Jeridandridge

Agatha startled—visibly.

Her head snapped up, and her eyes—an impossible gray-blue like storm clouds—widened.

A slow flush crept up her neck, staining her collarbone pink where her shirt hung loose.

Rio savored it.

“It’s not dead,” Agatha said defensively, depositing the sad plant on the counter like a peace offering. “It’s just… having a rough… week.”

“You said that about the succulent too,” Rio teased, inspecting the limp vines. “And the fern. And that poor rosemary that deserved better.”

Agatha shrugged, hands shoved deep in her back pockets, shoulders curling inward slightly.

It was a strange kind of vulnerability, seeing someone so capable look a little lost in a sea of plants.

“I’m better with wiring electrical,” Agatha muttered. “Plants expect you to know what they need without them telling you.”

Rio snorted. “That sounds suspiciously like a personal problem.”

Agatha’s mouth tugged into a reluctant smile—small, crooked, private.

Rio felt it, sharp and sweet, somewhere under her ribs.

She plucked a basil starter from the seedling rack and held it out like a challenge. “Try this instead.”

Agatha eyed it warily. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing,” Rio said, stepping closer. The earthy, sharp scent of the basil mixed with the musk of sun-warmed denim and the faint tang of sweat from Agatha’s skin. “It’s forgiving. Even you might not kill it.”

Agatha reached out. Their fingers brushed warm, rough, calloused—and Rio’s pulse jumped.

“Keep it alive through August,” Rio said, voice dipping low, “and maybe I’ll use it to cook you dinner.”

Agatha stared at her, the basil cradled awkwardly between them, like she didn’t quite know how to hold this—the plant or the offer.

“You always hustle your customers like this?” Agatha asked, voice rough.

“Only the dangerously handsome ones who forget how phones work,” Rio said with a wink, spinning away before she could catch the damage she’d done.

Later that night, Rio sat cross-legged on her bed, the cracked window open to the heavy, cicada-loud summer night.

Her phone buzzed.

Agatha: so if it dies a little does that mean coffee instead of dinner? asking for a friend.

Rio grinned. Agatha had had her number for a few weeks, but after today’s basil offering, she had finally decided to text her. Rio’s thumb flew across the screen.

Rio: Nope. Basil crimes are taken very seriously in New Jersey.

A minute later.

Agatha: what about preemptive bail?

Rio: Depends. Can you spell “photosynthesis”?

Agatha: bold of you to assume i can spell at all.

Rio laughed out loud, startling the black cat curled at the foot of her bed—her grandmother’s cat.

Outside, the crickets sawed at the night, and somewhere far off, someone’s sprinkler squeaked into life.

The next day.

Agatha: still green. slightly judging me but green.

A photo followed: the basil pot perched precariously between a pair of socks and a paper coffee cup.

Rio: It’s judging you for the company you keep.

Agatha: fair.

Another photo: Agatha giving the basil an awkward thumbs up, her hair messily falling into her face, a faint smudge of dirt along her jawline.

Rio saved it and immediately assigned it to Agatha’s contact in her phone.

Two weeks later, Rio was hauling bags of mulch under the punishing July sun when Agatha ambled up, pretending to browse seed packets.

“Cowboy. You stalking me?” Rio called without looking.

“I plead the fifth,” Agatha said, voice low and pleased.

They ended up working side by side anyway—Rio loading pallets, Agatha catching them into her truck. Easy. Unspoken. Like they’d done it a hundred times.

At some point, Rio peeled off her work gloves, flexing her fingers, and tossed another heavy bag toward Agatha.

Their hands brushed mid-catch. Calluses skimming calluses. Skin on skin, hot and dry and so electric Rio almost dropped the damn bag.

She looked up—

And found Agatha already looking at her.

The air between them stuttered.

Hot, humming, fragile.

Rio felt it first—the tilt forward, the magnetic pull.

Agatha didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

It would be so easy.

One step closer.

One tilt of her head.

But Rio, breathing shallow, heart racing—only smiled.

A slow, wicked thing to hide the fact she was terrified.

“Careful,” she drawled, voice catching. “You might start thinking you like me.”

Agatha’s smile—small, dangerous—ghosted across her mouth.

“Maybe I do,” she murmured.

Rio’s heart slammed sideways.

