Mel

The smoke alarm had gone off twice.

Agatha had cursed three times; once at the recipe, once at her oven, and once (loudly) at her own ego for thinking she could pull off a “simple roasted butternut squash risotto” just because the New York Times called it idiot proof.

By the time you’re curled up in her lap on the couch, pizza box open on the coffee table, the apartment still smells vaguely of thyme and charred shame. But she doesn’t care.

You’re barefoot, giggling, wearing that little dress you know she likes, the one that hits high on your thighs and has those pretty little bows on the sleeves, and Agatha is just watching you. Watching you laugh, watching you toss your hair over your shoulder as you wipe pizza grease off your fingers.

It does something to her. Something stupid and dangerous and warm.

You’re twenty five. She’s forty eight. She used to overthink it constantly: in bed, in the shower, on the drive to work. All those quiet moments where the fear crept in that you’re too young, you’re gonna leave, you’ll realise she’s too tired and too grumpy and not enough.

But when you curl into her like this, with your bare thighs warm against hers under the blanket and that sweet sleepy smile tugging at your lips? She thinks she might’ve been wrong after all and by some miracle, she might’ve just… gotten lucky.

You exhale a little sigh, tipping your head to look around her house, her dim lamps, cluttered bookshelves, mismatched mugs on the table, and Señor Scratchy asleep in his fleece bed by the radiator.

“I like your house,” you say, soft and warm.

Agatha turns to look at you, and then she’s gone. Something in her chest just folds in half.

You could be anywhere. Out with friends your age. Dating someone younger, flashier, easier. You could be at bars, on apps, chasing the kind of life she left behind twenty years ago. But you’re here. In her home. On her lap.

“Keep it,” she mutters.

Then she kisses you. Hard. It’s not like the earlier kisses, the ones where she was being careful, slow, letting you take the lead. This one’s hot and firm and needy, her hand coming up to cradle your jaw. You squeak against her mouth in surprise, then melt.

When she pulls back, she keeps her forehead pressed to yours.

“You drive me fuckin’ insane,” she breathes.

“Is that a good thing?” You smile nervously.

Agatha laughs, low and helpless.

“The best,” she murmurs. “Jesus Christ, baby. You’re… I don’t know what I did to deserve this, but…” Her voice breaks a little, like she’s scared to say it.

But you’re already looking at her like you know, because you feel it too.

You shift in her lap again, lips still buzzing from the kiss, and there it is. You feel it. The press of something solid under you, thick and undeniable, and for a split second you pause.

But Agatha… she stiffens like she’s been hit.

Her hands go still at your waist. Her breath stutters in her chest. And when she looks at you, really looks at you, there’s a flicker of something dark in her eyes.

“Shit uh… Okay,” she murmurs, voice low and serious. “I need to tell you something, and I just… fuck, I should’ve said something sooner, I just…”

You blink, lips parting, but she’s already pushing forward like if she doesn’t say it now, she’ll never be able to.

“I’m a woman,” she says, steady but quiet. “Always have been. Always will be. But I’ve got a cock, sweetheart. Always had one. It’s just… how I am.”

She watches you, eyes searching.

“I know that’s not what everyone’s into. I get it. And if that’s not what you want, I swear to God, I’ll back off. I’ll never make you feel weird about it. I just… I need you to know.”

You sit there for a moment. Her hands are trembling slightly where they rest at your hips, even though she’s trying to hide it.

And your heart breaks a little. Not because of what she told you, but because she looks like she’s expecting you to leave.

“Agatha,” you whisper, sliding your hand up to her cheek.

Her eyes dart to yours.

You smile softly. “I don’t care about that.”

She blinks. “You… what?”

You nod. “I don’t care.”

Her jaw tenses, just for a second. She swallows like she doesn’t quite believe you.

You lean in again, press your lips to hers. When you pull back, you’re still smiling. “You’re still the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”

And that’s it. That’s what breaks her. Her whole face softens, her chest caving like she’s been holding her breath for weeks. She lets out a shaky exhale, eyes flicking over your face like she can’t quite believe that you’re real.

“Fuck,” she murmurs, voice low and hot. “You really are perfect, huh?”

You giggle, blushing a little, curling into her again. She shifts beneath you, her hands finally returning to your hips, her grip a little firmer this time.

You feel her confidence return, that classic Agatha smirk, sly and wicked and cocky.

“I can’t wait to fuck you,” she whispers, nose brushing your cheek. “Wanna make you cry with how good it feels. You ever been with someone who knows how to use it, sweetheart?”

You whimper softly, not from want, but from nerves. You kiss her again, gentler this time. And when you pull back, you shake your head a little, voice breathy.

“Not tonight okay?”

She stills.

You keep your eyes on hers, soft and sincere. “I want to. I do. I just… not tonight.”

Agatha searches your face again. And to your relief, and maybe your surprise, she just nods.

“Okay,” she murmurs, brushing her thumb against your cheek. “That’s okay, baby.”

There’s no pressure, or any displays of frustration, just her warm, steady gaze and her arms pulling you in again, like you still belong right there on her lap.

She kisses your temple and presses her forehead to yours. “I’ll wait as long as you want.”

You kiss her again, relieved she didn’t ask for more or push for a further explanation. Instead she heard you and is still holding you like you’re precious, not fragile.

It’s messy, sweet, and a little desperate, your hands sliding into her hair, your body curling tighter into her lap. You moan softly against her mouth, just from the feeling of being so safe, so wanted.

Agatha groans, like she’s the one coming undone.

She wraps both arms around you, hauling you closer, like she needs your weight on her to breathe properly. Her hands slide up your back, under your dress, not to grope but just to feel you. When you finally pull back for air, your lips are kiss swollen, and her eyes are heavy, dark with something that looks a lot like worship.

You rest your head on her shoulder and sigh. “Thank you.”

She kisses your hair. “For what?”

You nuzzle in closer to her. “Not making me feel bad.”

Agatha huffs a soft laugh against your temple, endlessly fond. “Sweetheart, the idea of rushing you? Fuck no. You think I’d touch my girl before she’s ready?”

Her girl.

You smile into her collar.

“Besides,” she adds, hand stroking your thigh now, soothing, “I got you on my lap in a little dress, kissing me like that, telling me I’m the prettiest girl you’ve ever seen? Baby, I could coast on that for weeks.”

You giggle. She kisses your jaw. Then your cheek. Then your temple again.

You both go quiet for a bit, tangled on the couch, the TV still murmuring behind you, Señor Scratchy snoring softly across the room. Her hand rests over your heart. Yours tangle in the flannel at her chest.

“I like this,” you whisper. “This night.”

Agatha smiles. You don’t see it, but she nods.

“Yeah,” she murmurs. “Me too.”

~

Agatha can’t sleep.

Again.

You’re curled into her side like always, soft and perfect, wearing one of her old t-shirts with nothing underneath, your thighs bare, cheek pressed to her chest, arm flung across her middle like you were made to belong there.

And she hasn’t had sex in months.

It’s not the sex part, not really, she can deal with that. She’s had dry spells longer than presidential terms. It’s the why that’s eating her alive. She thought you weren’t ready that night. She heard you, respected it, hell she even loved you a little more for being so open and honest. But that was four weeks ago.

Since then?

Nothing.

Not a hint. Not a whisper. Not a shift in your body when you’re kissing her. Not a hand wandering low when you’re on her lap. You never even wriggle against her in your sleep. You kiss her like she’s precious, and she loves that, but something’s gnawing at her now.

What if you’re not attracted to her? Not like that. What if she’s just… safe? What if you love how she holds you, how she buys you oat milk and drives you to the vet clinic when your car won’t start, but you’re not into her sexually? Or worse… What if it’s the cock?

She clenches her jaw. Her arm around you tightens just slightly. You stir in your sleep, whimper a little, and she softens instantly, stroking your hair, whispering ‘sorry baby’ against your temple like a reflex.

She swallows hard.

