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fairy-writes · 1 year ago

Note

Hi hi! I see you just opened your Kaiju no. 8 requests and I’m head over heels for our boy Kafka! I’m not sure WHERE to take this but like him having saved you in a similar fashion as Kikoru (so you know he’s part kaiju now) and months later after A LOT of flirting Reno finally blurts out “JUST GET TOGETHER ALREADY JEEZ!!” or something🤣

If you’re not a fan you can take this however you want or ignore it lol thanks for indulging me lovey! *screams please & thank you <3

HE LISTENS

Reblogs and Comments are greatly appreciated!!

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Fandom(s): Kaiju No. 8

Pairing(s): Hibino Kafka x Reader

Word Count: 2.7k

Genre(s)/Tag(s): Gender Neutral!Reader, Civilian!Reader, Kafka and Reader are the same age, Reader is implied to be shorter than Kafka

Notes: I absolutely adore Kafka! He looks like he’d give the BEST hugs!

The reader is written with fem!reader in mind, but no pronouns are used!

CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR THE MANGA

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You knew you should’ve evacuated at the first siren.

But noooooo! You just had to go back to your apartment for your laptop! But hey! Your dissertation for your doctorate was saved on there, and there was no way you were losing it when you were this close to finishing and graduating!

You ducked under another swipe of a Yoju. It’s some spindly long thing with too many eyes and a mouth full of too many teeth. It takes another swipe at you, and you duck, narrowly avoiding dropping your laptop bag as you trip over some stray rubble. Your right arm shoots out to catch your fall while the left cradles your precious dissertation and homework.

Pain jolts up your right elbow, and you’re pretty sure you have road rash all up and down your fingers and your palm. You look up and see the Yoju opening its maw to swallow you whole and only think of one thing.

You knew you should’ve evacuated at the first siren.

You close your eyes, accepting your fate but curling into a tighter ball in a sorry attempt to make it harder to eat you. (What kind of logic was that?)

But nothing happens.

What?

You peek open an eye and see something that has your jaw dropping open in shock.

Scales as black as pitch and outlined in azure light. A demonic-looking skull and a pronounced spinal cord with spikes lining the length of it.

Another Kaiju?

But that wouldn’t make any sense, seeing as it was holding the mouth of the Yoju open to keep it from eating you. The humanoid Kaiju effectively stood between you and the monster… Was it… Protecting you?

The creature turned its head slightly to look at you and winked. It winked!

“You might wanna get outta here, sweetheart, I’ll deal with this one.” Its voice was vaguely male-sounding yet demonic at the same time.

It could talk?!

That snapped you out of your shock, and you scrambled to your feet, holding your laptop bag to your chest as you sprinted around a corner just as the Kaiju readied a fist. You peeked back around the corner as the punch landed and quite literally exploded the Yoju on contact. You flinch back as organs and blood go everywhere. But it’s so quick that some of it gets on your sweater, effectively ruining it, as well as your slacks and shoes.

The blood begins to burn, but you pay little attention to it as a young man—no older than eighteen—with silvery white hair rounds a corner. His uniform exposes him as a member of the Defense Force. He holds the long rifle-like gun that all Defense Force members have. The man skids to a stop before the Kaiju but doesn’t shoot it.

“Senpai!” He chirps, and you watch as the Kaiju begins to change.

It shrinks in size, scales retracting into skin, and horns retreating into a head of spiky brown hair. Soon enough, a man stands before you in the same uniform, back to you.

“Yo! Ichikawa!” The man greets him in return

What.

The.

Hell?!

“Ichikawa” seems to hear something and turns to see you. His face drops in shock and surprise before darkening in anger. Though it wasn’t at you, it was at his “senpai.” The Kaiju-man-hybrid-thing notices the anger and turns around, spotting you. But he doesn’t seem angry. Instead, you watch his face light up in pure panic.

“I thought I told you to run!” He squawks awkwardly, and you stand on shaky legs, jabbing a finger at them.

“You never said how far! I thought around the corner was good enough!” You retort, though your knees shaking betray just how scared you are.

Would you be killed? This was clearly a closely guarded secret between the two of them.

Did the Defense Force know they had a Kaiju on their side?

Did anyone else know?

Ichikawa digs his foot into the man’s side in a ferocious kick and sends him stumbling.

“I thought I told you to make sure the area was clear of civilians before transforming!” He shouts, and you flinch at the vicious tone. Though the other man was clearly older than Ichikawa, he seemed to be in charge.

“But if I had to check the area every time I had to punch somethin’, nothing would ever get done!” The man whines, and Ichikawa simply sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Um…” The two men look at you, and you flinch again, your grip tightening on the laptop bag. “I won’t say anything, I promise. You don’t have to worry about me!” You manage to squeak out, and the older man looks at Ichikawa with bright eyes. You could practically see a puppy tail wagging behind him excitedly.

“See! We don’t have to worry about anything!” He exclaims, but Ichikawa isn’t convinced.

“How do I know we can trust you?” He says, eyes narrowed and brows pulled together in skepticism. You swallow thickly,

“Well… He saved my life. I’m indebted to him, and the least I can do is keep a secret.” You say, and Ichikawa stares, mildly surprised but relenting.

“Fine!” He says, turning on his heel to glare at his friend. The man spews apologies for revealing his identity to a civilian, but the duo doesn’t seem too upset about it.

You hiss in pain as adrenaline wears off, and you’re left in bloodstained clothes that are currently melting off your body. You high tail it to a nearby shelter where they provide a spare change of clothes. While you change and shower, you can’t help but think of the odd duo you met today.

You’d likely never see them again.

Right?

You stare at yourself in the mirror, adjusting your blazer for the millionth time, making sure your button-down is tucked into your slacks and scuffing your feet along the floor.

It was almost time.

It had been nearly six months since your interaction with Ichikawa and his friend (whose name you still didn’t know). You hadn’t seen them since then, but your life had changed drastically as a result.

You successfully graduated after defending your dissertation. Your research was making waves in the Defense Force and Kaiju-enthusiast community in general. So, you were summoned by the Defense Force to give a presentation to the officers about the importance of it. And today the presentation was to be given to the entire Defense Force.

You were only a little nervous. (You were bullshitting yourself, you felt like you were going to pass out.)

There is a knock on the office you had been stationed in, and you jump about a foot in the air.

“Yes?” Your voice is much more level than you expected. At least that was good. An officer peeks her head in,

“The Defense Force has been organized. They’re ready for you,” She says kindly. You swallow once, nod, and scoop up your laptop (which wasn’t damaged in the Yoju attack, thank the heavens) to follow her out.

The massive lecture hall reminds you of the enormous rooms professors would give lectures in back in graduate school and college. In fact, you wouldn’t be surprised if they were modeled after one another. Officers in their uniforms line the seats, most on their phones, but some chatted with one another. You even spotted the infamous Narumi Gen on some sort of gaming device.

Silence fell over the crowd as you were handed a microphone and tapped it a few times, making sure it worked, before introducing yourself. You heard a strangled noise come from the audience, but the lights facing you kept you from seeing who it was. You could see vague shapes of people, but that was it.

So, you don’t pay it any mind and start into your spiel that you had prepared. You introduce what the lecture will be about, your contact information (mainly email) if there are questions, and promptly launch into said lecture.

“And that concludes the lecture. Thank you, everyone, for your questions and for listening. I’ll be around the next couple of days gathering samples for research, so feel free to reach out and ask any other lingering questions!” You say and switch off the microphone, setting it down on the podium as well as the laser pointer. Most of the officers trickled out, with only a few staying behind to ask clarifying questions.

It wasn’t until you were shutting down your laptop and packing up your notes that the final people in the audience approached you. Everyone was long gone by now, save for…

“You!” You gape at the sight of the man and Ichikawa approaching you. They freeze midway up the steps to the stage. Ichikawa takes the initiative.

“I’m glad to see you’re doing well.” He says as he bows. You rub the back of your neck awkwardly and bow your head in return.

“Only thanks to you two. I’m sorry, I didn’t get either of your names.” You say hesitantly, and both of them look at each other before introducing themselves.

“Ichikawa Reno.”

“Hibino Kafka!”

You can’t help but smile at Hibino’s enthusiasm and extend a hand for them to shake. Ichikawa shakes it first, his hold light but not wimpy by any means. In contrast, Hibino’s is firm and sturdy.

“Now, how can I help you both?” You ask, and Hibino looks somewhat embarrassed.

“We were just wondering if you told anyone…?” He trails off, but you know what he’s talking about.

“No. I kept my promise. No one knows save for whoever you’ve told.” You say quickly, eyes unconsciously looking around the room for any spare stragglers who might be listening in.

Luckily, no one is.

“So… You never really went into it in your lecture… But what did you major in in college?” Ichikawa asks as the three of you walk back to your office. Hibino thankfully badges you in, seeing as all the keys are electronic keycards, and you never received one. You set your bag down and sigh in relief. It was finally over and not as scary as you thought it would be.

“I graduated with a PhD in biomedical engineering with a specialty in Kaiju biology studies.” You explain as you slump into your office chair and tilt your head back. But not before you watch their faces pale at the idea of all the studying you had to do.

Which was a lot.

You laugh at their expressions and offer them a smile,

“It was a lot of work, but if I can help people, then it was worth it.”

Ichikawa Reno and Hibino Kafka become a staple in your life after that.

Even when your research into how Kaiju biology could help amputees and transplant recipients took off, they were there every step of the way.

Especially Hibino.

