Chapter 2
It’s been two weeks since happy hour at Applebee’s with Agatha. Not that Rio has been counting.
She has not been counting. She definitely has not been watching the hours tick by until she and Agatha would go out on a date—this time, without Wanda acting as their chaperone. Because that would be crazy.
…But if she had, it wasn’t her fault. (And, for the record, time is a structured concept, and keeping track of things, such as time, is both healthy and normal. Nothing more.)
Not when every thought that’s crossed her mind since that night has been about Agatha.
The kiss alone was enough to hijack her train of thought—how soft Agatha’s lips were, how they tasted faintly of the sugar (and arrogance) from her frozen margarita, how she smiled into the kiss like she knew exactly what she had been doing to Rio.
And then, of course, there was the goddamnmozzarella stick.
She knows it’s ridiculous. Absurd, even. To be so utterly and completely haunted by the sight of a woman eating fried molten cheese. To have it invade her imagination at the worst possible times—in the midst of typing an email, looking for the perfect bag of grapes at ShopRite, talking to her fucking therapist.
And yet, here she is, in Agatha’s driveway, standing next to her Lesbaru (a nickname coined by Wanda as they dragged her out of Applebee’s), willing herself to not think about Agatha’s mouth as she reaches for her phone.
I’m here.
She doesn’t need to pick Agatha up—Agatha’s car is now perfectly functional after the three weeks it spent at the dealership, and she is more than capable of driving herself. But Agatha’s house is on the way to Applebee’s, and it doesn’t make sense to take two cars. (And maybe, just maybe, Rio wants to play the role of the old-school, chivalrous gentleman, showing up at Agatha’s doorstep and opening her car door for her. Not that she would ever admit that to anyone.)
Rio barely has time to slip her phone into her back pocket when Agatha’s front door creaks open.
And then—Rio suddenly forgets how to breathe.
Agatha takes a step onto the porch, and whatever Rio was expecting—the same black beanie, a different unfastened button-up, maybe something even more laid-back—is completely obliterated by what’s standing in front of her.
Agatha’s hair is down again, however it’s carefully styled this time—soft, controlled waves cascading around her shoulders. The porch light casts a subtle, warm glow over her, illuminating auburn highlights Rio swears weren’t there two weeks ago. Or maybe they were, and she was just too focused on Agatha tormenting her.
And then there’s the dress.
Long-sleeved, black, and somehow simultaneously formal and casual, it‘s cut to reveal neither too much nor not enough, and it clings to Agatha in all the right places before flaring out just above her feet—where, of course, two slits run up both of her thighs, exposing just enough leg to make Rio’s mouth dry.
Jesus Christ.
And… is Agatha wearing… Birkenstocks?
It should be a federal crime to look so gorgeous in a dress like that while wearing fucking Birkenstocks.
Rio feels like she’s been punched in the gut.
She can deal with Agatha looking hot, in a general, theoretical sense. She made it through her post-almost-parking-lot-fight glow at happy hour. She (barely) survived the mozzarella stick incident. But this? This is bullshit. This is a personal attack.
And it’s only made much worse by the way Rio now feels excruciatingly, overwhelmingly underdressed.
Which—okay, sure, is objectively false. She looks good. She is acutely aware that she looks good. The dark green sweater over her favorite cream-colored button-up is a solid choice, her black jeans fit perfectly, and her ankle boots tie the entire outfit together. Under normal circumstances, she would feel incredibly confident in how she looks.
But these are not normal circumstances.
These are Agatha-Harkness-in-a-form-fitting-dress-and-carrying-a-tiny-black-purse circumstances.
“You’re staring, narc.”
Rio jumps as she snaps out of it, a flustered shade of pink flooding her cheeks. “I—no, I—” She clears her throat, forcing herself to move, to walk toward the house and not just stand by her car, gaping at Agatha like a dumbass. “You look—”
Agatha arches a brow, amused. “Mhmm?”
Rio glares at her, embarrassed, but grounds herself. “Nice.”
Agatha hums, closing the front door and stepping down from the porch. “ Just nice?”
Rio swallows hard. “Very nice.”
“Uh-huh.” Agatha smirks, eyes alight with something Rio can’t quite place. “And here I was worried about overdressing. I guess it’s a good thing you went for the whole,” she pauses, waving a hand toward Rio, “casual academic lesbian vibe. It balances things out.”
Rio groans, dragging a hand down her face and neck. “Would you like to go, or did you just want to stand there and make fun of me?”
Agatha tilts her head, her smirk unwavering. “Both sound fun.”
“ Agatha.”
“Fine.” With a chuckle, Agatha finally relents, nodding toward Rio’s car. “Shall we?”
Rio exhales through her nose, gathering whatever shred of composure she has left before stepping aside, gesturing toward her Subaru like a corny chauffeur. “After you.”
Agatha raises a brow, entertained, but doesn’t push her—yet. Instead, she walks past Rio at a languid pace, the skirt of her dress swishing with every step, and Rio forces her gaze ahead of her. She will not get caught staring again, even if Agatha is all but begging for her to.
When they both reach the passenger side, Rio moves without thinking, rushing to reach for the handle and pulling the car door open before Agatha can.
Agatha pauses. Then, with a flair only Agatha can manage, she turns slowly to face Rio fully, arms folding across her chest as she leans against the open door. “Oh, my. A proper gentleman. Careful, or you may just charm the dress right off of me before we make it to dinner.”