But Agatha stepped back, palms flat against her jeans, and turned away to load another bag like nothing had happened. Rio stood there for a long moment, mulch dust settling in the spaces between them.

That night, Rio lay in bed, sleepless.

The oscillating fan buzzed, moving humid air around her tiny garage apartment.

The basil plant sat on the windowsill, leaves stretching toward the stars.

Rio traced patterns across her bare stomach with one hand, thinking: Don’t be stupid. You have two months left, max. You leave at the end of summer. Always have, always will.

But still—

She remembered the way Agatha had looked at her.

That same night, Agatha sat on her porch, bottle of beer forgotten at her side. The basil—somehow still alive—glowed faintly under the porch light.

Agatha scrubbed her hands over her face.

She’d kissed women before. Slept with them, too. No big deal. But no one had ever hit her like this—like the whole damn world tipped sideways around one girl’s rough hands and easy, reckless smile.

Agatha closed her eyes, leaned back against the railing, and listened to the summer night breathe around her.

The next afternoon, Agatha got a text.

Rio: Movie night? My pick. No takebacks.

Agatha pulled up an hour later, six-pack and licorice in one hand, smirk already threatening to break loose.

Rio opened the door barefoot, wearing cutoff denim shorts and an tight shirt with a band Agatha didn’t recognize. Her hair was damp from a shower, curling loose around her shoulders, and she smelled faintly of cheap shampoo.

Agatha nearly forgot how to breathe.

They settled into Rio’s battered secondhand couch, beers sweating between their palms. The movie was some chaotic indie thing Rio narrated halfway through with delighted sarcasm, and Agatha found herself laughing more at Rio’s commentary than at the film itself.

At some point, Rio stretched—long and lazy—and her knee brushed against Agatha’s splayed-out thigh.

Neither of them moved.

The next time Rio laughed, she leaned her head briefly against Agatha’s shoulder.

Agatha pretended her heart wasn’t racing.

Agatha, who could rewire a lamp blindfolded, who could change a water heater one-handed, sat there paralyzed by the press of a girl’s warm weight against her side.

The movie ended. Credits rolled. Neither moved.

Rio tilted her head, chin resting against Agatha’s arm. Her voice came soft.

“So… you gonna kiss me, cowboy… or do I have to do everything around here?”

Agatha didn’t think. She turned and kissed her.

It was a little clumsy at first—teeth bumping, noses in the way. Rio laughed into her mouth, hands sliding into Agatha’s hair, and then it turned molten—hot, slow, anchoring. Agatha kissed the way she worked—with careful, practiced steadiness—but Rio kissed like she had nowhere else to be, like kissing was an act of ownership. And God help her, Agatha wanted to be owned.

The cold shower didn’t help.

The whiskey didn’t either.

Agatha, still damp and grinning like a woman freshly fucked, snapped a selfie—towel low, eyes dark—and texted Rio.

Agatha: you’re in charge of aftercare next time baby girl

A minute later.

Rio: Come over. Now.

And she did.

Agatha woke to sunlight slanting in through her open windows, the faint hum of summer already buzzing outside. She blinked groggily, stretching, and realized two things simultaneously: First, Rio was not in her bed. And B) there was rummaging in the kitchen.

Agatha kicked the sheets away and found Rio standing at the fridge, looking at it like it had let her down.

“You only have five kinds of canned beans,” Rio said, voice flat, “and an expired strawberry yogurt...”

Agatha scrubbed a hand over her face. “I have oatmeal.”

“Instant oatmeal with candy dinosaur eggs doesn’t count as a food group. That’s kindergarten survival skills.”

Rio closed the fridge and turned, hands on her hips, an expression of determination on her face.

“Put on your shoes,” she ordered. “We’re going grocery shopping.”

“It’s—” Agatha glanced at the clock, “eight in the morning.”

“Grocery shopping,” Rio repeated firmly, tossing her a pair of beat-up sneakers.

Agatha grumbled but obeyed, pulling on sweatpants over her boxers and grabbing a clean-ish shirt from the floor.

Rio, infuriatingly beautiful, threw on rain boots over bare legs and one of Agatha’s flannel shirts she must’ve stolen at some point during the night. It hit her mid-thigh.

Agatha nearly walked into the doorframe staring.

