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sceletaflores · 2 months ago

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LAYING IT ALL ON THE LINE...

꩜ masterlist ꩜ update blog ꩜ inbox ꩜ taglist ꩜ ao3 ꩜

｡꩜°‧➵ PAIR: Joel Miller x fem!reader

｡꩜°‧➵ WC: 4.1k

｡꩜°‧➵ CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, post-outbreak, hurt/comfort, joel's pov, general violence, minor character injury, jackson!joel, when he picks an unnecessary fight with you because that's all he knows, mentioned age gap, joel miller as a sad old man, joel miller experiences feelings, oral sex (f!receiving), p in v, clothed sex, unprotected sex, erectile dysfunction? we don't know what that means in this house because that old man can fuck like he's twenty AND his knees are made of steel (but only sometimes), porn w/o plot, no use of y/n.

｡꩜°‧➵ @retrosabers SAYS: thinking about you almost dying on patrol and joel is FUMING, unable to convey just how worried and anxious it makes him. the only way he can even remotely conceptualize his feelings is through a very PASSIONATE rawdogging ♡

｡꩜°‧➵ NAT'S NOTE: everyone say thank you sid for this absolutely luxurious prompt...i'm waiting. i had so much fun with this! i love love love a good semi-angsty, emotionally constipated man having to come to terms with his buried slash repressed feelings in the gritty wake of a near-death experience, like that's my shit. hope y'all love it!

dividers by @cafekitsune & @saradika-graphics!

joel miller realizes that love isn’t just a four letter word…

"Southeast perimeter’s clear. Heading west by the river bed."

“Wow, you’re finally gonna stop gettin’ us lost out here, sunshine?”

“Lost? Please, you cried when I found that shortcut through the cedar thicket.”

Joel listens to you and Tommy bicker over the radio, a forgotten cup of coffee going cold at his side. That's all he can do when you're out there—patrolling in the snow with a few others. He's not proud of how he just sits by like some anxious house wife, listening to the static between check-ins, but he can't make himself focus on anything other than the way your bright voice filters in and out.

He tries not to hover. Tries not to keep the handheld clutched like it's a goddamn lifeline. But he does, eyes glued to the thing like it might crack open and spill you out if he stares hard enough.

Joel's really not even supposed to be listening in like this. Maria's chewed him out more times than he can count each time she catches him hunched over an old radio that he's never bothered turning in, says it'll do him more harm than good worrying over it.

Besides, these channels aren't meant for civilians sitting on their asses at home. He knows that, because that's exactly what he is now—civilian adjacent. Half-retired.

Tommy jokes about it every once in a while, the way Joel's slowed down, the way his joints complain louder than they used to. A while back, he might've laughed too. Now, every little twinge of pain feels like a reminder of what he used to be.

Joel used to be the one they all looked to out on patrol. He could track better, shoot cleaner, navigate faster than most of the younger guys. That's not the case these days. His patrolling has slowed down over the past few years. He only goes out a few times every couple of months, if even that.

He tells himself it’s by choice.

It’s not, not at all. He’s tired. His knees ache after long rides. His busted shoulder can’t handle the cold without locking up. Jackson’s got a whole rotation now, young joints, faster reflexes, eyes that don’t blur when the wind hits just right. So he doesn’t go out much anymore. Not unless the group is short. Not unless they really need him.

It makes sense. He knows it makes sense.

That doesn’t make it feel right. You out there, miles away in knee-deep snow with a rifle strapped to your back while he’s stuck here. Not out there. Not beside you.

Joel knows you can handle yourself—hell, you’ve proven that a dozen times over. You’re younger. Strong. Fast. Smart as a whip. You can shoot the cap off a beer bottle and you handle a knife better than most people your age.

Knowing all that still doesn’t quiet the feeling of unease that eats away at him each time you strap on your gear and kiss him goodbye with a, See you later, Miller. Strolling out the door like it’s casual. Like it’s nothing.

There’s a kind of helpless fury in it. A sick twist in his gut every time he watches you ride out. Like he’s some retired goddamn hunting dog. Trusted to guard the porch, but not sharp enough to run with the pack anymore.

Joel adjusts the volume dial on the radio like it’ll make your voice stay longer.

Tommy’s laugh cuts through the speaker. “Didn’t cry. I got snow in my eye.”

“In July? Sure.”

It comes in grainy and light, full of that same teasing bite you always give Tommy—enough to make Joel’s jaw tighten with a quiet, helpless kind of fondness. He almost smiles, but it doesn’t reach past the tight pull in his chest. You’re still picking your way through territory where any tree line might be hiding something.

Joel shifts in his seat, elbows on the table, jaw clenched tight. He tells himself you’re fine. You always are. You have to be.

The channel goes still for a few beats. Then, a crack of static. Some muffled shuffling. And—

“Wait—something’s moving in the trees. Left side, just past the ridge.”

Your voice. Sharper now. Less teasing and pointedly quiet.

“Copy,” Tommy replies, suddenly serious. “Keep eyes on—”

A burst of noise. A flurry of panicked voices overlapping and shouts. The unmistakable sound of gunfire.

Then nothing.

Dead air.

Joel’s heart drops to his boots. “Tommy?” he barks into the receiver. “Come in. What the hell’s happening out there?”

When there’s no answer, Joel shoots to his feet. The chair scrapes across the floor harshly as he crosses the room in two large strides, fumbling for his jacket. “Tommy? Goddammit, someone answer me!”

Nothing.

Joel’s heart thuds violently against his ribcage as he stares at the little black box in his hand like it’s an omen. He feels it rush in all at once—panic, guilt, helpless rage curling cold and mean in his chest. His ears are ringing so loud he doesn’t hear the slam of the door behind him as he tears out of the house and into the cold air.

Something happened. The group was compromised. You were compromised.

And he’s not there.

He should’ve been there.

Joel doesn’t remember the sprint to the stables. Doesn’t remember shouting at Maria when she tried to stop him at the gate. Doesn’t remember half the ride out. All he knows is that his hands won’t stop shaking around the reins and the bile in his throat tastes like ash—a sick, gnawing pit growing in his gut.

When he finds the group what feels like hours later, just as the sun starts to rise behind the ridgeline—you’re nowhere to be found. His eyes scan the way everyone’s spread out, some with minor injuries and the others patching them up.

No sign of you.

Tommy plants himself in front of Joel just as he hauls himself off his horse. He doesn’t even feel the way his knees jolt as his feet hit the ground.

“Where the hell is she?” he rasps, voice so rough it sounds like it’s been dragged through gravel. “Where, Tommy?”

Tommy’s hands are out in front of him like Joel’s a wild animal about to snap. He’s got blood on his hands, but no signs of stab wounds or bullet holes anywhere on him. It’s not his blood. Joel’s stomach turns viciously at the sight, at the thought of whose it might be.

“She’s fine,” Tommy says, eyes wide and placating. “Took a hit, it grazed her side. She wouldn’t fuckin’ stay down.”

Joel knows he won’t feel any relief until he sees you, alive and breathing with his own eyes. “Where.”

Tommy steps aside just before Joel nearly shoves past him, nodding his head toward a rock outcrop a ways away from everyone else.

You’re sitting closest to the makeshift fire, Jesse crouched beside you to clean the gash along your side. You’re bundled in someone else’s coat, hair mussed and blood soaked through your undershirt and spattered across your cheeks.

Visibly shaken. Color drained. Bloody. Alive.

Joel’s throat locks up when your eyes meet his. You give him the smallest, tired smile—like you're trying to reassure him. That look. That stupid, brave little tilt of your mouth like everything's okay even when you're the one bleeding through Tommy's jacket.

It makes something in his chest crack wide open.

“Joel?”

He doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t know what to say.

Doesn’t trust himself for it to be anything good.

Joel takes three shaky steps towards you before his knees give out.

He drops hard into the snow. He doesn’t catch himself, doesn’t try. Just falls forward like a penitent man bowing at the altar of a God he doesn’t believe in. His breath comes in short, ragged bursts, eyes locked onto the red seeping through your shirt like it's the only color in the whole damn world.

There’s a beat where nobody moves. Jesse freezes, half-done wrapping gauze, and you’re just sitting there, wide-eyed and shaking like a leaf, lips parted like you’re trying to say something—but Joel’s already reaching for you.

He's on you in the next breath. Not rough, not like usual, not with that greedy, hungry touch he normally has after you come back from patrol. His hands are trembling when they find your face, tilting your chin up gently, his fingers brushing away wet blood and dirt.

Tommy glances away. Jesse too, both men busying themselves with helping the others. It feels too private, even out here in the open.

“Goddammit,” he chokes. “God—baby–”

His voice breaks on the last word. Breaks, something sharp and gutted and boyish, nothing like the hardened man who's grown to guard his emotions like they’re classified. Your hands hover uncertainty over his shoulders, the side of his face. You’re worried. He can see it plain as day, written in the wavering line of your mouth.

“Hey—hey, I’m okay,” you say, voice low and urgent. “I’m fine. Look at me, Joel, I’m fine. It just—it just grazed me, okay? I’m fine.”

You’re not fine.

You’re too pale. You’re stone-cold. Your blood is still tacky on your shirt, drying beneath his body's warmth.

Joel presses his forehead to yours and exhales like he’s been kept underwater, and you were the surface he’d been clawing to.

You whisper his name again, quieter this time, and he shushes you. “Don’t—don’t talk, just—let me—” His fingers press to the pulse point at your wrist like he still needs proof. “Let me feel you.”

You don’t say anything else.

You just hold him.

And Joel doesn’t cry. He can’t. Something won’t let him, but he stays there in the snow for a long time, holding you like a man who thought he’d never get the chance to again.

The ride back to Jackson is quiet.

You fell asleep half-way through, head lolling back against Joel’s shoulder as you both sat in the saddle, your body loose with exhaustion and the emergency pain meds Jesse had in his pack. Tommy rides ahead, checking the trail, but Joel barely looks up. He just holds the reins with one hand and holds you tighter with the other.

You’re taken to the infirmary the second everyone files through the gates. Joel sits by your bedside in stormy silence, hands curled into fists and resting on his knees, the only thing keeping him together.

You talk to the nurse on duty. You even joke with her, cracked voice and tired eyes like it’s all part of the routine. Like getting shot is just another part of the job. And Joel sits there while someone else wraps you in new bandages and checks your vitals.

It makes his blood boil.

All he can think about is the way your voice cut out on the radio. The way he didn’t know if you were dead or bleeding out in some field, alone. And now you’re laughing. Now you’re telling the nurse, “I’m fine really, just sore.” And it makes him want to tear the whole fucking clinic apart.

Joel doesn’t say a word until you're cleared to leave.

Not on the short walk back to your house. Not when you’re walking through the door, cleaned up. Patched. Your shirt’s gone, replaced by his coat and a thermal blanket around your shoulders.

Not when you nudge his arm gently like you’re testing the waters. Not when you say his name soft, like it might keep him calm before you’re heading towards the bedroom.

It doesn’t.

The moment the door shuts behind him, Joel erupts.

“You got a fuckin’ death wish?”

You freeze in your spot halfway across the room, turning to face him.

Joel doesn’t move. Just stands there, fists clenched at his sides. His voice is low, shaking with barely concealed rage. “You gonna tell me why you thought playin’ saviour was worth bleedin’ out in the snow?”

You don’t say anything for a few beats, eyebrows drawn together in a hard frown as you look at him. “What was I supposed to do, Joel? Jesse was pinned, Tommy would’ve taken the hit. I didn’t have a choice.”

“You always have a choice!” Joel grates, stepping towards you. “You could’ve picked you. You could’ve stayed the fuck down like Tommy told you to.”

“I was trying to keep your brother from getting shot in the head,” you snap, the tension finally striking a flint. “I made a judgment call.”

“You made a stupid call,” he spits, voice loud and blistering. “You don’t get to do that.”

“I didn’t have a choice,” you repeat, your body growing stiff and tense.

“You shoulda fuckin’ stayed down.” Joel growls. He doesn’t even look at you when he says it—just rips his flannel off, tosses it hard at the wall.

You don’t flinch. Don’t even look away from him as his shirt falls and crumples into a heap on the floor. “What?”

“You heard me,” he snaps, turning to look at you again. His eyes are dark, fiery. “Jesus, you—do you even fuckin’ think sometimes? You were hit. You knew you were hit, and you kept goin’. You didn’t stop, didn’t stay down like you were told.”

He steps closer, eyes boring into yours, face twisted with something too furious to be rational. “You fuckin’ chose to be a goddamn hero, huh? Run into gunfire like it ain’t a fuckin’ death sentence? That it?”

He can see the second your expression changes, your own anger rearing its ugly head now, bitter and hot. “Don’t do that. Don’t make this about me being reckless when you know I was just trying to keep people alive. I did what I had to do.”

“No!” he snaps, pointing a finger at you, furious and stricken all at once. “What you had to do was come home. That’s it. That’s all.”

You blink at him, breath caught in your throat.

Joel can’t stop, all the emotions he’s been dealt over the past three hours finally boiling over and spilling through his lips before he can think twice about what he’s saying.

“You could’ve died,” he growls, pacing now, hands dragging through his hair roughly like he’s trying to rip the anger out of himself. “Two fuckin’ inches to the left and that bullet would’ve torn straight through your gut. You think you’d’ve made it to town in time for that? Huh?”

“That’s not fair.”

“No,” he snarls, spinning on you, voice cracking. “It’s not fuckin’ fair. Nothin’ about this is. You go out there, and I sit at home waitin’ to see if today’s the day I lose you. That the last thing I heard is your voice cuttin’ out in the middle of a fuckin’ ambush. That’s what I got to live with now. That’s what I saw every time I closed my eyes on that ride back.”

You stand there, lost for words. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”

“I know you didn’t,” Joel says, suddenly quieter, throat thick. He swallows hard, looking down, shaking his head like he’s trying to get a grip. “But I still almost lost you. And I don’t—fuck—I don’t know what the hell I’d do if that ever—”

His voice cuts off, ragged. Then he’s in front of you again, cupping your face with both hands. “You’re not allowed to do that to me again,” he whispers fiercely. “You’re not allowed to scare me like that.”

“Joel…” You lean into him, slow. Cautious.

Joel meets you halfway.

His mouth is on yours in a heartbeat—hot and bruising and pathetically desperate. His big hands frame your face, thumbs dragging down your cheekbones as he licks a wet stripe over the plush seam of your lips.

You gasp into his mouth when he pushes the blanket off your shoulders, when his palms skate down your sides to grip your hips hard. Not too rough, not yet, but he’s holding you because he needs you rooted. Anchored. Here.

Joel kisses you like he’s still furious at you, like he hates how much he needs you, like he’s punishing you for making him feel so afraid. It’s not soft, all teeth and tongue as he devours you, stealing the breath from your lungs.

When he pulls back, his mouth is wet with your spit, lips pink and swollen. “Need to taste you,” he mutters. “Need to feel you.”

Joel sinks to his knees before you can respond, breath huffing harshly against your stomach. His fingers tug your zipper down with frantic urgency, hooking his thumbs in your waistband to peel your pants down your legs in one swift motion.

There’s no teasing. No smugness. Just a heavy, sharp hunger carved into his face like stone as he pulls your panties to the side, exposing you to his greedy eyes. His hands slide under your thighs, lifting one over his shoulder as he brings his mouth to you like a man possessed.

The first drag of his tongue is slow. Reverent. Hot and wet as he parts the slick seam of your cunt with deliberate strokes that make your spine arch. He groans like your taste knocks the wind out of him, and then he latches on like he’s got a point to prove—to himself or you, he’s not sure. All he knows is that worshipping you is the only penance that could soothe the panic still clawing at his insides.

“Joel.” Your hands tangle in his hair, chin falling to your chest as you gaze down at him.

He sucks your clit into his mouth, tongue relentless, nose pressed deep against you. You whimper, twisting his hair in your grip, hips twitching—Joel doesn’t let you go anywhere. He’s got you trapped, your body pinned with his mouth buried between your thighs like he plans to die there.

It’s filthy, obscene—the way he devours you. Lips slick, beard growing damper with each swirl of his tongue, eyes half-lidded but still trained on your own.

Your eyes are glassy, pupils blown wide and black as spilled ink. There’s sweat beaded on your brow, lips parted and swollen as you let out small huffs of air.

Your thighs are trembling. You're soaked, arching against him, whimpering his name with tears welling in your eyes. And still—still—he won’t let up. He needs this. Needs to make you fall apart. Needs to prove to himself you’re alive by the way your body sings under his touch.

Joel can’t stop. Not until your thighs shake and you’re moaning that you’re gonna come, gonna come, Joel, please—

And you do. You fall apart on his tongue with a broken sob, legs clenching tight around his ears, hips grinding down into his mouth in weak twitches and shudders. He growls and holds you still, licking you through every last tremor until your body goes limp and threatens to sink to the floor.

Joel doesn’t let you fall—he lowers you down gently, like you’re made of spun glass, even as his hands skirt over the hem of your shirt. When he pulls it up, revealing the bandages wound tight around your side, he pauses. His gaze lingers on the wound. Jaw clenched. Something soft and wrecked flickers in his eyes.

Your hand comes up to cup the side of his face, your thumb running over the scar across his temple so gently it has his heart throbbing in his chest. “I’m okay,” you whisper. “Still here.”

Joel takes your wrist in his hand, lowering it down enough to press it hard over his heart. “You feel that?” he breaths. “That hasn’t stopped hammerin’ since I heard your voice cut out.”

You nod slowly. Your fingers curl into his shirt. “I’m sorry.”

Joel squeezes your wrist, turning his head to press a soft kiss to your forearm.

He climbs up over you, chest to chest—the jut of his cock where it tents the denim of his jeans grinds over the sensitive span of your cunt as he settles himself between your legs. He’s thick, heavy even through all the layers.

Joel’s free hand snakes down his body, making quick work of his belt. He rips his zipper down, freeing his cock from the confines of his soaked boxers and letting it slap up against his stomach.

You moan at the sight of it—hard, straining, the tip a dusty red and wet with pre-come. Your legs widen unconsciously, thighs twitching on either side of Joel’s hips.