He was there at every lecture, asking questions and stimulating conversations amongst your peers. He allowed you to study him in his Kaiju form as his identity as Kaiju No. 8 was revealed to the rest of the Defense Force. No needles, of course. That was his only stipulation. (Who knew a man as powerful as him would be scared to death of needles?)

So, you settled for CT scans, MRIs, and other ways of study.

Hibino also took you out for meals when you were both on break at least twice a week. Ichikawa often tagged along, but more often than not, it was you and Hibino alone.

Today was a day that Ichikawa tagged along.

It was one of the rare days that he was able to come to visit from the Fourth Division while you and Hibino were stationed at the First Division. You weren’t employed by the Defense Force persay; you were actually employed by Izumo Tech while you furthered your research. But with Hibino stationed at the First Division, that was where you were allowed to go.

The diner was filled with American-style food. It was one of Hibino’s favorites in the area, so you usually indulged him when he allowed you to pay. (Which wasn’t often)

The waitress brought over your drinks just as Ichikawa arrived and sat down. You had taken the liberty of ordering him a drink that you hoped he’d like. This place was renowned for its smoothies, so he got a strawberry banana smoothie. Hibino ordered an alcoholic beverage of some kind, and you stuck with water.

“How’s research been going?” Ichikawa asks as the waitress brings over your food, and you all promptly dig in. The food was greasy but delicious. You hum through your mouthful, chew, and swallow before answering.

“Slowly, we’ve made some breakthroughs, but nothing special has come of it yet.” You say cryptically. You weren’t allowed to really disclose anything before it was published, so dancing around the topic was the best you could do.

Hibino didn’t really get the memo.

“We almost—” You lunged across the table. You shoved a hand over Hibino’s mouth before he could spill any critical information. If it got out that he said something, you could be fired, and your career would be ruined. Hibino was still talking, his beard scratching your hand as he tried to explain himself. You yank your hand back like you had been burned but silence him with a glare.

“You know you aren’t supposed to say anything!” You hiss, and he rubs the back of his neck with a chuckle.

“Sorry, I just get really excited hearing you talk about your work.” He mumbles.

That gets your blood boiling.

But not in anger.

In excitement.

No one liked hearing you talk about your work! Hell, even your parents' eyes would glaze over when you started talking about Kaiju biology and how it could help hundreds of people! But as you thought back on it… Hibino would be an active listener, sometimes even taking notes for you to clarify at a later date.

He listened to you.

Your face was burning, steam practically coming out of your ears in embarrassment. Hibino’s face mimicked yours as what he said caught up with him.

Ichikawa wasn’t impressed.

“Just kiss and get a room already!” He complains and gets up, tossing some paper bills down to cover his part of the meal, and goes to get a take-out box. He was clearly done with your antics.

Your face felt like a volcano erupting. But you couldn’t do much else other than look down at your lap.

“Y’know…” You look up as Hibino rubs the bottom half of his face, his voice barely above a mumble. As your rampant emotions cool off, you answer him.

“What?” Hibino’s face flushes even more red, and it isn’t the alcohol in his system.

“He isn’t exactly wrong… I mean… I’ve been wanting to take you out for a while… And not just to lunch!” He stammers through his sentence until you get a vague idea of what he’s asking.

“Hibino Kafka, are you asking me on a date?” You tease, mostly to hide your thundering heart. Hibino swallows thickly and nods,

“If you’ll date someone like me, that is…” A grin splits your face until your cheeks hurt, and you reach across to grab his hand.

“I’d like that. I’d like that a lot.” You say, and he stares for a few seconds before whooping in excitement.

“Hell yeah!” He shouts, and you duck your head in embarrassment.

“Oh! And you don’t have to call me Hibino anymore, y’know?” He cradles your hand in his larger one and swings it back and forth as you leave the diner. Ichikawa left a while ago, claiming you two were an embarrassment to be around. You can’t bring yourself to care.

Squeezing his hand in return, you lean your head on his arm and smile.

“Kafka it is, then.” You say, and he just grins.

#kafka hibino x reader #hibino kafka x reader #kn8 x reader #kaiju no. 8 x reader #kaiju no 8 x reader #kafka x reader #kafka x you #kaiju no 8 #kn8 #kaiju no. 8 #kafka hibino #hibino kafka #fairy writes

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warpdrive-witch · 3 months ago

Text

It Worked (7/?)

12.2k: Angst, Worry, BeanSprout, Dr.Ezra.

MINORS MUST NOT INTERACT

Pairing: Agatha x Rio x Reader Summary: The body always tells the truth—even when you don't want to hear it. You thought you could push through. One more lecture. One more unread message. But that's not how it works.

When the Body Speaks: (Part 1)

The week before Thanksgiving blurred like ink dropped in water—familiar outlines dissolving into chaos. Your fingers were stained black from grading, the skin beneath your nails raw from pencil marks and too much time tapping at worn keys. Students moved through your office like anxious spirits, pacing and pleading, their faces pinched with panic, the scent of too much coffee clinging to their clothes. Deadlines loomed like storm clouds. The towers of final papers on your desk grew taller by the hour, precarious and accusing, each one a whispered reminder that you were behind. Again.

Your inbox throbbed with urgency—subject lines shouting: "Final extension?" "Emergency meeting?" "Please help."

At home, every surface at home had become a battlefield—half-graded finals spilled across the dining table, your dissertation annotated into exhaustion, and the desk in the corner groaned under the weight of neglected readings and unopened emails.

You hadn’t meant to skip meals. Time had stopped making sense. You’d begin grading with the late morning sun washing through the windows and look up hours later to find dusk creeping in, your limbs stiff, mouth dry, stomach growling with forgotten hunger. Water bottles sat unopened beside your desk, their presence more symbolic than useful. Even thirst had begun to feel like an inconvenience. The nausea didn’t crash in. It crept—like a fog, a soft ache curling behind your ribs. At first, it was something you could ignore. A tickle. An emptiness. But then it twisted, hot and sudden and sharp.

You sank back in your chair, spine arching off the cushion. The room tilted slightly, your vision blurring at the edges like smeared ink. You blinked. Once. Twice. Your hands trembled. And before you could call for her, Rio was already there.

She moved like gravity had shifted—like something in her chest had pulled her toward you. Her shadow swept into the room before her voice, and when she appeared in the doorway, she didn’t speak right away. She just looked. One heartbeat. Two. Then she crossed the distance in quick steps, sat on the edge of your desk, and wrapped her warm hands around your cold ones.

“Hey,” she murmured, voice soft and grounding, the kind of tone that rooted you right back into your body. “You okay?”

You nodded on instinct, because saying no felt like surrender. But your body betrayed you. Your breath hitched. Your eyes burned. She wasn’t buying it. Rio’s brows knit together as she studied your face—your bitten lip, the pale strain around your eyes. Her thumbs rubbed slow, deliberate circles into the backs of your knees.

“I remember this stage,” she said, her voice a familiar ache, dipped in memory and love. “Right before you defend. The chaos. The pressure. The complete loss of time. You forget to sleep. To eat. To breathe.” You opened your mouth to protest, but she turned, eyes gentle and serious.

She reached up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear with the gentlest touch, like you were something fragile and sacred.

“And I know you,” she whispered. “You’ll push until you collapse. You think it makes you strong. But you can’t forget to eat and drink. Not just for your academics. For baby Bean too.”

You slumped back against the chair, rubbing your eyes. “I didn’t mean to skip lunch. Or breakfast.” Her hand drifted to your belly, resting there with quiet reverence.

“You can’t grade papers if you’re exhausted or hungry.” Her eyes held yours, firm now, unwavering. “And I know you are.”

That did it. Your throat tightened, shame and gratitude tangling together. Her words landed like soft thunder—startling, true, impossible to ignore. She leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your cheek, grounding you with the warmth of her mouth, the softness of her breath through your face. She didn’t rush you. Didn’t ask for a breakdown. She just stayed. Then, finally, she pulled back slightly and gave you a smile that could melt stone.

Rio stepped in close, placing her hands on either side of your face. “What sounds good? Anything. Say the word.”

Your stomach twisted with want. “An Oreo milkshake,” you murmured.

She grinned, already peeling off her hoodie. “Okay,” she said. “But only after something real. I’m making stir-fry. Then I’ll go out and get your shake.”

You frowned at the window, at the frost beginning to gather along the corners. “It’s freezing out.”

Rio shrugged, tossing her hoodie on the couch. “Worth it.”

Fifteen minutes later, the apartment was full of warmth again—the sharp scent of garlic, the crackle of vegetables hitting oil, the hiss and steam of something being made with love. You sat wrapped in a blanket on the couch, legs tucked beneath you, nursing the stir-fry Rio slid into your lap. Steam kissed your cheeks, and with every bite, you felt steadier. Less ghost. More you.

True to her word, Rio threw on three layers and braved the cold. You watched her from the window, her breath fogging in the air, her hands jammed into her pockets like she could stuff the chill away. She vanished down the block, and the quiet settled around you like a sigh.

When the door opened again twenty minutes later, she came in glowing from the wind, cheeks flushed, lashes wet with snowmelt. “Mission complete,” she said proudly, holding a cardboard drink carrier like a prize. “One Oreo for Mama, one strawberry for Mamì, and—” she lifted the last like it was contraband—“the nastiest flavor on Earth: Cherry Garcia for your Mommy”

Agatha perked up from the reading nook, stretching like a cat. “Watch your mouth,” she said. “That’s a sacred offering.”

You were halfway through your Oreo milkshake when you felt it. A flutter. Familiar now, not surprising. Just beneath your ribs—like the soft knock of a question. You smiled faintly, pressing a palm to the spot.