At the store, they looked like a Pinterest board gone wrong. Agatha bleary-eyed, hair in a messy low ponytail, Rio bouncing ahead of the cart with a shopping list in her head and nothing on paper.

“Essentials first,” Rio said, tossing coffee grounds and bread into the cart.

Agatha trailed after her, pushing the cart like a dazed cattle dog.

She bought vitamins for Agatha without asking, tucked quietly next to carton of eggs.

She sniffed melons and weighed tomatoes in her palms.

And Agatha—strong, stubborn Agatha—wanted to kiss Rio’s mouth right there in the middle of the meat section. But fought the urge.

Back home, Agatha flopped onto a kitchen chair, blinking stupidly while Rio moved through the kitchen like she’d been there forever. Fresh spinach cracked in a pan. Eggs whipped into golden froth. Cheese grated, basil pinched from the tiny windowsill pot.

“This morning, I was gonna surprise you with breakfast in bed,” Rio said, laughing, “but I realized you need saving first.”

Agatha grunted in response. She couldn’t form words with Rio like that—barefoot, hair tied up messily, making her house smell like heaven and Sunday mornings and salvation.

Rio slid the plate across the counter: fluffy quiche, fresh berries, coffee so rich it made the air smell like a promise. Agatha just stared, her heart kicking once, hard.

Later that week, Agatha kicked off her boots and shoved her work jeans down with a low groan, the knee torn clean through. Rio knelt in front of her without a word, fingertips brushing the worn denim, then reached for her sewing kit like it was second nature.

“You’re a danger to yourself,” she muttered, guiding needle through denim with careful hands.

Agatha watched from the couch, quiet. Something knotted under her ribs—something sweet and terrifying.

No one had ever mended things for her before.

Not her boots, not her shirts, not her heart.

Rio tied off the thread with a flourish and tossed the jeans back at her. “Good for another few years of reckless living.”

Agatha held them like they were spun from gold.

Rio came home one night to find her old garden shears—the ones with the cracked handle and the dull blades—sitting neatly on the porch, cleaned and repaired.

No note. No text.

Just the kind of love Agatha knew how to give: Silently. Steadily. Surely.

Rio sat on the porch steps, turning the shears over in her hands, and smiled so wide her face hurt.

Agatha had been in Rio’s garage apartment before. But one humid evening, for the first time, Rio led her into the bedroom.

It was cramped, full of plants and books and little touches of home mended curtains, handmade pillowcases, a poster of a punk band taped crooked on the wall.

Agatha took it all in slowly, carefully.

The sewing machine in the corner. The stack of plant biology textbooks dog-eared and worn. The sweater draped on her bed, sleeves patched with loving clumsiness.

This wasn’t a room.

It was a nest.

Temporary. Half-packed.

Built on borrowed time.

Agatha sat carefully on the edge of Rio’s bed, heart pounding.

She wanted to unpack.

She wanted to build her a house that didn’t have a deadline.

Rio caught her looking, and smiled—small, secret.

“Don’t get used to it, cowboy,” she said softly. “I’m not staying forever.”

Agatha nodded, but something deep inside her whispered: I wish you would.

At the summer fair, Rio wore a sundress—pale green, strappy, dangerous. Agatha tried not to stare, but failed.

She found Rio behind the food tents, slipping out from under the blinding afternoon sun.

Without thinking—without stopping—she grabbed her by the waist, pressed her against the side of the tent, and kissed her.

Hard. Hungry.

Rio laughed against her mouth, kissed her back twice as hard.

Somewhere in the background, kids screamed on the Ferris wheel and the scent of fried dough thickened the air.

Agatha didn’t care.

She was just thinking about how good Rio tasted. Like salt and sunshine and something that felt a lot like hope.

The heat broke the week Rio started fully packing.

Storms rolled over Westview in heavy gray waves, and the sidewalks steamed in the aftermath.

Rio folded shirts into boxes, books into old grocery bags, the scent of rain mixing with the sharp, green tang of basil from the windowsill.

Agatha leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, saying nothing.

Neither kissed the other goodbye. It would’ve been too much. Or maybe not enough.

Two weeks later, Rio stood in the tiny galley kitchen of her Washington apartment, staring down at a mug of coffee she couldn’t bring herself to drink.

It tasted wrong.

Too bitter, too stale, too much like alone.

She sat down on the old tile floor, coffee burning a path down her throat, and curled her knees to her chest.

