Agatha was not waiting in an office or anywhere formal. She stood near the edge of the stage, the house lights dimmed, the auditorium empty and vast. Without an audience, the theatre felt larger, more exposed.

She did not turn immediately when you approached. Her attention was on the rows of seats, hands clasped behind her back, coat still on as if she had never intended to stay long.

You hesitated, then approached. Your footsteps were soft, nearly lost to the space.

“Excuse me,” you said gently.

She turned. Slowly. Her attention settled on you in a way that felt precise, but not sharp.

“Yes.”

“I was told you wanted to speak with me.”

Agatha studied you for a moment, then inclined her head slightly. “I did.”

You clasped your hands in front of you, posture relaxed, expression open. Without the lights, without the music, you felt smaller somehow. Quieter.

“I wanted to tell you,” she continued, “that your dancing has a particular quality.”

You blinked. “Thank you.”

“It is not forceful,” Agatha said. “It does not demand attention. It simply exists.” Her gaze softened almost imperceptibly. “That is rarer than technique.”

You smiled at that, something warm and unguarded. “I was trained to listen rather than impress.”

That earned a pause from her.

“I am beginning to understand that,” she replied.

Her gaze lingered, thoughtful.

“You are a guest,” she said.

You nodded. “Yes. My company loaned me for the season.”

“For The Nutcracker,” she added, as though narrowing the scope made it more manageable.

You smiled, soft and unguarded. “The Nutcracker will be my final performance here.”

The words landed quietly.

Agatha’s expression remained smooth, controlled, perfectly neutral. Only someone watching closely would have noticed the subtle stillness that followed, the way her fingers tightened briefly at her side.

“I see,” she said.

She inclined her head slightly, as if the matter were settled. “Then we are fortunate to have you at all.”

You brightened at that, clearly pleased. “I am very grateful to be here.”

Agatha watched you for a moment longer than necessary. There was something restrained in her gaze now, something careful. Whatever she felt, she kept it locked neatly behind composure and good manners.

Your fingers twisted lightly at the hem of your skirt. The soft light made her seem unreal, distant and untouchable, and the flutter in your chest grew heavier, insistent.

“Yes,” she said softly. “Grateful.”

You smiled again , unaware of the quiet disappointment she refused to name, unaware of how much she disliked the idea of your final curtain call already having a date.

*

The rehearsal studio was quiet in the way only late evenings allowed it to be. The lights were dimmed to a softer glow, just enough to illuminate the floor and the mirrors without turning the space harsh. Music played low from a speaker near the wall, not loud enough to command, only to accompany.

You were alone.

Not running full choreography. Just working through a sequence slowly, thoughtfully. A turn repeated twice, then again, not for perfection but for feeling. Your movements were gentle, unguarded. You did not look like someone being watched.

Agatha found you by accident.

She had left the meeting early, her patience spent on men who spoke of legacy as though it were something that could be quantified. They had smiled too much. Pressed too hard. Suggested changes she did not ask for. She needed the theatre, its quiet authority, the reminder that this place still answered to her.

She did not expect to find anyone.

She stopped just inside the doorway when she saw you.

Agatha did not announce herself. She simply stood there, coat still on, hands relaxed at her sides, watching. Not critically. Not possessively. Just watching in a way she had not allowed herself to in years.

You danced like you were alone in the world.

When you finally noticed her reflection in the mirror, you startled slightly, hand lifting to your chest before you caught yourself. You turned quickly, breath catching, then softened when you recognized her.

“Oh,” you said, smiling a little. “I didn’t realize anyone else was still here.”

Agatha inclined her head. Her voice, when she spoke, was quieter than usual. “I could say the same.”

You laughed softly, embarrassed, stepping back toward your bag. “I can leave. I was just finishing.”

“No,” Agatha said, the word coming a beat too quickly. She paused, recalibrated. “You are not in the way.”

You hesitated, then nodded, settling back into place. There was a strange comfort in the way she said it, as though she meant it entirely.

“You rehearse differently when you think no one is watching,” Agatha observed.

You blinked, surprised. “Is that bad?”

“No,” she replied. “It is different.”

You considered that for a moment, then shrugged lightly. “I think I am just more honest when it is quiet.”

Something in her expression shifted at that.

Agatha stepped a little closer, not onto the floor, but near enough that the space between you felt deliberate. “Why continue rehearsing something you already know,” she asked. “At this hour.”

You thought about it before answering. “Because it feels right,” you said simply. “And because sometimes I like to remind myself why I started.”