Joel takes himself in his hand, fist tight over the base of his cock as he runs himself through your puffy cunt, slicking the skin of his cock with your wetness. “Gonna fuck you,” he breathes, lining himself up between your legs. “Gonna feel you around me, baby, need it so damn bad.”

Joel slides in with one long, smooth stroke, your slick making it easy, and the groan he lets out sounds like pain. Like relief. Like he might lose his mind from the heat of you. Your breath hitches at the stretch, head lolling back against the hardwood as your nails dig into his shoulders.

“Mine,” he grits through his teeth, forehead pressed to yours, his hips grinding deeper as you cling to him. “You’re mine, baby. Always—always mine.”

You nod, panting, eyes glassy. “All yours,” you whisper. “Only yours, Joel.”

And then he moves.

Hard.

Desperate.

Unrelenting.

He fucks you like you’re the only thing tethering him to earth, like if he stops, he’ll unravel entirely. One arm hooks under your knee, pushing you open, deeper than before. His hips slap against yours, raw and hopelessly, but it’s not about getting off.

It’s about feeling you.

Every squeeze, every tremble, every gasp that leaves your mouth when he hits that perfect spot.

Joel’s never felt like this before.

So angry.

So scared.

So in love.

He fucks you like he’s trying to imprint himself inside your body. His thrusts stitch you back to him, sealing you inside his chest so you can never leave. A mess of skin-on-skin and heat and slick as the two of you meet again and again and again.

“Could’ve lost you,” he growls against your throat. “Fuck, honey, I could’ve—Jesus—”

You wrap your arms around him. “You didn’t,” you whisper. “I’m here, Joel—I’m yours—”

He groans, hips stuttering, thrusts turning frantic. He can tell he’s close, that he’s been close since he sank to his knees in front of you.

“Say it again,” he pants, slamming into you with a low, wrecked noise. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you gasp. “Always yours—fuck, Joel—”

You wrap your arms tighter around him, pulling him closer. Your nails dig into his skin through the thin layer of his undershirt, legs locking around his waist to keep him pressed against you like you’re scared he’ll let go.

Joel doesn’t let go. He’d never let go. Not even when you moan his name like a prayer, not even when your nails rake down his back, not even when you gasp out a warning, your voice thin and needy. “Joel, I—gonna—”

“I know, baby. I got you.” His hand snakes down between you, finding your clit and rubbing quick circles over it, desperate to feel you come. “Wanna feel you. Need to—fuck—need to feel you, sweetheart. Please.”

You shatter in his arms with a broken sob, clenching hard around him as your body jerks, overwhelmed and too raw to hide it. Joel feels you pulse around his cock, the tight warmth of your cunt milking him.

It’s too much, and he’s coming with a groan that sounds like it’s been clawed from his chest. He buries himself to the hilt, hips jerking with every pulse, breath catching in your ear. “Fuck, fuck—” he pants, voice hoarse, “—love you, I love you, I thought I lost you, baby, I can’t…”

You’re both trembling when it ends.

Joel holds you there for a long time, forehead resting against yours, still buried deep inside you. He still won’t let you go. Not yet.

Eventually, when he’s calmed, he pulls back just enough to look at you.

You expect that same look from earlier—rage, fear, guilt—but it’s not there. Just love. Just deep, aching relief.

“I can’t lose you,” he says quietly. “I wouldn’t survive it.”

You reach up, trace the curve of his brow, the edge of his jaw. “You won’t have to,” you whisper.

Joel kisses you again. Softer this time. Sweeter. A delicate press of lips against lips. His fingers stroke your cheek, pulling back enough for his eyes to trace along your face. He follows the line of your brows, the shape of your nose, the soft curve of your lips.

He can’t feel anything other than love.

Gentle. Solid. Steady.

It’s only love.

mini nat's note: everyone please send good vibes for my hell sent ch*m final on monday...i literally need all the luck i can get. thank you so much for reading! mwah.

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warpdrive-witch · 1 month ago

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It Worked (16/?)

AN: Life after graduation has involved writing, naps, and more writing. I'm not sure I like this chapter as much as my others, and I'd love your thoughts on chapter 15.

Words: 24.9k. MINORS MUST NOT INTERACT. Warnings: smut. Mentions of a past abuser. Agnst.

Pairing: Agatha x Rio x Reader

Nothing Stays Buried Forever

---

The house held a rare stillness—the kind that settled not just over walls and furniture, but inside the body.

The kind that made you exhale slower. Think deeper. The kind that came only in the late hours of a slow morning, when nothing urgent pressed at the edges of your time. The windows trembled with the breath of February’s last grip. Outside, skeletal branches traced ghostly patterns across the frost-laced glass, and the wind sang a low, persistent song, like something waiting to be heard. Inside, the warmth clung close to the floors, caught between the radiator’s quiet ticking and the lingering heat from last night’s fire. The coffee pot gave one final hiss and clicked off. Steam curled into the air above the machine. The scent of rich roast mixed with the faded trace of cedar smoke and the ink of Agatha’s grading pen.

She sat at the kitchen island, sleeves pushed to her elbows, glasses halfway down her nose. A stack of papers leaned precariously at her elbow. Her red pen moved slowly, deliberately, marking a battlefield of passive voice and underdeveloped arguments. She murmured to herself now and then—words like “vague,” “disjointed,” or her favorite: “try again.” Her hair was pinned up, a few strands falling loose to frame her temple in that way she never noticed but Rio always did. She murmured louder to the “Are you fucking kidding me. You can’t just say ‘history happened.”.

Rio watched from the couch, legs curled beneath a fleece blanket that no longer did much to ward off the chill in her bones. She wasn’t grading. Not really. Her screen was open to her inbox, but her fingers hovered unmoving, resting gently against the trackpad. Her laptop was warm against her thighs, open to a folder she had visited at least ten times in the last week. Not for work. Not even for planning. Just… circling, orbiting the thought she hadn’t said aloud.

Her eyes slipped down to the screenshot again. White paper. Black ink. A smudge at first glance. But not a smudge. A line. A single, quiet line. Almost invisible. An address.She hadn’t meant to find it. She hadn’t been looking. And now it wouldn’t leave her. Agatha’s voice broke the quiet again, this time softer. Thoughtful. “Do you think she’s warm enough out there?”

Rio looked up from her screen. “She’s with Billy,” she said gently. “You know he’d put her in bubble wrap if she let him. She’s layered up. Coat. Gloves. Scarf. Probably waddling like a penguin.” That earned a small smile from Agatha, but it didn’t fully reach her eyes. She stared a moment longer out the window, at the sway of the branches and the pale sun failing to warm the world beyond the glass. And then, Rio exhaled. Slowly. The question burning too long in her throat to ignore anymore. “Hey… Aggie?”

Agatha didn’t look up immediately. “Hm?”

Rio shifted and pushed the blanket off her lap. Her fingers hovered over the trackpad. “You know that letter. The one about her mom?”

That made Agatha look up. Her brow furrowed, a flicker of alertness rising behind her glasses. “Of course. Kinda hard to forget. What about it?”

Rio turned the laptop slightly in her lap. “There wasn’t a return address. But… there was something. A line. Down at the bottom.”

Agatha cocked her eyebrow, red pen poised in midair. “What do you mean?”

Rio brought up the screenshot—she’d saved it the moment she noticed, but she hadn’t opened it again until today. The image glowed faintly on the screen: the lower edge of the letter, where the paper dipped into shadow, and the ghost of a line too faint to belong. “It was printed. Not handwritten. Not even meant to be seen, I think.” She spoke slowly, like she was still figuring it out as she said it. “Valentine’s night—you and her were in the shower. Remember, I went to change the sheets and clean up before joining. I opened the drawer and saw the envelope. It looked like a smudge at first. But it wasn’t. It was typed.”

Agatha stood slowly. Not startled, but changing. Alert. Her brow knit in quiet tension as she crossed the kitchen and came to Rio’s side. “Let me see.” Rio tilted the screen toward her. Her finger pointed to the line. “There. Right there. Tiny. Quiet. Hidden in plain sight.”

Agatha leaned down, eyes narrowing as she scanned the image. The wind howled softly outside, tugging at the old shutters like a warning knocking gently at the door. “That’s not…” Agatha squinted closer. “That’s not where she lived.”

“Exactly,” Rio said, her voice steadier now. “It’s not even the right part of town. It’s not near her last address. Not even close.” Agatha’s mouth tightened. The red pen she still held clicked against the kitchen island as her posture drew upright. “It’s not anywhere near where she lived before she died, right? From what I remember, I can’t imagine that she would’ve sent anything from that side of town.”

Rio looked up at her, and their eyes locked. No need for guessing anymore. “You see it too, then.” Agatha nodded, slow and grim. “I do.” She sank down onto the stool beside her, her gaze never leaving the screen. “Have you looked it up yet?”

Rio drew in a breath, finger hovering over the address like it might burn her. “Not yet. I wanted to wait for you.” Agatha leaned in a little more, her body already in motion. “Well then—” She reached forward, fingers poised to click. Without looking, Rio lifted her hand and batted Agatha’s away with the back of her fingers. It wasn’t forceful—more reflex than anything, like swatting away a cat that had reached too close to a glass of water.

Agatha blinked. “Did you just swat me?”

“I did.” Rio’s mouth twitched, just slightly, but her eyes never left the screen. “I’m building tension,” she said, deadpan. “Let me have my moment.”

Agatha leaned back, biting back a smirk. “You’re ridiculous.”

But her hand settled quietly in her lap now. She didn’t reach again. The silence wrapped back around them like a heavier blanket. Outside, the wind howled against the house, distant but steady. A branch dragged once across the siding. Rio’s finger hovered again. Then, almost too quiet to hear: “I just… I don’t know what I think it is yet.”

Agatha said nothing. She didn’t press. Just rested her hand palm-up between them on the cushion, her presence grounding. Rio exhaled—then reached for her. Their fingers met, laced together without ceremony. The screen hesitated as Rio pressed Enter—just a little spinning circle in the corner of the browser, loading. The moment stretched long. The kind of silence that wasn’t peaceful anymore. It had shape. Edges. She tightened her grip on Agatha’s fingers. Agatha, seated close enough that her knee brushed Rio’s under the blanket, didn’t say a word. But her eyes were on the screen now, sharp and waiting.

The first thing that appeared was a satellite view—washed-out colors, a tangle of residential streets, and a pale red pin marking a spot just east of the city center. Rio double-clicked. Street view unfolded with an almost apologetic slowness. There it was. A squat brick building with flaking white trim and a sun-bleached cross affixed to the roofline. The sidewalk out front was cracked and buckled, the grass sparse and winter-burned. A wooden sign stood on metal stakes, slightly crooked. The lettering was weathered, but not unreadable.

River of the Risen Light – Pentecostal Ministries Sunday Services – 9AM & 11AM

Agatha leaned in, brow furrowing. Her breath caught halfway through her throat. Then she blinked, and whispered—less to Rio, more to the screen— “Of course it’s a fucking church.” She didn’t shout. She didn’t sneer. She just said it with a kind of bitter clarity that scraped the edge of her voice raw.

“Of course it is.” She sat back slightly, lips parted. Her hand was still twined with Rio’s, but her posture had changed. Like a door in her body had swung shut without warning. Rio felt her stomach twist. “She must have… changed churches,” she murmured. “This isn’t the one she used to go to.”

Agatha gave a humorless exhale. “Doesn’t matter which building it is. It’s the same doctrine. Same poison.” The image on the screen didn’t move. It didn’t need to. That building—small, plain, familiar in its harmlessness—felt louder than it should’ve. Rio clicked again. The church had a website—basic, two pages, mostly calendar events and service times. There was a link to livestreams, but she didn’t press it. “Let’s check their socials,” she said quietly. She pulled up Facebook. The page was public. Banner photo: a cross against a pink-orange sunrise. Grainy, oversaturated. She scrolled.

December 2nd “Join us for a very special Celebration of Life this weekend. Let us come together and honor her walk with Christ. #faithfulservant #comehome”

Rio’s throat tightened. The timing hit like a slow slap. That was a few weeks before the letter had arrived. Agatha shifted beside her. The inhale she made wasn’t quite a gasp—it was tighter, more contained, like she was holding herself together by force of will alone. Her jaw clenched. The muscle there jumped once. “They had a fucking memorial.”

Rio stared at the post. “Before we even knew. Before they had the decency to let her know… they told the fucking internet.”

She kept scrolling.

February 20 “A beautiful season of rebirth ahead. So blessed to welcome our guest preacher back next Sunday. #revival #healinglight #comehome”

No name. No photo. No comment thread. Just that. Agatha made a sound deep in her throat—half breath, half growl. She leaned forward again, bracing one hand on the cushion between them, the other still wrapped around Rio’s. Her eyes scanned the screen like she could burn through it. Then she said it—low, flat, sharp as a snapped thread. “What the actual fuck.” The words didn’t come loud, but they landed heavy. Like something dangerous had just been named. The two of them stared at the post. No name. No photo. No explanation. Just that smug little caption: “So blessed to welcome our guest preacher next Sunday.”

The cursor hovered over it like it might pull up more—some image, a tagged name, anything. But the screen didn’t move. Just sat there. Radiating silence. Rio blinked. Her eyes stung, but she didn’t cry. She didn’t look away. “Guest preacher,” she repeated, her voice dry and distant. “Right after the letter.” Agatha’s fingers curled tighter around hers, knuckles going white.

Something was blooming behind her eyes now—not panic. Not even fear. No, it was colder than that. Older. Rage. Not the kind you screamed. The kind you honed like a blade. The kind you held in your chest and waited with. Rio didn’t say anything else, but she could feel it too. It was rising in her—the way her heart beat against her ribs a little too fast, the way her jaw had gone tight because it wasn’t just a church.

It was your mother’s voice, borrowed again. Echoed through a building where she had no body, no breath—only the people who still believed in what she’d used to hurt you. And now someone else was speaking in her place. The church stared back from the screen. Brick and faded paint. Ordinary, forgettable—except it wasn’t. Not anymore. It was a wound disguised as a building—a familiar shape, wrapped around something far more dangerous.

The post lingered on the screen, stark and silent. The silence around Rio and Agatha had shifted and gone dense. Electric. Like the space between two magnets just before they snap together—pulling, trembling, inevitable. Rio’s fingers were still laced with Agatha’s, but her grip had changed. It wasn’t comfort anymore. It was anchoring.

Agatha stared at the screen like she could burn it to ash with her eyes alone. Her chest was still. Too still. “Let’s not say anything yet,” Rio said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Not until we know what this is. I don’t want to stress her more than she already is.”

Agatha didn’t answer. Her jaw had gone rigid. The red of her pen-stained thumb pressed into her palm, hard enough to whiten the skin. The light from the laptop painted her face in a cold digital wash, highlighting the hollow beneath her cheekbone, the pale gleam of her eyes. She looked like she’d stepped out of a fire and hadn’t noticed the heat still licking at her. And then, softly: “I will burn that fucking building to the ground if i find out they fucked with my wife.”

Rio looked over, breath caught. Agatha wasn’t raising her voice. She wasn’t making a scene. But her voice was final. The kind of finality that belongs to witches and widows. The type of promise that doesn't need thunder to echo.

“I promise you.” She didn’t blink. Didn’t look away from the image. Rio swallowed hard, her mouth dry. She closed the tab, and the image vanished. The screen darkened to a neutral gray. Then she shut the laptop. The snap of it sounded like a coffin lid. Silence returned—but it wasn’t empty now. It was thick. It had breath. It had memory. The kind of silence that knew things. The kind that might whisper if they sat too long.

And neither of them noticed it—not in that moment—the photo buried further down the timeline.

A post from two weeks ago: Outreach volunteers gathering for another blessed Saturday! Attached: a low-res, washed-out image of a small group standing in a fellowship hall. Most were facing the camera. Some were smiling. But one figure was turned slightly away, just enough to avoid the full light. Their face was blurred. But their posture— The tilt of their head. The angle of their shoulders. The precise, practiced way they held their hands in front of them. It was a silhouette burned into muscle memory. A shape Rio and Agatha had trained themselves to hate. To track. To survive. They didn’t see it. Not yet. But it was there. Waiting. Watching. Just like before. Agatha finally spoke. Her voice came out too calmly. “What time do we need to be at Billy and Eddie’s?”

Rio blinked hard, grounding herself. She rubbed at the side of her face like it might wake her up. “Little over an hour.” Agatha nodded. Stood slowly. Walked to the counter without another word. She poured herself the coffee that had long since gone cold, sipped it like she could taste something in it besides bitterness.

No one said the word “church.” And in the corner of the room, the coffee pot gave a final click. The radiator hissed. A shutter outside trembled against the wind. The world, impossibly, carried on.

-----------

The café smelled like brown sugar and espresso and something cinnamon-warm that lingered in the corners like a hug no one had to ask for. It was small—locally owned, with chipped mugs and mismatched chairs—but it was warm. The kind of place that didn’t need music to feel alive. Just the occasional hiss of steam from behind the bar and the murmured conversation of people who belonged to the same town.

You sat across from Billy in a booth by the window, one hand wrapped around a mug of hot cocoa, the other resting instinctively over the curve of your belly. The cocoa was too sweet, just the way you liked it, and a single heart-shaped marshmallow floated in the center, slowly melting into a cloud. Billy had a latte in front of him, foam still clinging to the rim. Between you sat a single banana nut muffin, split down the middle. It was enormous, already unraveling at the edges of its paper like it couldn’t hold itself together anymore.

You took a bite—fluffy, warm, the nuts toasted just enough to cut the sugar—and licked a crumb from your finger as Billy tore off what could only be described as the tiniest sliver imaginable. You arched a brow at him. “You planning to eat that with tweezers?”

Billy shrugged, sheepish, but didn’t look up. “You’re the one with the baby. Priorities.”

“Pretty sure she’s not demanding muffins yet.”

“You don’t know that.” He gave you a look. “She’s probably in there building a crib out of banana bread.” You laughed softly and took another bite. He sipped his latte. A beat passed. Comfortable. Then Billy asked, “So how are the edits going?” You leaned back against the booth, rubbing your thumb against the side of the mug. “Good. I sent the last round to my chair right after Valentine’s Day. Just waiting to see what’s next now. I’m either completely done or two footnotes away from a breakdown.”

