It’s early in the morning. The sun is only just starting to rise, casting a sleepy orange glow across the kitchen floorboards. The house is quiet, the kind of soft quiet that comes when you’ve already left for work. There are no other sounds apart from the ticking wall clock and the faint hum of the fridge.

Agatha pads into the kitchen barefoot, her hair mussed from sleep, yawning into the sleeve of her shirt. She’s wearing your favourite one, the one that she bought at a thrift store because it said ‘Bohner’ like that could ever actually a real family name and now smells like her shampoo.

She’s expecting to find your little post-it notes on the counter. A sweet message. A doodle of Señor Scratchy. Some stupid pun that makes her snort into her coffee.

But instead…

She sees your ring sitting in the little dish by the sink.

The engagement ring she gave you three weeks ago.

The one you never take off.

Her first thought is no, it must’ve slipped off. Maybe you were washing your hands, or you took it off while getting ready and forgot to put it back. But even that doesn’t make sense because she knows you. She knows how tight you grip that ring like a lifeline. How you only take it off when you’re in surgery, and even then you hate it.

She steps forward slowly and picks it up between her thumb and forefinger. Somehow it feels heavier than usual.

“Mm, what’re you doin’ baby huh?” She murmurs to herself, voice rough from sleep.

She rubs the inside with her thumb, feeling for the engraving she’d paid extra for.

My love, forever.

And suddenly there’s this heavy, tight ache in her chest. Her brows knit together. Because why would you leave it?

She stares at it for a moment longer then sets it gently on the counter where you would usually leave a note. Except today, there isn’t a note.

No ‘have a good day <3,’ no ‘left you banana bread,’ no ‘love you.’

Just silence. And a ring.

She exhales through her nose, her chest tight and her mind unsettled. Her girl would never take this off. So what the fuck’s going on?

She stares at the ring again for a long moment. Then turns away sharply, gritting her teeth as she starts to make her morning coffee just to do something with her hands.

But she can’t stop thinking.

You never take it off. Not even in the bath. Not when you sleep. You cried when she gave it to you, wrapped your legs around her waist and whispered ‘thank you thank you thank you’ like it was the only thing you’d ever wanted.

So why the fuck is it sitting on the counter?

She tells herself not to be stupid. You’re not cheating. You wouldn’t. You couldn’t. You’re obsessed with her. You’re with her every free moment you’ve got, curled up in her lap, tracing lazy circles on her chest, making those soft little noises when she kisses behind your ear. You’re always touching her, always needing her, always whispering ‘mine’ against her skin when you think she’s not listening.

There’s no way.

Except…

Her arms cross tighter over her chest. She’s gripping her mug too hard.

Then why’d you take it off? And why no note? Why no ‘love you baby’ post-it on the fridge written in pink pen like every other day?

Her jaw clenches.

She trusts you. She loves you.

But love doesn’t stop that horrible little whisper in the back of her head, the one planted by every woman who ever looked at her like she was too much. The one that told her she was too old, too masculine, too closed off, too hard to love.

She’s pacing now, tugging at the hem of her shirt.

Maybe she said something wrong. Maybe she was too distant this week. She’s had night shifts, paperwork, the whole overtime conversation you had a couple of days ago…

Fuck.

She runs a hand through her hair, heart pounding now. You wouldn’t leave her. You wouldn’t.

But the ring is still sitting there.

And the clock is ticking, with every minute you’re not home feeling like a fresh crack in her ribs.

~

You don’t expect Agatha to be standing in the kitchen when you get home. Especially not with the lights dimmed low and with your engagement ring pinched between two fingers like evidence in a case she’s working on.

But there she is, standing inside the kitchen, feet planted to the ground, arms crossed tight over her chest.

Her eyes lift when the door clicks shut behind you.

And they are dark.

They aren’t teasing or warm. She isn’t looking at you with her usual fond but firm ‘c’mere, babygirl’ look.

This is something else.

You blink. Caught off guard. Your tote bag halfway down your arm.

“Agatha?”

She doesn’t speak at first. Instead she holds the ring up between her forefinger and thumb, its shine duller in the low kitchen light. The space feels immediately heavy between you.

You freeze.

Fuck.

“I-I forgot,” you say quickly, before she can say anything. “I just… it was by the sink, I guess I…”

“You never forget it.” Her voice is rough, her tone low and controlled. “You sleep in it. You shower in it. You make me put it on you during sex, like a fuckin’ ceremony.”

You wince. “I know. I’m sorry. I just…”

“I’ve been trying not to spiral,” she says, flatly. “Trying not to think the worst.”

Your heart drops. Oh god. She can’t possibly think…

“Baby,” you whisper, stepping forward. “It’s not what you think…”

“You think I haven’t seen this happen before?” she cuts in harshly.

Her voice is frayed at the edges now, her anger covering something deeper, something so much worse. Insecurity.

“The young girl realizes what she signed up for. That she’s got this old butch ball and chain instead of some Pinterest wedding dream, and suddenly the ring’s a little too tight.”

“Agatha,” you breathe. “No, stop please…”

Her mouth presses into a tight line.

But you see it now.

The hurt.

It’s in the way she won’t meet your eyes. The way her fingers are clenched white around the little wedding band. The way she’s holding herself like she’s bracing for a car crash.

And suddenly you feel sick.

This is your fault.

You did this.

“No, fuck… I just…” you drop your bag and walk closer. “I didn’t wear it today because… because I met up with my mom.”

That gets her attention.

Her brows lift. “Your mom?”

You nod, quickly. Tears pricking.

“She doesn’t… she doesn’t know about us,” you admit, voice small. “She doesn’t even know I’m into women. Or that I’m engaged. Or that I live with you. I just…” you shake your head, frustrated. “She’s never approved of anything I’ve done. Any decision I’ve made. She ruined my graduation, she ruined my first apartment, she ruins everything… and I just… I didn’t want her to ruin this too. So I took it off.”

Agatha blinks in shock as she tries to process the information she has just been given.

You sniffle, clutching your arms around yourself as if to hold you together.

“I just didn’t want her to look at the ring and ask questions and make that condescending face like she always does and make me feel like shit for being happy…”

“Hey.” Her voice is softer now. It’s still low but no longer sharp. “Hey, baby.”

You finally meet her eyes.

And she looks wrecked. She’s not angry, not even hurt anymore. Just… wrecked.

Her gaze sweeps over you, looking at your damp lashes, your trembling lip, your hunched shoulders. And you see the exact moment her expression breaks.

“Oh, honey…”

And then she’s moving. You’re wrapped in her arms before you can even finish wiping your cheeks. Strong hands pull you close till you feel her warm breath at your temple.

“I thought…” she murmurs, shaking her head. “Jesus, baby. I thought I lost you.”

“I’d never…”

“I know. I know, now. God, look at you.”

You sniffle, nuzzling in.

She kisses your hair, then your forehead, then your cheeks. She cradles your face and tilts it up so you’re looking at her again.

“You should’ve told me.”

“I didn’t wanna seem…”

“Seem what?” she cuts in, gently. “Like a girl trying to protect herself?”

Your lip wobbles.

She smiles that slow, crooked, ‘God I love you’ kind of smile and brushes your hair back behind your ear.

“I get it,” she says. “Do your mom’s a fucking piece of work. And you don’t owe anyone anything baby. Not even her.”

You press yourself closer to her, inhaling the scent of cedar and safety that clings to her clothes.

“I just didn’t want her to ruin this,” you whisper again. “I love you so much, Agatha. I love our life together. I’m not ashamed of you or of this… I’m just scared.”

She presses a kiss to your temple.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” she murmurs. “But next time talk to me, yeah? I don’t need to be in your mom’s good graces. I just need to know what’s going on with you, okay? So next time, you come to me. You don’t keep this shit locked up on your own. Team Harkness?”

“Team Harkness.” You agree, giggling softly and a little teary still.

She grins.

“And if you ever leave this ring behind again,” she growls, nudging it into your palm, “I’m gonna bend you over the kitchen table and fuck you in nothing but that ring, you got that honey?”

Your breath catches.

She cocks her head, her confident smirk returning to her face. “I mean it. I’ll leave ring prints on your ass.”

You’re giggling now, clinging to her shirt like a lifeline.

“That’s my beautiful girl,” Agatha murmurs again, brushing her knuckles under your eye to catch the last tear.

You smile, sniffling as her fingers curl beneath your chin. And when she kisses you, slow and deep and oh so devoted you feel it in every inch of your body.

“Remember that I’m not just your fiancée, baby. I’m your home. You hear me?”

“I hear you…” you melt into her, nodding again.

She presses a kiss to your nose. Her voice lowers as she reminds you one last time. “And don’t you ever leave this ring behind again.”

You look down at it in your palm, your ring. The one she slipped on your finger with shaking hands the night you said yes.

Your fingers close around it. You swallow.

“I’m so sorry… I wasn’t trying to hide you,” you whisper. “I just… I didn’t want her to ruin this. She ruins everything, Agatha…” you can’t help but repeat, making sure Agatha truly knows where you’re coming from.

“Well then let her try,” she growls, protective fire igniting behind her eyes. “Let her come over here and see the life we’ve built. Let her look me in the eye while I tell her how fucking loved you are.”