Rio’s face burns hotter than the sun. “Please just get in the car,” she mutters, refusing to look Agatha in the eye.
Agatha’s grin is nearly shit-eating as she drops into the seat, smoothing the skirt of her dress before buckling her seatbelt. “You are so fun to fuck with, narc.”
Rio exhales, closing the door a little bit too hard before Agatha can witness her fall into a full-blown gay panic. She takes her time as she walks around to the driver’s side, steeling herself before she settles in and starts the car, hoping that the familiar hum of the engine will calm her down.
The radio comes on shortly after the car starts and, in lieu of Rio’s usual music—a carefully curated playlist of sad gay indie on Spotify—a local radio station plays on low volume.
Agatha’s brows pinch and then she makes a small, disappointed noise. “No MUNA tonight?”
Rio freezes for a beat.
She remembers.
It’s such a small, trivial thing—hardly worth noting, in Rio’s mind—but it still makes something warm curl in Rio’s chest. Agatha had actually remembered.
Rio clears her throat, forcing her focus to the rearview mirror as she backs out of Agatha’s driveway. “I guess you’ll have to suffer through mainstream music for the next ten minutes.”
Agatha sighs dramatically, bringing her hand to her chest in mock distress. “Tragic.”
For the few minutes it takes to get out of Agatha’s neighborhood, the drive is quiet, save for the faint hum of the radio. It’s… nice. Nearly serene. A stark contrast to the last time they rode in the car together—when Rio had been more focused on Wanda not hurling or hurting herself in the backseat than actually engaging with Agatha in any meaningful way.
Then Agatha looks over at her, tilting her head, thoughtful.
“You’re a good driver.”
Rio blinks, caught off guard. Of all things she’s expected Agatha to say, that was… not one of them. “Oh… you think so?”
Agatha shrugs. “I didn’t get to judge you much last time. I was too busy babysitting Wanda.”
Rio huffs a soft laugh. “Yeah, that was a full-time job, wasn’t it?”
“For sure.” Agatha shakes her head. “But seriously, I don’t think you’ve gone more than a couple miles over the speed limit since we left my house.” She offers Rio a sideways glance, as if considering something. “You ever been pulled over?”
“Nope.” Rio shrugs, her eyes remaining fixed on the road. “Never been in an accident, either.”
Agatha stares at her like she’s just admitted to being a serial killer. Then she snorts, shaking her head. “Of course not. Narc.”
Rio groans, however it’s more amused than exasperated. “You have got to stop calling me that.”
“Why?” Agatha grins. “It fits.”
Rio rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. “You just want a reason to keep fucking with me.”
Agatha leans toward her, placing a firm hand on her upper thigh as she drives. “If you’re lucky, babe.”
Rio’s smile falls.
Oh. Oh, fuck.
Her grip on the steering wheel is so tight, she swears she might snap it in half. She swallows hard, refusing to look at Agatha, refusing to acknowledge the heat flaring through her limbs, sparked by Agatha the grasp Agatha has on her leg.
Agatha leans back in her seat, a knowing smirk pulling at the corners of her lips. “I will admit, I do wish my driving record was as clean as yours.”
Rio blinks, composing herself, and her eyes flick to Agatha for a split second. “Should I be worried?”
Agatha hums and taps her fingers gently on Rio’s leg, dramatically ambiguous. “It depends. Are you the type to judge a gal for—” she pauses, considering her words, “—a few reckless driving citations?”
Rio purses her lips, trying not to react. “...Define a few.”
Agatha merely winks. “Maybe later, narc.”
Rio exhales sharply through her nose, focusing on the road again—because that is the most important thing right now. Not Agatha’s hand, still resting on her thigh (did she forget it’s there?), not the way her thumb keeps grazing the rough fabric of Rio’s jeans, not the flirtation laced into every single word she speaks.
And certainly not the criminal history Agatha may or may not have. (Which, in hindsight, Wanda definitely warned her about.)
Before Rio can begin unpacking any of it, the neon-red and white glow of the Applebee’s sign flickers into view up ahead. She seizes the opportunity to relinquish at least a fraction of control.
“So, are you gonna behave yourself tonight?” she asks, casting a sidelong glance at Agatha as they approach the parking lot entrance. “Any plans to brawl with someone in the parking lot again?”
Agatha scoffs, finally releasing her grip on Rio’s leg to press her hand to her chest, feigning offense. “Excuse you. We are here for a romantic date, not happy hour with Wanda. Why on earth would I not behave?”
Rio snorts, shaking her head. “We haven’t even made it inside yet, and I know you—you’re full of surprises.”
“Oh, ye of little faith.” Agatha waves her off, not unkindly. “I am more than capable of conducting myself with maturity—”
Rio lets out a laugh, finally making the turn from the main road into the parking lot.
“—grace, and dignity.”
“Mhmm, sure.”
Silence hangs between them for a beat before Agatha speaks.
“As long as that cardigan-wearing bitch isn’t here again.”
As Rio searches for a parking space, she can feel Agatha’s eyes on her—meticulous, like she’s mentally grading every move Rio makes. It shouldn’t be so distracting, but it is. Suddenly, the simple act of parking feels like it’s a test, and Rio is hyper-aware of everything she does—the angle of her turn, the resistance of the brake pedal beneath her foot, the placement of her hands on the steering wheel.