Billy chuckled into his drink. “That sounds about right.” You glanced out the window. The wind was still carrying cold, but the light had changed—just slightly. The kind of February sun that made you believe spring was somewhere nearby, even if it hadn’t quite found the door yet.

“How are things at the house?” you asked.

“Good. Asher’s napping now. Eddie’s setting up the bookshelves. You know, like it’s a game of Jenga with no rules.”

You smiled. “I’m so glad you’re back. Really. Especially before she arrives. ”

You rested your palm gently against the rise of your belly. Billy’s gaze softened, then flickered with something heavier. He set his cup down. “How’ve you been since… y’know. Since you found out about your mom?”

You paused, took a breath that felt thicker than the air around it. “Rough,” you admitted. “At first. I don’t think I even realized how much I’d been holding, waiting for something awful. And then it came. And it still didn’t look the way I thought it would.” Billy didn’t interrupt. He never did when you needed space. You looked back down at your cocoa. The marshmallow had fully melted now, leaving a pale swirl in the foam. “But we got through it,” you said. “It’s been… better. Really. It actually feels like something’s shifted. Like I can breathe again.”

Billy nodded. “You’ve got good people.”

You smiled. “I really do.”

He tore off another microscopic bite of muffin and handed you the bigger half. The warmth in the café had taken root deep in your bones now, the kind that softened your shoulders and quieted the steady hum behind your temples. Outside, February still rattled its breath against the glass, but here, over cocoa and banana muffin, it felt far away. Like winter couldn’t reach you.

Billy leaned back against the booth, latte in hand, his thumb idly tracing the swirl of foam on the lid. The light from the window painted a halo along his hair, golden and sharp against the worn wood of the table. He glanced at your belly again, a little grin tugging at his mouth. “So…” he said, drawing out the word, “have you two picked out nursery furniture yet?”

You let out a slow laugh, sipping your cocoa. “Furniture, we’re working on. I found this beautiful crib I loved, real vintage, kind of mid-century? But of course, Agatha’s going over it like it’s made of knives.”

Billy snorted. “That sounds about right.”

“She’s been reading safety reports like they’re spellbooks,” you added, leaning forward. “And Rio keeps quietly reminding her that we also survived babyhood with far less regulation, but it doesn’t help. You should’ve seen the look on her face when I said I wanted something with spindles.”

Billy took a sip, eyes wide with exaggerated horror. “Spindles. God help us.” You grinned into your cup. “I know. I might as well have suggested a dragon’s cradle.”

“Okay, so maybe the furniture’s still a mystery,” Billy said, “but what about a name?” You hesitated, your hand resting lightly over your belly again. “Absolutely not,” you said, laughing a little. “No name. We haven’t called her anything besides BeanSprout—or just Sprout—since day one.”

“Sprout,” Billy echoed, deadpan. “Wow. Really unique. I can see the nameplate already. ‘Sprout Vidal-Harkness. She’ll be running a law firm in no time.”

You burst out laughing, the sound sudden and whole, bouncing against the brick wall beside you. “God, don’t even say that. We’ll never agree if we start combining surnames.”

Billy broke a piece of muffin off, still ridiculously small, and popped it into his mouth like it was a delicacy. “So we’ve got no name, no furniture, and a baby on the way in what—seven weeks?”

“Give or take,” you said, smiling, but your hand rubbed gently over the top of your bump. “We’ve got time. She’s not in a rush.”

Billy leaned back, crossing his arms as he gave you a look. “You sound so calm. If it were me, I’d be building a pillow fort and crying about breast pumps.”

You laughed, cocoa warming your chest. “Oh, don’t worry. We’ve had our spiral moments. Agatha tried to read aloud from a breastfeeding manual and started critiquing the formatting.”

“Of course she did.”

“Rio lasted two pages before she bailed.”

Billy raised his eyebrows. “Where’d she go?”

“I found her in the kitchen ten minutes later watching the beginning of a childbirth video. Just… wide-eyed, frozen. Looked like she’d seen a goddamn ghost.”

Billy choked on his latte. You grinned. “When she realized I’d walked in, she slammed her laptop shut and went, ‘You know what? I’ll live in the moment. Sprout’s birth can be the first one I see.”

He was full-on laughing now. “She’s so real for that.”

You snorted, nodding. “She meant it, too. Just—nope. Absolutely not. Straight to denial with a smile.”

Billy wiped at his eyes, still grinning. “God, I missed this.”

You smiled behind your mug, then fell quiet for a moment. The weight of your daughter pressed gently against your ribs—steady, anchoring. Not heavy, not yet. But present. The café’s warmth curled around you like a blanket. A barista in the corner was laughing at something too quietly for you to hear. Someone’s phone buzzed on a nearby table. The world moved gently around you, unaware that yours was counting down. Billy’s voice came again, softer this time. “Are you scared?”

The question wasn’t intrusive. It just was. Like the steam rising from your cocoa, like the baby, turning slow beneath your skin. You thought about it. Not quickly. You looked out the window, where the sidewalk shimmered faintly from the sun glancing off last night’s frost. A couple walked by, bundled in scarves, arms looped. Someone’s dog wore a little red jacket.

Then you turned back to him. “Yeah,” you said. “Sometimes. But mostly I’m just… ready. Not like I’ve got everything figured out. But ready in the way that matters.”

Billy nodded slowly. “That makes sense.”

You nudged the muffin closer to him. “Also, pretty sure she wants me to eat this entire thing.”

He smirked and broke off another microscopic crumb. “She’s got good instincts.” You smiled, hand resting again over the curve of your belly, the weight of her a familiar pull. The cocoa had gone warm instead of hot. The sun outside was still sharp, but less cold now. The world looked soft from behind the café glass.

Billy glanced down at his phone, thumb swiping once before he gave a short laugh through his nose. “Alright. Ready to head out?” he asked, slipping his coat off the back of the chair. “I have a feeling a certain nephew of yours is going to be completely off the rails the second he sees his three aunts.” You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the grin that tugged at your mouth. “Let’s just hope he hasn’t added somersaults to his greeting rituals.”

You pulled your phone from your pocket and typed out a quick message to Agatha and Rio: Leaving the café now. See you at Billy’s.

The reply came almost instantly. We’re just heading out too. See you soon, love.

You smiled at the screen, pushing yourself to your feet with a low breath. Then—she moved. A little stretch. A nudge, then a roll beneath your palm—like she’d heard your voice and decided to press back.

You stilled. Smiled. “Oh—hey,” you said gently, catching Billy’s wrist before he could pull on his glove. “Here. Meet your niece.” A little roll. A shift under your ribs. Then a firm nudge outward against your palm. A foot, maybe. Or a stretch. It was purposeful, like she’d heard her name spoken and decided to chime in. You smiled—soft, slow, radiant. And turned to Billy, who was halfway through looping his scarf.

“Oh—hey,” you said, reaching out and catching his wrist. “Come here. Meet your niece.” Billy blinked at you, surprised, as you gently guided his hand to rest against the curve of your belly. At first, he was still, like touching something sacred without warning. Then she kicked again, right into the center of his palm.

His mouth parted. A short laugh escaped him, wide-eyed and warm. He looked down at your stomach, then at you, his expression caught somewhere between wonder and mischief. “Well,” he said, “clearly she knows her favorite uncle made sure you got the bigger half of the muffin.” You laughed, hand still resting over his. “Please. That was the sugar from the cocoa. She’s already learned how to weaponize a sugar high.” Billy let his fingers stay there a moment longer, like he was listening for something more. The grin on his face was crooked and soft. Familiar. “She’s got a serious kick,” he said. “Rio’s gonna have her playing softball before she can walk.”

“Rio already has color-coded drills planned for the toddler years,” you replied. “We’re just hoping she doesn’t bring cones to the delivery room.” Billy barked out a laugh, then wiped subtly at the corner of his eye with his knuckle like it was nothing. You let the moment stretch, full and easy. Her movement had stopped—settled again. But the warmth of it still echoed beneath your skin.

Billy’s hand lingered on your belly a moment longer, as if waiting to see if she’d move again. When she didn’t, he began to pull away. You caught his fingers before they could retreat and gave them a small, warm squeeze. He looked up, brows lifting, and you smiled—wide and full and unguarded. “I’m really glad you’re home.” Billy’s grin softened. His throat worked, but he didn’t speak. He just nodded and bumped your shoulder gently before stepping toward the door. He pulled it open with an exaggerated shiver, half-dancing in place like the cold was already biting at his ankles. “Let’s go, Sprout,” he called softly. “Time to help Uncle Billy unpack a bookcase with too many screws and no instructions.”

You laughed and followed him outside, tugging your coat tighter as the wind found its way beneath the collar. The sidewalk sparkled with patches of melting frost. Your boots clicked softly against the concrete. Billy was a few steps ahead, already unlocking the car. And that’s when it came. A low, firm tightening that bloomed across your abdomen—not painful, but undeniable. Familiar now. The kind of sensation you no longer feared, just endured.

Your breath caught. You didn’t stop walking, just let your pace slow by a step as you placed one hand low beneath your belly. Let it crest. Let it pass. Braxton Hicks. Just another practice round. The warm-up to something your body would eventually remember how to finish. You said nothing. Billy glanced back once, grinning as he opened your door. You met his eyes. Smiled. And climbed in.

The drive to Billy and Eddie’s was short, the kind of quiet ride where conversation wasn’t necessary. The heater hummed low, warming your hands where they rested over your bump, and Billy tapped his fingers against the steering wheel to the rhythm of whatever soft song played through the speakers. As you turned onto their street, a familiar car slowed just ahead—Rio’s. You recognized the curve of the headlights, the slightly too-bold bumper sticker Agatha still claimed she didn’t know was there.

They pulled into the driveway just seconds before you, tires crunching gently over leftover gravel. The late afternoon light caught the curve of Agatha’s coat as she stepped out, and the wind caught Rio’s curls, sweeping them across her face before she tucked them back with a practiced flick of her hand. By the time you were easing yourself from the passenger seat, they were already moving toward you. Agatha’s arms went around Billy first, tight and fond, the kind of hug that looked like a reflex. “Welcome home,” she murmured into his shoulder.

Rio grinned and clapped him on the back before pulling you close and kissing your cheek, her palm warm and grounding on your back. Agatha was right behind her, kissing the other cheek and murmuring something low—too soft for anyone else to hear, but meant for you. You leaned into both of them, exhaling a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. Together, the four of you walked toward the front porch, boots crunching against the last of the salt-gritted path. The door opened before any of you knocked—Eddie stood there holding it wide, Asher behind him in a hoodie two sizes too big, sleep still clinging to his face. And just like that, his house felt full again.

---------

It had been two hours since dinner, and the scent of garlic and olive oil still lingered in the air, warm and low like the memory of a good story. Eddie’s pasta had been simple—cavatappi tossed with blistered tomatoes, caramelized onions, and just enough shaved parmesan—but it had the kind of flavor that made you feel like someone had really wanted you to eat well.

Now, the house was alive again. Open boxes spilled over the hallway runner. Clean towels were stacked in soft, shifting towers on the arm of the couch. Billy’s voice echoed down the hall from the spare bedroom, half-laughing, half-arguing with Eddie over where his “non-linear” book system was supposed to go. Billy and Eddie’s things were spilling out of every open bag and bin, creating little pockets of clutter that looked like life in progress.

Billy’s voice rang from the spare bedroom where he and Eddie were attempting to wrestle a shelf into a corner that did not want it. Their familiar back-and-forth carried through the house—playful, competitive, married. And in the middle of the living room, Asher, just shy of four, was busy unpacking a very important collection of plastic dinosaurs and lining them up on the coffee table.

Very carefully. One by one. Each one was placed with precision. Each placement came with a whispered command—unintelligible, sacred. Maybe instructions. Maybe the start of a plan for world domination. One of them had already claimed the TV remote as its “boat.”

One particularly enthusiastic stegosaurus had already claimed the TV remote as its “boat.”

“Daddy! Aunt Rio made the T. rex eat the boat again!” Asher shrieked in delight.

From down the hall, Eddie called out: “Rio! Find another boat!”

“In this economy!” Rio shouted back, indignant.

You laughed quietly from your place in the kitchen. You moved from counter to cabinet with practiced ease. A dish towel in one hand, a drying plate in the other. Someone had told you—more than once—to sit down after dinner. You’d said “Sure, in a sec,” and then promptly begun reorganizing the spice rack.

Rio had offered to bring in the last of the bags from the car. You’d let her. Kind of. After you’d finished refolding the stack of guest towels, someone else had clearly folded them wrong. Agatha had disappeared to help Eddie shift furniture, but you could feel her presence like a tide: tracking you through the house, always a few rooms away, always listening for the rhythm of your footsteps.

You were thirty-two weeks pregnant now. Your belly curved outward beneath your sweater, firm and forward. She had been active all evening—kicking, shifting, rolling as if she too wanted to help unpack. Every now and then, her heel or elbow would press up under your ribs with startling precision.

Still, you moved. Fold, dry, stack, breathe. The motion helped. The doing helped. A house in motion felt like a heart still beating. You reached to hang a towel on the oven handle just as she gave another firm twist beneath your palm, reminding you she was in there, listening. Present. From the other room, Asher’s triumphant voice rang out again. “The triceratops is on the boat now!”

“The remote is not a boat!” Eddie hollered. You smiled to yourself and turned toward the sink for the next thing to do. Your gaze landed on the two small boxes tucked against the kitchen wall—lightweight things. One labeled linens, the other pantry extras. Someone had carried them in and left them just out of the way, but not quite in the right place. Just enough to bother you.

You glanced toward the hallway. Billy and Eddie were still debating shelf placement down the corridor. Asher’s dinosaur parade had spilled into the dining room, accompanied by soft growls and the occasional sound of plastic smacking wood. No one was watching. You braced a hand on your lower back and bent, just enough to lift the top box.

It wasn’t heavy. A soft exhale, a careful lift—nothing dramatic. You didn’t even feel strain. Just a mild stretch in your belly as you adjusted your grip and set the box down near the pantry where it actually belonged.

That’s when you heard it—the unmistakable patter of small, fast feet. Before you could turn, a set of arms wrapped around your legs and squeezed. “I’m happy we’re home now,” Asher said, his little face pressed to your thigh, muffled and earnest. “I missed my bed. And my house. And your kitchen.”

You laughed gently, heart stuttering at the force of him. “I missed you too, Ash,” you said, stroking the back of his head. He pulled back, then darted forward to hug you again—smaller this time, higher up, one arm trying to reach around your middle as best it could. “I can’t wait ‘til the baby’s here,” he whispered, like it was a secret. “Then she can play dinosaurs too.”

“She’s gonna need a little time to learn the rules,” you teased. “But I think she’ll love them.” Asher beamed, cheeks full and flushed. Then he ran off again, voice already rising to announce the diplodocus had stolen a shoe. You watched him go with a smile that stuck even as your back gave a quiet ache of protest and the box you’d just moved sat innocently beside the pantry—out of place only minutes ago, but now perfectly aligned. You watched Asher go with a smile that lingered, even as your lower back whispered its quiet warning: you’d lifted more than you should have. But the house was alive again. Full. It was a good kind of ache.

Then came the familiar rhythm—small, sock-footed feet thumping across the hardwood in no particular pattern, their chaos somehow musical. Asher reappeared at your side like a living exclamation point, cheeks pink from exertion, curls slightly damp at the temples. He looked up at you, mouth already forming the next thought. “Can I say hi to her?” he asked, voice bright, already stepping closer, small hand hovering near your belly but waiting—just barely—for permission.

You smiled, soft and full, and nodded. “Of course.” You braced a hand against the counter and crouched slowly—your movements more measured now—and turned just enough to face him. He stood in front of you, eyes wide, posture straightening like he understood something special was happening. You reached for his hand and guided it gently to the curve of your belly. And as if on cue, she moved. Not a flutter. Not just a twitch. A roll. A stretch. A solid little press against the palm of his hand, like she knew exactly where he was.

Asher gasped—sharp and joyful in a way only children could do—his entire face lighting up like the first second of a birthday candle catching flame. “That was her!” he breathed. “She kicked me!” You laughed, but it caught in your chest in that aching way joy does when it’s too pure. His hand stayed still, reverent, eyes wide with discovery. “She did,” you said. “She’s saying hi.” He pressed his hand a little more firmly, carefully. You could see the calculation in his brow—measuring gentleness, focus, the kind of concentration only kids could master when something felt like magic.

Then, softly: “She’s really strong.”

You smiled. “She is.”

“She’s gonna be so good at dinosaurs.”

You tilted your head. “Good at them?”

“Yeah.” His voice lowered, matter-of-fact. “She can play with the nice ones. And the medium-bitey ones.” He paused, dead serious. “But not the really bitey ones ‘til she’s big.”

Your laugh was softer this time, hands resting just below your bump. “That’s very wise.”

“I’ll teach her,” he said, already proud. “She can be in the club.”

“She’d love that.” And then he surprised you—rested his cheek gently against your belly, eyes fluttering closed for just a moment like he was listening for something only he could hear.

Your breath caught again. The weight of it—not just his body, but his being—was like a prayer you hadn’t known to speak. And then he was off again, bolting down the hallway to tell his dads that the velociraptor had declared a truce. His feet squeaked as he ran. His laugh bounced off the walls like sunlight off glass. You stayed crouched a moment longer, hand pressed lightly to the place where her kick had landed.

She was still moving. Slower now. Shifting. Receding. You rose with care, one palm bracing the counter, the other instinctively low at your back. And then—it came. A low, firm tightening. Not painful. But present. It wrapped around your belly like a breath held too long—your muscles clenching gently, your body bracing.

Braxton Hicks.You inhaled slowly, evenly. Let the contraction crest and begin to fade. You knew the rhythm now. You knew it wasn’t the real thing.You’d been unpacking dry goods for the better part of an hour, ignoring the mild tightness that had started low in your belly—first soft, then steadier, creeping across in slow waves. It wasn’t painful. Not quite. But it was there. Persistent. Rhythmic. Your body remembering something your mind hadn’t caught up to yet.