Your knees wobble. She’s got both hands on your waist now, pulling you in tight, your chest against hers.

“I want everyone to know you’re mine,” she murmurs against your mouth. “I want that ring to shine. I want your hand in mine everywhere we go. You don’t need to make yourself small for anyone, sweetheart. Especially not for someone who doesn’t know what a fucking miracle you are.”

Now you’re crying again but this time for a different reason. You bury yourself in her shirt, wrapping your arms around her middle.

“Agatha…”

“I’ve got you,” she breathes, kissing the crown of your head. “Always, baby. Always.”

You stay there a long time, swaying together in the dim kitchen, your arms clutched around her like an anchor, your ring now back on your finger, where it belongs.

“You’re mine, honey. Forever. I don’t care who I have to fight. I’ll take on the whole damn world for you.” She strokes your spine, murmuring in your ear.

“I love you.” You tilt your head up, teary eyed and adoring.

Her expression softens. “Good,” she says, voice deep and rough. “Then let me show you.”

And when she picks you up with her strong arms around your thighs, your soft little gasp against her jaw tells her that you know exactly what she means.

The bedroom’s warm, the only light is the soft amber spill from the bedside lamp and the slow rise and fall of her chest against your back.

You’re nestled in Agatha’s arms, completely surrounded by her thighs bracketing yours, one arm under your neck, the other draped over your waist like she’s holding her most precious thing.

Her breath is slow and even against your hair, your hand resting over hers. And then you reach for your ring. You twist it gently off your finger, holding it between thumb and forefinger, and turn in her arms just enough to press it into her palm.

“Put it back on me properly?” you murmur, soft and shy.

She raises a brow. “Again?”

You nod, biting your lip.

She chuckles, low and warm in her chest. “Will you marry me, baby?”

Your grin spreads so fast you can’t even try to hide it.

“Yes please,” you whisper, breathless.

She takes your left hand and cradles it reverently before she slides the ring back onto your finger, watching the band slip back into its rightful place, snug and shining. You let out a dreamy little sigh like it’s your favorite feeling in the world, because it is. And she knows it.

“God, you love this,” she murmurs, smiling down at you as your eyes flutter. “My pretty little fiancée…”

“I love being yours.” You nod, eyes glossy, lip caught in your teeth.

“You are mine.” Her voice drops an octave, gravel thick and laced with that ache she gets when she’s feeling too much.

She curls her arm tighter around you. Her nose presses to your temple. “I’d put that ring on you every damn day if it meant seeing that smile.”

Your heart flips. You squirm back against her chest just a little, tilting your face up toward hers, cheeks flushed. “I’d like that.”

“Oh, baby…” She presses a kiss to your jaw, to your shoulder. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

You giggle, wrapping your arms around hers and allowing yourself to be caged in completely. That’s your favorite place, wrapped up in her, claimed and warm and wanted.

“You’d let me,” you hum.

“In a heartbeat.”

You’re half in her lap now, her arms wrapping you up tighter the more you squirm against her, not to get away, but you’re just so full of love, full of her, this ache, this buzz, this need to be close to her.

Her hand cradles the back of your head, her palm warm, fingers spreading through your hair.

“I love you,” you breathe, pulling back just enough to whisper it against her lips. “I love you so much.”

She stills for a moment, like the words hit her somewhere too deep to move.

Then her arms tighten around you, slow and sure. She nuzzles her nose against your cheek, her lips brushing the edge of your mouth.

“Oh, baby…” Her voice is rough and low. “You say that like I’ll ever stop needing to hear it.”

You whimper softly and cling tighter. You’re in nothing but your panties and the ring she slid back onto your finger; she’s in her old shirt and a pair of sweats she only ever wears when it’s just the two of you. And even dressed like that with no makeup, and hair wild from bed, she looks at you like you’re everything. Like she can’t believe you’re hers.

You tilt your chin, searching for her eyes. “Tell me you love me.”

“I love you so much it’s fucking stupid,” she says, voice thick. “I’m nearly fifty, I’m a grumpy, tired cop with a bad back and more regrets than I can count…”

“Stop,” you whisper, pouting.

“…and then there’s you,” she finishes, eyes locked on yours. “This perfect, warm, sweet little thing who looks at me like I hung the damn moon.”

You swallow.

“You did,” you whisper. “For me, you did.”

She groans like it physically hurts how much she wants you. Her hands slip down your back, over the curve of your hips, cradling you close as she kisses your neck, your jaw, your cheekbone, whispering between kisses.

“You’re gonna be the death of me.”

“I hope not.”

“Oh, I’ll die happy,” she breathes. “If it’s in this bed, with you in my arms, saying you love me like that?”

You giggle. Her nose scrapes your cheek. Your ring glints in the low light.

“You love it when I get needy,” you whisper.

She hums. “I love you.”

Then, firmer, breath warm on your throat, “and I’ll love you forever.”

You curl tighter into her chest, letting her hold you, letting her kiss you again, slow and deep and steady, like she’s promising everything she’ll ever give you, one kiss at a time.

She’s got you exactly how she wants you, bare legged and soft, curled up in her lap with her cock hot and heavy between your thighs, resting against the cotton of your soaked panties.

Her lips drag over the side of your throat, slow and warm and knowing.

“Tell me you love me, baby.”

You let out a tiny gasp. You try to nod, but she tuts gently, nose brushing your jaw as her hand presses more firmly between your legs.

“Words, sweetheart,” she murmurs. “Say it for me.”

“I-I love you,” you breathe, voice trembling. “I love you, Agatha…”

“Again.” She groans.

You squirm against her. “Be a good girl. Say it again.”

“I love you,” you whisper, more certain this time. “I love you. I love you so much.”

“That’s right,” she growls softly, dragging her mouth down your neck. “My good girl. My sweet, needy baby. You love me.”

You nod quickly. “I do, please, I love you.”

And now she’s moving, slow strokes over your panties, letting you grind down onto her cock, her hand, as she kisses you again, right under the ear.

“You know what that does to me?” she breathes. “Hearing you say that?”

You moan, high and soft, like it’s your only language.

She grins against your skin.

“I could fuck you just like this,” she murmurs. “Keep you in my lap, in my arms, whispering how much you love me while I ruin you on my cock…”

Your hips stutter.

“Would you let me, baby?”

“Y-yeah…”

“You want me to take you just like this?” she presses. “Still in your panties, just move ‘em to the side, slide in slow…”

You whine.

She groans again, deeper this time, more ragged.

“God, you make me crazy.”

You tilt your face toward hers, breath catching, and she kisses you again, hungry, deep, possessive.

“Say it one more time,” she whispers, forehead against yours.

You look up at her with those glassy, doe eyes, trembling, flushed, ring glittering on your finger where it clutches her arm, and you say it again like a prayer.

“I love you.”

“Good girl.” She exhales.

Her mouth never leaves your neck as her fingers tug the edge of your panties aside.

“You sure, baby?” she whispers, voice low and deep right against your skin.

You nod fast, breath shivering, hips rolling back into her. “Yes, yes, please, I want you…”

You hear her groan, that same ruined sound she makes when you moan her name in the dark, and her cock presses lower, guided by one strong hand until the head is nestled right there against your entrance. It’s so hot. And you’re so wet.

“Relax for me,” she murmurs, kissing your temple. “Gonna go real slow. I’ve got you.”

You whimper as she starts to slide in. Just the tip at first. Then she pauses to let you breathe. One hand cradling your hip, the other stroking up your stomach to cup your breast.

“Breathe, baby,” she murmurs, so tender, so in control.

You nod again, lip caught between your teeth, clutching at her wrist as her cock pushes deeper.

Your back arches instinctively, body trembling in her arms.

“Fuck Agatha!” You gasp.

“I know,” she groans against your ear, voice fraying. “You’re doing so good. So tight around me, baby, shit, just like that.”

She grinds in a little deeper, and you cry out, a broken, breathless gasp that makes her curse again under her breath.

“God, listen to you. You’re taking me, baby fuck, so good.”

You nod frantically, tears pricking your lashes, overwhelmed and full and clinging to her like she’s all you know.

She kisses your cheek. Your jaw. Your shoulder.

“I’ve got you. You’re mine. You know that, right?”

You sob out a yes, the ring on your finger catching the lamplight as your hand claws at the arm holding you.

“You love me, baby?” she pants, rocking into you slow and steady now, each inch dragging against nerves you didn’t know you had.

“Yes, yes I love you, I love you so much Agatha!”

And just like that she’s finally fully inside you. You gasp, feeling stretched and split and so safe. And she loves you like this, broken open in her arms, her cock buried deep and your lips whispering promises of forever into the dark. She moans, pulling you impossibly closer, your bodies flushed together, sweat slick and trembling.

“Never letting you go,” she growls. “Never. You’re mine.”

You can’t even speak anymore, just sob and shake and nod into her kiss, because she’s right. You’re hers. Forever.

“Oh, baby,” she breathes, hips rocking just enough to drag her cock over your sweet spot, the thick length of it buried so deep. “You feel that? Feel how good you’re takin’ me?”

You sob out a breathy yes and bury your face in the crook of her neck.

She’s got you caged against her chest, her arms wrapped tight around your middle, one hand palming your tit like she can’t get enough of how soft you are, how perfectly you fit against her.