She exhales softly as she shifts the car into park, finally glancing at Agatha. “What?”
The corners of Agatha’s lips pull into something just shy of a smirk. “Nothing.”
Rio furrows her brows but doesn’t push, instead unbuckling her seatbelt and smoothing the bottom of her crewneck. “So,” she begins, as lightly as she can, “are you going to flirt with our waitress again, or are you going to be good?”
Agatha gasps, pressing a palm to her heart like Rio has just called her a slur. “I would never. ”
“You did last time.”
“I was just having a little fun,” Agatha says, her tone lightening in a way that makes Rio almost consider believing her. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”
Rio arches a brow, still a bit incredulous.
Agatha’s smirk softens. “Anyway,” she muses, tilting her head slightly, “why would I want to flirt with our waitress when I’m on a second date with the most gorgeous narc I’ve ever met?”
Oh. Fucking oh.
Rio’s brain malfunctions. The words second date don’t register at first because she’s trying to process gorgeous—because Agatha just called her gorgeous. And now her face is flushed, her heart is pounding, and she can still feel the ghost of Agatha’s grip on her thigh as if it’s left a permanent, searing imprint.
Then, as if giving her a moment to fully process it, her brain finally catches up. She clears her throat, determined not to let Agatha have the last (incorrect) word. “First date,” she corrects, voice much steadier than she feels.
Agatha tilts her head, amused. “No, second.”
“First,” Rio insists, hastily opening her car door and stepping out before Agatha can continue arguing.
Moving with purpose, she circles around the car to the passenger side and opens Agatha’s door for her, standing behind it like a proper gentleman.
Agatha smirks, thoroughly entertained. “Wow. Law-abiding, beautiful, and chivalrous?” She steps out of the car with the grace of a model, standing close enough that Rio catches the warm, heady scent of her perfume. “You really are the total package, aren’t you, babe?”
Rio swallows hard, her throat feeling thick. “Let’s… just go inside.”
Agatha chuckles, but much to Rio’s relief, she lets it go.
They walk side by side toward the entrance and it takes everything in Rio not to reach out and grab Agatha’s hand. Sure, they’re on a date, but she knows Agatha wouldn’t let her live it down. And currently, she is hanging on by a thin, fraying thread—one that will absolutely snap if Agatha makes fun of her even a little bit more before she gets a drink.
Determined to hold onto what little remains of her dignity, Rio steps just ahead of Agatha—just in time to pull the front door open for her.
Agatha smiles—slow, pleased—as she steps inside. “Why, thank you. Such a gentleman.”
Rio exhales through her nose, nods to herself, and follows Agatha inside.
Applebee’s is busy, but not as packed as Rio had assumed for a Friday evening. The air is filled with the hum of chatter, silverware clinking against dishes, and the soft drone of whatever generic pop music plays softly overhead.
The girl behind the hostess stand—far less cheery than their waitress two weeks ago—hardly looks up at them. “Two?’
“Yes, please,” Rio confirms. “We’re okay with a booth or table, whatever you have available.”
“It should be just a few,” the hostess says, taking down Rio’s name before gesturing to the waiting area.
They settle onto a cushioned bench near the entrance, and Rio tries not to think too hard about how casual this feels—how easy it feels. For all of Agatha’s teasing, she’s not yet flirted with an Applebee’s employee, or offered to impregnate anyone, or threatened to curse a random passerby (yet), and Rio allows herself to relax, just a bit.
A few minutes pass before the hostess returns, her forced smile doing little to mask her disinterest. “Your booth is ready.”
As she guides them through the restaurant, Rio quickly realizes where they’re being led to—the same booth they sat in with Wanda two weeks ago.
Judging by the amused glance she gives Rio, Agatha notices, too.
“Home sweet home,” Agatha muses as they slide into their seats on opposite sides of the table.
Rio just shakes her head, amused. “Maybe the universe is telling us something.”
The hostess places their menus down in front of them. “Your server will be with you in a minute.”
She barely makes it a few steps away before a young woman with a beachy blonde ponytail and a knowing grin approaches their table. “Well, well, well. Look who it is.”
Rio doesn’t need to read her name tag to know who she is—Amelia, the waitress from their last visit. The one Agatha shamelessly flirted with in front of her.
Amelia’s eyes flick to Agatha, and she arches a brow, almost like she’s expecting her to start with her antics again. “What would you like to drink?”
Agatha grins but—to Rio’s mild surprise—she actually remains civil. Playful, but not overly flirty. “I’ll start with water, please.”
Amelia smirks, clearly remembering her whole schtick from two weeks ago. “No frozen margarita?”
“Nah,” Agatha shrugs. “Think I’ll take it easy this time. Don’t want to give my little lady over here too much trouble tonight.”
She punctuates it with a subtle wink at Rio.
Rio’s eyes widen and heat creeps up her neck.
Amelia’s attention shifts to her, still grinning. “And for you?”
Rio clears her throat. “I—um, I’ll also start with water.”
Amelia nods, jotting it down on her waiter’s pad. “I’ll be right back, take your time with the menu.”
As she walks away, Rio just stares at Agatha, and the dumb smirk that’s already found its way to her face. “My little lady? Really?”
Agatha grabs for her menu and leans back, batting her eyelashes innocently. “I told you, sweetheart. Romantic date.”
My little lady. Sweetheart.
Rio breathes sharply through her nose, willing her heartbeat to slow.
