to make it easier, didn’t smile to soothe you. She just looked—deep and still and wrecked with the weight of everything you didn’t say for months. Like you were something she’d nearly lost but hadn’t. Like the only thing holding her together was the fact that you were still within reach.

Her hand remained at your cheek, palm warm against skin that hadn’t stopped trembling since the walk home. Her thumb brushed lightly along your jawline, and you didn’t lean into it so much as collapse.

A fresh tremor, born of bone-deep cold, rippled through your frame—deeper this time—catching in your lower back and drawing a sharp breath from your lips. The pain rose too fast to contain. A broken whimper slipped from your throat, thin and aching, as your fingers curled hard against the soft front of her hoodie, clutching at the fabric just over her heart.

“Sweetheart,” she breathed, voice laced with concern, already adjusting to hold you closer. Her hand slid behind your back again, slow and steady, a barrier between you and the cold that hadn’t yet let go. “You’re still freezing.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. You simply let your body fold into hers like it was the only direction that made sense. Tucked beneath the blanket, your forehead dropped to the hollow of her shoulder, breath hitching as your muscles screamed in protest. Agatha moved with practiced care, not forcing your body but guiding it, her hands patient, firm only where they needed to be. She held you like someone who knew pain, who had studied the way it twisted and curled inside people until it claimed too much. She didn’t ask you to be strong. She was strong for you.

When you looked up again, the lamp cast a golden halo across the room. It lit the frame of her glasses, caught the shine of her lashes, and threw soft shadows beneath the curve of her cheekbones. Her expression had shifted—no longer carefully neutral but laid bare. All softness, all ache. Tenderness sharpened by restraint.

She was beautiful. The kind of beautiful that made you forget your ribs were aching. The kind that made you forget how badly your body wanted to lock up and disappear. Your fingers rose of their own accord, slow and shaking. You touched the edge of her hoodie, just below the neckline, brushing against the thrum of her pulse. Her skin was warm, steady, alive in a way you hadn’t let yourself need until now.

She looked at you then—really looked—and the air stilled between you. You didn’t ask. You didn’t need to. You leaned in first, your breath shallow, your nose brushing hers, until you could feel the moment hanging between your lips and hers. Tense. Fragile. Waiting.

And then she closed the distance. Her mouth met yours like a vow made in a sacred place—no rush, no urgency. Just the steady hush of truth long denied. Warm and unhurried, her lips fit against yours as if they had always known how. Her kiss didn’t ask for anything. It gave.

Softness. Certainty. Time.

She kissed you like she was putting you back together with each careful brush of her mouth. Like she knew exactly which pieces had been shattered by tonight, and which had been chipped away quietly, day after day, by every doubt, every dismissal, every time you’d felt unseen. She kissed you like she had time to undo all of it—and planned to.

Her hand slipped to the base of your skull, fingers threading into your hair, thumb brushing at the damp edges of your temple where tears still clung. And still, her mouth moved against yours with devastating tenderness, coaxing warmth back into your chest, into your belly, into the frozen places no one had ever thought to touch.

When she finally pulled back, it wasn’t distance—it was breath. Her forehead rested gently against yours, noses still brushing, her hand still cupping your jaw like it belonged there. “I’m not going anywhere,” she whispered, so quiet it trembled. “I’ve got you”.

She kissed you again. Slower this time. Deeper. Her mouth moved with just enough pressure to make your lips part, her tongue brushing gently against yours in a soft, exploratory sweep that felt like a question more than a claim. You answered it without hesitation, letting her deepen the kiss as your trembling fingers clutched tighter at her hoodie.

Still, no one shifted. Your bodies remained nestled the same way beneath the blanket—yours curled toward hers, aching and cold, hers steady and warm and anchoring. But your mouths moved like they’d been waiting months for permission. There was no firestorm. No frantic clutching. Just the steady unfolding of months of restraint, of longing that finally had space to breathe. Her hands never wandered. One stayed at your cheek, thumb stroking gently along your jaw. The other pressed against the small of your back, grounding you through each soft tremble that still shivered down your spine. Her lips coaxed yours open again and again, kissing you like she was learning you. Like she already knew, but wanted to be sure.

The kiss shifted, softened, deepened again—until all you could feel was her: the heat of her breath, the curve of her mouth, the way her glasses brushed your temple every time she tilted her head to meet you more fully. The warmth that bled from her chest into yours. The low hum she made when you whimpered softly into her kiss, your muscles finally starting to melt.

When she finally pulled back, it wasn’t abrupt. It was gentle, a slow exhale as her lips hovered just above yours, reluctant but patient.

You blinked at her once. Then your body moved on instinct, the kind born not of logic but longing. You shifted, slow and aching, and nestled in closer—curling inward until your face found the warm, waiting crook of her neck. The moment your skin brushed hers—nose pressed to the soft line of her throat, lips grazing the space just beneath her jaw—you exhaled like your bones remembered something your heart hadn’t dared voice aloud.