She kisses your shoulder. Murmurs, “So tight around me, fuck you were made for this, baby. Made to take me.”

You shudder, helpless. Her cock grinds slow and steady inside you, every thrust making your thighs quake, your body melt further into hers.

She groans again, low and broken. “Can feel you flutterin’ around me, sweet girl. Like your pussy’s tryin’ to keep me.”

You nod into her throat, gasping when her hips roll again, deeper.

“Agatha…”

“Oh, I know,” she rasps. “It’s a lot, huh? You’ve never had anything like this. But look at you now, takin’ it so perfect.”

Her hand slides down between your legs and she circles your clit slowly and practiced.

You squeal, clutching her arm, legs shaking.

She moans into your hair. “That’s it, baby. Let mommy take care of you. Let me ruin this sweet little pussy for anyone else…”

“Y-You already did,” you whimper, voice shaking. “No one else, ever, just you…”

“Goddamn right it’s just me,” she growls, cock driving a little deeper now, a little faster. “You’re mine. You know that, right?”

“Yes,” you sob.

“My pretty little fiancée. Fuckin’ obsessed with you.”

Her fingers work faster on your clit, and you feel it building, too fast, too hard, and you whine, voice breaking, “C-Can’t, Agatha, oh my god!”

“You can, baby,” she purrs, mouth hot at your jaw. “Come for me. Right now. Wanna feel you soak me, wanna feel this pretty cunt cry for me.”

And just like that you shatter. Screaming. Clawing at her arm. Legs clamping shut as your whole body convulses in her lap, pussy squeezing so tight around her cock she curses, guttural and desperate, holding you through every wave of it.

She doesn’t stop. Not even when you’re shaking. Not even when the sobs spill out of your throat like helpless little gasps. She just kisses your shoulder, still whispering to you.

“That’s my girl. My perfect fuckin’ girl.”

You’re still crying when she finally stills her hips, her cock twitching inside you. You’re trembling, open, so full, your body completely spent.

When she pulls out you both whimper at the loss. You’re still so full, so raw and open, her cock slick with everything you gave her. And you don’t even have time to catch your breath before you feel her press a kiss to the top of your spine, her voice rough and aching.

“Need to come, baby. You gonna let me finish?”

You’re already nodding, teary-eyed and flushed, and she groans like she’s losing it.

“Yeah?” she rasps, sliding her hand down your back, your waist, your ass. “Get on all fours for me, then. Show me that sweet little pussy again.”

You whimper and do as you’re told, back arching instinctively, cunt still clenching around nothing as you present yourself for her.

“God damn,” she growls, kneeling behind you. “You look so fucked out, baby.”

She strokes her cock once, still hard and soaked with your juices, and lines herself up again.

“You sure?” she checks, even though she already knows the answer. “You’re sore, I know. But I gotta finish, baby. Gotta come in this tight little cunt.”

You look back at her with big, glassy eyes and whisper, “I want you to.”

That’s it. That’s all she needed. Her hands grip your hips, firm but reverent, and then she pushes in. You cry out and she curses under her breath, like the heat of you is overwhelming.

“Fuck,” she groans. “Still so tight, baby. Like your pussy knows it’s mine.”

You whimper again, burying your face in the pillow, gasping as she bottoms out, her hips snug against your ass, balls heavy against your thighs.

Agatha doesn’t move at first, just grips your hips and watches you take her. She watches how pretty you look stretched around her cock, how your back rises and falls in stuttered little breaths.

“You’re perfect,” she murmurs, low and rough. “You know that? No one’s ever touched you. No one but me.”

You nod, breath hitching. “Just you. Just want you.”

“Yeah, baby,” she rasps. “You’re mine.”

And then she moves. Her hips snap into you with a slow, punishing rhythm, not too fast, but deep. Every thrust knocks a little gasp out of you. Every drag of her cock makes your thighs shake.

You sob into the pillow. She groans behind you.

“Still so good for me,” she pants. “Even when you’re crying. Even when you’re sore. Still open for your mommy.”

You nod helplessly, as her hand slides up your back, between your shoulder blades, gently pressing you further into the mattress as she picks up the pace.

“You wanted me to come, didn’t you?” she grits out. “That’s why you got on all fours like this. ‘Cause you need it.”

“Yes,” you whimper, tears slipping down your cheeks.

“Good girl.”

And that’s when she starts to lose it.

Her thrusts get rougher. She’s panting now, hands gripping your hips so hard they’ll leave bruises, cock twitching inside you with every grind.

You’re crying again, broken little sobs that only make her groan harder.

“Oh, my babygirl,” she pants. “So fuckin’ needy. Letting me use this sweet pussy however I want. You’re gonna make me come, baby.”

“Please,” you sob. “I want you to. Please come, Mommy!”

That’s it. She slams deep and stays there, cock buried to the hilt, and you feel her jerk as she spills inside you, low and broken moans spilling from her throat as she comes.

She stays inside you, her weight draped over your back, her mouth pressing kisses to your spine, her voice ragged in your ear.

“That’s my girl,” she murmurs. “Took me so well. Made me feel so fuckin’ good.”

You collapse beneath her, trembling and tearful and completely claimed. She pulls you into her arms, still inside you, and kisses the top of your head.

She doesn’t pull out right away, instead Agatha keeps you pressed to her chest, your back against her front, her cock still buried deep in your sore, spent pussy. She has her arms wrapped tight around your waist as if she’s scared you’ll float away if she lets go.

You’re drifting, every part of you is flushed and fluttering and full. And Agatha is beaming.

“Fuckin’ hell,” she whispers, pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder. “My baby took me so well. You feel that? How full you are?”

You nod, whimpering, too gone to speak.

She chuckles, all smug and fond, her hand sliding down to cup your inner thigh and pull your leg over hers, opening you up even more so she can feel herself still tucked inside.

“Yeah, you feel it,” she says proudly. “My perfect little fiancée. Always so good for me.”

You sigh, eyes fluttering closed, cheek nuzzled against her arm. You’re all melted down now, like honey in her bed, warm and sweet and still catching your breath.

“Did so good for me, baby. So fuckin’ tight. So desperate to make Mommy come, weren’t you?”

You nod again, teary and blissed out, and she groans softly like you’re her favorite thing in the world.

“You should’ve seen yourself,” she whispers against your ear. “Crying on my cock. All pretty and wide eyed. Fuckin’ heaven.”

You make a shy little noise, and she grins into your hair. “Oh don’t get all shy on me now. Not after you begged me to fuck you full.”

“Didn’t beg,” you mumble.

She laughs, full and warm. “No? That wasn’t begging, sweetheart?”

You hide your face in her bicep and she just cuddles you closer.

“I love you,” you whisper.

She kisses your forehead. as“I love you more. Gonna marry the fuck out of you. Never letting you go.”

Her fingers stroke your hip, then slip lower over the swell of your belly, down to where you’re still stretched and leaking, absolutely stuffed with her come. She hums, satisfied.

“God, look at that. My baby all full of me. You really are the perfect girl.”

You squirm a little, breath catching.

“Don’t move,” she murmurs. “Just let me hold you.”

And you do. You stay there, all tangled up, her cock still inside you, her voice in your ear. She doesn’t stop talking soft, dirty praise between kisses, her voice low and proud and sweet.

“Gonna keep you like this forever,” she says. “All mine.”

You nod against her, sleepy and blissed.

“My perfect girl. My good girl. My fiancée.” She smiles

~

The next morning, you wake to the sound of her making coffee in the kitchen, her flannel shirt thrown on over her bare skin, her own ring glinting on her finger as she leans against the counter, scrolling the news on her phone.

When you pad in wearing just one of her old shirts, still sleepy, she looks up and softens instantly.

“Hey, baby.”

You smile, rubbing your eyes as you come to hug her. Her hand comes up to hold your against her chest.

“You sleep okay?” she murmurs.

“Mhm. You?”

“Barely. Too busy thinking about you.”

You blink up at her, surprised, and she turns to face you fully.

“I mean it,” she says. “I’ve been thinking all night about how small you looked yesterday. When you told me about your mom.”

You glance down, instantly self-conscious. “I wasn’t trying to…”

“No, baby. I’m not upset,” she says gently. “But I want you to hear me.”

She tucks a piece of hair behind your ear, tilts your chin so you’re looking at her again. “I don’t want you hiding who you are. Or who we are. You hear me?”

You nod slowly.

“Good. Because I’m serious. Invite her.”

You blink. “What?”

“Invite your mom over,” Agatha says, voice steady. “I want to meet her.”

You shift, nervous. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea…”

“I do,” she says. “She needs to see us together. She needs to see how loved you are.”

You go quiet, lip trembling slightly, and Agatha wraps her arms around you.

“She needs to see you wearing that ring. In this house. Happy.”

You bury your face in her chest, and she presses a kiss to your hair.

“Let her try to ruin it,” she whispers. “It won’t change a thing. You’re mine. And I’m yours.”

You nod, holding her tighter.

It’s late by the time you ease your own front door open, the rain still dripping from your hair and coat. You slip your boots off quietly, trying not to wake the house, but the flicker of light from the living room gives them away.

Your mom and Billy are curled on the sofa, a blanket tossed over their legs, eyes glued to the TV. The shrill strings of some old horror film fill the room, shadows dancing across their faces.