They always stirred when you ate. Like they were waking up for dessert.

Rio noticed your hand. “Bean saying hello?”

You nodded, but before you could answer, Rio’s eyes lit up with something brighter than mischief—something soft and glowing. She set down her milkshake, leaned close, and grinned at your belly.

Rio’s eyes lit up—like lightning had kissed the corners of her grin, sparking behind the awe still settling in her expression. “Oh, I’ve got an idea,” she said, her voice curling with mischief, the kind that always pulled you in before you even realized you were already smiling.

You had been feeling the flutters for the last few minutes—gentle, tentative kicks, like bubbles rising just beneath your skin. They had grown more familiar over the last week, like a private language between you and BeanSprout. But now, the moment Rio spoke—really spoke—those tiny movements stilled.

You froze, hand hovering protectively over your belly, lips parted. You didn’t say anything at first, just felt it.

As if your child—your brilliant, listening child—was pausing, waiting, like they were hearing the rules of a game they were now fully in on.

You blinked at Rio, caught between laughter and wonder. “Rio…”

She raised both hands, innocent. “No, listen! Let’s see which flavor Beansprout likes the most.”

The absurdity hit you a moment later, and your laughter bubbled up, warm and loud, breaking open the quiet of the room like sunlight spilling through a window. “Are you serious?”

Her eyes were already drifting down to your bump, where her fingers gently traced the curve of your belly through your shirt. She leaned in, close enough for her breath to ghost over your skin, and dropped her voice like she was sharing a secret with the life growing inside you.

“Okay, buddy. You’ve got three options. And let’s be honest—only one of them is right.”

Agatha looked up from her spot curled on the couch, already smirking, her curls haloed by the glow of a nearby lamp. “That’s baby Bean cheating!” she called, crossing one long leg over the other.

“It’s not cheating,” you said with mock dignity, “if Mamì wins.”

You tapped your belly lightly, feeling the way the fabric of your shirt stretched gently beneath your hand, a quiet rhythm of presence beneath your palm. “Alright, Sprout. You have before you the delicate bouquet of Strawberry, the nostalgic perfection of Oreo, and the nastiest choice on Earth—Cherry Garcia.”

Agatha gasped, genuinely scandalized. “That’s cheating! It’s delicious. Don’t believe such foolishness, little one. Mommy has refined taste buds. Your Mama and Mamì, on the other hand, are children.”

“Hey!” you and Rio chorused at once.

“I didn’t even start this,” you added, grinning. “Rio didn’t ask if I wanted to play. She went straight to the bump with the idea. I am no more than—”

“—a temporary vessel for this sacred tasting event,” Agatha interjected, her voice smooth with theatrical gravity, lips twitching with delight.

Rio didn’t miss a beat. She kept her focus on your stomach, ignoring the peanut gallery entirely. “This is a blind taste test,” she said solemnly, as if addressing a sommelier.

Agatha snorted. “No shit. Beansprout can’t see us.”

You tried not to choke on a mouthful of milkshake, shoulders shaking with stifled laughter.

Rio pressed a soft kiss to the side of your belly and continued. “Okay, Sprout. Here’s how it works. If you like the flavor, give us a kick. If you’re unsure, you can wait. But if you’re really into it?” She leaned in conspiratorially. “Go wild. Mama will let Mamì and Mommy know what’s happening from this side of the bump.”

And so it began.

Round one: Strawberry.

Rio handed you her shake, her fingers brushing yours with a spark that lingered. You took a careful sip—sweet, airy, like sugared cream laced with summer. The fruit bloomed on your tongue, lush and floral, the coldness blooming along your gums and the back of your throat.

You closed your eyes, waiting. A beat. Two. Nothing.

You opened your eyes and shrugged. “No flutter.”

Rio clutched her chest in mock agony. “Harsh critic.”

You grinned and passed the shake back.

Round two: Oreo.

Your shake. The one you’d craved. You dipped your spoon in, choosing a bite with plenty of cookie crumble and soft, creamy ice cream. The texture was velvety and cool, the taste familiar—like nostalgia dressed in vanilla.

Still, no movement. BeanSprout was quiet, contemplative.

You tilted your head. “Still nothing.”

Rio raised an eyebrow. “Tough crowd tonight.”

Agatha stretched, then sat forward, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet. “My turn!” she said, delight twinkling in her voice like starlight.

You gave her a long look, your expression dry. “I hope you know I’m only eating this because of this one’s little game,” you muttered, jerking a thumb toward Rio, who merely beamed.

Agatha knelt in front of you, the spoon already loaded. “I know, my love,” she said, voice lower now, almost reverent. “Here. Open up.”

You did, hesitantly, prepared for the worst.

But what landed on your tongue wasn’t the bitter cherry cough syrup you remembered. It was something else entirely—richer, deeper. The cherry was bold, sure, but ripe, like sun-warmed fruit bursting at its peak. It folded into the dark chocolate in a way that was indulgent, decadent. Cold hit the roof of your mouth, tingling against your teeth, but it didn’t stop the flavor from unfurling like a blooming flower.

You blinked, stunned. A slow flush crept up your neck. “Oh,” you whispered.

Agatha’s brows pulled together in concern. “Do you need to spit it out?”

You shook your head slowly, as if waking from a trance. “No…”

A flutter. Not hesitant this time. Not a question. This was a declaration. A firm, joyful kick against your skin, like a stamp of approval.

You gasped. “Welp,” you breathed, eyes wide. “We have a winner.”

“What?!” Rio clapped her hands in mock outrage.

“YESSS!”Agatha sat back, victorious. “Baby Bean has refined taste. Oh, this is beautiful. Truly. What a win.”

You looked up at her, cheeks warm with disbelief and the ghost of the cherry still lingering on your tongue. “Can I have another bite?”

Agatha grinned, slipping the spoon into the cup again. “You, my love,” she said softly, holding the next bite like a love offering, “can have the whole thing if Beansprout loves it.”

And just like that, you weren’t tired anymore. The papers, the deadlines, the chaos—they all faded into the soft warmth of your family, your belly fluttering with life and laughter.

BeanSprout had made their choice.

And honestly? It wasn’t a bad one.

_________________________________

You’d eaten this morning—half a banana, some toast. A handful of almonds a few hours ago when Rio passed through. It hadn’t been nothing. But it hadn’t been enough.

The ache behind your eyes had settled into a low throb, and the room around you felt slightly off-kilter. Like your body couldn’t quite catch up with itself.

You were on the living room floor, legs folded, laptop open, draft pages scattered like leaves. You weren’t even sure when you’d sat down. The sun had shifted; your posture hadn’t. Your back ached. Your hands trembled slightly where they rested on the keyboard.

You blinked slowly. Swallowed. Felt your stomach twist—not with nausea exactly, but with something close.

You didn’t hear Agatha at first. Not until she stopped walking.

“Are you serious right now?”

Her voice wasn’t loud. But it hit like a pressure drop before a storm.

You looked up. She was standing at the threshold, hair pulled back, sleeves pushed up, one eyebrow arched in disbelief.

“Please tell me you’ve eaten more than air and anxiety today.”

You opened your mouth to reply, then closed it again. Agatha crossed the room in two long strides and crouched in front of you, eyes narrowing. She looked at your face, then your hands. You flinched when her fingers brushed your wrist.

“You’re shaking,” she muttered. “Are you cold? Jesus, babe.”

“I had breakfast,” you said quickly. “And a snack. I just didn’t stop for lunch. Or a real break.”

Her eyes flicked to the scattered papers, the half-empty water bottle, the way your shoulders had curled in on themselves. “That’s not the win you think it is,” she said dryly.

You managed a tired smile. “Didn’t think it was.”

Agatha pressed the back of her hand to your forehead. “And now you’re overheated. And probably dehydrated. And your blood sugar’s in the trash.”

“I’m fine—”

“No, you’re not.”

She sat back on her heels, exhaled through her nose, and studied you for another beat.

Then her voice shifted—still firm, but lower now.

“What do you want?” she asked. “Not what you’ll tolerate. What you’ll actually eat. Name it.”

You blinked, then swallowed. “Peanut butter toast.”

Agatha gave a single, clipped nod.

“Done.”

She stood, kissed your forehead gently, and headed for the kitchen.

You heard the cupboard open, the toaster click, the soft scrape of a knife. A few minutes later, she returned with a small plate—two slices of peanut butter toast, a handful of apple slices fanned beside them, and a cold glass of water. She set it on the coffee table and raised an eyebrow.

“You're going to eat. Right now. While I watch you, and then you're going to lie down like someone who’s married to two women who love her more than her dissertation.”

You gave a weak laugh. “Yes, ma’am.”

She crouched again, hands braced on your knees.

“I’m not mad,” she said, voice lower now. “But I need you to stop waiting until your body screams before you listen to it.”

You nodded, throat tight.

Agatha cupped your cheek. Her thumb brushed just under your eye, where the dark circles were beginning to show.

“We love you. That means we feed you. We care for you. You don’t need to earn it by collapsing.”

You looked at her, your hand covering hers. “Okay.”

She leaned forward and kissed your forehead.

“Good. Because next time? I’m bringing backup. And Rio is even worse than me when she’s worried.”

That made you laugh—for real this time. Then you picked up the toast, your hand still trembling slightly, and ate. Agatha didn’t rush you. She watched with quiet patience, one hand resting on your knee, the other still cupped loosely around your wrist, thumb brushing slow circles into your pulse point.

When your glass was half-drained, she stood again, her fingers never leaving your skin for long.