She’s only known Agatha for a whole two weeks, and somehow—fucking somehow—she has discovered how to fry Rio’s brain with a handful of words and a well-timed wink.
Rio picks up her own menu, desperate to focus on literally anything else, but Agatha, of course, is unbothered. She flips languidly through the laminated pages, tapping a manicured nail against the appetizers. “How do mozzarella sticks sound?” she asks casually, looking up at Rio.
“No.” Rio’s response is almost involuntary, escaping her before she knows what she’s saying.
Agatha raises a brow, smirking. “No? Didn’t like them last time?”
Rio blinks a few times, frantically searching for an answer that doesn’t involve the flashbacks that have been haunting her for the past fourteen days—the image of Agatha wrapping her lips around a mozzarella stick, pulling away just enough for a string of hot cheese to form between her mouth and the breading in her hand, and then the seductive swirl of her tongue around it like—
“Absolutely fucking not,” Rio replies, far too sharp.
Agatha squints in amusement, almost like she can Rio’s mind. “Okay, fine,” she drawls, her eyes flicking back to the menu. “Would you like to choose our app tonight, then? Since Wanda so selfishly took it upon herself to do so on our first date.”
Rio lets out an incredulous laugh that comes out sharper than she intends. “Our first date was not babysitting Wanda and her big blue monstrosity.”
“Why not? I thought the whole co-gentle parenting our-friend-slash-my-next-door-neighbor thing was incredibly romantic.” She grins. “One of the more magical first dates I’ve been on.”
Rio rolls her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Whatever.”
Agatha hums, waiting expectantly. “So?”
“What?”
Agatha gestures toward the menu. “If you don’t pick an app, I will be ordering mozzarella sticks again.”
Rio sighs, glancing down at the pictures littering the page. “What about boneless wings?”
Agatha immediately wrinkles her nose. “No, those are just bullshit glorified chicken nuggets.”
Rio blinks. “What’s wrong with that?”
“Everything.” Agatha flips a page of the menu with a flourish. “If I’m eating wings, they’re coming with bones in them, just like God and Guy Fieri intended.”
Rio stares at her for a moment, quickly realizing she’s serious, before shaking her head. “Alright. What about some spinach and artichoke dip?”
Agatha snorts. “I didn’t know you were so basic, narc.”
Rio’s brows furrow, but she’s fighting back a smile. “And mozzarella sticks are somehow less basic?”
“Yes,” Agatha grins. “Because I like them.”
Rio scans the appetizer page again, determined to choose something before Agatha can poke fun at any more of her suggestions. Her gaze lands on the Beef Neighborhood Nachos—they seem safe, solid, and most importantly, not basic.
“What about the beef nachos?” she asks, looking up from the menu.
Agatha ponders, then nods approvingly. “I can work with nachos.”
Rio rolls her eyes, but she’s relieved the battle is over (and even more relieved she won it). “Great, we’ll do that then.”
They move on to their dinner, flipping through their menus in thoughtful silence. Well, Rio is thoughtful, at least. Agatha is mainly watching Rio with amusement and intrigue while pretending to peruse her choices.
Rio, ever the responsible eater, lands on the Grilled Chicken Tender Salad. It’s light, fresh, and won’t make her feel icky if—when—she kisses Agatha at the end of the night. Meanwhile, Agatha, bless her heart, does not share any of Rio’s concerns, deciding on the Whisky Bacon Burger.
“That’s a hefty burger,” Rio points out, raising a brow.
Agatha smiles and nods, tapping the picture on the menu with her nail. “Mhmm. Gotta fuel up.”
Rio’s brows furrow. Fuel up for what, exactly?
She decides it’s best not to ask.
Just as they finalize their choices, Amelia returns with two waters in hand and her waiter’s pad hanging from her apron pocket, prepared to take their orders. Rio relays the nachos and their respective entrées, and Amelia scribbles it down without any fuss. But just as she’s about to walk away, Agatha speaks up.
“Can I get an Oreo shake as well?”
Amelia smiles softly. “You want that now, or as a dessert?”
“Now, if it’s no trouble,” Agatha says, because patience is not a virtue she possesses (as if she possesses any of them at all). “And—” she pauses, glancing over at Rio before looking back at Amelia, “—can I get two straws, please?”
Rio eyes her, suspicious.
Agatha, ever the poster child of nonchalance, merely smiles.
Amelia nods and scribbles it down. “Of course. I’ll have that out as soon as possible.”
As soon as she walks away with their orders and their menus, Rio looks at Agatha, confused. “ Two straws?”
Agatha opens her napkin in front of her face to conceal her smirk. “I’m parched. Much more convenient and efficient than one straw,” she says playfully.
Rio doesn’t believe her.
And she’s right not to—Agatha intends to make close, uncomfortable, direct eye contact as they sip the shake together.
They sit in silence for a beat, the low hum of the restaurant hanging between them. Rio preoccupies herself by straightening her silverware on the table, placing her knife and fork perfectly on top of her symmetrically-folded napkin.
Agatha observes her for a second before speaking. “Alright, what’s your deal?”
Rio looks up, confused. “My deal?”
“Yeah.” Agatha tilts her head slightly, gesturing at her. “Wanda told me you were a put-together goody two shoes, but this is—” she hesitates, considering her words, “—not what I expected.”