She missed Agatha with a violence that scared her.

Not just the sex, not just the easy laughter, but the way Agatha filled up the quiet spaces, the way she knew what Rio needed before she even asked, the way her hands knew how to hold things without breaking them.

Rio pressed her forehead against her arms, breathing shallowly.

The basil plant Agatha had given her—Herb, still barely alive—sat drooping on the counter.

“Sorry, buddy,” she whispered, voice wrecked.

Some things just didn’t survive transplanting. Right?

A week later, Rio stitched together a leather tool pouch by hand.

It took her six tries and two stabbed fingers.

The stitches weren’t perfect. Neither was the leather. But it was solid. It was meant to be carried, used, trusted.

She wrapped it carefully and tucked a note inside: “Carry what matters.”

No signature. No explanation. Just everything she didn’t know how to say—packed small enough to survive the miles between them.

Agatha found the package three days later, wedged crookedly in her mailbox.

She carried it to her truck and sat there with the door cracked open, summer air hot and heavy against her skin.

The pouch smelled like new leather.

She ran her fingers over the careful, imperfect stitches, over the rough seams where Rio’s hands had worked.

When she unfolded the note, the words knocked the air clean out of her lungs.

“Carry what matters.”

Agatha pressed the note flat against her heart, hands shaking. Breathed through her teeth. And finally, finally, whispered to the empty truck cab, “I miss you, baby girl. I miss you so much.”

The basil plant on her porch was still alive.

Barely.

Agatha cradled the tool pouch in her lap and stared out at the flat gold light spilling over Westview, thinking: You don’t let things like her slip through your fingers. Not if you’re smart. Not if you still have half a heart left to lose. Life apart didn’t feel like life.

Rio threw herself into research, into papers and labs and long nights spent cross-referencing drought-tolerant hybrid strains. But her hands still reached automatically for a second coffee cup when she brewed in the mornings. Her eyes still flicked toward the door when it opened, stupidly expecting Agatha’s heavy boots and sheepish grin.

Agatha kept working—wiring houses, fixing busted water heaters, patching fences for neighbors too old to do it themselves.

But she stopped eating real breakfasts.

She stopped laughing at dumb jokes on the radio.

The weight of absence settled into their bones.

Ordinary. Constant. Crushing.

Some nights, Rio fell asleep clutching her phone.

Some nights, Agatha sat on her porch with the tool pouch on her knee, nursing a beer and the ache in her chest.

Neither said it out loud.

But the basil—stubborn, battered, half-wild—kept growing.

The knocking woke Rio from a restless half-sleep.

She blinked at the clock—2:17 a.m.—and stumbled to the door, dragging the hem of her too-big shirt with one hand.

When she swung the door open, Agatha was standing there, backlit by the flickering porch light, looking like hell. Sweat-streaked hair. Dirt-smudged jeans. A worn duffel bag hanging from one shoulder like it weighed a thousand pounds. Her eyes—those damn storm-gray eyes—locked onto Rio’s and didn’t look away.

“Hey,” Agatha rasped, voice low and broken in places. “I, uh—”

Rio didn’t let her finish.

She hauled Agatha inside by the front of her shirt, slammed the door with a heel, and kissed her.

It wasn’t graceful.

Teeth bumping, gasps caught halfway in their throats, hands fumbling with too many emotions and too little coordination.

Agatha kissed back like she was drowning and Rio was the only air left in the world.

Rio cupped Agatha’s jaw with both hands, grounding them both. “You’re here,” she whispered against her mouth, disbelieving.

“I’m here,” Agatha whispered back, voice wrecked. “If you still want me.”

The trip to the bedroom was a mess of half-torn clothes and muttered curses.

Rio shoved Agatha down onto the bed and crawled over her, pinning her wrists lightly to the sheets. Agatha’s pupils blew wide.

“You drove across the fucking country for me,” Rio said, somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

“You’re worth it,” Agatha said simply.

Rio leaned down, forehead pressed to Agatha’s. “You absolute stupid gorgeous fucking cowboy.”

They kissed again, deeper now. Slower.

Agatha’s hands—steady, rough, reverent—mapped the curve of Rio’s back, the strong line of her thighs, the places she’d memorized and missed in the same breath.

Rio kissed her like she was reclaiming territory she had never wanted to give up in the first place.