“Come on,” she murmured, soft but sure. “Let’s get you horizontal before gravity finishes the job.”

You started to rise, but your body had other opinions—your knees protested, your back ached, and the fog behind your eyes hadn’t fully cleared. You wobbled slightly.

Agatha was already there.

“Hey. Let me.”

She bent, one arm sweeping under your legs, the other bracing around your back. She lifted you without effort—not because you were light, but because she wouldn’t let you fall.

“You know I can walk,” you murmured, your cheek pressing into her shoulder.

“Sure,” she said dryly. “But I like the excuse.”

She carried you down the hall with slow, careful steps, cradling you like something she’d never let break again. You could feel the steady rhythm of her heartbeat where your body pressed to hers.

When she reached the bed, she lowered you gently, then sat beside you.

You let your head fall back against the pillows, eyes fluttering closed for a moment. Your limbs were too heavy to fight the drag of rest—but the waistband of your pants was digging into your belly. Agatha noticed before you said anything.

“Let’s get you out of these,” she said gently, already sliding a hand under the hem of your shirt to unfasten the button and ease them down. “Do you want your soft pair or—”

“Rio’s boxers,” you whispered.

Agatha smiled. “Of course.”

She reached into the drawer and pulled them out, soft and worn from dozens of washes, then helped you step out of your jeans and into them with practiced care. She didn’t make it awkward or precious. Just easy. Steady. Familiar.

You tugged at your shirt next, the fabric sticking to your skin. “Can I…?” You gestured to hers.

She glanced at the oversized, slouchy cotton shirt hanging off one shoulder. “This?”

You nodded.

Without a word, she stood and pulled it over her head, tossing it toward you. Underneath, she was wearing nothing but a bralette and underwear—unbothered, casual, comfortable in her skin in the way that always made your heart ache a little. You pulled the shirt over your head. It smelled like her. Clean cotton, faint traces of her shampoo. It draped over your body like it belonged there.

Agatha climbed in beside you a moment later, bare-legged, still warm from her movement. She curled her body around yours, propping herself up on one elbow as her other hand drifted to your belly. She didn’t say anything right away, noticing how cold and clammy your body was, and began tracing soft, slow patterns across your skin.

Tiny circles. Figure eights. Spirals that anchored you back to breathe. After a long beat, her voice returned—low, half-thought, full of everything she didn’t know how to say louder.

“Food. Water. Sleep. That’s the only to-do list that matters right now.”

Your eyes fluttered shut at that. You didn’t have the words to answer, not yet. So, instead, you shifted a little closer into her chest. Agatha adjusted instantly—tucking her leg over yours, her hand sliding just a little higher across your stomach like she was protecting something sacred. She kept tracing those patterns—one fingertip across the curve of your belly.

“Can’t have BeanSprout growing on crumbs and caffeine,” she murmured.

You let out a quiet breath, half a laugh, half a sigh—and melted further into her. Agatha kissed the crown of your head and didn’t move again.

-----------------------------------------------

Agatha was the first to spot you.

You hadn’t meant to fall asleep. One second, you’d been reading over a printed draft with a pen in hand, and the next—your head had lolled back against the couch, mouth slightly parted, papers scattered around you like leaves.

The snow had started just after lunch—thick, soft flakes drifting past the windows. Everything outside had gone still, the kind of hush that seeps into the bones. Agatha paused in the doorway. She didn’t call your name. Just watched for a moment. Rio appeared behind her, a quiet thud of socks on wood.

“She asleep?”

Agatha nodded once and then crossed the room, her movements deliberate but gentle. She picked up the blanket from the armrest, shook it out, and draped it over your legs and shoulders.

You stirred a little as the warmth settled around you, blinking your way slowly back to consciousness. Still caught between sleep and the slow pull of gravity.

“Hey,” Rio said softly, crouching down beside the couch. “You okay?”

You blinked at her, then Agatha. Your voice came out quiet, scratchy.

“I didn’t mean to… I just felt really heavy and cold all of a sudden. I was reading, and then… I guess I was just out.”

Agatha smoothed a hand down your shin over the blanket. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Rio tilted her head, studying your face. “When’d you last eat?”

You had to think. Not because you were hiding it. Just because time had blurred again.

“A few hours ago. I think.”

“Okay,” Agatha said, not arguing, just filing it away. Her hand moved to your arm, thumb brushing lightly over the crook of your elbow.

Now that you were waking up, it was harder to hide the obvious. Your skin was pale. The circles under your eyes were darker than they had been that morning. Your mismatched socks—one with a hole near the ankle—only added to the picture. You looked like someone who had been running on fumes and empty reassurance. Exhausted. Barely holding it together.

“It’s not just food,” Rio added, her voice easy, not pressing. “It’s everything. The semester, the pressure, the not knowing how to stop.”

You looked at both of them and shrugged, slow and small.

“I didn’t even feel tired until I was already asleep.”

Agatha’s eyes softened—not pity, just recognition. “That’s what worries me.”

She leaned down to kiss your forehead, brief but steady.

“You want to stay here or come lie down in bed?”

You hesitated, blinking toward your notes.

“I need to finish that article…” you murmured, eyes already half-closed again. “I was in the middle of it.”

Rio’s hand slipped into yours, warm and sure. “It can wait,” she said gently. “You can read it after you’ve actually rested. After you’ve eaten something real and slept like a human.”

You opened your mouth—maybe to argue, maybe to agree—but the weight in your limbs spoke for you. Agatha pulled the blanket closer around your shoulders and nodded toward the hallway.

“Come on,” she said, voice soft but firm. “We’ll go with you.”

And neither of them rushed you. They just gathered the scattered papers, held out two steady hands, and helped you to your feet.

They helped you to your feet slowly, carefully, like they knew the exhaustion hadn’t entirely loosened its grip. Your legs wobbled once, but Rio steadied you with a hand at your waist, and Agatha didn’t let go of your wrist.

You were halfway down the hall before you mumbled it, barely loud enough for either of them to hear.

“Pjs and cuddles?”

Agatha glanced back over her shoulder, her mouth twitching.

You were already reaching—half-asleep, still unsteady—fingers brushing the hem of the oversized shirt she was wearing.

“That one,” you added, voice heavy and low. “I want that one.”

She huffed a quiet laugh. “Of course you do.”

Without missing a step, she tugged the shirt up and over her head, bare to the waist for a heartbeat as she handed it back toward you. You clutched it to your chest like a kid with a security blanket.

“There,” she said, amused but fond. “Your prize.”

Rio, still a step behind, let out a low chuckle.

“Hang on,” she said, pausing just outside the bedroom door. She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her boxers with mock ceremony.

“If we’re trading comfort items, might as well go all in.”

She stepped out of them and handed them over with a small, crooked grin.

“Team effort.”

You laughed—soft, grateful, more breath than sound—and clutched both pieces of clothing like they were sacred. Maybe they were. Maybe love sometimes looked like the boxers off someone’s hips and a sleep-warmed t-shirt you didn’t have to ask for twice.

Agatha opened the bedroom door, her voice gentler now.

“Come on. Let’s get you curled up and covered in way too much fabric.”

And you did. Wrapped in the scent of your wives, the snow still falling outside, and the warmth of two people who loved you enough to peel the clothes off their backs to help you rest.

It was a quiet few minutes. Agatha helped you into the shirt, Rio’s boxers already loose around your hips. You lay back against the pillows, and they joined you. Agatha was curling in behind you, and Rio was tucked into your front. Warmth, softness, breath syncing to breath.

You were nearly asleep again when the words slipped out. Unbidden. Honest.

“I want to make you proud.”

Agatha shifted behind you, brushing your hair back from your temple.

“I want to make BeanSprout proud too,” you whispered, voice trembling now. “I want them to see their Mama could do everything she set her mind on… and still make their Mommy and Mamí proud.”

Neither of them spoke right away.

Rio’s hand tightened gently around yours, and Agatha pressed her mouth to your shoulder. You could feel their warmth on either side of you—solid, real, anchoring.

“Hey,” Agatha murmured, her voice low but certain. “We are proud of you. Not because of your deadlines. Not because you keep pushing through.”

She kissed the space behind your ear. Her hand moved gently along your side.

“We’re proud of you because you’re you. Because of your heart. Your strength. The way you love. The way you try, even when it’s hard.”

Rio’s voice joined hers, soft and steady in the hush of the room.

“BeanSprout already loves you, you know,” she said. “And they’ll be proud of you not for your CV… but because you’re their Mama. Because you’re showing them how to be kind. How to be brave. How to keep going without forgetting to be held.”

Your throat tightened. You blinked hard, trying not to cry—but it didn’t matter. You were already tucked between them, safe from the weight of everything that had been pushing you forward for too long.

Agatha’s hand brushed along your belly in slow, soothing circles.

“None of this is conditional. Not our love. Not our pride. If you stopped everything tomorrow if all you did was rest and breathe and just be here—we’d still be proud.”

Rio squeezed your hand again.

“You don’t have to prove yourself to us. You never did, and you never will have to. We love you because you are you, not because of your work or degrees.”

You nodded slowly, tears slipping silently into the pillow. Not because you were broken.

But because something in you was finally allowed to rest.

They held you while you let the words settle. Let them soak through the cracks in your tired heart and find a place to stay.

Agatha kissed the top of your head.

“Sleep,” she murmured. “We’ve got you.”

And this time, when your eyes drifted shut, it wasn’t from exhaustion. It was because—for the first time in a long time—you felt safe enough to let go.