You step into the doorway just as something jumps on screen, a ghoul lunging. They both scream, at full volume and ridiculous.

“Wow,” you deadpan, dropping your bag onto the side table. “Not exactly the reaction I was hoping for.”

Billy clutches his chest, glaring at you through wide eyes. “Jesus Christ, you nearly killed me!”

Your mom swats his arm, though she’s still catching her breath too. “Don’t sneak in like that!”

“I walked through the front door,” you point out, chuckling as you peel off your damp coat.

“Like a ghost,” Billy mutters, pulling the blanket tighter around himself. “All silent and creepy.”

You roll your eyes, but the warmth and normalcy untangles something in your chest that’s been knotted all night.

Your mom pats the space between them. “Come sit, sweetheart. We’ll protect you from the scary bits.”

Billy snorts. “We’ll protect her? You’re the one who screamed loudest.”

You laugh, shaking your head, and sink down onto the armchair instead, curling up and letting their bickering fill the room.

Billy mutes the TV with a dramatic flourish of the remote once the commercials come on, eyes squinting at you. “Didn’t expect you to come in tonight,” he says, grin tugging at his mouth. “Thought you’d be… busy.”

Your mom shoots him a look, then turns her attention to you, brows raised expectantly.

You tug the blanket tighter around your shoulders. “Her son was really sick. She needed to focus on him, so I came home.”

“Her son,” your mom repeats slowly, like she’s trying the words on for size. Her eyes narrow a little. “Wait. Are you telling me… are you’re dating the woman you babysit for?”

Your heart lurches into your throat. “I uh…” you glance at Billy, who is already grinning like the Cheshire Cat, clearly enjoying every second.

“Mom,” you start carefully, “please don’t freak out…”

“Oh my god.” She presses a hand to her chest, eyes wide. “I cannot believe you didn’t tell me.”

Billy laughs. “I told you she had a girlfriend.”

“Billy!” you hiss, heat rushing up your neck.

Your mom leans forward, still staring at you in disbelief. “So you’re really with her? Billy’s boss? The professor?”

You nod, cheeks flaming, wishing you could sink into the armchair and disappear. “Yeah. I am.”

Your mom leans forward, pausing the movie entirely now, her eyes fixed on you with that maternal mix of worry and curiosity.

“She’s a bit old for you, isn’t she?” she says gently, but firmly. “And sweetheart, being a stepmother, even unofficially, that’s a big responsibility. Are you sure this is a good idea?”

The words hit hard, right in the soft spot where your insecurities live. Your cheeks heat, your chest tightening. “Mom…”

Billy groans, tossing his head back against the sofa. “Here we go.”

“No, I’m being serious,” she insists, folding her hands in her lap. “You’re still so young. You’ve been through a lot, and I don’t want you getting hurt because you’ve taken on more than you can handle.”

You swallow, staring down at your hands twisted in the blanket. “I… I know it sounds complicated. And yeah, she’s older. A lot older.” Your voice drops, softer. “But I… care about her. And I care about Nicky. It’s not… it’s not something I fell into by accident.”

Your mom studies you, her expression unreadable for a moment. Then she sighs, reaching across to squeeze your hand. “I’m not trying to scare you off. I just want to make sure you’re thinking it through. You deserve to be happy, not overwhelmed.”

You nod, throat tight, managing a small smile. “I am thinking it through.”

Billy smirks, breaking the tension. “Besides, you’ve already survived me. You’re basically qualified for stepmom status.”

You throw a cushion at him, rolling your eyes, but the knot in your chest loosens a little.

Your mom squeezes your hand once more, then leans back against the sofa with a decisive nod. “Well I’ll need to meet her.”

Your head snaps up. “Mom, no. Please, no.”

“Yes,” she says firmly, crossing her arms. “If you’re serious about this woman, and it sounds like you are, then I need to meet her. That’s non-negotiable.”

You groan, dragging the blanket over your face. “You’ll scare her off.”

Billy chuckles, tossing popcorn into his mouth. “Trust me, Agatha Harkness isn’t scared of anything. Except maybe imminent death.”

You peek out from under the blanket just enough to glare at him. “Not helping.”

Your mom shakes her head, smiling faintly but with a stubborn glint in her eyes. “Sweetheart, if she’s good enough for you, then she’s good enough for me. And if she’s serious about you, she won’t mind meeting your mother.”

“She will mind,” you mutter.

“Then she’s not as serious as you think.”

That lands like a stone in your stomach. You sink deeper into the chair, groaning, while Billy smirks at the whole scene.

“Mom,” you mumble, “please don’t make this a thing.”

“It’s already a thing,” she says simply. “And I expect to meet her. Soon.”

~

The living room is a mess of crayons, construction paper, and little cut out leaves Nicky insisted on bringing home from preschool. You’re on the rug with him, knees tucked under you, while he twirls in a circle with his stuffed goat clutched in one hand.

“Autumn leaves are falling down, falling down, falling down,” he sings, his little voice high and proud, bouncing more than dancing.

You chime in with exaggerated gusto, clapping along in time. “Red and yellow, orange and brown, all around the town!”

He collapses into giggles, clapping his hands and throwing himself into your lap. You catch him, pressing a noisy kiss into his curls before sitting him upright again. “That was so good, professor,” you tell him, using his goat’s honorary title. “Ten out of ten.”

“Again!” Nicky cheers, already springing back up, his little feet stomping against the rug.

You take a deep breath, lifting your arms dramatically like a conductor. “Ready? One, two…”

“Three!” he shouts, spinning wildly as you both launch into the song again, your voices overlapping.

It’s in the middle of the second round that the front door opens. Agatha steps inside, still in her work clothes, hair a little mussed from the wind. She stops short in the doorway, her briefcase slipping from her fingers with a soft thunk.

On the rug, Nicky is twirling like a leaf himself, his cheeks flushed, his laugh bubbling high and bright. You’re on your knees, arms waving with theatrical drama, singing loudly and off key just to make him laugh harder.

For a moment, Agatha just watches, something soft breaking open in her chest.

When Nicky spots her, he squeals. “Mama! Look!” He rushes over, tugging at her hand. “We’re singing my show song! Y/N knows it too!”

Agatha’s gaze flicks from her son’s shining face to yours, your cheeks pink, still catching your breath from all the singing. Her lips curve, slow and warm, into the kind of smile she almost never shows anyone.

Agatha sets her briefcase down with a soft thud, hand to her chest like she’s been hit. “Oh, you got your show song today?”

Nicky bounces on his toes, nodding so hard his curls flop. “Yes! Yes! Wanna hear it?!”

Agatha gasps, playing along, eyes wide. “Do I ever!” She drops into the armchair like it’s the front row of Carnegie Hall. “Give us a performance, darling boy.”

Nicky scrambles back to the middle of the rug, shoving his goat into the “audience” too, then throws his arms wide. “One, two, three!” he counts off, launching into the little song with all the power in his tiny lungs.

You pad over and sink onto the armrest beside Agatha. Her hand immediately finds your knee, giving it a squeeze, her eyes fixed on Nicky like the world could fall down around her and she wouldn’t notice.

He twirls, stomps, half forgets the words halfway through and makes up the rest, but his grin never wavers. When he belts the final line, “all around the town!” he bows so low he nearly tips over.

You and Agatha clap wildly, cheering like lunatics. “Bravo!” Agatha cries, whistling through her fingers. “Encore, encore!”

You laugh, clapping until your palms sting. “Ten out of ten, Professor Goatly agrees!” You lift the stuffed goat in mock solemnity, making Nicky dissolve into shrieks of giggles.

Agatha glances sideways at you, her smirk softened into something gentler. Her thumb strokes over your knee, an unspoken thank you, as Nicky starts gearing up for another round, eyes bright and cheeks flushed.

Later, after dinner and the small storm of bedtime negotiations of one more story, one more sip of water, one more kiss, the house finally quiets. Nicky’s door clicks shut, and Agatha pads into the living room, her blouse a little rumpled, her hair falling loose around her face. She drops onto the sofa beside you with a sigh.

You curl sideways to look at her, chin propped on your hand. “Well,” you murmur, eyes glinting, “I hope you’re prepared to hear that song every day, about a hundred times, from now until the show.”

Agatha groans, throwing her head back dramatically. “God help me.”

You smirk, clearing your throat with theatrical gusto. “Autumn leaves are falling down, falling down, falling down!”

Before you can get to orange and brown, she leans over and captures your mouth in a kiss, effectively cutting you off. It’s slow at first, deliberate, her hand cupping your cheek.

You grin against her lips, the song dissolving into a muffled laugh as you kiss her back.

When she finally pulls away, her eyes are half lidded, her smirk wicked. “That’s the only acceptable way to shut you up,” she murmurs.

“Mm,” you hum, still smiling, “guess I’ll have to sing it more often.”

Her hand squeezes your thigh, her brow arched. “Careful, babygirl. I’ll find other ways to make you quiet.”

You start to laugh again, but it dies on your lips as she leans back in, kissing you slower this time. Her hand slides from your thigh to your waist, tugging you closer until you’re curled against her side. The silk of her blouse is cool under your fingertips as you fist the fabric, melting into her warmth.

She tilts her head, deepening the kiss, her thumb stroking along your jaw in a way that makes your chest ache. You sigh into her mouth, letting her take the lead, letting her set the pace.