Rio’s brow pinches, and she’s unsure whether she should feel more insulted by Wanda or Agatha. “I just prefer order,” she explains carefully. “And I like rules. They’re predetermined, set in stone. I don’t have to think too hard about what decisions to make—I just follow the natural order of what’s already there.”
Agatha props her elbow up on the table, resting her chin on her hand. “That sounds agonizing.”
Rio shrugs. “It’s predictable. Predictability is safe.” She drops her hands in her lap. “What about you? Why are you so… like you are?”
Agatha smirks, but there’s something else—almost tired—under the surface of it. “Life’s more fun that way, babe.”
Another beat of silence.
Then, Agatha breathes a deep sigh, peering down at the table as she drums her fingertips against it. “Coping mechanism… I guess. My mom fucked me up as a kid.”
An ache finds its way behind Rio’s sternum.
Agatha’s gaze remains on the table as she continues. “I wasn’t a planned pregnancy. She thought I was a mistake from the moment I left her womb, and she made sure I knew that every chance she got.” She frowns slightly. “When she found out I was gay, that was the cherry on top of the shit cake. She reminded me constantly—until I went no-contact with her a few months before she died—that she didn’t want me.”
Rio’s stomach clenches.
For a moment, she feels horrible for her.
Until Agatha finally looks up, a smirk finding its way to her face, and says, “She finally got her wish. She’s rotting in hell, far, far away from me.”
Rio blinks.
She doesn’t say anything at first. She just sits with Agatha’s words, letting them seep into her skin and settle in her bones. It’s not often people admit things that place a target of vulnerability in the middle of their backs—resentment toward a parent, genuine, justified hatred for someone who was meant to love them unconditionally. It’s ugly, and raw, and honest.
And Rio understands.
Maybe not to the same extent—her own childhood wasn’t picturesque by any stretch of the imagination, but it wasn’t Agatha’s. Still, she acutely understands the feeling of a parent looking at you like you’re irreparably broken.
She swallows, then nods. “I was no-contact with my parents for a long time.”
Agatha lifts her head, interest surfacing beneath the lingering sadness in her expression.
Rio exhales through her nose, dragging her index finger through the condensation on her water glass. “I came out to them when I was in grad school. I told them I was a lesbian, and we didn’t speak for years.” A bitter laugh escapes her. “I fucking hated them. Like, absolutely loathed them. And then my 40th birthday came and went, and while my mom remained hateful, my dad realized how badly he fucked up. He wanted to fix things, but it was too late.” She shrugs, shifting her wandering gaze back to Agatha. “Now I’m… more of an acquaintance than their daughter, I guess.”
Agatha looks at her, quiet for a beat before she nods. “So that’s why you’re so… normal. ”
Rio’s brows furrow. “Excuse me?”
“You follow all the rules, you play by the book, you don’t stray from what you know is expected of you. Because it’s a hell of a lot easier to feel like you’re controlling your life than letting it control you.” Agatha smirks faintly, understanding. “I totally get it. I just do the opposite.”
Rio tilts her head, considering her. “You mean… pretending the rules don’t exist?”
Agatha leans back, drumming her fingers on the table. “But they don’t exist. Not for me, at least.” She shrugs. “It’s a lot less painful to live pretending all these expectations don’t apply to me than to face the fact that, no matter how good I try to be, I’ll never be good enough for anyone.” Her smirk returns, but this time, it’s different. Sullen, almost. “So I just don’t try. I do whatever the fuck I want and if there’s consequences, there’s consequences.”
Jesus, Wanda wasn’t kidding when she called Agatha fortified.
And yet, beneath her thick, complicated layers, there is a vulnerability Wanda could’ve never prepared her for—something that makes Rio’s heart ache more than she would’ve ever expected.
What feels like an eternity passes as Rio stares at her. Then, without giving it much thought, she reaches across the table and grabs Agatha’s hand.
She barely registers what she’s doing until her thumb moves on its own accord, brushing slow, gentle circles over soft skin. A subtle comfort. An unspoken I see you.
Agatha freezes. Her eyes drop to their joined hands, and for once in her life, she’s silent.
The warmth between them shifts—it’s no longer merely comfort, but something else. Something with weight Rio wasn’t expecting.
Agatha exhales slowly. “You know,” she muses, her voice much more tender than normal, “you’re the first woman I’ve ever talked to about all this who hasn’t immediately insulted me or shut me down entirely.” She shrugs. “So many of them have told me to get over it. As if it’s that simple.”
Rio shakes her head. “No, it’s definitely not.” She gently squeezes Agatha’s hand. “But you don’t have to. You’ve been through so much and what you feel is valid.” Her voice softens, the tone bordering on intimate. “You don’t have to hide behind… all this.” She gestures vaguely with her free hand, as if it sums up everything about Agatha—the bravado, the carelessness, the chaos.
Agatha’s fingers tighten just slightly around Rio’s hand. Then, a smirk curls at the corners of her lips. “Your hands are really soft. Makes sense.”
Rio blinks at the sudden shift. “How does that make sense?”
Rio hardly has time to process whatever the hell that means before Amelia appears at the end of their table, armed with a tray containing a tall Oreo shake and a large, steaming plate of nachos.
She sets them down in the middle of the table with ease, entirely oblivious to the fact that Rio and Agatha are holding hands.
“Your food should be out soon,” Amelia says with a smile as she pulls two paper-covered straws out of her apron pocket, setting them next to the shake. And before they can thank her, she turns on her heel and disappears from the table.