Agatha Harkness is not insecure. She’s forty eight, knows who she is, knows what she’s worth. She’s good in bed. Better than good. She knows how to use her hands, her mouth, her cock. She’s made women cry, beg, come so hard they couldn’t walk straight.

But you haven’t let her try. You haven’t asked. And you’ve never touched her there. Not once.

Her breath catches in her throat. She shifts slightly on the pillow, trying not to wake you, trying not to spiral, but she’s aching physically now from how often she’s had to jerk off quietly in the shower with the water running so you wouldn’t hear.

She kisses your forehead. You sigh and burrow closer, nose brushing under her jaw, lips parting with a sleepy little breath.

And that’s what makes her stomach twist the worst. Because she’s in love with you. And she’ll wait forever if she has to. She will.

But God, she’s starting to wonder if you even want her that way at all.

You wake up slowly that morning.

You’re still warm under the covers, her arm heavy around your waist, her thigh tucked between yours like she needs to be touching you even in sleep. It takes a second to realize why you’re smiling, and then you feel Agatha’s lips brushing your shoulder, the curve of your neck, your jaw.

You scrunch your nose on instinct, a sleepy giggle bubbling up from your chest as you nuzzle back against her.

“Mm morning,” you murmur, voice still thick with sleep.

“Morning, baby,” she hums against your skin, kissing the hinge of your jaw again. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t.” You stretch a little, sighing, body still so warm and loose in her bed. “Just… felt nice.”

Her lips tilt into a grin against your neck. “You always feel nice.”

You turn to look at her and fuck she looks good. Barely awake, hair tousled, one of her older tanks slightly askew, revealing the curve of her breast and the edge of her scar-lined ribs. You think she’s the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen.

You smile again. “Thanks for letting me stay over.”

Agatha raises a brow, amused. “Let you?”

You bite your lip.

“I want you here all the time, sweetheart,” she murmurs, brushing her thumb across your cheek. “You kidding me?”

And then she kisses you deeper now. Slower. Her hand comes up to your jaw as your mouths move together, the mattress shifting under her weight as she rolls you gently onto your back, tucking her thigh higher between yours. She’s still careful, still reverent, but there’s something more behind it now, something hungry.

You kiss her back with a soft gasp, hand tangling in her hair. You feel her cock begin to press against your thigh, thick and heavy through her briefs, and she groans into your mouth when your hips shift ever so slightly.

Her hand slides under your shirt, just enough to graze your waist, her fingers splaying wide, anchoring herself there.

You whimper. And then you break the kiss, gasping softly as you pull back just enough to meet her eyes.

“I… shit. I gotta get ready for work.”

Agatha stills.

She’s breathing hard, chest rising and falling, the shadow of restraint in every part of her. But she nods and backs off, like always.

“Right,” she mutters, rolling off you onto her back. “Yeah. Sorry.”

You reach for her hand, lacing your fingers. “Don’t be sorry.”

She nods again but doesn’t look at you right away, just stares at the ceiling like it’s something she has to get through.

You scoot back over, curl into her side, and kiss her chest. “I’ll make you coffee before I go.”

She exhales slowly, kisses your forehead, and wraps her arm around you again. She doesn’t say it, but she’s frustrated. She doesn’t say it, but she’s starting to worry this is all it’s ever going to be. Because she doesn’t know, not yet, that you’re just scared.

You’ve been off at work all morning.

You know it. Billy definitely knows it. You drop the same chart twice, forget the name of Mrs. Talbot’s golden retriever (it’s Butternut, how could you forget that?!), and almost cry when the kitten you were bottle feeding sneezes directly into your face.

By the time lunch rolls around, you’re dragging your feet to the breakroom, shoulders hunched, trying to force down your spinach wrap like maybe food will silence your spiralling thoughts.

It doesn’t.

Billy notices. He’s been watching you for the last ten minutes, drumming his fingers against his iced coffee and narrowing his eyes every time you sigh into your spinach.

Finally, he breaks.

“Alright,” he says, setting the coffee down. “What’s your sugar mommy done now?”

You glare at him, cheeks hot. “She’s not my sugar mommy, we’re dating. And I think I make more than her anyway…”

He grins. “Sure, but she’s hot, older, buys you groceries, and drives a car that predates the iPhone. What else am I supposed to call her?”

You shoot him a look, but your heart’s not in it.

He softens a little. “Okay, okay. But you’ve been weird all day. What’s she done? Forgot to call you baby? Didn’t kiss you goodbye?”

You bite your lip. “She hasn’t done anything.”

Billy tilts his head.

“She’s perfect,” you mumble. “That’s the problem.”

“…okay, now you’re losing me.”

You drop your gaze, fiddling with the edge of your lunch wrap.

“We haven’t… y’know. Done it yet.”

Billy blinks. “Oh. Well… that’s okay. Every couple’s different. Maybe you just need more time-”

“No,” you interrupt, groaning softly. “Billy, I mean… I haven’t done it ever.”

Billy takes a beat to take in what you’ve just confessed then gasps when it finally sinks in, his eyes widening. “Wait really? You’re a virgin?!”

You slap a hand over your face. “Don’t say it like thaaaat.”

“Sorry, sorry, I just… wow.” He then composes himself and softens. “Babe, that’s not a bad thing.”

You peek at him from between your fingers. “She’s forty eight.”

“So?”

“She’s had so much experience, Billy. Like… like so much. And I’m just…” you drop your hands, flustered. “What if I suck?”

Billy stares at you.

“Okay first of all,” he says, leaning in like he’s about to drop divine wisdom. “You’re hot. She’s obsessed with you. I’m sure she would explode if you even looked at her the right way.”

“Billy!”

“Second of all,” he continues, ignoring you, “you being a virgin doesn’t mean you’ll suck. It just means you’re new. And she’ll know how to take care of you.”

You whimper despondently.

“She worships you,” he says gently. “Don’t let your brain tell you otherwise.”

You pick at the corner of your napkin, voice small. “What if she’s expecting something I don’t know how to do?”

Billy smiles. “Then she’ll teach you. With a lot of praise, probably. And you’ll cry and see god and thank her for changing your life.”

You snort, cheeks blazing.

He reaches across the table, squeezing your hand. “Tell her. She deserves to know what’s going on in that pretty head of yours.”

You nod slowly.

And thankfully, going home tonight now feels a little less terrifying.

That same afternoon Agatha is at work surrounded by a cold cup of coffee, a half eaten tuna sandwich, and three open case files spread across her desk, none of which she’s actually reading.

She rubs a hand over her jaw, glances at the time. You should be finishing lunch about now. She is distracted thinking about maybe calling you later, just to hear your voice.

Her phone buzzes.

She grabs it instinctively, already grinning at your name on the screen.

~ Y/N: Can I come over tonight? I need to talk you x ~

Her smile fades fast, her pulse already spiking with anxiety. She stares at the screen for a second too long before reading it again. And again.

Her stomach drops.

She sinks back into her chair slowly, thumb frozen over the reply bubble. You haven’t used a single emoji, not even the little pink hearts you always pepper your messages with. Just a solitary mocking ‘x’. She feels something twist behind her ribs.

“Oh god,” she mutters.

She runs a hand through her hair, eyes scanning the message like there’s some secret code she missed. You want to talk. At her place. Tonight.

She swallows hard.

Is this it? Was she stupid to think you’d really want her like that? Keep her? That maybe she had a shot at being someone you could love, someone you could be safe with?

She leans forward, elbows on the desk, phone held loosely in one hand. Her leg bounces restlessly under the table.

She doesn’t reply right away, she stares at the message a while longer.

Then, finally, she tries to respond in a casual manner that wouldn’t suggest her current freak out but the pit in her stomach has already formed.

~ Agatha: Yeah of course baby, you ok? Xx ~

She puts her phone face down and tries to focus on her case files but she’s already bracing herself, preparing for the worst.

~

It’s now seven twenty two and Agatha is pacing a hole in her living room floor. The living room feels too quiet, too clean, like she’s accidentally prepped the perfect stage for her own heartbreak.