When she finally breaks away, her lips hover against yours, her breath warm. “There,” she murmurs. “Much better than singing that damn song.”

You giggle, pressing your forehead to hers. “You didn’t even let me get to the second verse.”

“Exactly,” she says, smirking, and kisses you firmer this time, until you’re clutching her blouse tighter, your heart racing.

By the time she eases back, you’re curled fully into her, your head tucked under her chin, her arm wrapped tight around you. She presses a kiss into your hair, sighing as her other hand rubs slow, soothing circles over your back.

You breathe her in, the faint trace of her perfume mingling with the warmth of home, and let yourself sink into her hold. The world outside, with all its sharp edges and questions, feels far away. Here, it’s just her arms, her lips, the steady thrum of her heartbeat under your ear.

You’re still curled against her, her hand stroking slow lines down your back, when you mumble into the fabric of her blouse, “My mom’s been talking again about meeting you.”

Agatha hums low in her chest, fingers pausing for just a second. “Would you like me to meet her?”

You groan, tilting your head back enough to look at her. “Honestly? No. She’s insufferable. But she’s important. And she won’t let up.” You chew your lip, hesitating before adding, “So… maybe for my birthday. You could come out to dinner with us?”

Her whole body stiffens beneath you. She pulls back, her brows lifting high. “Excuse me, your birthday?”

You blink at her, suddenly sheepish. “…Yeah?”

Her eyes narrow, a flicker of guilt and annoyance cutting through her expression. “And you were going to tell me this when exactly? After the fact? Over cake crumbs?”

You flush, pulling the blanket higher over your lap like it’s a shield. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Not a big-…” she cuts herself off, shaking her head, her tone sharp with disbelief. “Sweetheart, your birthday is a very big deal to me. You’re my girl.” She cups your jaw, forcing you to meet her eyes. “I should’ve known.”

Your stomach twists, a mix of guilt and nerves under her gaze. “I just… I don’t like making it a thing.”

“Well, it’s a thing now.” She kisses you once, quick but fierce, before pulling back with a sigh. “I hate that you didn’t feel like you could tell me.”

You lean into her touch anyway, your voice small. “You know now.”

Her expression softens, but there’s still that glint of frustration in her eyes, not at you, but at herself for missing it. She presses her lips to your temple, her arm wrapping tightly around you again.

You tilt your face back toward her, biting your lip. “So you’ll come? It’s nothing huge. We always go to this Thai place Billy loves the day before my birthday.”

Agatha’s brows knit. “The day before?”

You nod, smiling a little shyly. “Yeah. Because… my birthday’s on Halloween. So we celebrate the day before.”

Her mouth falls open, eyes narrowing like she thinks you’re joking. “You’re serious. Halloween?”

You grin, unable to help it. “Yeah. I’m a Samhain baby.”

There’s a beat of silence before she tips her head back, laughing. “That makes so much sense.”

You giggle, hiding your face in her blouse. “Don’t make fun of me.”

“I’m not,” she insists, still laughing, pressing a kiss into your hair. “Of course you were born on Halloween. That explains everything. My little witch.”

You laugh with her this time, the sound warm and tangled, the tension between you dissolving into something softer.

Agatha is still chuckling, her thumb brushing the line of your jaw. “Alright, Samhain baby,” she teases, “so what do you usually do on the actual day? Your spooky little Halloween birthday?”

You shrug, cheeks heating. “Honestly? Horror movies in bed. That’s kind of it.”

Her brows rise, lips curving slow and sly. “So… no real plans.”

You shake your head, tugging the blanket tighter around yourself. “Not really.”

“Good.” She leans in, her voice dropping low against your ear. “Because that means you’re all mine.”

The words make your stomach flip, your whole body going hot at once. You duck your head, blushing furiously, but she catches your chin with her fingers, forcing your gaze back to hers.

“Ohhh,” she purrs, clearly enjoying the way your composure crumbles, “look at that blush.”

“Agatha,” you whine, but you can’t stop smiling.

Her grin widens, wicked and affectionate all at once. “Don’t worry, babygirl. I’ll plan something worthy of a Samhain birthday. You won’t lift a finger, except maybe to unwrap presents.”

You bite your lip, heart hammering. “You’re really going to plan my birthday?”

“Already am,” she murmurs, kissing the corner of your mouth. “You’re mine that day. No arguments.”

Your cheeks flame hotter, but your grin gives you away.

Her mouth hovers at the corner of yours, her grin sly. “So what does my little Samhain baby want for her birthday? A cauldron? A broomstick? A séance in the living room?”

You swat weakly at her shoulder, giggling. “Shut up.”

“Oh, she giggles.” She leans in, brushing her lips against yours. “Cute.”

“Agatha…” you start, but the rest is swallowed when she kisses you properly, her hand sliding into your hair to keep you exactly where she wants you.

You melt, sighing into her mouth, your fingers clutching at her blouse. She chuckles softly against your lips, clearly pleased with how easily you crumble for her, and deepens the kiss.

Your blush only worsens when she murmurs between kisses, “All mine. Gonna spoil you rotten, babygirl.”

You whimper, caught between laughter and want, and she grins against your mouth, tugging you into her lap like it’s nothing. The blanket slips to the floor, forgotten, as her hands spread warm over your back.

“Mm,” she hums, lips trailing down your jaw, “maybe I’ll start planning tonight.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you giggle, tilting your head back to let her mouth find your throat.

“And you love it.” Her teeth graze your skin, just enough to make you squirm, before she pulls back to kiss you again, like she could happily make out on the sofa with you all night.

The TV flickers silently in the background, the whole house hushed, just the sound of your breathless laughter and her low, pleased sighs filling the room.

Agatha’s kisses turn greedier, her hands sliding from your back to grip your hips tight, tugging you closer against her. You gasp into her mouth, the shift in her energy making your stomach flip.

She growls softly, low in her throat. “God, babygirl… you’re killing me.”

You whimper as her teeth catch your lower lip, her tongue soothing the sting before diving back in, kissing you like she’s starving. The blanket on the floor is long forgotten, all you can think about is the way her fingers dig into you, pulling you exactly where she wants you.

She pulls back just enough to murmur against your lips, breath hot and uneven, “Bed. Now.”

Your cheeks flame, your body already thrumming, and you nod quickly.

“Good girl,” she praises, standing smoothly and hauling you with her. One arm stays locked around your waist as she guides you down the hall. You stumble once, breathless with laughter, but she just scoops you up, carrying you the last few steps of the way.

“Agatha!” You giggle, your arms looping around her neck, “you don’t have to carry me!”

“Oh, but I want to,” she purrs, kissing your cheek as she pushes the bedroom door open with her hip.

She sets you down on the bed, eyes dark and hungry now, already tugging her blouse loose. “Been thinking about this since the car ride home,” she admits, crawling over you, her mouth claiming yours again before you can answer.

Your hands clutch at her shoulders, your body arching up into hers, the heat between you snapping fast from playful to desperate.

“Mine,” she growls against your mouth, pinning you beneath her. “All mine.”

Her hands are frantic, pulling off your panties, tugging at your dress, sliding up under the fabric to touch as much skin as she can. You arch into her, whimpering, your fingers tangled in her hair.

“Agatha,” you breathe against her lips, your voice breaking with need. “I love you.”

She freezes for just a second, pulling back enough to look at you. Her pupils are blown wide, her lips swollen, but the expression on her face is pure awe.

“Oh, my baby,” she whispers, voice rough. Her hand cups your cheek, her thumb brushing away the tear you didn’t realise had slipped free. “You undo me every damn time.”

Her mouth crashes back onto yours, her tongue sliding against yours, her sighs mingling with your gasps. She kisses you like she’s trying to breathe you in, like she’s terrified of ever letting go.

Her hands skim down your body, every touch deliberate. She takes her time undressing you, murmuring soft praises between kisses. “So beautiful… my perfect girl… mine.”

She parts your thighs wider as she presses into you, letting you feel every inch of her cock inside of you, her breath shuddering against your mouth. You gasp, your nails biting into her shoulders as your body stretches around her, clenching tight.

“Jesus, baby,” she groans, forehead dropping to yours. “So fucking tight for me, you were made to take me.”

Your whimper makes her kiss you again, swallowing the sound, her hips rolling until she’s fully seated inside you. She doesn’t move right away, just holds you there, both of you trembling.

Her hand cups your face, thumb brushing your swollen lower lip. “God, I’ll never get over this. Being inside you… it’s like nothing else.”

When she starts moving, it’s with deep, unhurried strokes that make your toes curl and your back arch. Every thrust drags a desperate sound from your throat, and every sound makes her groan like she’s losing her mind.

“That’s it,” she pants, kissing the corner of your mouth, your jaw, your throat. “Cling to me, baby. Let me feel you. You’re so good, fuck, you’re perfect.”

You whimper, burying your face against her neck. “Agatha…”

She stills, just for a heartbeat, forcing you to look at her. Her eyes are dark, glassy with want, but underneath it’s awe. “Tell me you love me baby,” she whispers, voice breaking.

“I love you,” you breathe, shaky, desperate.

Her lips crash onto yours, the kiss hot and wet and claiming. “My baby,” she moans against your mouth. “You undo me, you fucking undo me.”