When Rio pulled back long enough to tear her own shirt over her head, Agatha’s hands trembled on her hips.

“Still want me?” Rio asked, soft, dangerous.

Agatha exhaled like it broke something inside her.

“Always,” she said.

They moved together without finesse—too desperate, too hungry—until Rio straddled Agatha’s hips, pinning her hands again with a wicked grin.

The sweat-slick slide of their bodies sparked along every raw, open nerve.

Agatha arched up helplessly into Rio’s weight.

“Fuck,” Agatha muttered, breathless.

Rio leaned down, mouth brushing the shell of Agatha’s ear, voice gone hoarse with emotion.

“Still my handsome cowboy,” she whispered.

Agatha froze under her. Choked out a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh, wasn’t quite a moan. Pulled Rio down and kissed her like salvation.

It wasn’t sex the way Agatha had known it—a transaction, a way to pass the time.

It was messy and reverent and stupid with want.

It was Rio laughing into her mouth, whispering “mine, mine, mine” until Agatha shuddered apart in her arms.

And when Rio came too, gasping into Agatha’s shoulder, Agatha closed her eyes and let herself believe—for the first time in a long time—that maybe, just maybe, she was allowed to keep something good.

The backyard smelled like dirt and spilled tequila.

It was summer again when Agatha drove the last post into the earth with a grunt, wiping the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. The sun was merciless, high and white against the endless New Jersey sky, but she didn’t care.

Rio was sitting cross-legged in the grass, sorting seed packets into neat piles—tomatoes, peppers, herbs. Her hair was tucked into a messy bun, wisps clinging to the damp edges of her neck.

Agatha took a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Sometimes she still forgot she was allowed to look.

“You’re not gonna make me build another raised bed, are you?” Agatha asked, leaning on the mallet.

Rio squinted up at her, smirking. “Only if you’re good.”

Agatha barked a laugh. “Define good.”

“Still up for debate,” Rio said airily, tossing her a packet of basil seeds.

Agatha caught it one-handed, heart tugging in her chest.

Basil.

It always came back to basil.

Later, after the dirt was packed and the hose coiled and the sun had started to slide toward the horizon, Rio brought out Agatha’s old work jacket.

The left sleeve had torn weeks ago, caught on a fence post Agatha was fixing.

Rio sat on the porch steps, denim stretched over her knees, a sewing kit balanced carefully beside her.

Agatha watched from the grass, heart cracking open along familiar lines.

“You don’t have to fix everything, you know,” she said, voice soft.

Rio threaded the needle carefully, not looking up. “Maybe I want to.”

Agatha crossed the yard, sat down heavy beside her.

Rio’s fingers worked quick and sure, weaving the thread through fabric, mending the worn places with patient, stubborn care.

Agatha didn’t say anything. She just sat there, breathing in the scent of sun-warmed cotton and cheap shampoo, letting Rio stitch her life back together one small act at a time.

When Rio tied off the final knot, she leaned into Agatha’s side without hesitation.

“There,” she said, satisfied. “Good as new.”

Agatha slid her arm around her, pulling her close. “Better,” she said gruffly.

That evening, under the bruised purple sky, they planted a few herbs together.

Rio kneeled in the dirt, hands steady and sure. Agatha hovered awkwardly at first, unsure where to dig, until Rio shoved a trowel into her hand with a grin.

“Don’t be scared, cowboy. It’s just dirt.”

Agatha snorted. “I’m more worried about disappointing you.”

“Impossible,” Rio said easily, and meant it.

They worked in companionable silence, the cicadas screaming their summer songs, the earth warm under their knees.

Agatha brushed a smudge of dirt from Rio’s cheek with her thumb, and Rio caught her hand without looking up, threading their fingers together.

“Good things take time,” Rio said absently, pressing a basil seedling into the soil.

Agatha swallowed hard against the lump rising in her throat.

She could still remember that day—Rio laughing at her dying pothos, teasing her about killing herbs, holding out a basil plant like a dare and a prayer all in one.

She could still remember what it felt like to hope and be so damn afraid of it.

And yet—here they were.

Not perfect. Not easy. Just… real.

Agatha tilted Rio’s chin up with two fingers, kissed her slow and sure under the fading sky.

“And some things,” Agatha said against her mouth, “you just grow into.”