She’s been fidgeting for hours, the candles you bought her for supposed relaxation have all burnt down to a stub. Your name sits at the top of her phone screen mockingly.

Her head’s a mess of scenarios and words she’s rehearsing just in case.

‘It’s ok, I get it. You don’t owe me anything.’

She’s already starting to armour up, shrinking the part of herself that aches for you into something more manageable. Something she can shelve once you go.

Her reflection catches in the hallway mirror, her flannel rolled up to her forearms, dark circles under her eyes, jaw locked tight. She almost doesn’t recognize herself.

And then… a knock.

Her heart stutters.

For a moment she doesn’t move, just stares at the door like it might open itself if she blinks. Then she forces herself forward to open it and there you are.

Sweet as anything in your little coat. Face tucked down, shy and nervous. Big eyes flicking up to meet hers like you’re not sure what kind of reception you’ll get.

She swallows.

“Come in,” she says, voice even.

She steps aside. You brush past, and she closes the door behind you slowly, fingers lingering on the lock. She doesn’t reach for you, doesn’t kiss your cheek like she usually does. She can’t. Not if you’re about to walk.

The silence stretches.

She clears her throat.

“You want tea or something?” she offers, already heading toward the kitchen, partly so she won’t have to look at you. “Or do you… just wanna get it over with?”

Your head tilts slightly.

She doesn’t notice she’s already halfway across the room opening cupboards and trying to perform normalcy.

“I mean, whatever it is,” she says, grabbing the kettle, flicking it on like this is fine, like you ending it is just a thing that happens to people and not the end of her goddamn world. “Let’s just rip the bandaid off, yeah? You want out? That’s okay. I’m not gonna beg.”

She pours water into mugs with shaking hands.

“I’ll be fine,” she adds quietly. “Just say what you need to say.”

Behind her, you don’t move.

She doesn’t dare turn around yet. She’s too busy trying to keep her voice calm, trying to pretend this doesn’t hurt to make it easier for you to leave.

Because she knows she isn’t what you deserve. And she’s already convincing herself this is just what happens when someone like her falls for someone like you.

You however are standing there in her hallway like you’ve just been slapped.

“I’ll be fine,” she mutters again, setting the mugs down. “Just say what you need to say.”

You blink incredulously because that’s not what you thought was happening. That’s not what you meant when you texted her.

Your throat tightens.

“…You think I’m breaking up with you?”

Agatha stiffens. Her back is still to you, but she goes very, very still. Like she’s just realised the earth might actually not be spinning backwards.

You blink again, but your eyes are stinging now. You feel it coming, that slow burn of confusion collapsing into panic and hurt.

“Agatha, are you…” you step forward, voice wobbly. “Is that why you’re being weird? You thought I was gonna break up with you?”

She turns around and freezes when she sees your face.

Your eyes are red already. Your bottom lip is trembling. You look devastated.

Her stomach drops to her knees.

“Oh my God,” she breathes. “No, baby, no…”

“You just said ‘let’s rip the bandaid off’, what the fuck does that mean?” your voice cracks, chest rising fast. “Do you want to break up?”

“No!” she blurts, crossing the room like it’s on fire. “Jesus, no, I thought you, I thought… fuck come here.”

She cups your face in both hands frantically, thumbing under your eyes as the first tears fall.

“I thought you were ending it,” she says hoarsely. “I thought I fucked it up. I thought… fuck, I’ve been spiraling all day.”

You shake your head, breath hitching, trying to speak but it gets stuck in your throat. She sees the panic in your eyes and it undoes her.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she murmurs, dragging you into her arms, pressing your face to her chest. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean that. I was trying to brace for it-”

“For what?” you sob, muffled into her shirt. “I love you!”

Her arms squeeze tighter. You feel her breathe in hard, ragged.

“I love you too,” she chokes, kissing your temple. “So much it makes me insane. You scared the hell out of me.”

You try to shove your face into her shirt to hide it but she won’t let you. Instead she cradles your cheeks and thumbs away tears, kissing you wherever she can reach.

“I fucked up,” she whispers. “I fucked up so bad. I didn’t mean to scare you, baby. You’re everything to me. You’re everything.”

You’re hiccupping. “But you said you’d be fine!”

“I was lying,” she says, shaking her head. “I’d be wrecked.”

She kisses your forehead. “I don’t want anyone else. I don’t want anything else. You’re it for me baby. You’re it.”

You just cling to her.

Her hands stroke your back as she rocks you gently, swaying in the hallway like you’re both just trying to stay above water.

“I just wanted to talk to you about something,” you whisper. “That’s all.”

“I know,” she soothes. “I know, baby. I’m sorry. I just… fuck, I thought you’d changed your mind about me.”

You pull back just enough to look at her. And this time, your voice is quiet but honest. “I’d never change my mind about you.”

And Agatha, thirty years your senior, twice as scared, and just as much in love, melts.

Agatha holds you close on the couch, her arm curled protectively around your waist, chin resting lightly against your hair as your breathing slowly evens out. She can still feel the ghost of your tears against her shirt, the tremble in your chest and it’s killing her. She wants to rewind the entire evening and do it right.

“Talk to me, baby.”

You hesitate. Then shift in her lap, not meeting her eyes.

“It’s just… we haven’t been having sex,” you mumble. “And I know you’ve noticed.”

Agatha nods once, silent.

You pick at the hem of your sleeve. “And I didn’t want you to think I didn’t want to. Because I do. I just…”

You pause and swallow, anxiety radiating off of you in waves.

Agatha looks down at you, brow soft. She strokes your back. “What are you scared of?”

You hesitate for a beat too long before you admit what you’ve been worried about all day. “I’ve never done it before.”

She stills, her hand pausing at your spine. You can feel the shift in her breathing but it doesn’t feel like an outright rejection so you decide to continue.

“I’m a virgin,” you whisper, cheeks flaming. “I’ve never… with anyone.”

What follows is a long silence. And then her palm presses firmer to your lower back, her other hand sliding up to gently tilt your face toward hers. Her eyes are wide but dark. A little dilated.

“No one’s ever touched you?”

You shake your head, nervous.

“Not even…?”

You shake your head again, faster this time.

Agatha just stares at you. And you can feel the shift in her. The way her jaw clenches like she’s trying not to groan. The twitch of her thigh beneath yours. The way her breath catches, rough and low in her throat.

“Jesus,” she breathes. “You’re actually serious aren’t you?”

“I am,” you rush out, trying to fill the space, “I know It’s weird and late, but I just never met anyone I felt safe with, and then I met you, and it felt different, but now it’s been so long and I thought maybe you were thinking something was wrong with me…”

“Hey.” Her voice is rough, quiet. She cups your face in both hands. “Nothing’s wrong with you. Nothing. Do you hear me?”

You nod, barely.

She keeps staring at you, stunned.

“You’ve never been with anyone,” she murmurs. “And you want me to be the first?”

You nod again, blushing harder now. “I just don’t want to mess it up.”

Agatha exhales like she’s trying to keep herself from combusting. You feel it in her grip, in the tension of her thighs under you. She’s trying to be calm but you can feel her getting hard just from the thought of it.

“Baby,” she whispers, brushing her nose against yours, “I don’t think you understand what that does to me.”

You look up at her, shy.

She swallows thickly.

“You want me to be the first person who ever makes you come?” Her voice is almost reverent. “You want me to be the first person inside you?”

You nod, small. “If you want to be…”

Agatha lets out a breath that’s almost a groan, her eyes fluttering closed for a second.

“If I want to be,” she repeats, hoarse. “Sweetheart, you have no idea how badly I want that.”

You squirm a little, embarrassed. “But you’ve been with other people. You’ve had good sex. And I might be bad at it.”

“Stop.” Her hand cups the back of your neck. “You think I give a shit about anyone before you?”

You start to speak, but she kisses you slow and deep and possessive like she’s trying to burn those thoughts out of your mind completely.