Her pace builds, not rushed but more insistent, each thrust deeper and harder like she’s trying to carve herself into you. Her hand slips between you to circle your clit, drawing sharp cries from your throat.

“Take it, babygirl,” she growls, her voice low and rough. “Take all of me. You’re mine. Always mine.”

You cling tighter, keening under her, your body a mess of heat and want. She kisses you through every sound, her words tumbling fast and needy between kisses: “So beautiful… so good for me… fuck, the way you squeeze me baby, I never want to leave you.”

The intensity builds until you’re trembling, every nerve ending on fire, every thrust making you see stars. And she’s right there with you, her own breath ragged, her moans spilling into your ear.

“Come for me,” she begs, almost broken with it. “Let me feel you, baby, give it to me.”

And when you shatter, sobbing her name, she follows with a guttural groan, burying herself deep, spilling inside you with a kind of ferocity that makes her whole body shake.

She holds you through it, kissing your hair, your face, anywhere she can reach, murmuring ragged I love you’s and mine’s until all that’s left is the sound of your breaths, tangled and shaking, pressed so close you’re not sure where you end and she begins.

~

By the week of the show, that damn song has invaded every corner of your world.

Your mom hums it absentmindedly as she stirs a pot of soup, tapping the spoon against the rim in time with the melody. Billy whistles it while brushing his teeth. Agatha, caught on a work call, doesn’t even notice herself mouthing “red and yellow, orange and brown” as she paces the kitchen with her laptop open.

You groan every time you hear it, because it’s everywhere.

Even Nicky’s stuffed goat has been enlisted. Last night he’d made you hold Professor Goatly and make him “sing along” while Nicky spun in circles until he fell into a heap of giggles.

It’s in your head when you wake up, when you shower, when you’re trying to fall asleep. You’ve caught yourself humming it under your breath while waiting for the kettle to boil, and immediately wanted to throw yourself out the window.

Lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, the lines repeat in an endless loop. Autumn leaves are falling down, falling down, falling down…

You throw an arm over your face and groan. “I’m being haunted.”

From the bathroom, Agatha calls back dryly, “Welcome to parenthood, darling. Death by nursery rhyme.”

And then you hear her voice, smooth and rich, sliding into the next line without missing a beat, “red and yellow, orange and brown…”

“Agatha!” you shriek, throwing a pillow toward the bathroom door. “Don’t encourage it!”

She peeks her head out, towel in hand, grinning like a fiend. “Too late, babygirl. It’s already in my bones.”

She slides in beside you a minute later, her damp hair brushing your shoulder, the faint scent of her shampoo clinging to your sheets.

She pulls you close automatically, her arm heavy and solid over your waist, her breath brushing your temple as you settle into the curve of her body. For a moment it’s quiet, just the occasional car passing outside.

And then, before you can stop yourself, you murmur, “Parenthood, huh?”

Her body goes still behind you. You can feel her stiffen just slightly, like you’ve touched a nerve.

You turn your head, peeking up at her, your voice softer now. “Was that a joke, or…?”

Agatha clears her throat, the sound low, almost sheepish which is rare for her. “Well I did mean it when I said I intend to keep you round forever, baby.” Her thumb rubs an absent line over your hip, grounding herself. “And forever, for me… means my son, too.”

Your heart gives a nervous kick. You roll onto your side so you can see her face, her eyes dark in the low light, her brows drawn just faintly as if she’s bracing herself.

“So…” you whisper, barely more than a breath, “does that mean I’d be like… a stepmom, or something?”

There it is, the question you’ve been carrying in your chest for weeks, finally out loud.

Her gaze flickers over your face, searching. “If that scares you, tell me now,” she says quietly. “Because Nicky isn’t going anywhere. He’s my whole life. You’d be stepping into something… permanent.”

Your throat tightens, but you force yourself not to look away. “It doesn’t scare me. I just…” Your hands twist in the sheets. “I don’t want to be… not enough. For him or for you.”

Agatha exhales, something breaking in her expression, half stern, half unbearably soft. She shifts closer, one hand coming up to cradle your cheek. “Sweetheart,” she says, her voice low but steady, “you are already enough. He adores you. And as for me,” her mouth trembles into the faintest smile, “I don’t think I’ve ever loved anyone like this.”

You blink fast, your chest tight with something that’s part fear, part relief. “You really think I could be good at it? At being that kind of part of his life?”

“I don’t think,” she corrects, leaning in until her forehead presses to yours. “I know. I watch you with him. I see the way he lights up for you, the way you meet him where he is, the way you give him your whole attention. That’s what matters. Not perfection or some fantasy. Just love.”

Tears prick hot at your eyes, your voice cracking. “I don’t want to mess it up.”

Her thumb swipes under your eye before a tear can fall. “Then don’t walk away, and you won’t. We’ll figure it out. Together.”

For a long moment, you just breathe together, her forehead pressed to yours, her hand warm against your cheek, your own heart pounding out its uneven rhythm.

Finally, you whisper, “Forever sounds really good.”

Her lips brush yours, the kiss slow and deliberate, carrying more weight than any words could. When she pulls back, her eyes are shiny, her smile small but certain.

“Then forever it is,” she murmurs.

You sink back into her arms, your chest loosening for the first time all night, the ridiculous little autumn song still rattling around your brain but quieter now, drowned out by the steady thrum of her heartbeat.

Agatha settles onto her back and tugs you with her until your cheek is pillowed against her chest, her fingers stroking lazily up and down your spine. The room feels smaller like this, tucked away from the world. Her heartbeat is steady under your ear, grounding you.

“So,” you mumble, voice muffled against her blouse, “what’s the show gonna be like?”

She chuckles, low in her throat, her hand tracing the curve of your shoulder. “Chaos. Delightful chaos. The youngest class always sings something, the teachers line them up, half of them forget the words, two start crying, one picks his nose through the entire performance…” She tips her head so her mouth brushes your hair. “And it’ll be the most important show I’ve ever been to.”

You smile, even though your chest pinches. “Wish I could come.”

Her hand pauses, then resumes its soothing stroke. “Two tickets per child, baby. You know I’d have you there if I could. But it’s just me and Rio.” She sighs softly. “Not exactly my dream pairing.”

You hum, tucking yourself closer. “Guess I’ll just have to make do with the dress rehearsal.”

She laughs, kissing your temple. “Which I’m sure he’ll put you through a dozen more times before Friday.”

You grin against her chest, eyes fluttering shut as the steady motion of her hand and the warmth of her voice start to lull you. She notices, her fingers drifting up into your hair, her voice softening.

“Sleep, my little Samhain baby,” she murmurs. “You’ll hear the song again soon enough.”

You snort, too drowsy to answer properly, but your arm tightens around her waist. The song plays faintly in your head still, but softer now, muffled under the rhythm of her heartbeat.

And before long, you’re asleep in her arms.

~

The morning of the show, the whole house feels a little different, brighter and buzzing like even the sunlight is in on the excitement.

Agatha is already in the kitchen, hair swept into a loose twist, sleeves pushed up as she wrestles with Nicky’s tiny button-up shirt. He squirms on the chair, cheeks puffed out in protest.

“Mama, it’s itchy,” he whines, tugging at the collar.

Agatha sighs, half exasperated, half amused. “Of course it’s itchy, darling boy, it’s new. Just let me do the last button and then you can show everyone how handsome you are.”

He grumbles but lifts his chin, letting her fasten the top button. The moment she’s done, he hops down and spins dramatically. “Do I look like a big boy?”

Agatha presses a hand to her chest, feigning shock. “Like a very big boy. Practically a man.”

He giggles, then blurts, “Can we sing it one more time?”

Her mouth curves into a smile despite herself. “One more time,” she agrees, crouching down so they’re eye to eye.

He claps his hands together, takes a deep breath, and launches into the song, his little voice clear and wobbly at the same time.

“Autumn leaves are falling down, falling down, falling down…”

Agatha joins in, “…red and yellow, orange and brown, all around the town…”

Nicky grins, twirling so fast his shirt comes half untucked. When he stumbles, she catches him, pulling him into her arms and pressing a kiss into his curls.

“You’re going to be brilliant,” she murmurs, her hand smoothing down his back. “The brightest leaf of all.”

He giggles into her shoulder, but when she sets him down again his little hands twist in the hem of his shirt. “What if I forget?” he asks her nervously. “What if I mess up?”

Agatha kneels, cupping his face gently. “Then you’ll keep going. Everyone messes up sometimes, darling boy. What matters is that you sing with your whole heart.”

He nods, comforted, though his grip on her hand lingers as she straightens up.

She brushes his curls back, sighs, and mutters half to herself, “God help me if he starts crying on stage I’ll be up there singing it with him.”

Agatha buckles him into his car seat, tugging the strap snug across his chest before leaning in to kiss his forehead. He smells faintly of the apple shampoo you helped him pick out, his curls still damp.

The morning rush fades into the quiet hum of the car. Nicky hums under his breath in the backseat, his little legs swinging, and Professor Goatly clutched tight against his chest.

“You’ll be there, Mama?” he asks suddenly, his voice serious.

Agatha catches his gaze in the rear-view mirror, her expression softening. “Of course I’ll be there, darling boy. Right in the front row.”

He nods, reassured, then adds quickly, “And Mama Rio too?”