You moved by the counter, one hand braced on the cool edge, the other resting protectively across the top of your belly. The kitchen was full of late-day warmth: the hush of a crowded house at rest, the softened clatter of boxes being unpacked a few rooms away, and the hum of a fridge working just a little too hard. The light over the stove buzzed faintly, casting a warm halo against the far wall. You shifted your weight with care, rocking your hips side to side, breathing deep through your nose, slow through your mouth. A rhythm. A ritual. “Okay,” you whispered under your breath. “It’s fine. You’ve done this before.”

The room was quiet except for the hush of your breath and the slow thud of your pulse behind your ribs. Then—footsteps. Familiar. Soft, measured. Confident. Rio. She didn’t speak right away. Just leaned against the doorway, arms folded, her gaze steady as she took you in. You could feel the warmth of her attention even before she crossed the room—the way her eyes followed the curve of your spine, the rhythm of your hips, the gentle way your hand stayed cradled just beneath your ribs.

“Tightening?” she asked quietly. You nodded once, eyes still down. “Only a few times since the last time. Nothing to worry about.” You pulled in a breath, let it go slow. “Ezra said they’re totally normal. Just more… Braxton Hicks. Probably from standing too long.”

That’s when the footsteps down the hall paused. But neither of you noticed. Not yet. Rio crossed to you in two smooth steps, and her arms were around your waist before the next breath. Her hands found their way instinctively—one above your belly, the other anchoring low on your hips. She pressed into your back gently, steadying you, curling herself around you like a shield made of warmth and calm.

“I know,” she murmured into your hair, lips brushing against your temple. “Still not letting you do this alone.” You leaned back into her just slightly, the curve of your belly nestling between her hands. Her presence was so solid, so sure, it made you exhale again—deeper this time. More fully. The tightening continued—not sharp, but stronger. A slow cinch. Like a belt being drawn just a little tighter across your middle. Your eyes fluttered closed as you rocked through it, letting your hips sway like a metronome. And Rio moved with you, perfectly in time.

No fear. No questions. Only her hands at your sides, the breath of her voice in your ear. “You’re doing so well.” You hummed, jaw loose. Still moving. “You’re such a badass,” she added, a smile in her voice. “Your body’s just getting both of you ready to meet the world.”

You didn’t answer, but the small laugh that broke from your throat was real. “Honestly, it’s kinda your fault,” you murmured between breaths. “She has your sense of timing.” Rio laughed under her breath, pressing a kiss into your hairline. “Of course she does,” she said. “No concept of patience, constantly interrupting, dramatic entrance guaranteed.”

“Textbook Vidal.” You exhaled slowly through your nose and let your body press a little more into Rio’s. Her hands adjusted with you—one slipping higher to brace your ribs, the other splaying wide across your lower back. Her thumbs traced small, steady circles against the fabric of your shirt. You rocked gently into her with the kind of motion your body didn’t have to think about.

The tightening had already begun to ebb—still present, but retreating now. You could feel the crest pass beneath your skin like a tide pulling back from shore. You breathed through it. “If she could prove that without the added flair of Braxton Hicks,” you murmured, voice dry, “that would be great.” Rio chuckled softly against your temple.

“Feel free to send that message directly to her,” you murmured, palm resting low on your belly. “She’s clearly checking her inbox.” Rio chuckled softly, her lips brushing your hair. Her hands stayed on your hips, slow and sure, her presence wrapped around you like a lull. You were just beginning to feel the contraction ease—crest passing, pressure receding—when a voice broke the quiet:

“Braxton Hicks?”

You turned your head. Agatha stood at the edge of the hallway, half-shadowed, eyes sharp, body drawn tight. Her fingers curled around the doorframe like she didn’t trust herself to move. “You’re having contractions?”

Before you could answer, she stepped forward. Her voice didn’t rise, but the panic threaded through it came sharp and clear. “You should be sitting down. What the hell are you still doing on your feet?” Rio’s hands tightened slightly at your waist. She stayed grounded behind you, but tension rippled through her—contained, but real.

You exhaled carefully, keeping your voice low. “Aggie,” you said gently. “They’re Braxton Hicks. Ezra said they’re normal. Not labor.”

But Agatha was already shaking her head, eyes burning. “Normal doesn’t mean safe,” she snapped, striding in now like a storm rolling over the horizon. “You don’t get to shrug this off. You’re thirty-two weeks. You should be resting, not organizing someone else's pantry!”

“Agatha…” Rio’s voice cut in—a quiet warning. Not sharp. Just… strained. Like she knew exactly where this was going and couldn’t stop it. But it was too late. Your temper, already teetering on edge thanks to your uterus, your ribs, your hormones, snapped. “Stop it.”

The words weren’t loud. But they cut the air like a slap. Agatha froze. Her mouth parted, startled, and you gently pulled out of Rio’s arms—just enough to face her, just enough to meet her there in the tension.

Your chest rose and fell, your pulse thrumming against the inside of your throat. “You don’t get to bark orders at me like I don’t know my own body.” Your voice trembled—but it didn’t falter. “I know you’re scared. I know. But I need you to stop talking to me like I’m fragile, or stupid, or like I haven’t been doing this for the last seven months.”

Agatha blinked, took a step back. Her mouth opened. Closed again. “I love you,” you said, quieter now, breath hitching. “But I need you to stop treating me like a problem to solve. Or something you have to contain. I’m not glass, Agatha. I’m not going to shatter because I unpacked a damn box of lentils.”

The room held still.

Rio’s hand found yours again—silent, anchoring. Her thumb stroked slowly across your knuckles. The hum of the fridge returned. The soft thump of Asher’s feet echoed faintly from down the hall. The house carried on, unaware. You let your forehead rest against Rio’s shoulder and breathed in the warmth of her sweater, her skin, the steadiness she offered. The hum of the fridge returned. The soft thump of Asher’s feet echoed faintly from down the hall. The house carried on, unaware.

You let your forehead rest against Rio’s shoulder and breathed in the warmth of her sweater, her skin, the steadiness she offered. Her hand was still in yours. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to. You closed your eyes for just one breath, then opened them and turned toward Agatha, still standing there, still watching you like she wasn’t sure if she should move or speak or vanish.

Your voice was soft when you spoke. Steady, even as the ache pushed at your ribs. “I want to go home,” you said. Agatha blinked. The tension in her face hadn’t left, but it had softened—like she’d just come through a wave herself and wasn’t sure where to land. You shifted your weight, still holding Rio’s hand. “We need to say goodbye to everyone first,” you added, quieter. “Then we’ll go.”

Agatha gave a small nod—jerky, like she couldn’t quite control the shape of it. You took another breath. This one a little shakier. “And I don’t want to talk about it yet,” you said. “Not until I’ve calmed down.”

She didn’t argue. But her face cracked—barely. The kind of shift that lives at the edge of tears. You stepped closer. Not too close. But enough to meet her eyes fully. “I love you,” you said, with no anger in it. Only truth. Only the tired kind of love that doesn’t stop, even when it hurts. Agatha’s mouth moved like she wanted to answer, but nothing came out. That’s when Rio moved.

She let go of your hand just long enough to step between you both—light as air but grounding in a way only she could be. Her hand cupped Agatha’s cheek, her thumb brushing the edge of her temple. Then she leaned in and kissed her, right there, soft and sure on her cheekbone. “Just let her breathe, love,” Rio whispered, low and warm. “We’ll talk about everything when we get home.”

Agatha’s eyes closed. Her body leaned forward just slightly, like her weight wasn’t just emotional now—it was physical. No one said anything else. You all turned as one, silent, collected, and crossed the house like a shared current.

In the living room, everything was still ordinary. Asher had climbed onto the couch, surrounded by his dinosaurs, reenacting what sounded like a peace treaty between the T. rex and the stegosaurus. Billy was half-lounging in the armchair, his phone balanced on one knee. Eddie was kneeling by a box, sorting chargers like it was a life-or-death mission.

The moment you entered the room, three heads lifted. You forced a soft smile. “We’re gonna head out,” you said, your voice steady but laced with fatigue. “I’m just… more tired than I thought I’d be.”

Eddie stood first. He crossed the room in two steps and gave you a hug that didn’t ask questions. “Take care of yourself,” he murmured into your hair.

You nodded. “Thank you. For dinner. For all of it.” Billy gave you a longer hug, his arms folding around you with that same quiet protectiveness he always had. When he pulled back, he didn’t say a word—just gave you a small, knowing look. One you were too tired to unpack right now.

Agatha knelt in front of Asher first, folding herself down with the careful elegance of someone trying not to tremble. She brushed his hair from his forehead and whispered something low—too quiet for you to catch, but it made his whole face light up. He flung his arms around her neck with a happy squeal and she hugged him fiercely, blinking fast against the top of his head. Rio followed, dipping just enough to kiss his curls. She murmured something in Spanish that made Asher giggle, his feet kicking gently against the couch cushions in response.

Then it was your turn. You stepped forward slowly, one hand on your belly, the other steadying against the arm of the couch as you crouched down in front of him. The second your knees bent, you heard it. A sound—small, but sharp. A caught breath from just behind you. Agatha. It wasn’t a word. Not even a gasp. Just the kind of raw, involuntary noise someone makes when their fear gets ahead of their logic.You glanced at her from the corner of your eye. She hadn’t moved. Still crouched, still smiling at Asher. But her posture had gone stiff, her fingers curling subtly into the hem of her sweater like she needed to hold onto something.

Your brows lifted—just slightly. Not mocking. Not angry. Just... seeing her. Seeing how much she was seeing you. And across from her, Rio noticed too. Without looking away from Asher, she reached out and gently, wordlessly, squeezed Agatha’s hand. Not in warning. Not in comfort. In anchor. A quiet press of skin against skin that said: She’s okay. We’re here. You don’t have to hold the whole world by yourself.

Agatha exhaled slowly. Almost imperceptibly. Her grip loosened. You turned your focus back to Asher. He was watching you like he was memorizing your face. “Okay, buddy,” you said, smiling softly. “I’ll see you soon, alright?”

He nodded solemnly. “Tell the baby I said hi.”

“I will,” you promised. He leaned in and whispered, “She’s gonna be really good at stegosaurus battles.” You laughed, gently. “She’s got the best teacher in the world.” You leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. He smelled like tomato sauce and shampoo. Like safety.

Then, with care, you braced your hands and rose to stand—slow, measured, with that now-familiar stretch along your spine. You adjusted the weight of your belly beneath your palms and exhaled, letting it settle. Behind you, Agatha rose too. Slower. Like she was moving through water.

She reached for your coat from the hook by the door. Her hand brushed yours as she held it out. Neither of you spoke. But the brush lingered. And then you all turned together—Agatha beside you, Rio just behind—and crossed the threshold into the night. The door closed softly behind you with the smallest click.

Outside, the world had quieted. Dusk had fallen in full, casting the street in soft, bluish-gray light. The wind moved low across the ground, lifting the ends of your coat. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked once, and the last breath of someone’s firepit curled smoke through the breeze. The three of you walked toward the car in silence. Not cold. Not angry. Just... quiet. Worn.

Agatha walked half a step behind, her hands deep in her pockets like she didn’t trust herself to reach for you. Rio moved between you both. She didn’t say anything. But her presence was constant. Solid. A gentle weight pressed into the fragile space between two people who loved each other more than they knew how to forgive in one breath.

And you? You just walked. You didn’t reach for anyone. But you didn’t move away, either. You stood at the edge of the car’s open door, wind tugging at the hem of your coat. Agatha moved to open the front passenger side for you, her hand already on the handle, her gaze flicking toward the seat like it was a foregone conclusion. But your voice stopped her. Soft. Even. “I want the back seat.”

A beat. Small—half a second, maybe less—but you felt the shift in her. She froze, just enough to register. Her hand stilled on the door. Her shoulders pulled in by a fraction, like a breath held too long. Then she stepped aside.

“Of course,” she said. Quiet. Controlled. The kind of control that frays at the edges. She opened the back door for you anyway. You climbed in without another word, settling into the seat with slow, deliberate care. The upholstery was cool beneath your thighs, the kind of fabric that held on to cold longer than it should. One hand braced your belly as you angled yourself sideways slightly, knees drawn up just enough to relieve the pressure in your lower back. The door closed gently behind you.

Agatha rounded the front and climbed into the passenger seat, pulling the door shut like she didn’t want to disturb the air between you. Rio got behind the wheel last. She didn’t speak. The engine started with a smooth, subdued hum, followed by the soft, unthinking voice of the radio—mid-song. Piano, slow and cinematic. The kind of piece that never fully resolves.

Nobody reached to change it. No one asked how you were doing. The car moved forward like it was exhaling for all three of you—smooth down the gravel drive, turning onto the street with that careful hush of tires on winter-worn pavement. Inside, the silence held. Not empty. Heavy. Rio kept her hands at ten and two, her eyes flicking to the mirrors once in a while, but not to you.

Agatha sat with her hands folded in her lap, knuckles white. Her face was turned toward the window, but you could see her reflection in the glass—jaw tight, throat working like she’d swallowed something sharp and couldn’t dislodge it.

You didn’t speak. Didn’t touch her. You didn’t close the distance. You needed that distance tonight. The streetlights came in slow pulses—sweeping across the dash and fading just as quickly, like memory. Every few minutes, the car passed a porch light or a window left glowing, but none of them reached inside.

Ten minutes. That’s all it took. But time stretches differently when hearts are raw and silence becomes the only language spoken. When the house came into view, the porch light was already on—warm, golden, flickering faintly like it had been waiting for you. Rio eased into the drive without a word.

You unbuckled your seatbelt with a soft click. It echoed in the cabin like a dropped pin. You opened your door before the car had even fully settled into park. Didn’t say anything. Didn’t look back. You stepped out into the night. The cold was clean against your skin, curling under your collar and catching in your breath. You walked slowly up the front path, one hand at your coat, the other resting at the curve of your belly. The key was already in your hand. Behind you, the engine ticked softly. But no doors opened. Not yet. Rio stayed in the driver’s seat.

Agatha stayed in the passenger seat, hands still clasped, her eyes forward but unfocused—watching something far past the windshield. They both watched you walk away, but neither followed.

Not yet.

------

The house welcomed you in silence. Not peace. Not comfort. Just the hush of walls that had seen better nights. A single lamp cast a soft gold spill across the entryway, stretching long shadows along the hardwood. The air inside was warmer than outside, but not quite warm. Still holding the chill of absence. Of interruption.

You moved slowly toward the kitchen island, your fingers sliding beneath your coat collar. The fabric slid from your shoulders with the sound of fatigue—quiet friction, soft fabric sighing across skin. Your other hand instinctively cradled the base of your belly, steadying yourself as you exhaled.

And then—

The door slammed shut. Not violent. Just… too much. Too fast. Too loud against the silence you were trying to preserve. Agatha’s footsteps followed immediately. Sharp. Hurried. Her boots struck the floor like they were trying to make a point. She rounded the kitchen island in three strides, hair coming loose from where she’d clipped it back earlier, breath caught high in her chest. Her entire body moved like she had rehearsed this confrontation all the way up the driveway, and now couldn’t stop the momentum. Like she’d burst if she didn’t say something. Like she already had too much in her hands. You met her eyes just as she stopped, mid-step, mid-thought. Too close to you. Too far from grounding.

Rio entered behind her. The door closed again, this time gently. Clicked shut like a breath being held. She locked it with a soft snick, then didn’t move from it. She stayed in the frame—watchful, still, silent. Not neutral. Not distant.

Just… reading the room with her whole body. Her eyes didn’t leave Agatha. She was already tracking the ripple beneath the surface—shoulders, hands, the way Agatha’s chest rose just a little too fast. Like she was already halfway to breaking and didn’t know how to stop. You stood where you were, your coat halfway off your arms, your spine upright but tired. Your palm resting on your belly like a shield.

And when you spoke, your voice didn’t rise. Didn’t shake. Just cut cleanly through the tension like a knife through linen. “Let’s talk before this turns into something it doesn’t need to.” Agatha’s breath hitched. “I’m too tired for a blow-up,” you said, quieter now, but no less firm. “And I don’t want to say something fueled with pregnancy hormones, I'll regret .”

That stopped her. Fully. She didn’t argue. Didn’t push. But her body wavered on the edge of something—fight or fall, you couldn’t tell. The kitchen was silent except for the hum of the fridge and the low, distant tick of the heating system kicking on in the vents overhead. It wasn’t comforting. But it was real. Agatha looked at you. And something behind her eyes collapsed—not loudly, but like a crack forming down the center of a dam. Not enough to burst. Just enough to make everything inside tremble.

Rio still hadn’t spoken. But she shifted slightly at the door. Not stepping forward yet. Not interfering. Just… staying. Like she knew the moment she moved, something would spill. And so she waited. Watched. Her eyes flicked between you and Agatha and back again, her jaw tight, her hands curled into the sides of her coat like she didn’t know who to go to first.

You pulled your coat the rest of the way off, the fabric catching on your elbow, clumsy from the weight of the day. One hand stayed curled protectively over your belly. The other gripped the counter—tight—like it was the only thing keeping you from floating off the earth. “Because I’m trying to breathe, Agatha.”

The words came out low. Flat. No fury yet—just the kind of tired that settles in your bones. A beat. “I’m trying to feel okay without being watched every damn second.” Across from you, Agatha’s brow twitched. Her arms crossed over her chest, like a wall she didn’t realize she was building.

“I’m not watching you.”

You looked up then, full weight of your gaze meeting hers. Your voice didn’t rise. It narrowed. “You’re hovering.”

Agatha’s mouth tightened. “I’m trying to take care of you.”

You let out a breath—not a laugh. A warning. “That’s not what it feels like.”

“You think I’m trying to control you—”

“You are,” you cut in, voice snapping like a taut wire. “Every time I move, every time I stand too long, you act like I’m about to fall apart.”

Agatha took a step forward. Her spine stiffened, voice slicing clean through the space between you. “What we’re not going to do is pretend I’m overreacting. My very pregnant wife was having a contraction while lifting boxes.”

Another step. Not threatening—just certain. “I’m allowed to be worried when your body starts tightening up like you’re about to go into labor in someone else’s kitchen.”