-------------------------------------

You didn’t remember buckling your seatbelt.

You were in the passenger seat, backpack at your feet, the low rumble of Rio’s car humming under your thighs as she pulled out of the faculty lot. The afternoon light was dull and grey, the kind that made it hard to tell how late it was. You blinked slowly, watching trees pass by without really seeing them.

Rio glanced over at you as she turned onto the main road.

“You okay?”

You nodded, a beat too slow.

“Just tired,” you murmured. “Committee meeting ran long. Again. Fucking bullshit, as always. I don’t get it.”

Rio’s hand tightened on the wheel.

“We’re you able to have lunch or a break?”

You hesitated. Then shrugged.

“Didn’t happen. They added two more expectations to my defense plan and kept talking over each other. I didn’t even get out of there until three.”

She didn’t say anything at first. Just tapped the steering wheel once with her thumb. Then again.

“You barely ate breakfast,” she said finally. “And you’ve been running on coffee and deadlines for three days.”

You blinked again, your head tipping back against the seat.

“I wasn’t hungry,” you mumbled.

Your voice was thin. Not defensive. Just distant.

Rio’s jaw clenched slightly.

“You’re pregnant, babe. Not eating isn’t a neutral choice anymore.”

You didn’t respond. Didn’t even shrug. She sighed, reached across the console, and took your hand.

You startled at the touch—just a tiny flinch—and she noticed. Your fingers were cold. Slightly clammy.

“Jesus,” she muttered. “You’re freezing.”

“I’m fine,” you said. But even you didn’t sound convinced. Rio didn’t push. Not yet. But her hand stayed wrapped around yours, her thumb moving in soft, slow circles against your skin.

“You keep saying that,” she said gently. “And I keep watching you fade out on me.”

You tried to answer, but your head was starting to swim. The hum of the road and the car's warmth made everything hazy. Rio glanced over again, worry tightening her mouth.

“Do you want me to pull over? Grab something? I think I’ve got granola bars in my bag—”

You shook your head slowly.

“No… just want to go home and be with you and Aggie.”

Your voice was barely above a whisper. Rio didn’t argue. She just squeezed your hand again.

“Okay.”

And for the rest of the drive, her hand never left yours. She didn’t say anything else—but her thumb never stopped moving. A quiet tether. A silent promise. Something to hold onto when you didn’t even realize you were drifting.

The smell of garlic and rosemary greeted you when you both walked in the door—thick and comforting, the kind of scent that made your stomach flutter with something between hunger and relief. The soft sound of something sizzling in a pan was the scrape of a wooden spoon. Agatha was already in the kitchen when you walked in, barefoot, sleeves rolled up, hair pushed back in a loose clip. She glanced up from the stove and smiled.

“Hello, my loves. How are my girls today?”

She didn’t get an answer right away. She looked at you. Then looked at Rio—one eyebrow raised, subtle but sharp. You didn’t notice. You were already toeing off your boots; your head ducked low as you stepped inside, mumbling something about needing a shower, tea, or maybe both.

Rio met Agatha’s gaze over your head and shook hers, barely perceptible. Her mouth pressed into a thin line.

Not good, it said.

Worse than she’s letting on.

Agatha wiped her hands on a dishtowel and turned away from the stove just as you approached.

You didn’t say a word—you just walked into her, slow and quiet, wrapping your arms around her waist and pressing your forehead into her collarbone. She caught you immediately, one arm curling around your shoulders, the other sliding along your spine in a protective sweep.

And there—in the press of her chest against yours, the warmth of her hand on your back—you felt it. A soft flutter just beneath your ribs. Not strong. Not sharp. Just movement. Quiet and undeniable. The baby.

You closed your eyes. Let the sensation ground you.

And then Rio stepped in behind you, arms folding gently around your back, resting her forehead between your shoulder blades. Her hands landed right over Agatha’s, thumb brushing the fabric of your coat like she could smooth out the tension between your shoulder blades with nothing more than a touch.

As if the three of you had been pulled together by instinct.

As if they felt the movement too—not with their bodies, but in how their hands slowed and their bodies shifted closer.

“Baby Bean said hi,” you murmured.

Agatha’s arms tightened just slightly.

Rio let out a breath, smiling into your coat.

The warmth between the three of you—anchored by that tiny flutter—settled into your bones like a promise.

-------------------------------------

Later that night, when your head finally found a pillow, Rio padded into the living room, where your backpack still lay by the door.

She crouched beside it, pulled out a neon pink Post-it from the drawer in the entry table, and scribbled a simple note:

“You are loved. So deeply. We’ll all come home when you’re tired. ❤️”

She folded it once and tucked it into the front pocket—right next to your planner, where she knew you’d see it the next morning.

Just in case the day tried to convince you otherwise.

-------------------------------------

The last day of the semester had finally come.

Outside your office window, the last of autumn clung stubbornly to the trees—leaves golden and brittle, like fire ready to fall. On the wind, the scent of crushed pine needles, chimney smoke, and something else—something tired. The entire campus seemed to move with a collective exhale, the end of the semester so close, yet so far, like a mirage just beyond reach. This year, the holiday would be quiet. Just the three of you. No big dinner plans. No complicated menus. No long lists of who was bringing what. No pretenses.

Just warmth. Home. Maybe mashed potatoes and that ridiculous cherry ice cream Agatha had convinced you to fall in love with. Maybe nothing but silence and socks and the comfort of two women you trusted with your life.

That simplicity felt like a promise. But you were still in the storm.

The student’s email came at 6:07 a.m., steeped in panic. The subject line screamed in all caps, the body full of pleas and fears and line breaks like gasps. You answered, of course. Because you remembered what it was like to feel like your entire academic future teetered on one conversation.

You didn’t want to wake them.

The house was still—shadowed and quiet in that way only the early morning can be. Your bedroom glowed dimly with a soft blue cast from the streetlights outside. Rio’s curls were fanned across her pillow, one arm draped over the space you were already halfway out of. Agatha slept curled behind her, one hand resting protectively on the soft curve of your belly, even in sleep.

You stood in the doorway a moment longer, memorizing them. Letting that love be the last thing you saw before the chaos of campus swallowed you again.

“I’m leaving early,” you whispered into the room“Meeting a student. I’ll see you both on campus.” Agatha sat up slightly, said she loved you, and went back to sleep just as quickly as she had stirred.

You dressed in the dark—jeans, soft sweater, scarf, boots. Laptop bag slung over your shoulder. You moved quietly through the kitchen, not daring to open the fridge, not daring to stir the air enough to wake them.

You left without breakfast. Without water. Without thinking.

The meeting bled into a back-to-back string of office hours. One panicked conversation bled into the next. Then came a hallway consult, an unplanned brainstorm at the library door. You answered every question and reassured every voice. You didn't notice the time. You didn't notice your body. Not until the hunger curled deep in your stomach. Quiet at first—like a question. Then sharper. A blade. A weight. A warning.

Back in your office, you pulled up your lecture notes and finessed your final slide transitions. Just one more class. One more push. You could coast on caffeine and willpower. You always had. Your water bottle sat unopened beside you. The bag of pretzels untouched. Your stomach clenched again. You ignored it. Forty-five minutes. You could do it. Maybe even let class out early. A mercy for everyone. You could eat at home.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket. You pulled it out without thinking, your mind already halfway into your lecture notes.

Rio: Have you eaten today?

You stopped. The screen glowed in your hand like it was daring you to lie.

You stared at the message for a heartbeat too long, thumb hovering just above the reply button. Her voice filled your mind—warm and steady and laced with that particular blend of concern and exasperation she always used when she caught you skipping meals. The kind that made your chest ache. You knew if you answered, she’d press. Gently. Persistently. Maybe even show up with food.

And you didn’t want to fight. Not today.

You locked the phone and slipped it back into your pocket, throat dry with guilt.

Later, you told yourself. You’d eat when you got home. Maybe even let Agatha give you another smug spoonful of Cherry Garcia if you looked tired enough. You stood, gathered your laptop and coat and stepped into the hallway. Your footsteps echoed softly off the old linoleum tile. The university was always quietest in the afternoon—like it, too, was winding down for the holiday.

As you neared the lecture hall, you heard it.

Her voice.

Agatha. Just down the corridor. Mid-lecture. Her tone passionate, incisive, alive with intellect. Her voice wove through the hallway like light through glass—measured, sure, sharp-edged and beautiful.

You stopped walking just for a second just to hear her.

That voice had found you years ago, long before she had touched you—before she had loved you. You had heard her speak across a crowded seminar room, fire in her words, and something in you had leaned toward it like a plant toward the sun.

You had loved her mind before you loved anything else. And hearing her now, that spark still there after all this time, felt like gravity tugging you home. You breathed it in, then pushed open the door to your own lecture hall.

The room was quiet. Still. You stepped inside and moved toward the podium, setting your laptop down and pulling out your notes. The click of your keys echoed a little too loud in the empty space. The lights buzzed faintly overhead.

Thirty minutes until class. You pulled up your slides, fingers dancing with habit. And then your hand twitched. You paused. Looked down. A fine tremor was running through your fingers, subtle but steady. It wasn’t nerves. It was something deeper—bone-deep. Like your body had reached a limit, one you hadn’t noticed crossing.

The nausea surged. It wasn’t sharp. It was slow, sickening, the kind that crawled upward from your belly and settled under your ribs like fog. Cold sweat broke across your neck and shoulders. You could feel the heat draining from your face, your scalp prickling. Still, you clicked through the slides. You just needed to finish setting up. But your knees felt hollow. Your spine went rigid, then slack. The weight of your own body became unbearable, your limbs too heavy to trust.