Her arms came around you fully this time, no hesitation. She folded you in like a secret too precious to lose. Like holding you was something sacred. You barely breathed, only whispered. “I used to imagine what it would be like… to fall asleep like this.” Agatha stilled—for just a heartbeat—then held you tighter, like your words struck something quiet and trembling inside her. Her cheek found your hair, and her next breath shook. “Not alone,” you added, softer now. “Not aching. Just… here. With you.”

She didn’t respond right away. She just held you through it, the silence between you turning warm instead of hollow. Then, voice thick but steady: “You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this—how long I’ve imagined holding against me. How long I’ve loved you from just out of reach.”

You could feel it in the way her hands trembled. Not from fear. From truth. From the weight of holding something she had almost convinced herself she didn’t deserve. The words echoed in your chest: how long I’ve loved you from just out of reach. Loved you. Not wanted. Not desired in passing. Loved.

It wrapped around you like a second blanket, warmer than anything in the room. Heavier, too. Not with pressure, but with meaning. It felt right. Like the last puzzle piece sliding into place. Like you’d known all along, somewhere beneath the ache and the silence, that this had always been waiting. Quiet. Patient. Real.

And it undid something inside you. You blinked, fresh tears slipping free, though they no longer stung. They were soft now, almost sweet, like your body didn’t know how else to respond to being held like this. To being wanted like this.

Your nose stayed tucked against her neck, breathing her in—cedar and fabric softener, museum dust and something warmer. Home. Her pulse beat steadily under your cheek, a rhythm you could’ve sworn you recognized even before tonight.

You burrowed into the space between her shoulder and jaw a little more. Her body adjusted without hesitation, making room for yours with the kind of instinct only love teaches. The blanket shifted a little as she moved, just enough to cocoon you both in a deeper warmth. Her fingers skimmed the fabric at your spine—not to tease, not to urge—just to be there. A quiet presence. A promise.

You sank further into her. “You’re not going to disappear in the morning, are you?” you asked, voice half-lulled by her heartbeat.

Agatha's laugh was low, almost reverent. “No, sweetheart,” she said, brushing her nose lightly against your hair. “I’ve waited too long to be right here.”

You let your weight settle into her chest, legs curled beneath the blanket, your whole form still trembling faintly. Pain still ghosted across your spine, but she cradled you like she could pull it from your bones with touch alone.

Agatha tilted her head slightly, her voice low, brushing against your ear. “Do you need anything? Your meds?”

You nodded, just a small movement against her collarbone, and lifted a shaking hand toward the nightstand. “They’re right there,” you whispered. “By my phone.”

Agatha didn’t shift far—not enough to disturb the way your body leaned into hers. Just enough to reach with one hand, her fingers brushing over the surface until she found the bottle, then the half-full water you hadn’t touched since yesterday. The plastic creaked softly in her grip. She looked at you as she unscrewed the cap, then shook two pills into her palm. Her other arm stayed around you, anchoring you in place. “Here, sweetheart,” she murmured.

You reached up with trembling fingers, but she held them steady for you, placing the pills in your hand. Then, carefully—so carefully—she brought the rim of the water bottle to your lips. “Easy,” she whispered. “Just a sip.”

You drank, her hand steady as ever, her eyes never leaving your face. Once she was sure you’d swallowed, she pulled the bottle away and set it back beside the bed. Then, with a practiced ease that made your chest ache, she picked up your phone, thumbed the volume button down, and flicked it to silent. One more movement—gentle, almost reverent—and she placed it screen-side down, as if shielding you from whatever waited on the other side of the glass.

She turned back to you, shifted the blanket higher over your shoulders, and tucked the edge behind your back with one arm still looped protectively around you. Once you were settled, wrapped in warmth and safety and her scent, she let her chin rest softly atop your head. Her breath came slow. Steady. The kind of rhythm that invited your body to match it, even though the shivering.

Then her voice, low and sure, threaded through the hush: “Close your eyes, darling. Just sleep.”

Her hand never stopped moving—slow, barely-there patterns traced across your spine. Not enough to tickle. Just enough to keep you tethered. Present. Her thumb drew slow arcs near your lower back, every movement gentle, almost instinctive. The kind of touch that asked nothing of you. The kind that said I’m here.

Your eyes fluttered closed, breath catching slightly as another wave of exhaustion washed over you. Not just from the pain, or the walk, but all of it. The loneliness. The fear. The ache of being let down by someone who’d made you feel wanted, only to twist it into shame. But this—Agatha’s arms, her warmth, her voice like a blanket—this felt like a balm. Seconds passed. Maybe minutes. Then—quiet, unshaking—you whispered into her collarbone, your voice barely audible: “I love you too, Aggie.”

She stilled, just for a moment. Then you felt her exhale, long and full. Her lips pressed to the top of your head with a tenderness that undid whatever pieces were still frayed in you. One hand cradled the back of your head as her other arm gathered you closer—slowly, carefully, like she was pulling you into the safest place in the world.

Her mouth brushed against your hair again, this time with words:

“God, I love you.” Then, softer still, like a promise tucked beneath your ribs: “Rest, my love.”

With her breath steady beneath you, her hands still tracing warmth into your skin, you let the night take you. Held.

Wanted.

Home.

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