You blinked. Once. Twice. Then: “It wasn’t a contraction—”

“It was a Braxton Hicks,” she snapped. “Which are still contractions. You were swaying. Bracing yourself on the counter like your whole body was locking up. And Rio behind you like some secret that needed to be kept from me—what the hell was I supposed to do? Pretend that wasn’t happening?”

The silence stretched. Then the fire came. “I’m not asking you to ignore me.” You stepped forward. “I’m asking you to trust me.” Agatha flinched—just slightly. But it was there. You didn’t stop. “Stop looking at me like I’m seconds from collapsing.”

“Because I’ve seen you fall apart!” The words cracked through the room like thunder—loud and ugly and full of grief. She kept going—too fast now, like if she stopped, she’d never say any of it again. “You passed out in the middle of a workday. Alone. Pregnant. Your head hit the desk. You couldn’t even answer the phone. I didn’t even know how long you’d been like that—” Her voice caught. “You looked dead.”

Your breath hitched. But you didn’t back down. “And I didn’t die.” That landed like a stone. Agatha blinked hard.

You stepped forward again—not to comfort. To be heard. “You think I don’t carry that memory? That I don’t still hear your voice saying my name when everything was going dark?” Her mouth parted—but your hand lifted, firm. “You’re scared. I get it. But you’ve wrapped that fear around me so tight, I can’t breathe.”

Agatha’s jaw clenched. “I’m trying to make sure it doesn’t happen again—”

“Agatha.” Your voice broke—not with weakness, but insistence. “Look at me.” She did. “I am right here. Healthy. Alive. Still growing this baby. Still showing up. And you’re still looking at me like I might break just for touching a bin of towels.”

“You shouldn’t be lifting anything!” she snapped, fists curling at her sides.

“It was towels, not a fucking boulder—”

“It doesn’t matter—”

“It matters to me!” Your voice cracked now, your whole body tensing with it. “Because this is still my body. My pregnancy. My limits.” Agatha’s breath was ragged. Her posture sharp. You pressed forward anyway.

“That’s not care, Agatha. That’s fear pretending to be love so it doesn’t have to apologize.” Another breath. You didn’t stop. “You say you’re taking care of me, but all I feel is pressure. Constant. Crushing. Like the second I slow down, everything falls apart. Like I’m a countdown. A liability.”

Agatha’s voice lashed through the air: “Because it might. You’re thirty-two weeks pregnant and pushing yourself too hard again. You’ve done it before—don’t act like I’m imagining it.” You didn’t even blink.

“And who paid for it last time?” you said. “Me.” A beat. Your voice didn’t waver now. It burned. “I’m still here. Still carrying our baby. Still working. Still walking. Still trying not to lose myself under the weight of everyone else’s panic.” Agatha looked stunned. Rattled. Off-balance. You didn’t give her time to recover. “I know you’re scared. I know. But I need you to stop treating me like I’m made of glass.”

A breath. Your voice dropped low—not pleading. Not broken. Just true. “I need you to trust me enough to let me be okay.” Agatha didn’t move. Her jaw clenched once, then again—like she was chewing words she couldn’t swallow. Her arms stayed at her sides, but her shoulders fell. Just a little. Like something inside her had given out. She looked at you—and for the first time, really looked. Not scanning you for danger. Not assessing. Just… seeing. You.

There was so much in her face then. Anger. Love. Terror. Shame. All of it clashing just behind her eyes like thunder behind glass. But she didn’t speak. Not yet. Because just then, Rio stepped forward. She didn’t say much. Didn’t need to.

Her voice was steady. Soft, but not delicate. “You’re not their doctor, Aggie.” Agatha turned slowly toward her. Rio’s eyes didn’t flinch. “You’re their wife.” That—finally—landed. Agatha’s mouth opened, just slightly. No defense. No retort. Her gaze flicked between you and Rio and back again.

And she looked exhausted. Not by you. But by what she’d let her fear become. Her lips parted, like she might speak. But all that came out was a breath. A single, shaking breath. Agatha’s lips parted, like she might speak. But all that came out was a breath. A single, shaking breath.

She didn’t reach for you. She didn’t defend herself. She just stood there—arms slack, coat still buttoned, like she’d forgotten she was wearing it—staring at the space between you like it had become a chasm she didn’t know how to cross. The whole room felt too bright, like the overhead light was catching on the sharpest parts of everything—glinting off the edges of anger, guilt, fear.

You stared back at her, breath still high in your chest. Your palms were damp. Your pulse loud in your ears. You were so tired—body and mind and soul. But in that silence, in that split-second where she didn’t move— You did. You stepped forward. Not far. Not all the way. Just enough to close the space that mattered. Your hand came up slowly. Cautiously. Like a question. And then it slid into hers.

Fingers soft. Warm. Not sure if they’d be met. But they were. Agatha’s hand tightened around yours like she couldn’t believe it. Like it hurt to hold and hurt worse to let go. Her thumb brushed across your knuckles in one trembling arc—just once—like a prayer she didn’t know how to finish. She still hadn’t said anything. Not out loud. But her body spoke in small ruptures. Her spine curled inward. Her shoulders trembled—not enough to collapse. Just enough to show she’d been carrying it all.

Rio moved then, soundless. She stepped forward from the doorway, her curls catching the light, eyes locked on you first—then Agatha. No judgment. Just deep, steady presence. Her hand found the small of your back like it always did—warmth through fabric, pressure just firm enough to anchor you in your own skin.

You leaned into it. Just slightly. Just enough. And then you looked at Agatha again. Your voice came low. Sure. Soft. “I love you.” Her eyes flicked to yours like they hadn’t expected to hear that yet. Or maybe at all. They were glassy. Her mouth opened—but still, no words came. So you added—because she needed it, and you did too:

“That hasn’t changed.” Her shoulders dropped a fraction. Like the weight she’d been bearing had finally begun to shift. Not gone. But shared. “But I need you to let me breathe again.” A single nod. Then another. And Agatha’s expression broke—quietly, beautifully. Not into tears, not yet. But into something softer. Something that said I hear you. I know. I’m sorry. You didn’t need more than that. Rio leaned in and kissed your temple, her breath warm against your skin. She didn’t rush. Just lingered there, lips to your hairline, heart against your back. “Let’s go lay down,” she murmured. “All three of us.” No one objected. No one moved fast.

You turned with them—one hand still in Agatha’s, the other resting on your bump, feeling the faint shifting of Sprout beneath your palm. Rio’s arm curled around your waist. Agatha’s coat rustled as she finally shrugged it off and reached for the light. The kitchen dimmed. The hallway opened. And together, without another word, you disappeared into the quiet. The bedroom welcomed you like dusk—not with ceremony, but with a kind of hush that made every sound feel sacred.

The lamp on the nightstand cast a honeyed pool of light over the room. Shadows curled into corners, softening the edges of the furniture, the walls, even your reflection in the mirror—just a vague silhouette, curved with life and fatigue. No one spoke.

The only sound was the rustle of clothes sliding off tired bodies. Fabric hitting the floor in gentle sighs. A zipper lowered. A breath released. The quiet choreography of shared exhaustion. You stripped slowly, carefully. Not out of modesty—just… reverence. Your hands moved without rush, peeling away your sweater, your bra, the stretch of your leggings. The cold kissed your skin in the places warmth had just left, and for a moment, you stood still, one palm splayed over your belly like a grounding spell. Sprout stirred under your touch—just a flutter. Just enough to remind you: I’m here, too.

You turned toward Rio’s dresser, pulled open the top drawer, and reached for the pair of soft gray boxers she always wore to bed. Cotton worn thin in the best way. You stepped into them, pulling the waistband under your stomach, your thumb brushing the hem absently. The fabric felt like her. It was the only thing you put on.

Behind you, Agatha moved with quiet intent. Her sleep shorts were already on—low on her hips—but she shed the rest without ceremony. Her blouse dropped from her hands like it no longer mattered. Her bare back caught the lamplight for a moment—pale, freckled, unguarded—before she slipped past you, fingers brushing the edge of the mattress as she turned it down.

Rio, on the other side of the room, undressed without looking away from you. Her jeans folded over the chair. Her shirt peeled off in one clean motion. The curve of her collarbone caught a flicker of lamplight as she reached to switch it off—then paused. The room stayed lit, soft and gold and breathing. You climbed into bed first. Your body, tired to the bone, found its familiar shape—on your side, knees tucked just slightly, arms cradled beneath the pillow. You shifted your hips, exhaling as Sprout adjusted with you. The mattress dipped behind you. Agatha.

She slid in close without hesitation, her bare chest pressing to your back like it had done a hundred times before—but tonight, it felt like something deeper. Her arm curled gently around your belly, not gripping, just resting—the way people touch stained glass they’re afraid will crack. Her breath warmed the space just beneath your ear. She didn’t speak. Her lips pressed, feather-light, to your shoulder blade. Her other hand slipped under the pillow, fingers brushing yours. You let her find them. And then Rio.

She crossed slowly to the other side and settled onto the mattress facing you—not curling in, just being there. Her legs stretched long under the covers, one arm folding beneath her head, the other reaching across the narrow divide between your bodies until her fingertips met your upper arm, stroking a slow arc over your skin. Three bodies. Three pulses. Nothing separating you but breath and history. The silence deepened—but it wasn’t cold. It was warm. Full. A silence that knew the words had already been said. That anything more would be too much, too loud, too late.

Agatha’s fingers moved absently across your stomach, tracing invisible lines. Her touch was reverent. Not ownership—just awe. As if she couldn’t believe you’d let her stay this close after everything. As if she were still waiting to be told to leave.

But you didn’t move. And neither did she. Rio’s hand stilled at your bicep. Her thumb brushed once, twice. A rhythm. Not a question. Not even reassurance. Just presence. You exhaled—deep and slow. The kind of breath that tells your body it’s safe to rest. Sprout kicked once, gently, like she was knocking on the edge of the moment.

And then—

“Are you okay?” Rio’s voice came so quietly you almost missed it. Not for you. For Agatha. A pause. Agatha’s lips grazed the back of your neck. Her breath hitched. And then, softly—so softly you could feel the words more than hear them:

“Not yet.” The silence that followed was raw. Honest. But it didn’t ache anymore. Agatha’s arm tightened around your middle—not possessive, just real. Rio leaned closer, her forehead almost touching yours across the space of a breath. Her hand settled against your belly now too, beside Agatha’s. Two hands. One heartbeat. Yours. Sprout’s. Theirs. You didn’t need to speak. You didn’t need to fix it. You just needed to stay.

And you did. Wrapped in gold light, bare skin, and the kind of love that doesn’t always feel gentle, but always stays.

------

It started with a kick. Not a sharp one—just a slow, stretching push. A curl of elbow or heel sliding long into your right side, then pressing stubbornly against your ribs. You stirred with a quiet grunt, lips parting around a groan that barely made it past your throat.

Sprout. You didn’t even need to open your eyes to know it was her. A second nudge followed, lower this time, accompanied by the faint, shifting roll of your entire belly as she repositioned herself. Your palm drifted down on instinct, pressing gently to the spot where she pushed. “Okay, okay,” you mumbled sleepily, voice rough with sleep. “I get it. You’re awake.”

The room was still dark, painted only in the faint pre-dawn light edging in around the curtains. Agatha’s breath ghosted warmly against the back of your neck, her arm still cradled over your middle. Rio lay just a few inches away, her curls spread across the pillow like ink spilled in soft circles. The blanket had slipped down to her hips. One of her hands was still curled loosely over your arm.

And yet—you knew you wouldn’t be able to fall back asleep. Sprout kicked again, a longer stretch this time, and your ribs flared just enough to make you wince. You sighed. Slowly, carefully, you peeled yourself out from between their warmths. Agatha stirred behind you, murmuring something unintelligible as her hand slipped away. Rio exhaled but didn’t wake. The bed shifted as you sat up, swinging your legs over the side.

You moved on autopilot—quiet steps, hand braced to your back as you crossed to the bathroom, the tiles cool beneath your feet. Relief came. But sleep did not. Your hand slid over your stomach again as you stood in the mirror, your reflection ghost-like in the low light. Sprout had settled, but the energy in your chest hadn’t. You didn’t want to crawl back into bed.

Not yet. Instead, you stepped out into the hallway, letting the chill of the hardwood against your soles clear your head. The nursery door was slightly ajar. You pushed it open with a gentle hand. The nursery was cloaked in the kind of light that only arrived with the earliest edge of dawn—faint, filtered through a sky still heavy with sleep, where pinks blushed beneath deep winter blue. The pale green walls reflected it softly, casting the room in the tender hush of a watercolor painting.

You rocked gently in the chair—the one Agatha had insisted on, the one Rio had assembled with her sleeves rolled up and her brow furrowed in concentration. It sat nestled beneath the overhead lamp now dimmed to a halo of gold, like the room itself understood what was needed: quiet. Stillness. A soft place to land.

It wasn’t modern or minimal. No slim lines or quiet luxury. It was solid. Cushioned. Deeply upholstered in warm stone fabric that welcomed you like it already knew your shape. It didn’t ask for grace or posture. It simply held. Built not to impress, but to endure.

The ottoman in front of it cradled your feet, your calves heavy with the kind of ache that only came at the end of long days and longer nights. Your body was still settling after the weight of everything it had carried—contractions, tears, arguments, apologies. And now… this. The soft after. Sprout rolled beneath your palm, stretching long against the curve of your belly, then settling again as if rocked into peace by the chair’s steady rhythm.

Outside the window, snow fell like a final breath—slow and silent, the kind that didn’t need to stay long, only long enough to say goodbye to winter. You watched it drift, blinking slowly, your other hand cradling the armrest like it was an anchor. For once, your body wasn’t in motion from urgency. Just presence.

Then—

A sound. Soft. Bare feet across wood. A breath held and then released. You didn’t turn.

You didn’t need to. Agatha appeared in the doorway—silhouetted by hallway light, wrapped in one of Rio’s cardigans, her hair mussed from sleep and the weight of dreams she hadn’t escaped. She hovered there for a moment, her hand gripping the edge of the frame, thumb brushing along the grain of the wood like she wasn’t sure what to do with herself. Her posture was wrong for her—shoulders slightly rounded, arms wrapped around her torso as if to hold herself in place. The steady, unshakable woman you knew had become a trembling outline in the dark.

She watched you for a long moment. And then she moved. Slow steps across the rug. Soundless, deliberate. She didn’t speak. Didn’t reach. She just lowered herself in front of you—onto her knees at the edge of the ottoman, settling between your legs like she was preparing for confession. The air shifted. The rocker slowed. Her eyes lifted, rimmed with shadow, lashes still clinging with sleep or something heavier. You waited. You didn’t ask her to speak. But when she did, her voice was raw. Unvarnished. “I’m sorry.”

Her words broke the silence without shattering it. They folded in instead, like they had always belonged in this room, in this moment. “For last night. For how tightly I’ve been holding everything. For the way I’ve spoken to you, hovered over you. The way I…” Her voice wavered. She reached forward, and you met her halfway, your fingers folding into hers like muscle memory. “I thought if I watched closely enough, worried loudly enough, I could hold the world still.” She swallowed hard. Her thumb dragged across the back of your hand once. Twice.

“But that’s not what you needed. That’s not what you asked for.” And then she broke. Not in sobs—Agatha didn’t break that way. But her voice dropped to a trembling whisper, low and hoarse. “…Because if something goes wrong again, I won’t survive it.” You felt those words in your chest. In your lungs. In the tender spot right beneath your breastbone, where your love for her had always lived—feral and bright.

She leaned forward, forehead pressing to your knuckles, her body curling inward like your hand was the only steady thing in the world. “Every time you wince. Every time you go quiet. I feel like I’m watching the ground crack open beneath us. Like I’m waiting to see you collapsed in that hallway again, bleeding. Breathless. Cold.”

A tear slid down her cheek and dropped onto your leg. Her voice cracked: “I can’t lose you. I don’t know how to be brave like you are.” You let the silence hold for just a moment more. Let her cry. Let her fall apart here, at your feet, in the chair she chose for you to be safe in. You moved. You freed your hand from hers gently, only to cradle her face, your thumb brushing slow paths beneath her eyes. She leaned into the touch, breath catching, the cardigan falling open to reveal bare skin beneath—vulnerable, real. “You don’t have to be brave for me, Agatha.” Your voice was soft but unwavering.

“You just have to be with me.” Her eyes fluttered shut. She nodded once—but it was a tremble more than a motion. “You said you’d walk with me,” you whispered, forehead leaning into hers now, your breath mingling between you. A beat. “So stop trying to carry me.” That stopped her. You felt it—like a pulse. Her fingers tightened slightly against your knee, and for a second, she didn’t breathe. Then she exhaled. A real one. A full one. She shifted forward again, settling against the ottoman with both arms now wrapped around your belly. Her forehead came to rest gently against the side of the swell.

And in that silence, she whispered: “You are so loved, Beansprout.” Her lips pressed into your skin, low and warm, reverent. “Probably more than you’ll ever understand.” She kissed you again. Longer this time. The way someone kisses sacred ground. “You probably know this,” she murmured, “but you have three moms who are infatuated with you.” Another kiss. “And we are so proud of you.” A soft, laughing exhale—a little watery. A little wrecked. “You have a few more weeks of growing, okay?” Her palm slid over your belly, settling right where Sprout kicked.

Agatha's breathing had finally evened out, her cheek still pressed softly to the slope of your belly, her arms wrapped around your waist like she was afraid the morning might take you away from her again. You kept stroking her hair, your fingers threaded gently through the loose strands, letting the motion lull you both. “Do you have class this morning?” Your voice was soft. Not a disruption—just a gentle question drifting into the hush between you. Agatha didn’t lift her head right away. She nodded against your skin.

“Yeah.” Her voice was rough with sleep and emotion. “Rio does too.” You nodded, your thumb tracing an idle circle across her shoulder. The silence returned, but it was looser now. Lived-in. You tilted your head, watching the snow continue to fall outside the window, slower now, heavier. It had blanketed the porch in white, and the faintest blue light was beginning to gather along the windowsill. “Would it be alright if I came with you?”