You needed to sit. Now.

You staggered back from the podium, found the desk behind you, and collapsed into the chair with a thud. Your legs splayed awkwardly. Your arms gripped the edge of the desk, trying to anchor yourself.

The world tilted sideways. Your head swam. You told yourself to breathe. Just breathe. You blinked. Once. Twice. But you couldn’t focus. Couldn’t stop the slide.

Your shoulder slipped first. Then your spine curled. Your forehead met the desk—not hard, but hard enough. A dull thud, then a sting. You felt something wet against your temple—warm, slick.

The chair tilted as your weight shifted. Your body slumped—half in the chair, half crumpled against the desk. And everything went still. The projector hummed softly behind you. The slides frozen on the opening title. The classroom empty.

Then—

Black.

-------------------------------------

Agatha’s voice rang out across the classroom, clear and confident, bouncing off the old plaster walls with the kind of cadence that made undergrads sit up straighter. She stood behind the lectern, one hand resting on the edge of the podium, the other gesturing fluidly as she explained a final thread in the week’s reading—something about resistance, language, and the reclamation of narrative. The students, most of them anyway, were listening. Or trying to.

Their post-midterm exhaustion was visible in their posture—some with faces slack with fatigue, others scribbling notes like they were trying to beat a clock only they could see. But Agatha never wavered. She taught with the same passion whether the room was packed or barely hanging on.

It was that same passion that had once drawn you to her—before either of you could name what it was. She glanced at the clock near the door. Ten minutes to the end of class. She could push through—wrap up her last talking points, assign the reading, and keep to schedule, but something gave her pause.

Her watch buzzed on her wrist.

A message from Rio.

Rio: Have you heard from her? She hasn’t responded.

Agatha’s brow furrowed.

Not worried—yet. But... something about the silence felt off. You were the one who responded to texts even in the middle of meetings. The one who reminded them to hydrate, to slow down. The one who left gentle emojis after rough grading sessions. You weren’t careless with communication.

You weren’t quiet like this. Agatha looked back at her students, then made her decision.

“Alright,” she said, lifting her voice just slightly to carry. “That’s where we’ll pause. I want you to rest this week. Genuinely. Close your laptops. Log off. Eat real food. Touch grass. Or at least... touch books that aren’t required.”

The room chuckled. A few students actually smiled.

“Have a good break,” she said more softly, and meant it. “Take care of yourselves.”

They packed up with the usual shuffle and hum, trickling out in clusters, some offering soft “thank yous” on their way out the door.

As the last one disappeared down the hallway, Agatha pulled on her coat and slung her satchel over her shoulder, checking her phone one more time. No message from you.

“Have a good break,” she said more softly, and meant it. “Take care of yourselves.”

They packed up with the usual shuffle and hum, trickling out in clusters, some offering soft “thank yous” on their way out the door.

As the last one disappeared down the hallway, Agatha pulled on her coat and slung her satchel over her shoulder, checking her phone one more time. No message from you.

Still nothing. Not worried. Just... Something.

She made her way down the corridor toward your lecture hall, boots clicking steadily against the tile. The hallway was quieter than usual—no laughter, no open doors. The fluorescent lights above buzzed softly. The air had that dry, too-clean smell of overworked HVAC systems and winter dust.

Still no response from you.

Not worried. Just—off. You never left people hanging like this. Maybe she’d find you still finishing slides. Maybe you’d roll your eyes and say “They just wouldn’t shut up,” about your students. Maybe you’d smile the way you did when you saw her, tired but soft, like she was still the best part of your day.

She smiled faintly to herself.

Maybe she’d talk you into grabbing an early dinner. Something warm. Something celebratory. You’d both earned the rest. You were nearing the end of a brutal semester—your dissertation creeping toward its final stretch, your body carrying so much more than academia.

She was only a few steps from your lecture hall when she heard it—a sound like a body collapsing, dull and final, followed by the screech of a metal chair dragged too far.

She stopped.

“Babe?” she called, one hand already on the door handle.

No answer. She pushed it open—and the rest of the world fell away.

-------------------------------------

Rio didn’t know what had pulled her from her seat. Maybe it was the silence. Maybe it was the message she sent, unanswered. Maybe it was the way your name sat on her phone screen, quiet and unlit—something about the stillness of it like a warning, like a lighthouse gone dark. She told herself she wasn’t worried. Not really. Just... unsettled.

She slipped her coat on, grabbing her phone again to check the message even though she already knew it hadn’t changed. The screen blinked open with your name. Have you eaten today? Sent thirty minutes ago. No response. No read receipt. Not even the three dots of you typing. And that wasn’t you.

She stood in the quiet of her department lounge, keys in hand, but she didn’t leave right away. She just stood there, frowning, the weight in her chest spreading like slow ink. It wasn’t panic. Not yet. But something inside her had gone still. Like the air before a storm.

She stepped out into the cold. The sky was gray and heavy above the rooftops, and the wind carried the brittle scent of dry leaves and coming snow. Her boots crunched softly across the gravel path as she crossed the quad.

She moved quickly, but not rushed. Not yet.

But every step felt like it belonged to something bigger than her—a rhythm her body had already decided on, even if her mind hadn’t caught up. Like the thud of her boots had synced with something ancient, something alert.

Something that knew.

She was halfway across campus when she caught herself scanning windows, checking classrooms as she passed, as if she could spot you through the glass. It was stupid, she told herself. You were probably fine. Probably lecturing. Probably ignoring your phone like you always did when you were locked into your notes.

Still, her pace quickened. She entered your building just as students were beginning to trickle out of classrooms, murmuring to each other, bumping shoulders, laughing about break. She didn’t stop. Didn’t speak. Just moved like she knew exactly where she was going.

As she reached the third floor, the hallway opened wide. Your room was just ahead. That’s when she heard it. The sudden clatter of something heavy hitting the floor—a bag, maybe?—then the sound of a chair scraping, but not like someone standing up. Like someone stumbling.

Then—

“Oh my God. Oh my God—no—no, baby—hey—hey, look at me, please—” Agatha was on you in a second, knees hitting the floor so hard it echoed. Her hands gripped your shoulders, gently, desperately. “Come on. Breathe. Come on, please—”

It wasn’t just a voice. It was a scream punched down into a whisper, the kind that breaks a person open just to contain it.

And Rio was already moving.

Her legs carried her faster than her thoughts could keep up, instincts overriding everything else. The sound of Agatha’s voice—your name on her lips—was unmistakable. And wrong. That wasn’t Agatha scared. That was Agatha shattered.

Running.

Her bag slammed against her hip as she sprinted forward, heart lurching so hard she thought it might burst from her chest. The hallway blurred. The lights above her flickered past like stars streaking across a night sky. Rio’s breath stopped.

The scene didn’t register all at once. It came in broken flashes—your body slumped, blood trailing from your temple, your skin pale, clammy, wrong. Your arm dangled from the desk, the back of your hand grazing the floor. The projector’s pale blue glow threw ghost-shadows across your face. For a beat, it didn’t even look like you. Just someone shaped like grief.

Agatha was already pressed to your side, one hand trembling against your pulse point, the other holding your cheek with more reverence than steadiness.

“Come on,” she whispered, voice raw. “Come on, please—”

Rio staggered forward, her chest burning like she couldn’t draw in enough air.

“What the fuck happened—” Her voice cracked as she fell to her knees beside you, eyes wide, hands already reaching, checking, grasping.

Agatha didn’t answer. She couldn’t. She was pale, shaking, one hand still cradling your face, the other pressed to your chest like she was holding back the end of the world.

“She’s cold,” Agatha whispered, and it wasn’t an observation—it was a plea. A confession. A denial wrapped in truth. “Rio, she’s—she’s so cold—”

Rio pressed her hands against your arms, then your back. The chill leached through your clothes. Clammy. Still. Too still.

Panic surged up like bile. She slid her coat off and wrapped it around you, tucking it beneath your back, over your stomach, around your arms. Anything. Anything. Her hands moved without thought, checking your pulse at your wrist, under your jaw. Her fingers brushed your temple—came away red.

Blood.

“She’s bleeding,” Rio whispered, almost inaudible. Then louder, more frantic: “We need help. Agatha—call—” Your breath was shallow, a barely-there hitch against her chest. Agatha’s hands were shaking as she pulled out her phone and called for help, voice wobbling as she rattled off the room number. Rio held you close, rocking slightly, her hand pressed to your belly like it could reach both of you at once.

And somewhere inside the terror, inside the ice and silence and fluorescent hum of that too-bright room-

She waited for you to move. She begged for it. Even the smallest flicker. Even the smallest flutter.

Agatha’s phone was already in her shaking hands. Her thumb slipped as she tried to unlock it. Once. Twice. Finally, she got it. Dialed.

Rio closed her eyes for a half second, grounding herself. Then she reached for your face, pressing her forehead to yours.

“Hey. Please. Come on, love. Just… anything. Move a little. Blink. Breathe louder. Let me hear you.” Your lips were parted. No sound. But your chest rose—barely. Shallow.

That small movement was enough to keep her from losing it. Just barely. Then something else caught her eye. The edge of a paper note, sticking slightly from your backpack where it had slumped against the desk. Rio reached with one hand and pulled it free. A post-it. One she’d written just last night and slipped into your bag when you weren’t looking. Just a little reminder. A piece of her to carry.