She pulls back just enough to whisper against your lips. “Nothing, nothing, will ever compare to getting to be your first.”

You melt against her, breathless.

And Agatha, trying to be good, trying to behave, just holds you tighter and groans softly into your neck. “Fuck, you’re gonna ruin me.”

You kiss her hard. It’s clumsy and desperate, all hands and heat and emotion. You’re straddling her lap now, clutching at her shoulders, your whole body buzzing.

“I’m nervous,” you whisper against her lips, cheeks flushed, your voice so soft it’s almost a whimper.

Agatha freezes for a beat then slowly tilts her head back, just enough to look at you properly. Her hands are spread across your hips like they were made to hold you there. Her voice is quiet and rough around the edges.

“Yeah?”

You nod, lip caught between your teeth. Your eyes are so big and open, shimmering in the low lamplight. She can feel the tremble in your thighs, the way your breath skips in your chest.

You’re scared but you’re still here. And Agatha has never wanted to take apart something so gently in her entire life.

She kisses you again, slow this time. Reverent. Her hands sliding up your sides, grounding you, worshipping you.

Then she pulls back just a breath and murmurs, “let me play with you?”

You blink, heart catching. “What… what do you mean?”

“I can tell you’re not ready for everything just yet,” she says gently. “So let me start with touching you with my fingers, baby. We can go slow. I’ll take care of you.”

You feel your face burn, and your stomach flip.

You want her. God, you want her. But everything inside you is one big ache of nerves. Of never having done this before. Of the fear of not knowing what you’re supposed to do. If you’ll be too messy, too loud, too awkward, too much.

Agatha sees it all and cups your jaw, brushing her thumb softly over your cheek.

“You’re perfect,” she murmurs. “And I want to make you feel good, that’s all. You don’t have to do anything.”

You bite your lip then nod.

“I want you to,” you whisper. “I want you to touch me.”

Agatha lets out a breath like it’s the only thing keeping her upright. Her fingers flex against your waist, then slide lower, smoothing gently over your thighs as she leans in to kiss you softer this time. She kisses you like you’ve just given her the most sacred thing in the world. Which, in her mind, you have.

You whimper into her mouth as she lifts you gently, guiding you down onto the couch beneath her, taking her time like she’s handling something fragile.

“You sure, baby?” she murmurs against your lips. “I need to hear you say it again for me.”

You nod again, breathless. “I’m sure.”

Agatha kisses your forehead, her hands already slipping under the hem of your dress, slow and reverent.

“Good girl,” she whispers.

She parts your thighs with one strong, steady hand, and you can feel her gaze darken as she looks down at your thin panties barely covering your cunt, your thighs trembling slightly. She presses a soft kiss just above the fabric and hears your sharp inhale.

“Oh, fuck,” she murmurs, voice thick with awe. “Look at you. All this for me?”

You whimper and cover your face with your hands, squirming. “Don’t say that…”

“Why not?” she says, her voice husky as her fingers trail along the edge of your panties. “I’ve been dreaming about touching you. Making you feel good. Now I’m the first one to ever get her hands on you…”

Her fingers slide softly against the damp spot at the centre.

Your hips jump.

“Shit, baby,” she groans, dragging her fingers slowly over the fabric. “You’re soaked.”

“I-I don’t know why…” you gasp.

“Yes, you do,” she whispers, mouth against your neck. “You know exactly why. You want me to touch you. You’ve been waiting for it.”

She kisses up your chest, over the neckline of your dress, pulling the fabric gently out of the way.

“You’ve never even been fingered, huh?”

You shake your head, breath catching.

“Oh baby,” she breathes. “You’re gonna lose your mind.”

You whimper, wide eyed, and Agatha grins as she slides your panties to the side. Her fingers dip between your folds, barely, and already you’re gasping, thighs twitching open further.

“That feel good, sweetheart?”

You try to say yes, but it comes out as a soft, choked noise.

“Use your words for me,” she whispers, dipping her finger just slightly toward your entrance. “You like that?”

You nod again, more desperately. “Y-Yeah…”

Agatha groans softly. Her cock is rock hard under her jeans now, aching, but she doesn’t move. She doesn’t grind against you, doesn’t take her eyes off your face.

“You’re so tight,” she murmurs, pressing the pad of one finger gently against your entrance, not pushing in yet. “Gonna take just one to start, okay? Gotta get you used to the feeling.”

You’re trembling beneath her, already whining, and she’s barely even started. She kisses your cheek, your jaw, your mouth, until you’re breathless again, lips slick and swollen.

“Ready, baby?” she asks.

You nod once. “Please?”

And she slides her finger in.

“Oh fuck..!” You arch up with a gasp, your hand clutching her forearm.

“That’s it,” she soothes. “That’s my good girl. Fuck, you’re already squeezing me so tight baby…”

You’re shaking, overwhelmed by the stretch, the heat, the way it feels to be touched like this for the first time. But it’s Agatha. You’d let her do anything.

“You okay?” she asks, still barely moving, just letting you adjust.

“Y-Yeah,” you whisper. “Just… so much.”

“I know,” she says softly. “You’re doing so good for me.”

She kisses your temple, then slowly begins to move her finger in and out gently, her movements shallow and careful as she watches every flicker of your face.

“You hear that?” she murmurs, lips brushing your jaw. “That’s the sound of your cunt sucking me in, baby. Fuck, you’re so wet.”

You whimper, overwhelmed and overstimulated already, and she’s barely using one finger.

“Think you’re ready for a second?” she asks.

“I-I think so…”

“Shhh,” she soothes. “That’s okay. Just let me play. Let me make my sweet virgin girl feel good.”

Her voice drops.

“You’re mine now, you know that?”

You nod, gasping.

“Only one who gets to touch you like this. Only one who gets to see you fall apart.”

She crooks her finger slightly.

“Oh, fuck!” You cry out, hips jolting up, clutching at her shirt like you’re going to break.

Agatha grins, feral and fond. Her girl. Her perfect baby.

“That’s it,” she murmurs. “Let go for me. Just let me take care of you.”

You let out a soft, gasping sob as the second finger slips in. “Oh, my god…”

Agatha hushes you gently, mouth brushing your cheek, her voice low and reverent. “No god here baby, just me.”

She moves her fingers deeper, curling just the tiniest bit, and your hips jolt like you’ve been shocked.

“Fuck,” you breathe. “F-Fuck, I-” Your voice breaks.

She’s not even doing anything complicated, and you already feel like your body is splitting apart. Her fingers feel so big inside you, thicker and longer than your own, stretching you in ways you’ve never felt before. You’re tight, throbbing, gripping around her hand, and she’s groaning low under her breath as she watches you squirm.

“You’re so good,” she whispers. “So fuckin’ good for me.”

She kisses the side of your throat, nipping gently as her fingers press in deeper. You whimper.

“Been thinking about this,” she murmurs. “About having my fingers inside you. Making you come apart in my arms.”

She pulls back just enough to look at you, her eyes dark, flushed from her cheeks down to her chest.

“God, baby, you feel so good,” she groans. “You’re making me fuckin’ crazy.”

Your thighs are trembling. You’re clutching her wrist now like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded, moaning as she moves her fingers in and out, slow at first, then building just a bit, her palm brushing your clit with every pass.

“Oh… oh, my god, Agatha!” You cry out, startled and frantic.

She grins at that, feral and proud. “There she is,” she purrs. “There’s my babygirl.”

You’re panting now, helpless and hot, legs trying to close but she keeps them open with a gentle nudge of her knee. Her free hand slips under your dress to hold your hip in place, fingers digging in possessively.

“Can’t believe no one’s ever touched you like this,” she murmurs. “No one’s ever seen how fuckin’ beautiful you are like this.”

Your head falls back, your mouth open in a silent moan as her fingers hit that spot again, her thumb starting to circle slow and messy at your clit. Your whole body arches.

“Agatha!”

“I got you,” she whispers. “I’ve got you, baby. You gonna come for me?”

You whimper, high and breathless. “I-I don’t know!”