Agatha stirred. “To campus,” you added gently, hand still stroking her shoulder. “I don’t want to be alone today. I thought I could sit in one of your offices. Just… be near.” That quiet admission landed with a softness that didn’t need apology.

Agatha didn’t say anything at first. She simply leaned up, her eyes lifting to meet yours—and whatever she saw there made her nod instantly. “Of course,” she said, and the words carried more weight than she likely intended. “Of course you can.” You let your eyes close just for a breath. Relief crept in warm and low through your chest.

A sharp electronic chime sliced through the hush. The alarm. It hummed from the bedroom down the hall—gentle but insistent. Its digital rhythm signaling what it always did: Time to begin again. Agatha groaned softly into your lap. You smiled. “Duty calls.” She shifted and dipped lower, kissing the stretch of bare skin just above your waistband. And that’s when Sprout moved—a sudden stretch, long and unmistakable, a foot pushing out so strongly it lifted your skin in a visible arc.

Agatha blinked and pulled back half an inch, eyebrows rising. “Well.” You gave a breathless chuckle and glanced down. “At least she’s already up.” Agatha’s mouth quirked into a half-smile—the kind that hadn’t reached her face since before the argument. She leaned back in and pressed another kiss to your belly, right where Sprout had kicked. “Show-off,” she whispered, affection spilling through the words like sunlight through the blinds.

You sighed, your hand still curled in her hair. The sound of Rio’s alarm joined the other—muffled, familiar. The day had begun. But for a moment longer, you stayed right there. Held. Connected. Ready to begin again. Together.

------

The car was warm. The kind of warmth that took a moment to earn—soft blasts from the heater slowly carving away the chill that had crept into the seats overnight. The windshield glowed faintly with morning light, and outside, the last of February’s frost clung to rooftops and mailboxes like a rumor that winter hadn’t quite ended. You sat in the passenger seat, boots off, wrapped in Rio’s oversized hoodie, your sock-covered feet resting carefully in the footwell. Legs stretched. Shoulders finally relaxed. The bump beneath the hoodie rose and fell with each breath, Sprout tucked neatly beneath your hand.

Rio had taken the back seat without argument—her arm slung casually across her bag, one knee propped up against the door. “All part of the tactical pregnancy protocol,” she’d announced as she slid in. “Stretch out. I’ll be here for witty commentary and rogue snack management.”

Agatha had just shaken her head, but the smile had crept in anyway. She reached for your hand the second she shifted into drive—her fingers weaving through yours like muscle memory, grounding you both. The car rolled out onto the road, the quiet just full enough to feel like peace. It was you who broke it, voice soft and almost to yourself: “Opening Day’s in a few weeks.” Agatha hummed faintly beside you. Not questioning. Just… listening.

From the back seat, Rio leaned forward, her chin hooked over the edge of your headrest. “You thinking Asher’s gonna make it past the third inning?”

You smiled. “If there’s popcorn and a giant foam finger? Maybe.”

Agatha let out a faint chuckle. “He’s going to ask at least four times if the mascot is real.”

“And five more if he can pet it,” Rio added.

You shook your head slowly, thumb tracing the edge of Agatha’s hand. “We should pick a game soon. I’ll be thirty-seven weeks by then…”

There was a pause—not heavy. Just honest. Thirty-seven weeks. So close it felt like the shadow of a finish line. Or a beginning.

Rio laughed. “We’ll find a good game. Early enough in the season, easy parking, minimal chaos.” Agatha’s fingers tightened around yours.

“And if you’re not up for it, we can always make a day of it at home,” she said. “Blankets. Ballgame on the TV. Mini hot dogs and stadium nachos.”

That made you laugh, warm and surprised. “And no overpriced water bottles.”

“Or crying toddlers behind us,” Rio added. “Just one adorable four-year-old and one very, very round mama.”

You snorted. “Gee, thanks.”

“That was a compliment,” Rio said, faux-offended. “You are the most beautiful gravity well I’ve ever seen.”

Then Rio’s voice, gentler: “You know the season lasts all summer, right? If you’re not up to it, we can always switch the plans around. Take him to a game later. He’ll still think it’s magic.”

You smiled at that. “I know. But if I can help it—I’ll be there. Blanket, water bottle, seat cushion and all.” Agatha glanced at you again—longer this time. There was pride in her eyes. And something quieter too. Worry, maybe, but tucked carefully beneath the surface. You gave her hand a soft squeeze.

Thank you for letting me say it. Her fingers tightened around yours in return. A quiet thank-you. For letting this moment be light. For not hovering. For letting you talk about the future without shrinking away from it. Agatha glanced sideways, just for a breath, and when her eyes met yours, something in her shoulders loosened. A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

From the back seat, Rio sighed dramatically. “Sprout’s first game. Asher’s first pretzel of the season. It’s the beginning of a legacy. The start of his villain origin story.”

You laughed and leaned your head against the window, eyes half-closing as the road hummed beneath you. It was still cold outside. But inside, between the hands that held you and the voices that loved you—

Spring was already on its way.

The elevator chimed low, the hallway unusually quiet for a Monday morning. Most of campus was still in that early-semester drift—midterm stress not yet in full swing, the air between lectures feeling like a breath being held.

Agatha’s office door opened with a gentle creak, the hinges softened by age and routine. She held it for you without a word, her hand pressed lightly to the small of your back as you stepped inside.

The familiar scent of cedar, black tea, and the faintest trace of old books welcomed you like an old friend. Agatha’s office had always felt that way—cozy, lived-in, unapologetically hers. Shelves lined two walls, heavy with annotated volumes and student gifts. The corner lamp cast a warm golden light across the floor, softening the early sunlight that filtered in through the frosted windowpanes.

And there, on her desk, just beside the framed photo of the three of you at Christmas, was a small, matte printout of your latest ultrasound. BeanSprout. Her tiny foot mid-kick, perfectly curled spine barely visible in the grainy dark.

You walked toward it slowly.

The photo of the three of you had been taken just hours after you learned she was a girl. You remembered that moment—how Agatha’s hand had found yours first, how Rio had immediately declared she would have “the legs of a sprinter,” and how you’d laughed, tears still clinging to your lashes. In the photo, the three of you were glowing. Not from the lights of the tree behind you. But from joy. From knowing.

You smiled, touched the edge of the frame gently with your fingertips. “It still doesn’t feel real sometimes,” you murmured. Behind you, Agatha smiled faintly, already moving to the wall-mounted heater. She twisted the knob a few clicks to the right until it groaned to life, humming softly.

“Well, she does keep kicking like she’s practicing for tryouts,” she said. “So I’d say that’s very real.”

You moved toward the couch—Agatha’s couch—the same one she’d had since before you were ever a you. It was wide and deep, a soft gray that had faded to comfort over time. The cushions still dipped slightly where students had once curled up for late meetings and where, much later, you had curled into her side, long before the three of you shared a bed, or a home, or a baby.

You sat slowly, easing yourself down until you could prop your feet along the far arm. A pillow tucked under your back, your laptop balanced gently across the round slope of your belly. The screen blinked awake, a document half-finished and waiting. You adjusted slightly—settling into the space that had always welcomed you.

Agatha watched you from across the room, her head tilting just slightly. Something shifted behind her eyes—soft awe, a glimmer of pride. Then she pulled her phone from her pocket. “Stay right there,” she said gently.

You glanced up. “What?”

“You look…” She didn’t finish the thought. She just lifted her phone and snapped the picture before you could protest. The click was quiet. Sacred. A keepsake. You rolled your eyes, but your lips curved anyway. She crossed the room once more, bent to press a kiss to your forehead, her hand settling for a brief moment over your belly—just long enough to feel the slow shift beneath your skin. Then she dipped lower.

Her lips brushed the curve of your belly, warm and lingering. “You have a good day too, little one,” she whispered against the fabric, voice low and full of quiet devotion. “Keep being gentle with your mama, okay?” Sprout gave a tiny nudge beneath her palm—just a twitch, like acknowledgment. Agatha smiled as she straightened again. “When I’m back,” she murmured, her voice brushing soft against your hair, “we’ll grab coffee. Maybe lunch. Somewhere with soup that doesn’t taste like cardboard. I love you.”

You smiled, eyes fluttering closed for a moment as you leaned into her. “Deal. I love you, too.”

The door clicked softly behind her as she left, the heater still humming, the light catching the ultrasound on her desk. You exhaled slowly, fingers drifting to rest over the baby’s gentle stretch beneath your ribs.

Warm. Safe. Held.

------

The morning had grown too quiet. Not the good kind. Not the soft, sleepy stillness that curled around her shoulders when she made it home before sunset. This was something else. Hollow. Off. Like the silence left behind when someone leaves a door cracked just wide enough for a chill to slip in.

Rio sat alone in her office, the blinds still tilted from the last class she’d taught on Friday, slats of gray light stretching across the bookshelves like fingers. Her coffee had gone cold beside her elbow. She hadn’t touched it in over an hour. The cursor blinked against a half-finished email on her screen. But her hand hovered above the mouse. Still. Caught. And then—almost without realizing—she clicked.

The browser opened with a sigh. She didn’t type the address. She didn’t need to. It was already waiting in the autofill: facebook.com/RiverOfTheRisenLightPM

She had told herself she wouldn’t check again. Yesterday morning in the kitchen with Agatha had been enough, hadn’t it? The quiet unraveling. The way the map had loaded, and Agatha’s voice had gone low and furious, “Of course it’s a fucking church…”

But Rio couldn’t wait anymore. Something was wrong. Not just morally wrong. Wrong in her bones. Like the storm that comes before thunder. Like the breath that catches in your throat before someone says the thing you can’t un-hear.

The page loaded slowly. Too slowly. First the banner: a crowd gathered in front of a white-brick building, arms raised mid-song, some smiling, some in tears. A quote stretched across the top in warm, looping script: "Let Love Make All Things New."

It turned her stomach. She scrolled. Event flyers. Baptisms. Videos of sermons clipped to five-minute bites. Testimonies. Posed group photos. Most of it was filler—the kind of curated, sugary content that wanted to be shared without being questioned. But here and there, your mother slipped into view.

Not center stage. Just present. First in the background—her mouth tight with polite reverence during a group prayer circle. Then in profile beside the pulpit, her hands folded, a familiar pearl brooch pinned to the collar of her coat. And again—smiling this time—posed beside a woman holding a certificate that read “Rededicated in Christ.”

Your mother’s eyes were sharp. Alert. Pleased. But it wasn’t joy. Not the kind Rio trusted. It was control. Performance. A calculated grace. Rio scrolled further, her breath shallow. And then—it stopped her. A post from four weeks earlier. Framed perfectly. Pinned at the top of the page as if it were something to celebrate.

The two of them.

Your mother.And Chase.

Smiling. Arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders. Standing on the front steps of the church beneath a banner that read: “New Year, New Heart.” Rio’s blood ran cold.

The caption read: “From brokenness to belonging—what a gift it is to witness God's healing grace. Forgiveness and new life are being built here every Sunday. Come home to the light.”

Chase looked like he belonged there. Like he’d never been a threat. Like he hadn’t left scars on you so deep you still startled at unexpected knocks. His smile was smooth, camera-ready. Confident. Your mother… she looked proud. Rio stared at the screen. She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Her eyes locked on the photo like it might blink, like it might rearrange itself and take it all back. But it didn’t.

It stayed exactly as it was. Proof. Not just that your mother had lied. But that she had been building something. Something deliberate. Something that had room for him. For Chase. In her church. In her arms. In her forgiveness. The coffee mug trembled where Rio’s hand hovered beside it. She drew back, slowly. Her shoulders rigid. Her jaw clenched so tight her molars ached.

This isn’t a coincidence,she thought.This is a plan.The page blurred in front of her. Her chest burned with fury—not loud. Not yet. But steady. Controlled. The kind that waited. Rio closed the tab. Sat back. The sound of the clock ticking overhead was suddenly too loud. Her fingers curled into fists in her lap.

Rio leaned back in her chair, the vinyl creaking faintly beneath her weight. The cold light of her office dimmed as a cloud passed across the sun outside, throwing soft shadows against the bookshelf behind her. Her hand stayed still on the mouse for a long moment. No clicks. No movement. Just… silence.

Not grief. Not yet. This wasn’t heartbreak. It was clarity. She pulled her glasses off and set them on the desk with care, the lenses catching the faint reflection of the screen. Her jaw worked once. Then again. Then she slid her chair forward, opened a new tab, and started to search.

Not the church’s homepage this time. That was curated, sanitized—meant to convert. No, she moved like an archivist now. Like a researcher. She pulled up the local newspaper archives first, scanning for anything that mentioned “River of the Risen Light – Pentecostal Ministries” in the last twelve months.

Obituaries. Community events. One listing in the classifieds for a coat drive last November. Nothing unusual. But too clean. She opened the church’s Instagram next—less filtered than Facebook, more likely to hold candids, stories, tags. Her thumb scrolled steadily on her phone now, not on her laptop. Easier to capture screenshots this way. Evidence.

Her chest felt like stone. There was your mother again. Same coat. Same expression. Same performance. In one clip, she was singing—standing in the front row, voice lifted in harmony with the others. The phone capturing the video shook slightly, like the person recording was overcome with joy. Rio’s lip curled. No one should look that at peace next to a man like Chase.

She paused the video. Zoomed in. In the background—stage right—Chase. Not leading. Not preaching. Not front and center. But present. Consistent. She went deeper. Tag history. Photo shares. Congregant testimonials.

And then—there it was.

A flyer. Posted two years ago, buried in the feed, shared by a woman named Linda Rose_1986.

Rio tapped to enlarge it. A black and gold gradient overlaid with cursive script.

"River of the Risen Light – Guest Revival Speaker Series: ‘Broken Men, Redeemed Lives.’ Featuring Brother Chase W., former youth leader and survivor of spiritual trial. Sunday, 11:00 AM.”

Her lungs forgot how to move. She took a screenshot immediately. Then scrolled further down the woman’s profile. A video. Thirty seconds. Shaky. Chase, standing at the front of the church, one hand raised, the other clutching a microphone. His voice projected—smooth, confident, too familiar.

“I lost everything,” he was saying. “My way, my dignity, my family. But He—” he gestured upward “—He never let go. And neither did my church family.”

The camera panned, and there—front row, beaming with that same rehearsed pride—your mother. Arms crossed. Eyes bright. Rio paused the video and set her phone on the desk. Then she stood. Not rushed. Not frantic. Just… bracing. She walked slowly to the window, hands tucked into her back pockets, her mind moving faster than her breath could keep up.

This wasn’t just about letters anymore. Or grudges. Or even your mother.

This was organized. This was intentional. And it wasn’t just that Chase had returned. He had been welcomed. Platformed. Rio turned from the window, eyes narrowing as she moved back to her chair. No one had said a word about this. Not to you. Not in the funeral arrangements. Not in the letter you’d received.

Whatever this was—it was still in motion. It was being buried in soft language and hollow blessings. But Rio had read enough propaganda in her day to know when someone was laundering violence through scripture.

And she wasn’t going to let them get away with it.

------

The hallway leading to Agatha’s office was quiet, still holding the hush of early morning lectures. The kind of quiet that made every footstep sound too loud, every breath feel like a confession.

Rio’s boots thudded softly against the tile, her fingers curling tighter around her phone as she reached the door—the same one she’d leaned against a hundred times before. But today, her body hesitated. The door to Agatha’s office stood closed. No window. No pane of glass. Just dark wood and a narrow plaque etched with her name. Familiar. Unchanging.

Rio stared at it for a long moment. Her hand hovered near the handle, fingers curling once. Then again. Inside this office, you were safe. Warm. Likely still curled on Agatha’s couch with your laptop propped on your belly, feet tucked beneath a blanket, humming quietly to yourself or muttering edits under your breath. You didn’t know.You didn’t know what Rio had just seen. What was sitting heavy in her pocket and heavier still in her gut. And God, part of her wanted to turn around. Not walk in. Not disturb the calm you’d built for yourself in this quiet morning hour. Not drag the shadows of River of the Risen Light into the one place they hadn’t yet touched.

But her chest ached too much. Her body was too tense. She needed you. Just for a moment. Even if you didn’t know it. So, she knocked. Then turned the handle and eased the door open with slow, careful fingers. You didn’t look up.

The light caught first—soft gold spilling in through the high windows, washing the room in warmth. You were curled into Agatha’s old couch, legs stretched along the length of it, laptop perched gently atop the soft rise of your belly. One hand moved across the keys with focused precision, the kind of fluid focus Rio had always loved watching you fall into. The other rested lightly atop your bump like you’d been subconsciously keeping her calm while you worked.

Sprout shifted as Rio stepped inside—just a little kick beneath your palm. You hadn’t heard her. You were mouthing something as you typed—quietly narrating a sentence in progress, your brow furrowed like the weight of an entire chapter lived just behind your eyes. A half-drunk mug of tea steamed beside you. The worn edges of a blanket tucked behind your back. The room glowed with stillness. You looked… safe.

And that made her ache. Because everything in her hand—everything on that phone—threatened to shift everything. Rio stood just inside the door, unmoving. For a long moment, she simply watched you. The way your breath slowed when you hit a paragraph you liked. The way your hand drew mindless shapes across your belly.

Her throat tightened. God, she loved you. Loved all of this. The quiet. The strength. The absolute nerve of you to keep blooming in a world that kept trying to close you off.

And still—beneath it all—there was fire. A fire that flared hotter the longer she thought of that photo. Of Chase. Of your mother. Standing together beneath a banner like nothing had ever happened. Like you didn’t still carry the scar. She stepped closer, finally. Rio closed the door behind her without a sound.

And for a moment, she didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just stood there, watching you in the filtered morning light. The room smelled like cinnamon tea and old books. A scarf was draped across the back of the couch. A worn pillow supported your spine. Everything about the room screamed safety. History. Home.

Rio’s shoulders dropped, barely. You’re okay. It hit her all at once—how fragile that truth had become. She stepped forward finally, boots soft against the rug. You looked up as her shadow passed over your knees, blinking like you were surfacing from some deep place.

You looked up, blinking into the room as if surfacing from underwater. Your eyes softened the second you saw her. “Hey,” you murmured, your smile a little sleepy. “Didn’t hear you come in.”