“You are loved. So deeply. We’ll all come home when you’re tired. ❤️”

Her fingers clenched around it. The irony made her nauseous. Agatha saw it, too. Her face contorted, and for a moment—just a moment—she stopped breathing. Her hands hovered over your chest, frozen mid-motion. She had told you to slow down. Had begged you not to let the pressure swallow you. But neither of them had made you stop.

And now—

Now they were watching the aftermath.

They had known it was bad. The skipped meals. The shaking hands. The way your eyes had dulled with exhaustion even when you smiled. They’d seen you drift further from your body day after day, and somehow still convinced themselves there would be time to intervene. Later. Tomorrow. After the next meeting. The next chapter. The next committee demand.

But there was no later. There was this. A cold body. A shallow breath. A post-it like a eulogy.

Agatha was still on the phone. “Yes. Yes, I’ll stay with her—please hurry—I don’t know how long—” Her voice cracked, and Rio had never heard it like that before.

She’d never heard her sound helpless. Rio shifted closer, pulling you fully into her lap, brushing a trembling hand over your cheek. Her thumb stroked beneath your eye, over your jaw, back again. Like a rhythm. Like a spell.

She didn’t know what she was saying anymore. Just soft, half-formed words, over and over.

“We’ve got you. We’re here. We’ve got you.”

Your body jerked once—barely.

But it was enough. Your breath caught. Shuddered. Then another came. Not strong. Not steady. But there.

Rio collapsed forward, her forehead against your temple, exhaling like she hadn’t breathed in years. Agatha ended the call and dropped to her knees again, curling her arm around your shoulders from the other side, pressing her face to your neck, her fingers tangling in the collar of your sweater like she could hold you here with will alone.

Neither of them spoke for a long, stretched moment. There was only the sound of your breath. The whisper of the projector.

-------------------------------------

The world was dark. Not the kind of dark that sleeps behind your eyelids. Not even the comforting black of rest. This was a thick, wet darkness—like being trapped under deep water. Like trying to remember the shape of breath. Time slipped sideways. Sensation flickered in and out, no weight to hold onto. Your limbs felt distant. Like they belonged to someone else. Or no one at all.

Then—

A scent.

Warmth.

The smell of Rio’s coat. Faint lavender and clean cotton. Something sweet—maybe her shampoo, or the cocoa butter she rubbed into her hands on cold days. That scent had always brought you comfort. Always meant safety. Home. Her.

The darkness shifted.

Sound filtered in next. Distant. Warped. Like voices pressed through a pane of glass. You knew one of them. Agatha. Her voice was muffled, just out of reach, but hers. That smooth cadence, that low melodic hum she always used when she was worried but trying to stay calm. She was saying something. You couldn’t make out the words, but it anchored you, pulled at something in your chest.

And then—

Another voice. Clearer. Closer.

“Hey.”

“Come on, baby. Please.”

Your name. Spoken again.

“Baby, come on. Wake up. You’re scaring me.”

Rio.

Her voice cracked like it was being pulled from the deepest part of her chest, shaped by both love and fear. She said your name again, each time softer, more desperate. You tried to move. Nothing happened. You managed a small breath—shallow, but real—and felt the way your body shifted slightly against something warm. Arms. Arms holding you.

The darkness began to thin. You blinked. Once. Twice. Light. It was too bright at first, bleached and cold, until it steadied. Fluorescent bulbs. The ceiling of your lecture hall. The hum of the projector still whispering at the edges of the room. Rio hovered above you, her face close, wide-eyed, curls wild and windblown, her cheeks flushed like she’d run the entire campus. “There you are,” she whispered, voice trembling.

You tried to speak. Tried to ask what happened. But all that came out was a cracked, uncertain breath.

“Shhh,” she said quickly, smoothing her hand over your hair. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

You shifted slightly in her hold, and the pain bloomed—sharp at your temple, then dull and throbbing. Agatha’s voice cut through next.

“She’s awake.”

There was a sound—the subtle click of her phone call ending, the emergency dispatcher line ended. Then footsteps. Her boots on the tile. Coming closer. She crouched beside you in one fluid motion, all authority and aching tenderness, her hand brushing your knee, then your shoulder, then the side of your face. Her eyes found yours instantly, reading you in a glance.

She swallowed hard. “Hey,” she murmured, voice low and unsteady, “hey, sweetheart. We’ve got you.”

Rio was still holding you, arms like anchors wrapped around your shoulders and back, her hand on your belly like a shield. You leaned into her, eyelids fluttering again from the weight of it all.

Your head pulsed with heat. The blood you hadn’t felt before now dampened your hairline, sticky against your scalp.

“Help’s on the way,” Agatha said, voice soft but firm. “Just stay here with us.”

“I’m okay,” you whispered, the words barely scraping out of your mouth. You weren’t even sure who you were saying it to. Rio. Agatha. Yourself.

You started to move—slow, clumsy—trying to sit up straighter in the chair. Rio shifted with you instantly, trying to keep you steady.

“Baby, wait,” she said.

Rio held you like a lifeline, her arms tight around your shoulders, one hand pressed against your back, the other never straying far from your belly. You could feel her trembling. You could hear her holding back the panic in the way her breath caught and refused to release.

“I’m okay,” you tried again, though your body disagreed with every syllable.

Your face was slowly flushing with color, heat creeping up your cheeks as the truth began to settle into your bones. You had passed out. In your lecture hall. Alone. Bleeding. You brought a hand to your stomach without thinking, palm spread wide, fingers shaking. The panic hit like a tidal wave.

The baby.

“Hey, hey,” Rio said softly, noticing your hand. “It’s okay. You’re okay.” But you weren’t sure. You couldn’t be.

You shifted in her arms, trying to sit up straighter. Your limbs were heavy, but the mortification was heavier. “I just… I don’t want my students to see me like this,” you muttered, glancing toward the door. “Please.”

No one moved at first. But then Agatha stood. Slow. Deliberate. She didn’t speak.

She crossed to your bag, ripped a page from your notebook, and scrawled something in her clean, familiar handwriting. She stepped into the hallway, taped it to the door, and closed it behind her.

Class Canceled. Have a good break.

She returned to you with quiet efficiency, kneeling beside Rio again, removing your scarf from your neck. Her movements were calm, but you could feel it in her body—coiled tension. Her silence wasn’t serenity. It was a calculation.

Then came the footsteps. The door creaked open as two EMTs entered the room, their vests bright against the dimmed classroom lights. The older one, gray at the temples, gave you a kind smile and crouched beside you.

“Hi. I’m James. You took a bit of a tumble, huh? Let’s check you out.”

You nodded, unable to meet anyone’s eyes. Every second made you feel more exposed. Small. Embarrassed. You focused on the floor. On the rhythmic hum of the projector behind you. On the throb in your skull.

James began with vitals while his partner took your temperature and gently shined a light in your eyes. “Blood pressure’s low,” the younger EMT said, voice low but even.

James took your hand and pricked your fingertip, watching the monitor as he waited for the reading. His brow furrowed. You watched numbly as he waited for the device to beep. It did. His eyes narrowed.

“Ma’am,” he said, meeting your eyes. “Your blood sugar is very low. That likely caused the fainting.”

The world seemed to close in around that single sentence. Something shifted in the air. Rio flinched like she’d been struck, her arms tightening around you without thinking. But it was Agatha who snapped. Not in volume. Not in voice. But in presence.

She froze. Her jaw clenched. Her eyes darkened—sharp as glass, cutting through the moment with terrifying clarity. She didn’t say a word, but her silence spoke volumes. She turned her face away from you for half a second, just enough to shut it down. To lock it in.

But you felt it. She knew.

Every missed meal. Every brushed-off “I’m fine.” Every unopened water bottle. She’d seen it, and now—now she had confirmation. Evidence. The kind that made her furious.

“I’d like to try some juice,” James said gently, unaware—or maybe pretending not to notice—the sudden frost that had settled between the three of you. “Let’s see if we can get your sugar up before we talk transport.”

“Juice,” you echoed, nodding like the word meant something larger. Maybe it did.

Rio reached into the side pouch of your bag and found the little box you always carried—juice, crackers, protein bars—none of which you’d touched today. She was trying not to cry. You could tell by the way her jaw clenched, by the way she avoided your eyes. Her hands trembled as she unscrewed the top and pressed it into your palm.

“Here,” she whispered, “sip it slow.”

You did. The juice was warm and syrupy, coating your tongue in artificial orange. You drank mechanically. Focused on the motion. Not the tension pulling your family apart in the space around you.

Agatha stood a few feet back now, arms crossed tightly over her chest, her knuckles were white where they gripped her coat sleeve. She looked like she was trying not to say something. Her face was unreadable. But her eyes— Her eyes were storming.

The EMTs busied themselves with notes and small adjustments. A minute passed. Then two.

James checked your sugar again. The monitor beeped.

“That’s better,” he said. “Still low, but heading in the right direction.” He glanced at Agatha and Rio. “Do you have someone who can get her home?”

Agatha nodded quickly. “We’re not going home,” she said. “We’re taking her to her doctor’s office right now.” Rio’s eyes flicked to Agatha—surprised, perhaps—but didn’t argue.

James nodded, reassured. “Good. That’s good. But if anything shifts—lightheadedness, weakness, nausea—you go in. Promise?”

Your voice wavered. “Promise.”

Agatha hadn’t said a word. Your heart was thudding now, louder than before. Louder than it should’ve been. You reached for your stomach. Not out of instinct. Out of fear. What if something was wrong?

“Hey,” Rio whispered. “You’re okay. You’re okay.”

You weren’t sure if she was saying it to you. Or herself. You stood slowly, legs shaking like reeds. Rio wrapped an arm around your waist, steadying you. Her fingers slipped under your coat, her body pressed close.