Agatha, maintaining her grip on Rio’s hand, grabs both straws with her free one, tearing the paper off with her teeth and shoving them into the shake. She doesn’t really look at the cup, just blindly stabbing them through the whipped cream and ice cream with the self-assuredness she carries everywhere else.
Rio continues to watch her, something warm curling deep in her chest. She doesn’t want Agatha to let go.
And it’s not because Agatha is attempting to get in her pants, or because she’s messing with Rio—it’s because, for the first time in so long, someone is touching her without expectation. No hidden agenda, no assumptions about her character or her personality based on a two-second, wordless assessment of her body and face. Merely skin on skin, for the sake of closeness—comfort.
Agatha notices the look on Rio’s face and smirks. “I have to confess, I may have lied to you earlier,” she drawls, “the second straw is actually for you, not for me to efficiently double-suck this shake down by myself.”
Rio raises a brow at Agatha’s word choice. “ Double-suck feels like something that shouldn’t be said out loud in public.”
Agatha hums, tilting her head playfully. “For that, it will absolutely be happening again.”
Rio huffs out a laugh, shaking her head as she leans toward the shake. “Of course.”
Agatha mirrors her, leaning in toward the glass until they’re both hovering over it, noses only inches apart. Their mouths find their respective straws at the same time, and for a brief moment, the only thing separating them is the chilled flavors of vanilla and chocolate spreading across their tongues.
It’s dumb. It’s ridiculous. It’s somehow the most romantic fucking thing Rio has ever done at an Applebee’s.
If either one of them were to lean forward even an inch, they could (and would) absolutely make out on the table, in the middle of this dimly lit, cheesily-decorated restaurant.
But they don’t.
Agatha’s eyes remain fixed on Rio’s as they drink the thick shake through their straws, and the feeling of her gaze—her pale blue eyes warm, glinting with questions Rio isn’t sure she can answer—is almost overwhelming.
They pull away from their shakes at the same time. The loss of it all—of the closeness, of Agatha’s eyes pinned on her—unsettles Rio more than she expects.
Because now she’s sitting across from Agatha with sweet notes of vanilla cream and Oreo lingering on her tongue, and all she wants to do is lean across the table and actually kiss Agatha.
She tightens her jaw, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment as if it’ll turn her brain off and back on again. Come on, Vidal.
Agatha notices. Of course she does. But instead of teasing Rio—instead of exploiting her being visibly on the path to a meltdown—Agatha’s fingers finally slip from Rio’s, leaving warmth lingering in their wake.
She reaches for the nachos and plucks a smaller chip from the corner of the plate first, scooping up just enough cheese and toppings to assess the spread. She drops it into her mouth, brushing the salt from her fingers as she chews, considering—then lets out an approving hum that can easily be mistaken for a moan (unless it was actually a moan. In that case… Well…)
“Fuck, these are good,” she says as she chews. “You have decent taste in apps, narc.”
Rio exhales, the compliment providing her a brief distraction. “You may think I’m boring, but a girl knows how to eat.”
She doesn’t mean it in any kind of way.
She doesn’t think she says it in a way that could imply anything, but then Agatha’s eyes darken, just the littlest bit. A smirk finds its way to her face, and that’s when Rio realizes—she fucked up.
Agatha doesn’t reply as she sets her eyes on the plate, appearing to plot something, and then she finds a much larger chip. She pulls it from beneath the other chips, scooping up an adequate amount of cheese and ground beef, as well as a single slice of jalapeño.
Instead of eating it, she holds it out to Rio, her other hand hovering just below to prevent making a mess.
Rio eyes the chip, then glances at Agatha. “What?”
Agatha’s grin is shit-eating. “Open.”
Rio narrows her eyes, suspicious. “Why?”
Agatha tilts her head, eyes brimming with both innocence and something hotter, deeper.
“You just said you know how to eat.”
“And…?”
Agatha’s smirk widens. She leans in, insistently holding out the chip.
“Prove it.”
It’s not just the words that get her. It’s the way Agatha says them, sugary and low, as if every syllable is meant to make Rio’s core involuntarily clench.
And it fucking works.
Rio swallows hard, eyeing the chip warily. “You know, I can feed myself.”
“I know.” Agatha nearly stands to lean further across the table, lifting the chip higher, almost brushing Rio’s lips with it. “But this is significantly more fun.”
Rio could refuse. She should refuse.
But instead, she tilts her head back slightly. Her lips part and she sticks her tongue out the tiniest bit. And what sends a wave of something far too inappropriate to be felt at Applebee’s crashing into her, is when she feels Agatha’s thumb and forefinger on either side of her jaw, pulling her mouth open just a bit more. And when her thumb ghosts along Rio’s bottom lip, the nacho drags across her tongue.
Agatha watches intently, gaze moving between Rio’s eyes and her mouth, waiting—
She bites down, and Agatha’s touch lingers for a beat too long before she pulls her hand away.
“Oh, fuck,” Rio mumbles as she chews, grabbing for her napkin and dabbing at the cheese that oozes from her mouth.
The nacho is really fucking good. But all she can focus on is the way Agatha’s pupils have dilated slightly, the way she’s chewing on the corner of her bottom lip, the way she’s absolutely fucked if she doesn’t get a grip.
Agatha grins, wiping remnants of cheese onto her napkin before reclining against the booth. “Amazing, right?” she says, as if she hasn’t just reduced Rio to minimal brain function in the middle of Applebee’s.