Rio shrugged off her coat and crossed to you, her hand brushing gently along your shin as she sat at the edge of the couch near your feet. “Didn’t want to interrupt. You looked…” she paused, glancing around the room, then back at you. “Happy. Focused.”

You reached for her hand without thinking, your fingers sliding through hers. “Just working on a few edits for an article. Bean’s been kicking like she’s got something to say about this footnote.”

Rio smiled, but the edges of it were tense. “Let her rewrite it,” she said quietly. “Just make sure she is listed as a co-author.” You laughed once, light, real—and that was the sound that finally loosened something in Rio’s chest.

You caught it. Of course you did. Your thumb traced the line of her knuckle. “You okay?”

She hesitated. Just for a second. Then she leaned forward and pressed her forehead to yours—soft, grounding. “I am now.” Because right here, in this tiny pocket of calm… nothing had shattered yet. But outside? Outside, there were lies waiting to be named. Tomorrow, she’d bring the fire.

-------

The final slide clicked into place with a soft click of the spacebar. Agatha straightened slightly behind the lectern, letting her gaze sweep across the lecture hall. Half her students were already packing their bags—notes half-scrawled, laptops shutting with tired clicks. A few lingered near the front, eyes sharp, waiting to see if she’d say anything off-script.

“Alright,” she said, voice cutting cleanly across the low hum of post-class restlessness. “Same time next week. Bring your annotated sources. And please—if one more person misuses the word ‘dialectic,’ I will light your essays on fire.”

A few scattered laughs. One audible groan. She allowed herself the barest smirk. The students trickled out in clusters, their chatter rising as they passed into the hallway. Agatha stayed back, methodically closing her laptop and sliding her notes into her bag. The same rhythm she’d kept for years. Her knees ached. Her voice buzzed faintly in her throat. But it wasn’t a bad kind of tired. Just… the kind that hummed beneath the skin of someone who hadn’t slept enough in weeks and was carrying more in her chest than she could admit out loud.

She began to collect her papers. And then— A voice near the doorway, drifting in from just outside. Low. Casual. Two students. Voices low, not whispering—but not meant to be heard.

“—so yeah, apparently it was a sudden death? His cousin or something. Out of town funeral.”

“Wait, what? Who?”

“Dr. Marcus. Didn’t you get the email?” Agatha’s spine locked.

Her fingers froze on the zipper of her leather case. The conversation kept going—already moving further down the hall, swallowed by noise. “He canceled class for two weeks. Said he’d post make-up assignments later. Weird, right?”

“That’s weird. He never cancels.”

“Right? I was gonna skip anyway, but like

“Kind of… I thought his family was local?”

“I don’t know. Guess not.” Their conversation continued down the hallway, fading into the distant pulse of the student center crowd. Gone in a breath. But Agatha remained still.

A death? She zipped her leather case slowly, her eyes flicking toward the door with that instinctive wariness she hadn’t been able to unlearn—not since the hospital. Not since finding you collapsed in your lecture hall. Not since your mother’s letter. She didn’t make a face. Didn’t roll her eyes or mutter something biting. Just… paused. Dr. Marcus. Two weeks off. No warning. No sub.

She hadn’t heard a thing. The man had been on edge lately—short-tempered, closed off even for him, and snippier than usual in their last department meeting and downright rude to you. Maybe this was why. Maybe he’d been dealing with something. Maybe—God forbid—it was genuine grief.

But the thought didn’t sit neatly in her chest. It caught. Like a button forced through the wrong hole. She slipped her satchel over her shoulder and ran a thumb along the edge of her notes, her eyes lingering on the empty lectern like it might offer clarity. Huh. That was all she let herself think. No panic. No theory. Just a quiet huh that curled into her ribs and refused to unfold.

------

The hallway outside her office was quiet, just the low hum of fluorescent lighting and the faint echo of students dispersing two floors down. Agatha’s keys jingled softly at her hip as she reached the door—already unlocked. You were inside. Her breath slowed at the thought.

She opened the door, expecting a soft quiet. Maybe the click of a laptop. The gentle shuffle of feet on old couch fabric. But the moment she stepped in, her whole body registered the difference in the air. Not just the warmth of the room. The weight of it. The air was thick with it—moist, slow, clinging. Like a storm rolling just beneath the surface of something sacred. Rio looked up from where she sat on the edge of the couch, fingers still gently tracing the curve of your thigh. Nothing overt. Nothing indecent. But intimate in a way that struck Agatha low in the ribs.

You were on the couch, all curves and quiet desperation, legs draped over Rio’s lap, head tipped back against the cushion like gravity had given up on you entirely. One hand was resting protectively over the soft, high swell of your belly. The other was limp beside you, fingers curled as though they’d once clutched your laptop but forgotten how to hold. And your belly—Sprout’s soft, growing curve—rose and fell beneath the thin stretch of your shirt. The same shirt that clung a little tighter lately. That lifted every time you arched just slightly. Like now.

Your lips were parted. Eyes unfocused. You weren’t even pretending to write anymore. Your pupils were blown wide. Lips parted. A flush bloomed high on your chest, crawling up your throat like a breath you hadn’t let go of.

Rio’s hand—possessive, gentle, knowing—was slow on your thigh. Her fingers drawing circles, barely grazing skin. Enough to tease, never enough to satisfy. Rio smiled at her. Lazy. Knowing. “Hey, sweetheart,” Rio murmured, voice low and velvet, barely glancing up at Agatha. “We were just waiting on you.”

Agatha’s gaze slid from you to her, then back again. Slowly. Measuring. Her hands didn’t move—yet. You tried to sit up straighter, but the shift pulled your shirt higher, exposing a soft line of belly beneath it. The skin was flushed, pink from heat and pressure, and the near-constant presence of Sprout stretching against you from the inside. You gasped slightly as she kicked, your hand reflexively smoothing down, grounding her. Grounding yourself.

You ached. There wasn’t a better word for it. Not for the way your skin felt too tight, too tender, like even the warmth of your clothes was friction. Not for the way Rio’s hand on your leg felt like a brand, or how your lower belly pulsed with some ancient, cellular memory of need.

Everything was heightened—your senses, your body, your hunger. And right now, it wasn’t food you wanted. It was touch. Not gentle affection. Not passing sweetness. You wanted to be filled. Agatha stepped inside, closing the door behind her with a careful click. She raised a brow, glancing at you, then Rio, reading the current immediately.

You looked at her like a woman on the edge of unraveling. “We were gonna grab lunch,” Rio said casually, but her voice dropped a note lower. Teasing. “But she’s a little distracted.”

Agatha’s brow arched. The faintest smirk. “Mmm.”

You licked your lips. Your voice came out thinner than you wanted. You blinked slowly. “Not distracted. Just…” You trailed off, breath catching as Rio’s thumb swept just under the seam of your shorts. “Sensitive.”

Agatha crossed the room, setting her bag down gently on her desk. “I see.”

“I’m not—” You paused. Swallowed. Then confessed. “I’m not hungry for lunch.”

Rio chuckled softly, brushing her nose against your temple. “That’s one way to say it.”

Agatha moved slowly. Deliberately. Her bag fell to her desk with a soft thud, and she circled around, walking with that calm, predatory rhythm that always set something low in your belly alight. She didn’t reach for you at first. She just stood at the edge of the couch, hands in her pockets, watching. And you squirmed under it.

You hummed, low in your throat, hips shifting without thought. There was a pressure there—between your legs, in your belly, in your lungs. A swelling. A burn. Everything about you felt like a wick too close to flame.

The air pulsed between the three of you—your breathing shallow now, thighs instinctively pressing together, trying to create friction where none had been offered yet. Rio leaned in, brushed her lips against your cheek.

You whimpered.Soft. Barely audible. But Agatha heard it. She came to you slowly, each step deliberate. Her hand reached out, not for your belly, but for your jaw, tilting your face gently toward hers. Your eyes fluttered closed. Lips parted. Breathing ragged.

“Sweetheart,” she murmured, “what do you need?”

You swallowed. “I don’t know. Everything.” Your voice was hoarse. Honest. “I feel… full. Like my body’s humming. I can’t focus. I can’t sit still.”

Rio’s fingers slid under the waistband of your shorts. Not enough to touch anything truly cruel. But enough to promise. Her fingers slid just a little higher, just inside the inseam. “Hormones hit different in the third trimester, huh?”

Your eyes welled. It wasn’t just want. It was being seen.

Agatha dropped to her knees before you without another word.Not for worship. Not yet.But to be level with you.To see your face as you came undone.Her hand reached for the edge of your thigh, palm warm, steady. She didn’t rush—just held you there, fingers brushing the hem of your shorts, thumb tracing the crease behind your knee.

You stared down at her, breath caught somewhere between hunger and awe. And Rio—still beside you—leaned forward to kiss the slope of your shoulder, the pulse point at your neck, like grounding wire feeding back into the earth.

“Breathe,” Rio whispered. You tried. But the air tasted like promise.

Agatha’s mouth hovered just over your belly, her breath sending a tremor through your core. And then—finally—she looked up, eyes locked on yours, and pressed the gentlest, most devastating kiss to your skin. Low. Reverent. Your whole body clenched with the restraint of it.

Then she stood, slow and fluid, her fingers trailing up your arms as she rose. Her mouth met yours before you could think. And gods—you sank into it.

The kiss was molten. Unrushed. Deep. The kind that made your knees threaten collapse. Her hands cupped your jaw like she was holding something fragile and holy, and you let her—for exactly one breath. Then Rio stood too.

You were between them. You gasped softly when they both leaned in, chests brushing yours, heat pressing in from both sides. Your belly was tight between them, full and demanding, but not in the way that made you hesitate.

In the way that made you need. You broke the kiss with a ragged exhale and pressed your forehead to Agatha’s. “If we don’t leave now, I’m going to come apart on this couch.”

Rio’s laugh was low. Almost a growl. “So what’s the plan, sweetheart?”

“We go home,” you said, grabbing your bag with a trembling hand. “Because if either of you touch me again in this office, I will beg. And it’ll be loud.”

Agatha smirked, stepping back to grab her coat. “That a threat?”

“It’s a promise.”

The walk to the elevator was torture. You could feel Rio’s gaze on the back of your thighs. Could hear the measured breath Agatha took to keep her hands to herself. And then— The elevator doors opened.Empty. You stepped in behind them both. And the moment the doors began to slide shut, Rio’s hand shot out—hit the button panel with just enough force to send a warning jolt through your spine.

She turned. And pressed you hard against the wall.

The contact wasn’t violent. It was needy—her body flush to yours, one thigh pressed between yours like she was staking her claim. Her lips brushed your ear. “You said we had to wait,” she murmured, voice dark and trembling, “but I’m not a fucking saint.”

You gasped as her hips pressed forward—just enough friction to make your head drop back against the metal wall with a soft thud. “Rio—” Her hands pinned your waist. Not rough. But commanding. And then she kissed you. It stole your breath. Open-mouthed, slow, but filthy in its intention. There was nothing polite about it—just heat and surrender and a growl that came from deep in her chest when you whimpered beneath her. Agatha groaned behind her. You barely heard it. Because you were gone.

------

The front door hadn’t even clicked shut before your back hit it.

Not hard. Not rough. Deliberate.

Agatha’s hands found your waist before the strap of your bag could even slide from your shoulder. She guided you—not with force, but with gravity. With the inevitability of someone who had been holding herself back all day and had just remembered she didn’t have to anymore.

Her breath was already at your neck, hot and ragged. Her body pressed flush to yours like she’d been starving for hours and had only just been given permission to taste. You barely had time to gasp before she was on you.

“So fucking sexy,” she whispered—low and rough, like gravel kissed with smoke—and then her mouth was on your throat.

Your breath hitched. Then broke.

The gasp that escaped you was loud, sharper than you meant it to be, punching into the entryway like a commandment. Your head tipped back with a soft thud against the wood, neck arching instinctively to meet her. Agatha didn’t hesitate. Didn’t ease in. Her lips dragged down the column of your throat—slow, open-mouthed, devouring—not a kiss, not a bite, but something in between. Like she was trying to memorize your pulse with her teeth.

Heat rolled through you in waves.

Then her hands rose.

You knew it was coming—you felt it in the way her breath stalled. In the reverence that always came before her touch. In the way her fingers curled near the hem of your shirt, thumbs brushing the barest edge of skin like a question you’d already answered a hundred times.

And then— she cupped your breasts.

You moaned.

The sound punched out of you with a hiss, a cry, a staggered breath that filled the space between your bodies like lightning. Your nipples were swollen, hypersensitive, so hot it felt like the blood was vibrating just beneath the skin. Agatha’s thumbs brushed over them—barely there—and your body arched.

Your hips jerked forward into hers. Your hands gripped her shirt like you needed something to tether you to the earth.

“Sensitive,” she murmured—not mocking, not smug. Just hungry. A breath and a vow in the same heartbeat.

You nodded, desperate, your eyes brimming. The sensation was too much and not enough and perfect. She growled low in her throat, deep and instinctive, and tilted her face to kiss you—your jaw, your cheekbone, the corner of your mouth—and finally, your lips.

The kiss was slow.

But it was not gentle.

It was a claiming. Her body boxed you in—not to trap you, but to catch you. To hold you upright against the unraveling, she’d started with a single touch.

“God, you’re so beautiful like this,” she whispered against your lips, voice cracking with awe. “So needy. So fucking ready.”

From the hallway behind her, you heard Rio groan—deep, aching, like watching had broken something loose in her spine.

“I swear to every goddess listening,” Rio growled, voice low and strained, “if we don’t take this to the bedroom, I’m going to come just watching.”

You laughed.

A sound that tumbled out half-sob, half-lust, your body trembling where Agatha held you. Your hands clutched at her collar like you were praying. “I need—” you gasped again as she squeezed, her thumbs circling slowly now, dragging fire through your bloodstream.

“I need—fuck—Agatha—”

She stilled. Just enough. Just close enough. Rio’s breath caught.

She hadn’t moved from the hallway. Not really. One hand braced against the doorframe, jaw tight, heart pounding. Her whole body was pulsing with it—need, yes, but also something deeper. Something that came from watching her wife come undone like that. Not from pain. Not from panic.

From want. From trust. You were trembling. Practically vibrating where Agatha held you. And gods, you were glowing—skin flushed, chest rising and falling in sharp, open breaths, belly tight beneath your shirt like the full curve of it was singing. Rio had seen you in every kind of light. But never like this.

Never so close to shattering from pleasure alone. She hadn’t meant to interrupt earlier. But the sounds you made—the way you whispered Agatha’s name like it was the only thing anchoring you—it had torn through Rio’s restraint like paper.

And now…

Now she couldn’t stand still.

“Use your words, sweetheart.” Agatha’s voice was a growl wrapped in silk. Your mouth opened. But you didn’t answer. You just gasped again, head falling back against the door, throat exposed, chest arching forward—offering. That’s what undid her. Rio stepped forward. Quietly. Intentionally. Her boots didn’t echo. Her voice didn’t announce her. She simply moved—like heat through a room already burning. She reached you first.

Agatha didn’t flinch. She stepped back just enough for Rio to slide in beside her, hand trailing along your arm, palm pressing to the top of your belly. It was so round. So warm. And when you breathed in, it rose into her hand like it recognized her.

You looked at her—eyes glassy, lips parted—and Rio kissed you. Not softly. Not yet. It was a claim. And a promise. You gasped against her mouth and whispered her name like it was a confession. Rio’s breath caught.

She hadn’t moved from the hallway—not because she didn’t want to—but because she couldn’t. Not when the two of you looked like that. You, flushed and breathless, back against the front door like it was the only thing keeping you upright. Agatha, braced against you, hands reverent and unforgiving, mouth trailing possession down your throat like a rite.

And the way you moaned— it was the sound that broke her.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. Rio stepped into the room slowly, each movement measured. Controlled. She didn’t make a sound. Didn’t interrupt. Just came closer. Closer. Until her body stood parallel to Agatha’s, the two of them framing you like gravity had pulled them there.

You felt her before she touched you. And then her palm—broad, warm—found your hip. She slid it gently around the curve of your belly, fingers spreading like she could feel Sprout rolling beneath your skin. Her other hand found your cheek, tilting your head toward her. You blinked up at her, lips trembling. Rio kissed you like it was a secret. Slow. Deep. Hot. And when she pulled back, your mouth chased hers like it couldn’t bear the distance.

“I know, baby,” she whispered against your skin. “We’ve got you.” Agatha’s hand still cradled your breast, her thumb slow and sinful over your nipple. You cried out again—softer now. Like your voice had given itself over entirely to them.

“Bedroom,” Rio said, her voice not loud but final. Agatha’s nod was immediate. “She’s not going to make it more than a few steps on her own.” You tried to laugh—tried—but it came out broken, breathless. “I can walk.”

Rio arched a brow. Her hand found yours. Interlaced your fingers. And Agatha stepped to your other side, her palm splayed low on your back, steadying you. The three of you moved together. Not fast. Not rushed. But like something sacred had already begun.

Each step was a breath. A vow. A promise of what waited behind the door at the end of the hall. Agatha pushed it open with her foot. Rio helped ease you down onto the edge of the bed. Her hands never left your skin. And you looked at them both—your wives—already unbuttoning their shirts, their eyes dark with love and hunger.

You whispered, “I need you.” But it wasn’t enough. Your breath caught. Your body trembled with it. So you said more. “I’m desperate,” you confessed, voice cracking as you sat there on the edge of the bed, thighs trembling beneath the weight of it. “I can’t—” You swallowed hard. “I can’t take it anymore. If you don’t touch me right now, I swear I’ll do it myself.”

That stopped them. Agatha’s lips parted, her shirt halfway off her shoulders. Rio went still, hands frozen where they’d just begun to tug down her waistband. And both of them looked at you like they’d never seen anything so wrecked—or so beautiful.

You were flushed everywhere. Your skin lit from the inside, like your pulse had replaced your breath. Your legs shifted open just a little, your hands braced on the bedspread, and your belly rose between you like a divine altar. “Please,” you said again, lower now, like prayer. “Please—I can’t breathe unless I feel you on me.”