Agatha grabbed your bag without speaking. “I’ll pull the car around,” she said, and left the room.

The hallway was too quiet as Rio helped you walk toward the curb. Even the wind outside felt muted, like the world had drawn in a breath it hadn’t yet released. When Agatha pulled up, she didn’t get out. She just leaned across the console, threw the passenger door open, and waited.

Rio helped you into the car, buckling your seatbelt with hands that still trembled. Then she got in beside you and shut the door. The silence inside the car was loud. Agatha shifted into gear like she meant it, the car jerking slightly as it pulled forward. The heat was blasting, but you couldn’t feel it. You were frozen in your seat, spine stiff, your hand still pressed flat to your belly. No one spoke. Not until Agatha reached for her phone, tapped it open, and brought it to her ear. Her voice was quiet. Too quiet.

“We’ll be there soon.”

Then she hung up. Ezra. It had to be Ezra. You didn’t look at her. But you felt her. The tension rolled off her in waves. Not uncontrolled. Not loud. Just... sharp. Unyielding.

You turned your face toward the window. Watched the buildings blur past in streaks of gray. Your hand never left your stomach. No one said it out loud, but it was there—in every breath, every silence, every heartbeat pounding in the stillness: Was the baby okay?

-------------------------------------

Ten minutes later, you saw the clinic.

Ezra stood out front, coat pulled tight against the wind, one hand shielding her eyes from the cold. The nurse beside her gripped the handles of the wheelchair like she was ready to run. Agatha stopped the car too hard. The wheels jerked beneath you. She didn’t wait. Rio opened the door, helped you out. And the moment your boots hit the ground, the fear you’d been holding in your throat cracked wide open.

The wheelchair bumped softly over the clinic’s tiled hallway, the nurse behind you steering with ease while Rio and Agatha flanked your sides like shadows. Neither of them touched you—not because they didn’t want to, but because the edges of this moment felt too sharp.

Ezra held the exam room door open.

She stepped inside as you were wheeled in, already pulling gloves from a box and sliding them on with practiced ease. The overhead light cast her face in warm, clinical focus—calm but direct. She didn’t ask how you were feeling. Didn’t offer comfort or platitudes.

Just: “What happened?”

Her voice wasn’t unkind. But it didn’t dance around anything either. Ezra had never been one for sugarcoating.

You met her eyes, your mouth dry.

“Can we just… check first?” you asked.

Your voice cracked somewhere in the middle. Ezra nodded once, immediately moving to the counter, setting down your chart and opening the ultrasound cabinet. The nurse helped you shift from the wheelchair to the exam table, your movements still slow, your hands hovering protectively over your stomach.

Rio stood close to your left. Agatha to your right. Silent. Steady. Ezra rolled the machine closer. Snapped on the monitor. Her hands moved quickly, prepping the wand, squeezing gel onto your skin with brisk efficiency. The cold shock of it made you flinch. Then silence. Unnerving, heavy silence. Ezra’s eyes were on the screen. Her fingers moved with precision, angling the wand just so, then adjusting the machine’s depth, toggling a dial. No one breathed.

The tension in the room wrapped around your lungs like wire. Your eyes flicked from the ceiling to the monitor to Ezra’s unreadable face. You held your breath.

The guilt crept in fast and vicious. You had felt the dizziness. You had known your body was slipping, that you were frayed at the edges. And you’d chosen to grade, to push through, to ignore it. To pretend you weren’t pregnant and exhausted and fragile in ways that mattered. You did this. Your hand clenched on the edge of the exam table, nails digging into the paper beneath you. Your breath hitched.

Then—

“There we are.” Ezra’s voice broke the silence like a wave, soft and sure and filled with something that made your eyes burn. A breath exhaled—hers.

Then, finally, the sound.

A rush of rhythm filled the room. Strong. Steady. Unbroken. Rio let out a quiet sob, her face turning away for a second, then landing back on the screen. Agatha closed her eyes, the tears she had been holding back on her cheek.

BeanSprout’s heartbeat.

It filled the air like music. Not fragile. Not faint. But powerful. You broke. The sob hit before you could stop it—shoulders shuddering, face twisting, tears spilling hot and fast as the pressure inside you shattered. You reached for Rio blindly and she caught your hand immediately, forehead pressed to your temple.

“It’s okay,” she whispered over and over. “It’s okay. You’re okay. They’re okay.”

Agatha didn’t speak. But she stood close—close enough that her fingers brushed the side of your wrist, grounding you without a word. Her lips met the side of your face, but her eyes stayed locked on the screen, unmoving.

“Ezra?” she asked quietly, voice calm but taut with restraint.

Ezra nodded. “Everything looks fine. Good heart rate. No signs of distress.” The relief flooded you like warmth returning to numb limbs. Ezra didn’t pause.

“Now that we know baby is okay,” she said, setting the wand aside and grabbing a towel to wipe the gel from your skin, “let’s talk about what happened.”

As she spoke, the nurse returned with a doppler monitor and gently wrapped the elastic band across your belly. It hummed to life with a soft beep, securing around your skin like a second heartbeat. The sound of BeanSprout continued, steady in the background—like proof. Like forgiveness.

Ezra gave the nurse a nod. “Keep monitoring.”

The nurse sat you upright with a pillow behind your back and moved efficiently—taking your blood pressure, pricking your finger again for a fresh sugar read. You barely felt the sting.

Ezra turned back to you, folding her arms. “Talk to me.”

You swallowed hard. “I felt off this morning. But I had a student who emailed at 3 am—he was panicking. So I said I’d meet with him before hours. I meant to eat, but…” Your voice trailed off.

“I kept grading,” you said quietly. “One meeting led into another. Then I was reviewing my slides and just… I don’t know. I thought I could push through one lecture. Then everything went black.”

Ezra nodded slowly.

Agatha stepped in then. Her voice was low but clear. “I found her in her classroom. Half-conscious. Slumped over the desk. The EMT said her blood sugar was low.” She paused. Then added, with sharp finality: “And now here we are.”

Ezra’s lips pressed into a tight line. She looked between the three of you. “I know we’ve talked about this,” she said, her voice no longer gentle. “You have to eat. If not for you, then for them. You can’t skip meals. You can’t treat your body like it’s running on caffeine and deadlines anymore. If not for yourself, then for your child.”

You couldn’t meet her eyes. Ezra stepped closer.

“This—” she said, gesturing to you, the monitor, the blood pressure cuff, the trembling hands, “—this was the best-case scenario for you passing out. You were in a chair, on stable ground. Be thankful you were not driving or walking downstairs. If you had collapsed anywhere else, we could be talking about a very different outcome right now.”

You closed your eyes. Guilt rose like bile.

She saw it. She sighed. Ezra reached out and squeezed your leg. Her voice softened again. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

She stepped out, the nurse following behind her. The door closed gently behind them.

You swallowed hard. “I didn’t—”

“Don’t.” Agatha’s voice was sharp enough to cut through everything.

You looked at her. She didn’t meet your eyes.

“We can have this conversation at home. Not here. Not right now.”

Her hand never left your wrist. It was a signal—she loved you. But if she spoke, really spoke, she wouldn’t be able to hold back. Rio pressed a kiss to your temple. No one spoke for the next hour. You sat in silence, surrounded by their warmth, your guilt, and the steady heartbeat of your baby echoing softly from the doppler monitor. A lullaby of presence. Of survival.

Eventually, Ezra returned. Her expression had softened again, though her words remained measured. “All bloodwork came back clean. No signs of bleeding. Baby’s heart rate has stayed steady the entire time.”

You nodded, breath escaping like a long-held note. “Thank you.” Rio echoed it. Agatha nodded once.

Ezra gave a slow nod in return. “For the next few days, rest. Couch or bed. Be gentle with yourself. Eat. Sleep. Cuddle with these two.” She paused. Then delivered the final blow. “No school. No work. Focus on growing this tiny human and healing your body. Hell, have sex, rest, watch movies, eat, let your body relax. Your body and baby need you to just 'not' for a few days.”

You didn’t argue. You couldn’t.

Rio and Agatha helped you dress, gently unwinding the monitor from your belly and guiding you back into the car. The ride to the car was silent, the sky beginning to darken overhead as the evening crept in.

Inside the car, you sat quietly, exhaustion hanging off your limbs like soaked fabric.

Halfway home, Agatha’s voice broke through the silence.

“Is there anything that sounds good for drive-through?” she asked softly. “We were going to take you to dinner, but… well. Groceries are low.”

You paused. Then: “Panera.”

Agatha nodded.

Fifteen minutes later, the three of you sat on the couch in the living room, paper bowls in your lap, food mostly untouched. The television was off. The only sound was the quiet clink of silverware on cardboard and the soft hum of the heater.

You ate. Slowly. Mechanically. You were done with your meal when Agatha stood, took the empty bowls, and walked into the kitchen. You heard the rustle of bags, the trash lid closing, the water running.

Then—

She returned. She sat down beside you. Looked you straight in the eye.

And said: “Alright. Let’s talk.”

The silence that followed wasn’t peace.

It was the kind that tightens your spine and makes your pulse thrum in your ears. The kind that says: brace yourself.

Agatha didn’t ease into it.

“You said you would eat,” she said—low and sharp, every syllable honed to a point. “You promised you’d take care of yourself. That if it got to be too much, you’d tell us. And instead?”

Her eyes didn’t waver. “We find you half-conscious and bleeding in an empty classroom.”

-------------------------------------

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