Rio can only blink, her mind reeling, her pulse still racing like she’s just finished a day of cardio. She forces herself to nod, because the English language has been erased from her brain.
Agatha, entirely pleased with herself, grabs another chip. “Knew you’d love it.” She pops it into her mouth with a grin, chewing contentedly.
Rio inhales deeply and reaches for a chip of her own, attempting to ground herself. This is totally fine. She can do this. All she has to do is eat some nachos, have a normal conversation, and act like she isn’t one move away from either melting into a puddle beneath the table or climbing over it to take Agatha right there.
“So,” Rio begins, making an attempt to match Agatha’s air of nonchalance, “you… come here often?”
It doesn’t work.
Agatha snorts, swallowing a mouthful of nacho topping. “Are you trying to flirt with me, narc?”
Rio rolls her eyes, biting the corner off of her tortilla chip. “It’s just a question.”
“Mhmm. Sure.” Agatha assesses which nacho to grab next, tapping a manicured nail against the plate as she eyes her options. “I have been here quite a bit, though. Mediocre drinks, slightly less mediocre food, incredible atmosphere.” She gestures vaguely at the dim lighting, Westview-themed decor, and an older couple a few booths over who are absolutely bickering about something in hushed tones.
Rio huffs a laugh, reaching for her untouched water glass as she notices her body relax just a little—only for Agatha to immediately reverse that by licking stray cheese from her thumb with a slow, exaggerated drag of her tongue.
Rio nearly chokes on her water.
Agatha watches her, amusement thinly veiled. “You okay, babe?”
“Fine,” Rio croaks, coughing into her napkin.
Agatha hums. “You know, I don’t typically hand-feed my dates in public, but if you’d like another nacho in that pretty little mouth, I’m willing to make an exception.”
Rio nearly chokes again, this time on the fucking air. “You—” She points an aggressive finger at Agatha, trying to catch her breath. “You have to stop saying things.”
Agatha sits forward, tilting her head. “Why? Am I making you nervous, narc?”
Before Rio can eke out a semi-coherent response, Amelia appears beside them, holding their plates with the same pleasant demeanor as before.
“Here’s your whisky bacon burger—medium rare—with fries,” she begins, setting the plate down in front of Agatha, “and here is your grilled chicken tender salad with ranch on the side instead of dijon.”
Rio’s stomach knots as the large bowl of leafy greens is set in front of her.
Oh, right. Food.
Amelia disappears as quickly as she arrived, and Rio stares at her salad as if she’s just been served slop. Just fucking eat.
Across from her, Agatha has already dug her fingertips into the soft bun around her burger and taken a monstrous bite, entirely unbothered, chewing on it in a way that feels so wrong for someone who looks that sexy in a dress. Steak sauce drips from the corner of her mouth, and she licks it away with a satisfied little hum.
Rio grabs for her fork and stares down at her salad, desperate to distract herself with literally anything else.
Agatha swallows and glances at Rio. “What, the salad isn’t doing it for you anymore?”
Rio pokes at a chunk of tomato with her fork, willing herself to at least try. “No, it’s okay.”
Agatha raises a brow as she drops a fry into her mouth, entirely unconvinced. “You’re staring at it like you’ve never seen a salad before.”
Rio exhales sharply, stabbing a piece of chicken and shoving it into her mouth just to prove a point.
Agatha takes a theatrically slow bite of her burger, making sure she bites down on one of the onion rings with a crunch. “You don’t have to be so mean to it, babe,” she says between chews. “It’s not the salad’s fault you chose it over letting me feed you something much, much better”
For a moment, Rio very seriously considers throwing her fork at Agatha.
Agatha makes quick work of her food, eating with a sloppy, ravenous enthusiasm that completely contrasts her appearance—but for some reason, it works for her. Meanwhile, Rio pushes her salad around with her fork, managing to eat about half of it. She primarily focuses on her water, as if hydration alone will save her from inevitable spontaneous combustion.
When Amelia asks if they’d like to order dessert, they both request the check and some to-go boxes—Rio for her picked-over salad, Agatha for the nachos. As they wait, Agatha eyes the remnants of their milkshake and pushes it toward Rio.
“Here, narc,” she says, tapping her fingernails against the glass. “You should finish it.”
Rio grimaces, nudging it back toward Agatha. “I don’t think so, I’m full.”
Agatha shakes her head, pushing it back in Rio’s direction. “On what, the water you’ve been stress-drinking all night?” She tilts her head and forces her bottom lip out slightly. “Come on.”
There’s a beat of silence as Rio stares at her, and then the glass. She knows what Agatha’s doing. Agatha has been putting on a show since they sat down—moaning over nachos, licking sauce off her lips like she’s trying to give Rio a preview, taking slow, intentional bites of her burger like some kind of horny menace. And now, she’s daring Rio to take a turn.
Rio could just drink it normally. That would be the smart, rational thing to do.
But a long-untapped part of her—a dangerous, reckless part—wants to give in, to try and ruin Agatha the same fucking way she’s ruined Rio all night.
So she does.
She grabs the shake and plucks the straws out, discarding them onto her soiled napkin. Holding Agatha’s gaze, she puts the rim of the large glass up to her lips and tilts it and her head back, letting the melted chocolate and vanilla slide down the side and into her mouth. She hums just the tiniest bit, her eyes fluttering half-closed before tilting the glass upright, licking her bottom lip clean like she’s savoring it.