Agatha was the first to move. Not quickly. Not hungrily. Reverently. She stepped forward, knelt between your legs, and pressed her hands to your thighs—solid, grounding. And then she moved.

Fast. Agatha’s fingers found the waistband of your pants and tugged—hard—dragging the fabric down in one smooth motion that made you gasp out loud. The pressure of the waistband sliding over your hips, the rush of cold air against flushed skin, the way her breath hit your thighs before her mouth ever did—it all hit at once.

You cried out as she hooked one finger in the band of your underwear and shoved it aside—no hesitation, no pause for permission, only purpose. Then her mouth was on you. Not gentle. Desperate.Her tongue swiped up the center of you in one broad, reverent stroke, her lips parting as if even a moment without your taste would have broken her in half. The sound you made was filthy, and she growled in answer—low, vibrating, the kind of sound that said this wasn’t about teasing anymore.This was about worship. And Rio—gods, Rio—knelt behind you on the bed, one arm curled protectively beneath the swell of your belly, her breath warm at the shell of your ear, her voice a rasp spun from silk and smoke: “That’s it, baby. Let go. Let her take you apart.” You couldn’t see Agatha anymore.

Not past the soft, glorious curve of your belly, tight and high with the weight of thirty-two weeks, the fullness of the life you carried. Your body had shifted forward, knees parted wide, thighs trembling with every motion—and still, you couldn’t see. But you could feel her.

God, you could feel her. The drag of her tongue—broad and slow—stroking through your slick like it was scripture. The way her lips sealed around you, lower lip dragging across swollen flesh, tongue circling your clit with meticulous worship. Her groan vibrated against you like a prayer answered.

You cried out. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t quiet. It ripped from your chest like a confession. Your hands fumbled uselessly—clutching the bedspread, gripping the hem of your shirt, sliding over your own belly as if that would bring you closer to her. But there was nothing to do but feel. You couldn’t reach her. Couldn’t see the hunger in her eyes. Only the ache of being filled with sensation and unable to ground it.

Your mouth fell open. You were going to fall apart. “Eyes on me, baby.” Rio’s voice—command and comfort, all in one. Your head turned before you even meant to, like your body knew to listen. Her hand guided your jaw gently, fingers splayed across your cheek. Her thumb brushed your lip.

She was close now, her curls brushing your collarbone, her breath feathering over your throat. Her eyes locked with yours—steady, wanting, infinite. “Look at me,” she whispered, her voice soft but firm. “I want to see every moan fall out of you. I want to hear every sound you make. Don’t hide from me. Not now.” You tried to speak, but Agatha chose that moment—that exact moment—to suck your clit hard into her mouth and flick her tongue in tight, relentless circles.

Your whole body arched. You sobbed. “Fuck—” Your head fell forward onto Rio’s shoulder, your jaw trembling, tears beading at the corners of your lashes.

“Give it to her, baby,” Rio whispered, lips pressed to your temple, her voice a raw ache you could feel echoing inside your ribs. “She needs it.”

And gods—you did.

You needed to give it. You needed to be taken. Agatha’s mouth was unrelenting now, her tongue working you open with a rhythm that had long stopped being patient. She was starving for you. Every motion was deeper, slicker, more demanding—her lips locking around your clit like she was trying to drink every moan straight from your center.

Your thighs were shaking. Your belly jumped under Rio’s arm with every gasp, every flinch. You were suspended—open, wide, trembling, your entire body arching toward that mouth like gravity had redefined itself.

And then you remembered— That warning. That promise. That threat you'd made hours ago in Agatha’s office: “Because if either of you touch me again in this office, I will beg. And it’ll be loud.” You had meant it. But you had no idea it would feel like this.

Your breath punched out of your chest. “Please—Agatha—fuck—please—don’t stop—don’t—”

The words fell out of you like sobs, broken and breathless, your hips jerking forward, caught between helplessness and hunger. You couldn’t see her—your belly blocked the view—but it made everything worse. It made every flick of her tongue feel like a shock through your spine. Like sensation with no face, only need.

“Please—please—I’m begging you—”

Agatha groaned into you, the vibration making your vision white out. Her hands gripped hard and possessively, pulling you lower toward her face like she couldn’t get close enough. She growled—growled—“Say it louder.”

“FUCK, AGATHA—”

You shouted her name. You screamed it. Your body was gone. Gone. And Rio—bless her—Rio cupped your cheek, her voice hoarse and reverent: “That’s it. That’s it, love.”

Your head thrashed against her shoulder, your hands slipping down your own sides like you were trying to hold yourself together, like the orgasm building was going to rip you in two. Your legs shook so violently you nearly slid forward, and Agatha caught you—held you—never breaking rhythm, her tongue lashing, circling, sucking you into the kind of pressure that made your chest seize. “I—I-can’t”

But you could. And they knew. Because when your hips jolted forward one last time, when the heat in your belly snapped and the moan tore through you—long, high, shaking—they were already holding you.

Agatha didn’t stop. She didn’t even slow. Her mouth stayed locked to you, tongue devouring, breath desperate, like the moan you'd just let slip had fed her. Had awakened something low and primal and holy. Her grip on your thighs tightened, holding you open as your hips tried to jerk away—too much, too fast, too raw.

But there was no escaping this. You had warned them. And now, you were loud. “Please—please, Agatha—I’m begging—” The word broke. Begging. It rang out between the walls, cracked and crystalline and undeniable. It wasn’t polite. It wasn’t pretty. It was guttural, broken, raw and they felt it. Agatha moaned against you—moaned—her voice caught in her throat like your pleading had dragged something unholy from her. The sound of it vibrated through your clit, through your core, through every nerve ending she’d already set aflame.

She didn’t tease. She didn’t relent. She answered. Her tongue worked you in tight, frantic circles, lapping through your slick like she needed it, like you were oxygen and she’d been starving for breath. Every swipe pushed you higher. Every groan threatened to break you.

And Rio—fuck—Rio pressed her forehead to yours like she was the only thing anchoring you to the room. Her hand came up to cup your breast, thumb dragging over your nipple in slow, spiraled devotion, voice low and fraying with restraint:

“That’s it, love. That’s the sound. We’ve been aching for it all day.” Youwhimpered. Yousobbed. Your body vibrated between them—open, bowed, unraveled.Your legs shook. Your toes curled. Your breath was gone.

“Louder,” Agatha growled from between your thighs, her voice muffled and wrecked against your skin. “Let the whole fucking house know you meant it.” You didn’t think. You couldn’t. Your cry ripped out of you, full and shattering, the kind of sound that had no name—just need. It tore through the bedroom like a storm, like an answered prayer, like a psalm screamed into the mouth of God.

You were loud. You were shaking. You were sobbing their names, syllables tangled in your moans like mercy and worship braided together.

Your body was already unraveling—one trembling breath at a time, thighs slick and shaking, your spine bowed forward in Rio’s arms as Agatha consumed you like she was starved for something only you could give.

But then—then—Rio shifted. She pressed a kiss just beneath your breast. Then another. Her mouth closed around your nipple. Hot. Wet. Deep. She sucked—slow at first, then firmer, dragging it between her lips until you gasped, the sound punched from your chest without permission. Your hand flew up to her shoulder, fingers clutching her shirt, your hips already rolling down into Agatha’s mouth like they didn’t belong to you anymore.

And Agatha—gods, Agatha—growled. The sound reverberated through your core just before her tongue dipped, then thrust—inside you. Deep.

Agatha moaned deep, tongue swirling tight around your clit before plunging inside you, deep, hot, relentless, her hands gripping the backs of your thighs and pushing them wider, anchoring you down to the bed like she couldn’t stand to miss a single shudder.

Agatha moaned deep, tongue swirling tight around your clit before plunging inside you—deep, hot, relentless—her hands gripping the backs of your thighs and pushing them wider, anchoring you to the bed like she couldn’t stand to miss a single shudder. You were so open. So wet. So helpless to the depth she gave you.

Her tongue drove in again—deeper this time—reaching like she was trying to find the point where your pleasure broke open from within. She thrust again, harder, slower, curling upward once she was buried inside you. You cried out. Your legs twitched. She groaned against your cunt, low and guttural, and your hips bucked uncontrollably. Her grip only tightened.

She held you open like you were something sacred—like an altar, not a body—and her mouth was the only worship you’d ever need. And gods, she didn’t stop. Her tongue thrust in again and again, sliding slick and deep and thick as she worked her mouth down into you, one hand moving to spread you wider, fingers pulling you open with reverent precision. You could feel her lips pressed to your folds, her nose brushing against your clit with every motion, but it was her tongue—her tongue driving in and out, curling with practiced rhythm—that shattered you.

You gasped—then moaned, louder now, buckling forward. You couldn’t stop shaking. You couldn’t breathe. And behind you, Rio whispered something raw and wrecked against your ear: “Eso es, mi amor. Deja que te llene. Deja que pruebe todo lo que tienes.” You cried out again.

“Oh god—Agatha—deeper, please—fuck—please don’t stop—” Agatha moaned again, dragging her tongue up through you, circling your clit just once—just enough to keep you climbing—before plunging back inside, this time slower, this time so deep you swore she reached something you didn’t know existed.

And still—still—it wasn’t enough. You were wailing now. Whimpering. Begging. Agatha growled low against you, her tongue still driving into your soaked heat, her mouth open and reverent, her fingers bruising where they held your thighs wide. And Rio—bless her—lowered her mouth again to your breast, lips dragging over your nipple before she sucked, deep and low and full of need. The sharp pressure of her tongue against your swollen peak sent a bolt of sensation ripping through your spine, so raw you cried out, your hips bucking hard against Agatha’s mouth.

And then— It happened.Just as Agatha plunged her tongue inside you, curling deep and rhythmic, driving up like she knew the shape of your soul, Rio let out a guttural, startled moan—not performative, not careful. It was ripped straight from her.

Because her mouth filled with liquid. Warm. Earth-sweet. Your breast had let down—just a little, just enough to catch Rio’s tongue with something your body had never done before. Something new. Something wild. Something utterly yours.

You gasped, “Oh—oh fuck—Rio?”—your voice already shaking, but she didn’t stop. She groaned, deep in her throat, wrapping her mouth tighter around your nipple, drinking you like you were the only thing that could satisfy her now. And at the exact same moment, Agatha’s tongue drove deeper, curling inside you like a hook, pressing up, then retreating, then plunging again—in and out, a rhythm so intimate it didn’t feel like fucking—it felt like claiming. You screamed. Your whole body arched, seized, broke—your orgasm crashing through you like your entire nervous system had let go.

“FUCK—AGATHA—don’t stop, don’t stop—oh my god—Rio—” You didn’t just come. You collapsed into it, shaking violently, tears springing to your eyes as your body gushed—flooded, clenching around Agatha’s tongue while her moan vibrated through your core like an earthquake beneath your skin. She didn’t stop. She licked deeper, tongue still pressing up into you, her jaw moving slow, reverent, hungry, her hands holding your thighs so wide you couldn’t even try to pull away. And Rio—gods—Rio was still suckling at your breast, gently now, her hand stroking your hair, her voice trembling as she whispered: “She’s so ready. Look at her, love—look what you’ve done.” And Agatha— She answered with another moan,still inside you, her tongue easing in again, curling just to feel your body respond.

You were still trembling, hips loose against the sheets, Agatha’s mouth soft against the inside of your thigh. She hadn’t moved. Just… stayed there, kissing your skin like it was a psalm. But your breath was shallow. Your eyes glassy.

And then—

Rio reached down, clapped her hand against Agatha’s with a smirk and a glint of heat behind her eyes. “Tag. My turn.” Agatha huffed a breathless laugh, already pulling back on her knees, face flushed and lips swollen, wrecked in the best possible way. “You better make her louder than I did.”

“Oh, I will,” Rio said with a grin, already shifting to help guide your limp, shaking body further up the mattress. Your thighs parted with no resistance. Your belly curved up soft and full and divine between them. Your chest rose and fell like you were learning how to breathe again.

Agatha bent down, not between your legs this time—but to your breast. Her mouth closed gently around your other nipple, tongue flicking once, then stoppingas her brow furrowed. Then— “Holy fuck.”

Her voice was reverent. Shocked. Because her mouth had filled—just slightly—with the barest taste of you. A sweetness you hadn’t expected. A shift in your body neither of you had spoken about. But it was there. It was real. Her lips closed again, and she moaned, like you were the only thing in the world worth worshiping. You whimpered. And then—Rio’s mouth met you again. Hot. Unapologetic. Quick. She didn’t ask for permission. She didn’t work her way in slowly. She took you.

Her tongue was relentless, licking fast, tight circles over your clit before dragging low, then back up—sucking, pressing, slipping in just barely before pulling back to flick again with precision that felt like she was reading your pulse. And gods, you couldn’t stop it. Your voice rose—already loud, already gone. “Rio—oh god—sí, sí, no pares, por favor, por favor—te necesito—”

You barely knew what you were saying. But Rio did. Her moan hit your skin like a firestorm. She gripped your thighs tighter, digging in, her tongue working faster now—merciless, focused, chasing your cries like they were the thing she needed most in the world. And Agatha—still suckling, still moaning—groaned as your milk spilled against her tongue again. Her fingers dug into your side like she couldn’t believe what she was tasting. “You’re fucking everything,” she whispered against your breast, breath hot and broken. “We should’ve never left the office—look at you—so full, so loud, so goddamn perfect—”

You shattered. Again.Harder this time. Faster. “¡Dios, Rio—no pares, no pares—¡me vengo!—fuck—AGATHA—” Your scream cracked, full-bodied and explosive. Your whole body jerked, hips lifting straight off the bed, thighs clamping around Rio’s head as your orgasm ripped through you—violent, loud, beautiful. Your voice echoed off the walls, no restraint, no apology, only truth. You weren’t just wrecked. You were worshiped. And they stayed with you. Rio easing her tongue into long, slow laps as Agatha kissed up the curve of your belly, hands cradling your sides like you were carved from starlight.

And when the shaking finally slowed… When your breath steadied…

When your eyes fluttered back open, raw and brimming, Rio crawled up your body, kissed your temple, and whispered low in Spanish— “Eres un milagro, mi amor.” You couldn’t even answer.

You just wept. They didn’t let you move. Not even an inch.

Agatha was the first to press herself against your side, kissing slow trails up your belly as Rio pulled her mouth away from the slick between your thighs, wiping gently with the back of her hand, breath still shallow from the effort of claiming you.

“Come here,” Agatha murmured. Her arms curled around your shoulders, her cheek resting against the crown of your head as she pulled you up—not to move you, but to hold you, to wrap you in warmth and grounding and touch.

Rio climbed up behind you next, sliding in close at your back, long limbs draping over your body like a blanket. Her hand reached over to lay softly across your belly, and you could feel her kiss the top of your spine, slow and anchoring.

Your body trembled—shallow, beautiful aftershocks.

And then—

You cried. It was small at first. A breath hitch. A twitch in your lips. But then the tears came. Hot and quiet. Rolling sideways into the pillow as Agatha blinked and leaned back just enough to tilt your chin toward her. “Hey—” her voice was low, furrowed, gentle. “Why are you crying, sweetheart? Did I—are you—”

You sniffed hard, cheeks flushing. “It’s just hormones or whatever,” you said, wiping your cheek with a shaky laugh. “And I just—” You hesitated. Then sighed. “I didn’t expect the milk. That’s… new.”

Rio’s arm around you tightened in that grounding way she always did when words failed. But Agatha just smiled—not teasing, not at all. “It was beautiful,” she whispered.

Rio nodded behind you. Her voice was soft, breath curling over the back of your neck. “You should’ve seen yourself. You looked like a goddess.”

You covered your face with one hand. “I felt like a faucet.”

That made Agatha laugh—soft, affectionate. She pulled your hand gently away, kissing your knuckles. “No, love. You felt like life.”

Rio's hand rubbed slow circles on your belly now, her palm firm and steady. “Your body’s getting ready,” she murmured. “She’s getting ready. It’s happening. So soon.”

You nodded, a little overwhelmed. A little in awe. Thirty-two weeks suddenly felt like a whisper away from something so much bigger. So much closer. Your chest swelled with it—love, fear, pride, everything.

Agatha reached down then, fingertips brushing beneath the hem of your shirt. “Let’s get this off,” she said softly, “let you breathe.”

She peeled your shirt up slowly, reverently, lifting it away from your damp skin. Rio helped you sit up just enough for it to slide over your arms and shoulders. Then Agatha undressed you the rest of the way, moving with care, not haste—just attention, folding your clothes off your body like she was unwrapping something holy.

You sank back into the pillows, bare and radiant and trembling.

Rio kissed the curve of your belly first. Then the top of your thigh. Then she whispered: “You did so good for us.”

Agatha followed. Her kiss landed just beneath your navel, and then her hand joined Rio’s over the place where Sprout stretched within you.

Both of their hands were on your belly now—Agatha’s sliding in beside Rio’s, fingers splayed wide, the warmth of their touch settling you like weighted blankets. Beneath the surface, Sprout rolled, a deep, slow stretch that made your entire torso shift. The movement was whole-bodied, not a jab or flutter—a full tumble, like she was rearranging the furniture inside you. You gasped a little, the sensation pressing high under your ribs.

They both felt it. You let out a breathy sound, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “She’s doing laps,” you muttered, eyes fluttering shut for a moment.

Agatha leaned in with a kiss, lips brushing the taut curve where Sprout had just pushed. She arched an eyebrow and whispered, tone mock-scolding but fond:

“Hey,” Agatha whispered to your bump, her tone mock-scolding. “No revolutions in the womb. We haven’t finished your nursery yet.” That pulled a soft snort from Rio, who dropped her chin against your shoulder with a grin. Her hand rubbed slow circles against the spot where Sprout was still stretching, active, like she knew she had an audience now.

Agatha kissed you again—lower this time, right where Sprout had pushed out the hardest. “I get it, Bean,” she whispered to your skin. “You’ve got things to say. Just remember, you’re still on a lease agreement. One more month, minimum.”

Then, softer still, her cheek rested against your belly, her fingers laced back through yours over the stretch of warm skin.

“We’re ready whenever you are,” she murmured.

“But not tonight.”

------ What did you think, my loves? Remember, comments give me life.

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