She leans in and kisses you, deep and hard, like she’s trying to calm the storm in your chest.

“It’s okay baby, let it happen. Let me feel you come on my fingers.”

Her fingers curl again and your whole body locks up. You cry out, raw and desperate, and then you’re clenching around her, sobbing as the pleasure crashes over you.

“Thaaaat’s it,” Agatha groans, her forehead pressed to yours, her voice almost shaking. “That’s my girl. My perfect fuckin’ girl.”

You’re crying a little from the sensation and emotion, your body shivering as she works you through it. She doesn’t stop until your hips jolt and you grab her wrist in overstimulation.

She pulls her fingers free, easing out of you slowly, and brings them up to her lips to taste you. She groans at the taste.

“You taste so sweet,” she murmurs, kissing you again.

You’re still shaking. Still tearful. So Agatha scoops you into her lap like you weigh nothing, holding you against her chest, stroking your back and kissing your temple like you didn’t just fall apart in her hands.

“Feel good?” she whispers.

You nod into her shoulder. Your voice is small and soft when you finally speak. “Can we stay like this?”

She smiles against your hair. “For as long as you want, baby.”

Her arms are strong around your waist as she kisses your temple, whispering praises like she’s still in awe that she gets to touch you at all. Your cheek is pressed to her chest, and your thighs are still trembling, but she’s not moving. You’re hers. That’s enough.

But then you shift.

And your thigh brushes against her trousers, the hard press beneath them, and you pause to look up at her with wide eyes, blinking slowly in the dim light.

“…You’re hard.”

Agatha exhales, a little laugh under her breath, kissing your forehead. “Yeah, baby.”

“You didn’t…”

“No,” she says, brushing your hair back gently. “Didn’t want to rush anything. Tonight was about you.”

You look at her for a long moment. And then, shyly, you chew your lip. Your voice is soft when you ask her your next question.

“…Can I help?”

Agatha freezes. Her brows lift, jaw going slack for half a second, like she can’t believe what she just heard.

“Baby,” she breathes. “You sure?”

You nod and Agatha groans low in her throat before kissing you hard, hands cupping your face like she needs to be careful not to crush you.

“Oh my god,” she mutters into your mouth. “Fuck. Is this heaven?”

You giggle breathlessly and shift a little closer, curling into her chest. She guides your hand gently to her waistband, her warm hand wrapped around yours, moving slowly as she undoes the button of her jeans.

“You ever touched one before?” she murmurs.

You shake your head, nervous. “No.”

“Fuck,” she mutters. “I can’t believe I’m the first.”

You feel your fingertips brush her cock through her boxers, and both of you let out a gasp, hers broken and wrecked, yours startled and wide-eyed.

“Is that…?” you whisper, and she nods, eyes fluttering shut.

“Yeah, baby. That’s me.”

She helps guide your hand under the waistband and your fingers wrap around her for the first time. She’s thick, heavy, flushed and aching hard from everything she’s done to you.

Your mouth falls open. “Fuck.”

“Yeah,” she groans. “That’s the right reaction.”

You stroke her once, twice, and she throws her head back, eyes shut, lips parted in a moan that makes you throb again.

“Oh, baby you’re a fuckin’ natural…”

You kiss her again, harder now, your confidence growing with every whimper she gives you, every twitch of her hips as your hand works her.

“Like that?” you whisper.

“Just like that, baby,” she gasps. “Fuck, that’s so good. You’re so good for me.”

You keep going, finding a rhythm, learning her body, and you’re both so turned on by it. Her hand slides under your dress to hold your waist, her tongue tangling with yours, and you can feel her trembling now, close.

She pants against your mouth.

“You’re gonna make me come,” she gasps. “God, baby, just like that, I’m… fuck…”

And then she does, hips jerking up once, her cock pulsing hot in your hand as she comes with a shuddering moan, burying her face in your neck like she’s unraveling from the inside out.

You don’t stop until she breathes out a shaky little laugh and gently stills your wrist.

“Fuck,” she whispers. “That was… holy shit.”

You giggle softly, kissing her cheek.

“I did okay?”

Agatha groans like she’s in pain, pulling you up gently so you’re curled back into her chest.

“Baby,” she mutters. “You did perfect. That was the hottest fuckin’ thing that’s ever happened to me.”

She kisses your forehead again, already stroking your back.

She'd taken the subway home with her jaw set and her briefcase held in both hands in front of her like a shield. She'd gotten on at the wrong entrance and had to push through the turnstile going the wrong direction and a man in a Yankees cap had made a noise at her and she'd looked at him with her full face until he looked away, which she was good at, which was maybe the only thing she had going for her tonight. She stood for the whole ride because she didn't trust herself to sit down and then have to stand back up again. She watched the dark tunnel walls and thought about nothing on purpose.

Her building door stuck the way the stupid door always stuck. She shoulder-checked it harder than necessary.

She stood in the dark for a long time, breathing through her mouth. Then she went to the closet instead of the shower or the bed or the bottle of sleeping pills she wasn’t supposed to still have. She didn’t want comfort. She didn’t need to mope on her own in her empty apartment. She didn’t need to sit. Didn’t need to think. Didn’t need to call anyone. Not Olivia, obviously. Not her mother, who would ask questions, too many of them, each one landing just slightly off-center from where it hurt, close enough to sting. Not anyone who knew her well enough to hear it in her voice, which narrowed the list considerably and then narrowed it again.

The apartment was quiet. Obviously. The only other person to set foot in there was her landlord four months ago when the fridge started leaking. She'd bought the lamp in the corner because the overhead light was too bright and she'd thought the lamp would make the place feel warmer. It made it feel like she was always about to be interrogated. She didn't look at it.

She wasn’t looking for any dress in particular. She flipped through hangers without really seeing them, her fingers catching on fabric she couldn’t have named. Something that would piss off the detective, who just hated when Casey showed a sliver too much of her skin. Who had once looked at her across the bullpen when Casey had worn a blouse with two buttons undone—two, not three, not four, two—with an expression that managed to be both concerned and faintly disapproving, the way Olivia looked at a lot of things that had nothing to do with her. Who had said, once, in that stupid tone she used when she was pretending to be casual, you know you don’t have to do that. As if Casey’s choices were symptoms. As if everything Casey did that Olivia didn’t understand was a cry for help that Olivia had personally been appointed to interpret.

She wanted to do something Olivia would hate. Not for Olivia to see—she’d never see it, that was fine, that was almost the point. Just to do it anyway. To be, for one night, exactly the woman Olivia had always looked at her like she was trying not to become.

She found it wedged between a blazer she wore to court and a cardigan she wore everywhere else, shoved to the far left side of the rod where things went when she couldn't decide whether to keep them. A black dress she'd bought two years ago for a date that had never happened. The guy had cancelled the day before and she'd never returned the dress because returning it felt like admitting defeat, like letting the non-event take something else from her on top of the evening she'd already spent shaving her legs. So it had lived here between the blazer and the cardigan, no tags because she'd tried it on so many times she'd finally just taken them off.

Short. The hem would hit her maybe four inches above the knee. The back was—the back was nothing, really. Two delicate straps crossing over bare skin that ended right above the dimples at the base of her spine.

The straps sat cool against her shoulder blades. She reached back and adjusted them and felt the open air on her spine and thought, distantly, that she looked like someone who had somewhere to be. Then, she thought, with some satisfaction, that Olivia would absolutely hate it.

She stood in front of the mirror and looked at herself in it and waited for the part where she took it off and found something sensible. She watched her own face for the tell—the slight tightening around the eyes, the almost-imperceptible pull at the corner of her mouth that meant she'd talked herself out of something. She knew her own face well. She'd spent years making sure it didn't give anything away in court, which meant she'd spent years learning every way it tried to. The part just didn't come.