“Yes, baby,” Agatha says with certainty. “She’ll be there too. Both of us, cheering you on.”

Nicky lets out a relieved little sigh, hugging the goat tighter. “Can you bring Professor Goatly? He makes me brave.”

Agatha smiles, her heart squeezing. “We’ll tuck him in my bag. He’ll be clapping louder than anyone.”

That wins a giggle out of him, but after a beat, he asks in a smaller voice, “will Y/N be there?”

Agatha keeps her eyes on the road, her voice gentle but firm. “Not this time, love. The school only gives two tickets. Just me and Mama Rio today.”

His shoulders slump, the smile sliding right off. “But I want her there.”

Agatha reaches back at the red light, her hand brushing over his knee. “I know, darling. She wants to be there too but she’ll be waiting to hear all about it when we get home and you can sing the song just for her.”

Nicky clutches the goat close, his little mouth set in a pout. “It’s not fair.”

Agatha sighs, her thumb stroking his knee, steady and reassuring. “It isn’t. But you’ll still have us there, and we’ll be so proud of you.”

His lip wobbles, but he nods, leaning into the goat like it can hold the rest of his nerves.

The school car park is crowded, parents and little ones spilling across the pavement in a noisy tide of coats and backpacks. Agatha slips the car into a space, glancing back to where Nicky sits clutching Professor Goatly, his face pinched with nerves.

She opens his door, unbuckles the seatbelt, and helps him hop down. His hand finds hers right away, small and clammy, his eyes fixed on the swarm of children heading inside.

Agatha crouches so they’re eye to eye, brushing a curl back from his forehead. “Alright, darling boy. You’re going to go in with your class, and then this afternoon you’ll get to show us your big performance. Sound good?”

Nicky chews on his lip, shifting from foot to foot. “You’ll be there?”

She nods, steady, certain. “Front row, I promise. Me and Mama Rio.”

“And Professor Goatly?”

Her mouth curves despite herself. “Professor Goatly wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

He huffs out a little laugh, then throws his arms around her neck. She holds him tight, breathing in the warm, apple scented tangle of his curls, before setting him back down and nudging him toward the door.

“You’ll be brilliant,” she says firmly, squeezing his hand one last time before a teacher waves him over.

Nicky looks back once, eyes wide and anxious. Agatha smiles, blowing him a kiss. “See you later, my leaf.”

That wins the smallest grin out of him before he toddles toward his classmate.

Agatha watches until he disappears inside, her chest tight, before straightening her coat and heading back to the car.

Once Agatha gets home she drops her keys into the bowl by the door and kicks her heels off. She’d cleared her whole day for this, every email bounced back with a crisp ‘out of office,’ every meeting pushed to tomorrow. Today was for Nicky.

She’s halfway through making tea when her phone buzzes across the counter. Rio.

With a sigh, she picks up. “What?”

“Agatha.” Rio’s voice is clipped and hurried with the cadence of someone already halfway into an excuse. “I’ve got a huge meeting this afternoon. It just came up and I can’t get out of it.”

Agatha goes still, the kettle starting to hiss behind her. “What do you mean you can’t get out of it?”

“I mean exactly that. The client flew in early, and the entire board is expecting me. It’s not optional.”

“You’re telling me you’re going to miss his show for a client meeting?” Agatha’s voice sharpens, low and dangerous.

“Don’t make it sound like that,” Rio snaps back. “You know how my job works. This is one of those times.”

Agatha presses her palm flat to the counter, nails biting into her skin. “No. No, this is his time. He’s been talking about this show for weeks. He asked me this morning if you’d be there. I promised him. And now you’re bailing?”

Silence hums on the line, heavy. Then Rio sighs, softer but no less infuriating. “You’ll be there. He’ll still have a parent in the audience. He won’t even notice.”

Agatha’s laugh is sharp, humorless. “You really believe that? You think he won’t notice the empty seat? He notices everything, Rio. Everything.”

There’s a pause, long enough that Agatha can hear her own pulse hammering in her ears.

“I’m sorry,” Rio says finally. “But I can’t be in two places at once. You’ll just have to handle it.”

The line clicks dead before Agatha can bite back.

She slams the phone down onto the counter, the sound echoing in the quiet kitchen. The kettle shrieks behind her, but she doesn’t move, her chest heaving, jaw clenched so tight it aches.

Agatha eventually kills the kettle with a sharp flick, the whistle cutting off mid shriek. The kitchen falls back into silence, but it doesn’t feel quiet. It feels heavy.

She paces the length of the tiles, phone still in her hand, thumb pressing into the glass so hard she’s surprised it doesn’t crack. Her mind runs circles around itself.

She can’t call the school to warn him. He’ll be lined up with the other kids, scanning the crowd for her face, for both their faces. He’ll spot her easily, and then he’ll keep looking. And looking. And when he realises Rio isn’t there…

Agatha exhales sharply, dragging both hands through her hair until it’s wild around her face.

“Damn it, Rio.”

There’s nothing she can do. No way to soften it. No way to prepare him. She imagines the wobble in his bottom lip, the panic in his eyes, and her stomach twists until she feels sick.

She had promised that they’d both be there. His small hand had been so tight around hers, his voice so hopeful.

Agatha presses her palms into the counter, bowing her head. For all her careful planning, the cleared calendar, the pressed blouse, the camera already charged to film him, none of it matters. Because all he’ll see is the empty seat beside her.

She straightens, jaw locking. She’ll have to make up for it somehow. She doesn’t know how yet, but she will.

Her thumb hovers over your name in her contacts, the one she always presses when she’s unraveling, when she doesn’t know what to do.

Her first thought is to call you. She pictures your voice, steady even when you’re unsure, the way you’d talk her down and remind her to breathe. The way you’d probably say that he won’t be alone, Agatha. He has you. That’s enough.

Her thumb twitches, ready to tap.

But then she remembers you told her this morning that you have therapy at noon. You’d made that brave little smile as you said it, like you were trying to be casual when she knew it still terrifies you.

And now, as the clock blinks 12:14 from the oven display, she can see you in her mind’s eye, knees tucked up in that chair, fidgeting with your sleeves, trying to peel your chest open in front of a stranger. She can’t interrupt that, can’t drag you out of your own fight just to soothe hers.

Agatha sets the phone down with a sharp clatter, bracing her palms on the counter. Her jaw tightens until her teeth ache. All she wants is your voice. But for now, she has to sit with the silence.

The thought of Nicky seeing that empty seat makes her stomach twist again. She paces, furious with Rio, furious with herself for promising something she couldn’t control, desperate to reach for you but refusing to rob you of the one thing you’re doing for yourself.

~

Traffic crawls outside the school, minivans and SUVs jostling for the drop off lane. Agatha grips the wheel tighter, her pulse hammering as she imagines the gymnasium filling up, the folding chairs in neat rows, one of them already destined to stay heartbreakingly empty.

Her phone buzzes in the cupholder. Your name.

She snatches it up, fumbling to put it on speaker. “Baby?”

“Hey,” your voice comes, soft but steady. “I know the show’s about to start. I just wanted to say good luck. Tell him I’m cheering for him.”

Agatha swallows hard, the words spilling before she can stop them. “Rio’s not coming. She called with some bullshit excuse about meeting she ‘couldn’t miss.’” Her knuckles whiten on the steering wheel. “He’s going to look for her, and she won’t be there. He’ll see that empty chair and…”

Her voice breaks, raw. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to explain it to him.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then your tone sharpens. “How long do I have?”

Agatha blinks, thrown. “What?”

“How long until showtime?”

She glances at the dashboard clock. “Ten minutes, maybe less. Why?”

“Okay, gotta go,” you cut in, and the line goes dead.

Agatha stares at the phone, stunned, then back to the traffic outside the school.

And for the first time all day, a flicker of hope pushes through the dread because if anyone could make sure her son doesn’t see an empty chair, it’s you.

The corridors smell faintly of glue sticks and floor polish, children’s artwork taped in uneven rows along the walls. Agatha makes her way toward the gym, heels clicking against the linoleum, her bag heavy with Professor Goatly tucked inside.

At the entrance, a cheerful woman with a clipboard greets her. “Name?”

“Agatha Harkness. For Nicholas Harkness Vidal.”

The woman checks her list and smiles. “Two tickets. Is your guest with you?”

Agatha forces a calm nod, adjusting the strap of her bag. “She’s running a little late, but she’ll be here. Please just let her through when she arrives.”

“Of course,” the woman says, waving her inside.

The gym is already buzzing with rows of metal chairs filled with parents, the makeshift stage lined with autumn decorations of paper leaves, construction paper pumpkins, and a painted banner that says ‘Welcome Fall!’ in uneven letters. The teachers hustle small children behind the curtain, voices hushed but urgent.

Agatha takes her seat in the front row, the little folding chair creaking under her as she sits. It feels too small for her, but she barely notices.

Her eyes keep darting to the door. Every time it opens, her breath catches, but it’s just another parent, another sibling, another stroller rolling in. Not you. Not yet.

Her fingers tap against her knee, restless. She can already picture Nicky’s face peeking from behind the curtain, scanning the crowd. If you don’t get here in time…

She presses a hand over her heart, swallowing hard. She told the clipboard woman you’d be here. She told herself you’d be here. And now, all she can do is sit in the small chair, surrounded by smiling parents, and pray you’ll make it before her son steps out and sees an empty space where his family should be.