Agatha did not respond immediately. Her irritation from the meeting drained away, replaced by something slower, heavier. She found herself studying you not as a dancer, not as a guest, but as a presence.

“You do not seem interested in being impressive,” she said.

Your smile turned shy. “I hope that is not disappointing.”

“No,” Agatha said. “It is disarming.”

You flushed faintly at that, fingers brushing together without realizing it. “That is kind of you.”

Agatha watched the way you stood, open and unguarded, as if the world had not yet taught you to armor yourself. She realized, distantly, that she wanted to keep it that way.

“Do you always look like this when you concentrate?” Her voice is low, measured, casual—but it makes your chest tighten.

You swallow, unsure what to say. “I… I suppose so,” you murmur.

Her gaze lingers, quiet, deliberate. You can feel it against your skin like a touch you’re not meant to feel. You shiver and try to focus on the movement, but suddenly each step feels heavier, each arm lift more intimate.

“You’re very… careful,” she murmurs. “But not cautious.”

You falter in your next movement, a small stumble that sends a rush of warmth through your body. She notices, of course, her eyes darkening for the barest fraction of a second. You catch yourself, cheeks burning, your breath coming faster.

“Do you always make it so… easy to watch?” she asks quietly.

Your stomach twists, a soft panic creeping in, and you realize: yes, she’s intentionally staying.

You try to focus on your movement, but it’s impossible. Every subtle shift in her posture, every tilt of her head, every glance makes your chest tighten. She doesn’t speak at first. She doesn’t need to. You can feel her attention tracing every line of your body, every controlled bend of your wrist, every pointed toe.

“Your shoulders,” she says softly, almost a murmur, “relax them just slightly. Let the movement flow through you.”

Her voice is low, precise, intimate. You obey instinctively, shivering at how close she is, and the soft warmth of her hand brushing near your shoulder as she demonstrates the movement makes your breath hitch.

You try to steady yourself, but the awareness of her proximity, the subtle scent of her perfume, the way her eyes linger—it’s almost too much. You stumble slightly, cheeks burning.

“Careful,” she murmurs, her voice a velvet weight. “I don’t want you to hurt yourself… not like this.”

It’s both warning and something else. Something you can’t name, something that makes your stomach twist. You nod, your movements faltering slightly, every nerve alive with the awareness of her.

She steps even closer, close enough that you can feel the faint heat of her body without touching. She leans in, just a whisper of space between you. “You’re… mesmerizing,” she says quietly. “Even when you think no one is watching.”

You can’t respond. Your lips part slightly, your pulse thundering, and the room feels impossibly small. The air between you is charged, every movement weighted with tension neither of you breaks.

You can feel your cheeks heating, warmth creeping up your neck, the tiniest tremor in your hands as you lower from pointe. You try to steady your breathing, focus on the music - but it’s impossible with her so close, so deliberate, watching every movement.

Agatha doesn’t move. She doesn’t need to. She just stands there, the faintest tilt of her head, eyes narrowing slightly, lips just curved enough to be unreadable. But she notices. Oh, she notices.

Your blush spreads further, and suddenly you’re hyper-aware of every part of yourself - the curve of your arms, the line of your legs, the way your chest rises and falls. You feel exposed and ridiculous, but you can’t look away.

“You’re very… responsive,” she murmurs, voice low, almost a growl you feel more than hear. “Even to something as small as a glance.”

Heat flares in your chest. Your lips part slightly. You try to smile, but it comes out soft, unsure.

“It suits you,” she continues, eyes darkening imperceptibly. “The way you… react. It’s very… becoming.”

You falter, every muscle suddenly aware, trembling slightly at her words. You can’t help the flutter in your stomach. Your pulse is deafening in your ears.

She watches it all - the blush, the shiver, the tiny hesitations - and she likes it. She likes that she has this effect. That the soft, angelic presence you carry can make even her controlled composure falter, even just a little.

“You’re distracting,” she says quietly, the words deliberate, not cruel, but edged with possession.

You blink, breath catching, cheeks hotter than ever. The music seems distant now, the room smaller, the space between you impossible.

And yet, you don’t move. You don’t look away. Somehow, you want her to stay, want her to notice you, even like this.

Agatha steps back just slightly, letting the tension linger, letting you process it, letting you burn with awareness of her - without ever touching.

And when she finally leaves the floor, the emptiness she leaves behind feels heavier than the presence she carried.

You know she’ll return.

And a part of you is already counting down the moments until she does.

“”””””””””””””””

Happy Holidays!