She looked good. She knew she looked good, had always known it in the abstract way you knew things about yourself that other people confirmed occasionally and you were not supposed to say out loud. She had good legs and good cheekbones and she was funny and she was smart and she was so tired of all of that being completely invisible to the one person who was supposed to—who had—who looked at her every day and saw a case file in a blazer. A liability. A woman with a history with this. She wanted someone to look at her tonight the way she deserved to be looked at, which was like she was something, which was like she was a person who existed in a body that was worth noticing. It wasn’t complicated. Olivia had made it complicated but it wasn’t.

She did her makeup heavier than she would for court or for anywhere, really. Concealer she usually skipped, pressed carefully into the shadows under her eyes that had been there since a case in February that she wasn't going to think about. Blush higher on her cheekbones than was strictly natural. Dark around the eyes—darker than she'd worn since law school, since she was someone who cared more about being looked at than being believed, before she'd learned those were in opposition and chosen accordingly. She never let herself do this on work nights because she had to be taken seriously. She always had to be taken seriously. She'd built everything on it. She'd made it the thing that was non-negotiable and then she'd made it the thing that was non-negotiable at the expense of other things and at some point, at some point she'd lost track of whether she'd chosen it or whether it had just become who she was.

Tonight she pressed the liner close to her lash line and smudged it with her thumb the way her college roommate used to do it over the sink in their shared bathroom, already half-dressed for somewhere. The way women did it when they were not thinking about morning.

She looked at herself. She didn't recognize the woman exactly. That was fine.

That was, in fact, the point.

The bar she’d chosen for the night was twelve blocks from her building, but despite the favorable proximity, having walked past it a hundred times, she had never gone in. It was a hole-in-the-wall kind of place, one without a sign above the door, only a faded decal plastered on the front glass to identify it. The kind where all the stools at the counter were different heights and the floor stuck slightly under your shoes. Not a lawyer bar. Not anywhere anyone she worked with would find her. Not anywhere she'd have to be Casey Novak, ADA, with her posture straight and her face arranged into something professional and her opinions kept in the back of her throat where they couldn't get her in trouble.

The bartender was some guy in his forties with the expression of a man who had successfully avoided a meaningful thought all day, which questions would likely not spur from, and Casey appreciated that more than she could have articulated.

She ordered a whiskey sour. Then another. Then she switched to something cheaper because the point wasn't to taste it, she wasn't here to enjoy herself, she was here to get drunk, and there was no point being precious about it.

The fight had been about Charlie. Again. Except it hadn't been about Charlie, not really, not the way Olivia framed it. It had started over yet another case involving a defendant with a documented history of paranoid schizophrenia, a defense Casey thought was being handled sloppily, a conversation that had started professional and then turned the same way they always did with Olivia, personal in a way Casey hadn't consented to.

Olivia had that gift. Or that compulsion. Casey had never decided which it was, and she'd had more opportunity than most to figure it out.

I just think, Olivia had said, in the voice she’d use when she’d already made up her mind and was now walking, or rather, dragging Casey toward her desired conclusion like a witness she’d prepped, that your history with this makes it hard for you to be objective.

Her history. Her history, which Olivia knew about because Olivia made it her business to know about everything—pieced together from an incident report she had absolutely no reason to have read, from precinct gossip, and from one night when Casey had been tired and Olivia had been warm and she'd made the mistake of thinking that meant something.

Casey had looked at her for a long moment across the precinct. She just felt something. Not anger, at least, not yet. Something older than anger. Something that had been sitting in the back of her throat since the first time Olivia had looked at a mentally ill defendant with that faux sympathy and then looked at Casey like she was waiting for her to flinch. She’d said something in response, although, by her second drink, she could not recall what that was. She ordered another.

She could call Alex. Alex would answer. Probably. They weren't—Casey didn't know exactly what they were. Alex had come back from wherever Olivia and the others never quite talked about in front of her, drifted back into Casey's orbit. They'd worked a few cases together. Gone out a few times after, just the two of them, drinks or coffee or once a late dinner where they'd stayed two hours longer than either of them had planned and Casey had taken a cab home feeling warm in a way she hadn't thought about too closely. She liked Alex. She thought Alex liked her. It was hard to tell, though, with Alex, who held things close in a way Casey understood and respected even when it made her want to shake her by the shoulders, but she thought—she was pretty sure—that if she called, Alex would pick up.

And she'd say what happened? And Casey would tell her, sloppily probably, given the drinks, and Alex would listen without interrupting which was something Casey didn't take for granted, and then she'd say something quiet and precise and completely devastating about Olivia that would land like a scalpel, and Casey would feel better and worse at the same time. Better because Alex would mean it. Because Alex didn't say things she didn't mean, as far as Casey could tell. Worse because Alex would know. Would have always known. Had been dealing with Olivia since before Casey even had the job, had worked alongside her and argued with her and—whatever else, whatever the details were that Casey didn't have and wasn't owed.

She tried to imagine it, sometimes. Olivia saying those same measured, careful things to Alex. Taking her apart with whatever intentions, that mockingly patient expression, her talent for making concern feel like schoolyard teasing. And then what—going home together? Expecting it to be fine? Expecting Alex to just absorb it and move on because Olivia had meant well, because Olivia always meant well, because meaning well was apparently a get out of jail free card that never expired no matter how many times you used it.

When the whiskey loosened the leash she kept on her uglier thoughts, she Olivia and Alex, together. Tangled up in each other the way Casey kept catching herself picturing at the worst possible moments. Was Olivia rough with Alex too? Because Olivia was always rough with her. Not just sharp-tongued at work—rough in the rare, charged moments when they ended up too close, when the argument bled into something physical and breathless. Olivia’s grip on her wrist too tight. Her voice low and mean against Casey’s ear. Fingers pushing inside her like she was proving a point instead of fucking her. Like she was punishing Casey for wanting it. For being difficult. For making Olivia feel things she didn’t want to feel.

Casey had come to crave that edge, which only made her hate herself more. But did Alex get that version? Or did Alex get the soft one? The one Casey sometimes glimpsed when Olivia let her guard down for half a second—gentle hands, patient mouth, quiet praise instead of that mocking little edge that always slipped into Olivia’s voice when she was touching Casey. Did Olivia fuck Alex slow and reverent, murmuring how good she was, how strong, how perfect? Did she let Alex stay in control, let her keep that elegant composure while Olivia went down on her like she was worshiping instead of dissecting?

Or worse—did Olivia use Casey as the outlet? Sloppy seconds. The place she went when she needed to be mean. When she needed to work out her anger, her control issues, her whatever-the-fuck issues on someone who would take it. Someone she could push around and lecture and still make come harder than she probably should. Someone who would let Olivia pin her down and tell her all the ways she was fucking up her own life while Olivia’s fingers were buried inside her.

Casey stared at the sticky bar top and felt her face burn.

Maybe that was all she was to Olivia. The safe target. The one who could handle the roughness, who secretly got off on the cruelty, who wouldn’t break. While Alex got the version of Olivia that was actually capable of tenderness. The version that didn’t need to dominate or correct or punish every time she touched someone.

She didn't know if that was how it had been. She didn't know the details and didn't particularly want them and also if she was being completely honest with herself, which the whiskey was making easier, she kind of wanted all of them, in the grim rubbernecking way you slowed down past an accident. Just to know. Just to confirm that it wasn't her, that it wasn't something specific to Casey that brought this out in Olivia, that Olivia just—did this. Was like this. Had always been like this with the people she loved, if that was even the right word for whatever Olivia did.

Olivia was just a bitch. That was it. That was the whole explanation. Casey had been turning it over all night looking for something more complicated and that was what she kept arriving at.

She was still thinking about Olivia—or not thinking exactly, more like letting her occupy space the way a bad song did, rattling around her skull without permission—when someone sat down on the stool just beside her. Some guy. Brown hair—or maybe it was blond? It was dark, and she was wholly slumped over the counter, and to crane her neck to look in his direction would be rather uncomfortable, so she continued to stare at the wood grain on the bar. She was beginning to think it was peel-and-stick. She could smooth her fingers over it and feel no divots where the grain was uneven, but that could be the result of a thick varnish, or perhaps a good sanding job, or—no, this was vinyl. It was peeling at the bottom near the corner where the counter met the wall, a little curl of fake wood lifting away from whatever was underneath. She briefly wondered if that was sanitary, and then she wondered why she was wondering that, and then she decided that the amount of alcohol coursing through her system would surely disinfect whatever she might inadvertently ingest, so who was she to care. Not her bar. Not her problem. She was not, tonight, anyone's problem.