You’re not even sure how fast you drove, only that you threw the car into the first open space you saw, half crooked across the line, and bolted.

Now you’re sprinting across the school parking lot, bag thumping against your hip, lungs burning with the chill of late October air. Parents are strolling casually toward the doors, chatting, clutching travel mugs, and you weave between them, muttering frantic apologies as you go.

Inside, the halls are a blur of posters and backpacks. You catch the faint sound of a piano warming up from the gym, a teacher’s voice herding kids into line. Your heart slams harder. Don’t miss it. Don’t let him see that empty chair.

Your boots squeak against the polished floor as you skid around the corner. The clipboard woman at the door startles when you appear, breathless.

“Agatha Harkness’ guest,” you gasp, already reaching for your ID.

She checks the list, then waves you through with a smile. “Go, go! They’re about to start.”

You dart inside, the gym already packed, rows of parents filling the folding chairs. The paper pumpkins and tissue paper leaves strung across the stage blur past as your eyes lock on the front row.

The moment the door swings open, Agatha’s eyes snap toward it, the way they have every single time someone’s walked in. But this time it’s you.

Breathless, cheeks flushed, hair wild from the sprint, eyes wild with determination as you hurry down the aisle. You don’t even glance around at the rows of parents craning to see who’s rushing in so late, your gaze is locked on hers, like you knew exactly where she’d be.

Her chest seizes. Relief crashes over her so hard she almost sags in her chair.

You, her messy, shy, stubborn, beautiful girl, you showed up. Not for her but for him.

She knew she loved you before, of course she did, but this is another level entirely. A raw, bone deep love, sharpened into something fierce by the sight of you gasping for air in a school gym just to make sure her little boy won’t see an empty chair.

You drop into the seat beside her, still panting, and without thinking she reaches for you, her hand clamping onto your knee. Your hand covers hers, warm and steady despite your racing pulse, and Agatha has to bite down on the inside of her cheek to keep her composure.

She leans closer, her voice a rasp only you can hear. “You came.”

You manage a breathless grin. “I wasn’t about to let him look out and see an empty chair.”

Her throat tightens. She swallows hard, blinking back the sudden sting in her eyes, and squeezes your knee so hard you almost wince. If you weren’t in a room full of preschool parents, she thinks she’d kiss you until she cried.

Instead, she whispers, “God, I love you,” and turns back toward the stage just as the curtain begins to twitch.

The curtain ripples as the teachers shuffle the kids into place. Your hand slips quietly into Agatha’s bag, rummaging till you grab Professor Goatly. You pull the plush goat out and set him carefully on your lap, arranging him so he’s sitting tall, facing the stage.

Agatha sees it and her composure cracks, the corner of her mouth tugging up into a grin so tender it makes your chest ache. She leans sideways, pressing a quick kiss into your hair, her lips lingering for a second longer than they should in public.

Her voice is a whisper, warm against your ear. “I want to tell him.”

You turn your head, blinking. “Tell him what?”

Her hand finds yours under the cover of the goat, her thumb stroking over your knuckles. “That you’re not just his babysitter.” She swallows, her eyes glinting in the stage lights. “That you’re Mommy’s partner. That you’re ours.”

Your breath catches. The noise of parents settling in, the scrape of chairs, the rustle of costumes behind the curtain, all of it fades. It’s just her, her hand squeezing yours, the weight of those words hanging heavy and bright between you.

Tears sting hot in your eyes before you can stop them. “You mean that?”

Her grip tightens, her forehead brushing yours for the barest moment. “I’ve never meant anything more.”

You sniffle, trying to blink the tears away before the curtain goes up, before Nicky can see. But you can’t hide the way your smile trembles as you whisper back, “I want that too.”

Professor Goatly sits proudly in your lap, a silent witness, as the first notes of the piano strike up.

The curtain shuffles open, revealing a row of tiny four year olds in paper leaf crowns, each one fidgeting in place, eyes scanning the crowd.

The teacher steps forward with a big smile. “Our youngest class has been working very hard on their autumn song. Please welcome them!”

The room erupts into applause and camera flashes.

And there he is. Nicky. His curls bouncing under his crown, his little shirt tucked neatly into his trousers, Professor Goatly nowhere in sight because he’s safely on your lap.

His eyes dart nervously across the crowd, wide and searching. Then they land on the front row. On Agatha first, her hand raised in a steady wave, her smile as bright as he’s ever seen it.

And then on you sitting right beside her, the goat propped up proudly on your knees.

Nicky freezes, blinking like he can’t believe it. Then his whole face lights up. He beams so hard his crown slips sideways, and he waves with both hands, bouncing on his toes.

You and Agatha both wave back, grinning like fools. She leans into you, her voice barely a whisper. “Look at him.”

The music cues again, and Nicky straightens with the other kids. He takes a deep breath, clutches the edge of his shirt, and sings at the top of his little lungs.

“Autumn leaves are falling down, falling down, falling down…”

Some of the kids sing at the top of their lungs, others mumble shyly into their collars. One little boy in the middle stares at the ceiling like the words might be written there, while another girl next to him is already chewing on her paper crown.

Nicky belts it. His voice wobbles on the high notes, but he sings directly toward the front row, his eyes darting between Agatha, you, and the goat on your lap. Each time he catches sight of all three, he grins wider, his crown slipping further over his curls.

“Red and yellow, orange and brown, all around the town!”

Half the class comes in too early on orange and brown, dissolving into giggles that make the teacher clap frantically to bring them back together. Agatha’s shoulders shake with quiet laughter beside you, her hand covering yours tightly.

They launch into the second verse, even less in sync than the first, but no one in the audience cares. Parents beam, phones held high. A mom in the second row dabs at her eyes like she’s watching the Royal Opera instead of a preschool show.

One little girl forgets the words entirely and just twirls in a circle until she falls over. The boy next to her bursts into tears, tugging at his crown. But the rest keep going, the song chugging along through every wobble and mistake.

And through it all, Nicky keeps singing, cheeks flushed, his little fists clenching and unclenching at his sides like he’s putting every ounce of bravery he has into each line. His eyes flicker to you both constantly, like he’s drawing strength from the fact you’re there, his family in the front row.

“All around the towwwwnnnn!”

The kids hold the final note far too long, their voices cracking with the effort. The teacher claps her hands together, beaming. “Take a bow!”

They do, half tripping over each other, crowns tumbling, paper leaves scattering across the stage.

The audience erupts in applause, cheers echoing through the little gym. Cameras flash, parents whistle.

Nicky bows so low he nearly topples over, then pops back up, grinning so wide his face could split. The second his eyes find you and Agatha again, he waves with both arms, practically vibrating with pride.

Agatha squeezes your hand hard, her throat working. “My brave boy,” she whispers, voice thick.

The applause still thunders through the little gymnasium as the children are shepherded off the stage, paper crowns crooked, some of them already yawning from the excitement. Parents begin to shuffle, standing to get a better view, calling their kids’ names.

Agatha rises, her hand slipping from yours only because she’s craning her neck to what door Nicky will come out of. You clutch Professor Goatly against your chest, your stomach already tight with anticipation.

And then there he is.

Nicky barrels out from the side of the stage with the other children, his crown now fully askew, his face flushed and glowing. He scans the crowd wildly, eyes wide.

“Mama!” he yells, spotting Agatha first. Then, a beat later, his gaze lands on you and the goat in your arms. His whole face lights up, brighter than the stage lights, and he bolts.

“Mama! Y/N!”

He collides into Agatha’s legs first, wrapping his little arms around her waist. She scoops him up without hesitation, kissing his curls, her own eyes suspiciously bright. “Darling boy, you were wonderful.”

“I did it!” he beams, breathless from the run, curls sticking to his forehead. “I wasn’t even scared!”

You hold up the goat, and he squeals, reaching from Agatha’s arms to grab both you and the plush at once. “Professor Goatly saw me! You saw me too!”

You nod, grinning, your eyes stinging. “I saw everything. You were amazing.”

He wriggles until Agatha crouches down to set him between you both, his little arms looping around your necks, pulling you close in a clumsy, tight hug. “Best show ever!”

Agatha meets your eyes over his curls, her smile breaking into something raw and full. She mouths, ‘thank you’, even as she kisses the top of Nicky’s head again and again.

“Well, superstar,” she says, brushing a stray curl off his forehead, “I think a performance that brilliant deserves a celebration.”

His eyes go wide, glittering. “Celebrate?!”

“Yes honey.” She taps his nose, grinning. “What do you think? Pizza?”

“Pizza!” he squeals, throwing his arms up so enthusiastically his crown finally slips all the way off and clatters to the gym floor.

You bend to pick it up, laughing as you hand it back to him. “Pizza sounds perfect.”

Nicky hugs the goat tight against his chest, practically vibrating with excitement. “Best show ever, best pizza ever!”

Agatha stands, slipping one hand around your waist while she reaches for Nicky’s little hand with the other. “Then it’s settled. Let’s get our superstar fed.”

You glance at her as the three of you head toward the exit together, her eyes catching yours with that same look from before, full of love, relief, and something deeper and fiercer than you’ve ever felt trained on you.