His body was warm next to her, and he smelled like cigarettes. It made her chest ache faintly, made her think of college, of bad decisions in good company on fire escapes, of the version of herself that had existed before she’d decided to be so stupidly, recklessly, relentlessly careful all the damn time. The version that had stayed out past two on weeknights and bummed cigarettes off strangers and worn dresses like this one without needing a reason. Man, she could use a cigarette. She hadn't smoked in however long it had been since she decided showing up to court reeking of smoke was a disservice to herself and her clients and the general dignity of the proceedings, which had felt like a very mature and reasonable decision at the time and felt, right now, like one more thing she'd given up in the name of being taken seriously by people who were going to condescend to her regardless. She could really use a cigarette.

"Rough night?"

She looked over. The man, maybe thirty, the kind of forgettable that would take effort to describe afterward. Not threatening. Not particularly anything. He had the look of someone who was also here to be nowhere else, which she understood, which was maybe why she answered at all, or maybe it was just the drinks, or maybe she was just tired of being inside her own head and any voice that wasn't hers would do. He caught the bartender's eye and held up two fingers before Casey had fully processed he was there.

"Something like that," she said, and looked back at her drink.

She was thinking about the way Olivia had said your history with this—and then she wasn't thinking about it because the bar was warm and the music had shifted to something with a low bass line that she could feel more than hear and thinking was becoming somewhat optional.

The bartender set two glasses down. One in front of him. One in front of her. She was looking at the bottles behind the bar, the way they were arranged by height, tallest on the left, and she was thinking about nothing, which she was getting very good at, and then she was looking at her phone for a second—she didn't even know why, muscle memory, the same reflex that made her check it forty times a day—and there was a name on the screen that wasn't Olivia's and she stared at it without reading it and put it back down.

Casey looked at the glass. Looked at him. He lifted his chin slightly. Not quite a smile.

She should say no. She knew that. She was a person who knew things like that, who kept track, who was—

The next thing she would be aware of was light.

It came in sideways from somewhere, too bright, from an angle that meant morning, late morning maybe, and it hit her directly behind the eyes and she made a sound she didn't recognize and turned her face away from it before she was even fully awake, before she knew anything except that the light was unbearable and something was very wrong with her head.

She lay there.

The tile was cold against her cheek. That was—that was a thing. She was on the floor. Her kitchen floor, she thought, she was pretty sure, the grout lines were familiar, she'd spent enough time staring at them while she waited for the coffee to brew. So that was fine. She was on her kitchen floor. People ended up on their kitchen floors. That was a thing that happened.

Her head was the worst it had ever been. She wasn't being dramatic. She was, professionally, a person who tried not to be dramatic, who measured her words carefully and did not exaggerate for effect in professional or personal contexts, and she was telling herself right now as a factual matter that this was the worst her head had ever felt. It wasn't just the pain, though the pain was extraordinary, a deep hot throbbing that went all the way down into her back teeth and made the backs of her eyes feel like they were being pressed outward from the inside. Her scalp felt hot. Sunburned, almost, tender in a way that didn't make any sense. She had a thin high ringing in her ears that didn't change when she pressed her then harder against the floor, that just sat there at a fixed frequency, patient and horrible. Her neck was so stiff she wasn't sure she could lift her head, but she tried anyway.

The room moved. The room moved a lot, actually, swung sideways in a way that had her pressing both palms flat against the tile trying to find something stable, and her stomach lurched and she thought with sudden sharp clarity that she was going to throw up, she was absolutely going to throw up right here on the kitchen floor, and then she held very still and breathed through her nose until the wave passed and left her shaking slightly and not sick, not yet, not if she didn't move again too fast. So she stayed very still.

There was a taste in her mouth that she couldn't identify and didn't want to. Something chemical almost. Something underneath the stale alcohol that wasn't just stale alcohol, that she kept running her tongue against and then wishing she hadn't. She smelled—she smelled wrong. Not just bar smell, not just the particular staleness of a night out, something else underneath it that she couldn't identify and that made her want to shower with an urgency that she dismissed because moving was not currently an option.

Regardless, she pushed herself up onto one elbow, and looked down at her body. Her shoes were gone—she didn't know when she'd taken them off, didn't remember the door or the elevator or any of the ordinary architecture of coming home. Her feet were bare on the tile. She was still in the dress that she'd put on because—she'd had a reason, she'd had a reason that had felt very important at the time and she couldn't—

Olivia.

Right.

She sat up the rest of the way and put her back against the cabinet underneath the sink and pulled her knees up and sat there. The ringing in her ears didn't stop. The light was very bright. She thought about getting up and getting water and didn't move.

She was so stupid. She was so, so stupid. She'd gone out alone dressed like a cheap slut and she'd had too much to drink and she'd ended up on her kitchen floor and she was twenty-eight years old and she was an ADA and she was so profoundly, embarrassingly stupid.

She pressed her back harder against the cabinet and closed her eyes and felt—something. Something that had been background noise became the only thing in the room. Not the kind of ache that comes from sleeping on the hard tile. She knew that ache. She wasn't—well, she couldn’t say she wasn’t stupid—she had a body, she was a person with a body, she knew what that ache meant and where it came from. But she hadn't. She hadn't done that, she hadn't—she'd been at the bar alone, she'd gone there specifically to be alone, she hadn't wanted anyone, she hadn't talked to anyone except the bartender and—there'd been a man. She hadn’t flirted. She hadn’t left with him. She wouldn’t have. She didn’t do that. She'd been thinking about Olivia and the shitty bar and she hadn't—she wouldn't have. She didn't do that. She didn't go home with strangers, she was careful, she was always so careful, she had spent years being so careful, she was the most careful person she knew, she was—

Why would she feel like that if she hadn't —

Why would she —

She pressed the heel of her hand against her sternum like that would help anything.

She'd had too much to drink. That was the whole thing. That was the explanation. She'd had too much to drink and she didn't remember getting home and she'd slept on her kitchen floor and her body was—it was always weird after a bad night, that was normal, that happened, that didn't mean—it didn't have to mean—

She is so stupid. She is so incredibly, irredeemably stupid, because what had she thought was going to happen, going out alone like that, dressed like that, drinking like that, she was an ADA, she'd stood in courtrooms and argued cases and she knew, she knew better than almost anyone exactly how this kind of night could go and she'd done it anyway because she was upset about a fight, because her feelings were hurt, because she was apparently a child, because—

Because she deserved to have her feelings hurt, probably. Because this was what happened. This was what happened to women who went out alone and drank until they couldn't remember and sat next to strangers—who let them—

She didn't finish that thought.

She couldn't tell if she was protecting herself or just being a coward. She suspected the latter. She suspected she was very good at being a coward about the things that mattered and very good at performing bravery about everything else, the courtrooms and the arguments and the measured words, all of it a mural to cover something that was apparently just—this. Just her.

A woman on a kitchen floor who didn't know what had happened to her and was already, already, finding ways to make it her fault before she'd even fully understood what it was.

What it was.

Her phone buzzed somewhere above her head and she startled badly, which sent a wave of pain through her skull that made her eyes water, and she sat there for a second just breathing before she reached up and felt along the counter without looking until her fingers closed around it. She turned the screen away from her face because the brightness was unbearable and then looked at it sideways, squinting.

Missed Call—Alex Cabot 11:43 PM

Missed Call—Alex Cabot 11:47 PM

And now Alex Cabot, calling. Right now. She remembered, dimly, the name on the screen at the bar. She must have—she'd done something, called or tried to call or something, and Alex had called back twice and gotten nothing and now it was the next morning and Alex was calling again because that was the kind of person Alex was, which was going to make this so much worse, actually, because now Alex got to know. Now Alex got to find out that Casey Novak had gone out alone and drunk herself into a gap in her own memory and ended up on her kitchen floor. Great. That was great. That was one more person who knew she was an idiot.

She answered it anyway because not answering felt worse somehow.

"Hey." Her voice came out as more of a whimper, which she quickly corrected. "Hey, sorry, I was —"

"Casey." Alex's voice was even, but there was something underneath it that she was trying very hard to keep controlled. "Are you home?"

"Yeah, I'm home." She cleared her throat. Tried to sound like a person who was fine, which she was, she was fine, she was certainly not fine but that was a minor detail, that was neither here nor there. "Did I call you last night? I think I might have pocket-dialed, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to —"

"You called at eleven-forty," Alex said. "You didn't say anything. There was noise and then it cut out. I called back twice."

Casey closed her eyes. So she'd just—breathed at her, apparently. Into the phone. Like a very pathetic obscene caller. Perfect. That was perfect, that was a great addition to the evening's accomplishments, she was doing so well. Let's tally it up, she thought, let's just go ahead and lay it all out. She'd picked a fight with Olivia, or let one happen, or failed to prevent one, however you wanted to categorize it. She'd gone home and put on a dress she had no business wearing anywhere except her own apartment. She'd taken a cab to a bar she'd never been to specifically so no one would find her, which, great call, very smart, gold star for that one. She'd drunk until she couldn't account for herself. She'd apparently called Alexandra fucking Cabot at eleven-forty in the evening and just. breathed at her. And then she'd gotten home somehow, by some mechanism she couldn't access, and she'd ended up on her kitchen floor, and now Alex had called back a third time and Casey had answered it and was sitting here accruing more evidence against herself in real time. She was doing great. She was absolutely doing so great.

"I'm really sorry," she said. "I had too much to drink and I must have—I'm sorry, I didn't mean to worry you."

Which was an understatement, and not even an interesting one. She'd had too much to drink was what you said when you'd had three glasses of wine at a work event and said something mildly embarrassing to a colleague. She'd had too much to drink was not—it didn't cover it, didn't come close to covering it, and she knew that and was saying it anyway because it was the smallest possible container for what she was trying to hand Alex and she was hoping Alex would just take it and not look inside.

"How much is too much?"

Of course. Of course Alex wasn't going to take it. Casey had known Alex for two years and in that time she had never once watched her accept an insufficient answer from anyone, in court or out of it, and she'd still somehow hoped that this would be the exception, that Alex would let her be vague and small about it, that she'd say oh no worries, glad you're okay, talk soon, and hang up and Casey could go back to sitting on her floor in peace. She didn't know why she'd thought that. She didn't know why she kept thinking things that were obviously wrong.

Casey opened her mouth and closed it. "I don't know exactly."

Which was true. Which was the truest thing she'd said so far. She didn't know exactly, she didn't know approximately, she didn't know at all, and saying it out loud to Alex made it more real in a way she hadn't been prepared for, made it sit differently in her chest, heavier, the not knowing suddenly feeling less like a gap and more like an answer she didn't want.

"Do you remember getting home?"

And there it was. The question she'd been hoping most wouldn't get asked, which was stupid, which was so stupid, of course Alex was going to ask that, Alex was the most precise person she'd ever met, Alex didn't ask questions she wasn't already following to their conclusions, Alex had probably known exactly where this conversation was going before Casey even picked up the phone. And now here they were. Alex having to ask her, a grown woman, a licensed attorney, an assistant district attorney, whether she remembered getting herself home from a bar the night before. Whether she'd managed the basic task of existing unsupervised for one evening without something going wrong. She had a law degree. She had a bar license and a caseload and a reputation she'd spent years building and Alex Cabot was on the phone asking her if she remembered getting home like she was checking on a teenager who'd snuck out, which was humiliating, which was exactly as humiliating as it deserved to be, which was—she didn't have a right to be humiliated. Humiliation implied she hadn't earned this. Humiliation implied she had any ground to stand on at all.

"I'm fine," Casey said, which was not an answer. "I have a headache, I just need water and—"

"Casey." Very quiet. "Do you feel okay?"

The ache. Low and specific. She'd been carefully not thinking about it for the last however long and Alex had just walked right up to it in four words.

"I'm fine," she said again, and even she could hear how thin it sounded, how little it was doing, what a terrible job it was doing of convincing anyone of anything. “I’m fine I just—I think I’m being dramatic.”

"I don't think you're being dramatic," Alex said, apparently having decided to say the thing. "I think something happened last night, and I think you need to go to the hospital."

"I don't—Alex, I don't even know if anything—" She stopped. "I don't remember. I don't remember anything after the bar and I know how that sounds but it doesn't mean—it could just be—I was drinking a lot, I was really drinking a lot, so it could just be that I had too much and that's why I don't—" She stopped again. Pressed her fingers against her eyes. "I just. I don't know what you think happened from this conversation. I called you by accident. I got drunk. God forbid. Women get drunk, Alex, it happens, it's not—you can't just tell someone to go to the hospital because they got drunk and pocket-dialed you, that's not—I'm fine. I'm hungover, I just need to drink some water and sleep and I'll be—" She was rambling. She could hear herself rambling, could hear the way the sentences were getting longer and less controlled, which was not helping her case, which was in fact actively undermining the point she was trying to make, which was that she was fine, she was completely fine, there was absolutely no reason for anyone to be concerned, certainly not enough to go to a hospital, certainly not enough for any of this.

She'd just had a bad night, she'd said she'd had too much to drink, which, yes, clearly, obviously, that was not in dispute, but that was—people did that. People had too much to drink and didn't remember things and woke up feeling terrible and it didn't automatically mean—it wasn't automatically—

God forbid, she thought. God forbid a person have a bad night. God forbid she drink too much one time and not have it turn into a whole—into a—

"Casey," Alex said, very gently. "I know."

"I'm probably just being dramatic," she repeated, and her voice came out smaller than she'd meant it to, smaller than she had any interest in it being, and she pressed her hand over her eyes and willed herself to hold it together because she'd already cried once on this floor and she was done, she'd decided she was done, she had made that decision and she was sticking to it.

"You are the least dramatic person I know," Alex said. "Which is why I’m already in my car."

Something in Casey's chest moved in a way she didn't have words for. She wanted to argue with that, wanted to point out that she was currently on her kitchen floor having a breakdown on the phone with someone she barely knew, which seemed pretty dramatic to her, which seemed like it qualified, but she didn't have the energy and she suspected Alex would just dismantle the argument anyway and she was so tired of losing.

"You don't have to—" she started.

"I'm coming," Alex said. Not unkindly. "I'm going to drive you. You don't have to talk in the car if you don't want to. You don't have to talk at all. But I'm coming and I'm taking you and you can be angry at me for it later."

Casey looked at her kitchen. She thought about saying no. She thought about insisting, about being a person who handled things herself because that was what she did, that was the only thing she'd ever reliably done, the one skill she'd never lost even when she'd lost everything else. She thought about saying I'm fine one more time and seeing if it worked any better on the third try. She was so tired. She was so tired and her head was splitting open and she ached everywhere and there was a gap where last night should be and she was just. so tired.

"Okay," she whispered.

"Okay," Alex repeated. "I'll be there in twenty minutes."

Casey nodded even though Alex couldn't see her. She stayed on the floor after Alex hung up, phone in her lap, the screen going dark, and she looked at nothing and she thought about how now Alex knew. Alex knew she was stupid. Alex knew she'd gone out alone and drunk whatever was put in front of her and ended up here, and Alex was coming anyway, and she didn’t know what to do with that. She'd spent so long making sure she wasn't something anyone had to deal with, making sure she took up exactly the right amount of space and no more, and Alex was just coming. Twenty minutes. Like it was simple. Like Casey was worth the twenty minutes.