It’s… much more successful than she anticipated.
Agatha, to her credit, doesn’t completely shatter the way Rio has all evening, however there’s a visible shift in her expression—something much, much darker. Her lips part slightly, and her fingers press against the table. She blinks, slow, and exhales deeply before murmuring, “Well, fuck.”
Rio allows herself a brief moment of smug satisfaction—finally, I did something right—before the check presenter arrives, and Agatha immediately pulls her debit card from her purse and shoves it in, slamming it shut before Rio can even reach for her wallet.
Rio gapes at her. “Wait, what are you—”
“Consider it a thank-you for both dinner and a show,” Agatha says, shit-eating grin returning in full force. “And, you really don’t need to work so hard balancing being chivalrous and sexy the entire night.”
Rio blushes. Full-on, no concealing it, blazing hot all over. She wants to protest, but her brain is entirely scrambled, so she opts to take a sip of water instead.
Once their leftovers are packed and their check is paid, they gather their things and head for the door. Rio moves to guide Agatha out, but Agatha beats her to it, hand caressing the small of Rio’s back as she leads them through the parking lot and towards the car instead.
Rio should be irritated. She should insist on taking her self-appointed gentlemanly duties back from Agatha.
But Agatha’s touch is searing Rio’s skin through her multiple layers of clothing, and her insides feel like they’re electrically charged, so she forces her focus on keeping her shit together.
They approach the car, and despite the fact that Agatha has technically been guiding them, Rio still instinctively reaches for the passenger door, intending to open it for her. However, just as she starts to pull it open, Agatha’s hand comes down over hers, slamming the door closed again.
“What the—” Rio hardly has a moment to register what’s happening, nearly dropping the to-go containers as she sets them on the roof, before her back hits the side of the car. Agatha’s hips are pressed against her, and one hand is still pinning hers to the door while the other slides up to cup her jaw.
And then—
Agatha kisses her.
It’s not the slow, soft kiss Rio had planned on giving her on her doorstep. It’s deep, heady, demanding, like Agatha has been yearning for this—like the tension that’s been building between them all night has snapped, sending them both violently plummeting straight into a blazing fire.
Rio makes a muffled sound against Agatha’s mouth, her hand flexing beneath Agatha’s palm. The kiss is all friction and heat, Agatha’s lips moving against hers with the same sloppy, ravenous hunger from her burger, her teeth nipping at Rio’s bottom lip just hard enough to draw a gasp from her.
Agatha uses it to her advantage, her tongue invading Rio’s mouth, pressing closer, giving Rio no choice but to let herself melt into it.
Holy fuck.
Her fingers flex against the car, grabbing for anything to ground her, but the only thing she feels is Agatha—Agatha, body pressed against hers, kissing her like she wants to reduce her to a useless puddle in the middle of the parking lot.
And honestly?
It might work.
Rio doesn’t even register she’s reaching for Agatha until her free hand finds the dip of her hip, fingers digging into fabric so soft it almost feels bare skin beneath them. Her brain is drowning—suffocated by heat, by need, by Agatha pushing against her. But something about the way Agatha moves—all confidence wrapped in hunger, all control laced with desperation—sends electricity shooting down Rio’s spine.
Her palm presses in, fingertips sliding just a bit lower, to where she expects to feel the faint ridge of a panty line. But instead—
Oh.
Rio’s breath hitches, and Agatha rolls her hips against her, pressing close enough that Rio is suddenly, painfully aware of the very distinct lack of anything between Agatha and the thin fabric of her dress.
They both moan softly at the contact, Agatha’s mouth dragging sloppily against Rio’s jaw, breath teasing and hot as she murmurs, “I guess I forgot to tell you…”
Rio is on the verge of total collapse. She tightens her grip, barely able to resist the urge to pull Agatha into her, when—
A car door slams.
Way too close.
They both still. Agatha’s breath hitches against the soft, flushed skin of Rio’s cheek before she jerks back, wide eyes searching for the source of the noise.
Rio snaps out of it in an instant, adrenaline shocking her system like ice water flooding her veins. She fumbles for the car door handle, yanking it open—needy, urgent, impatient—because fuck, she needs to get out of here, she needs more of Agatha, and she needs both immediately.
Agatha doesn’t appear to share her panic. If anything, she slides into the passenger seat with an air of nonchalance that almost makes Rio angry. “Chill, narc,” she teases, reaching for her seatbelt as Rio moves the to-go containers from the roof of the car to her lap. “I highly doubt anyone’s gonna call the cops over a little display of—” she tilts her head with a wicked smirk, “—public indecency.”
Rio’s eyes narrow at her before all but sprinting around to the driver’s side. She tumbles into her seat, slams the door shut, and starts the car as if she’s trying to break the Guinness World Record for Most Pathetically Down Bad Lesbian.
She tears out of the parking lot and onto the main road so speedily that Agatha laughs. “Wow,” Agatha says, smirking as they barrel down the street, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you go more than three or four over the speed limit before.”
“I’m not—” Rio’s jaw tightens, definitely not pushing ten over.
Agatha hums, amused, settling into her seat as if this isn’t her fault. She leans back, fingers trailing the hem of the slit in her skirt as if she’s bored. “Y’know, for someone so put together, you really are horrible at hiding when you’re all flustered.”
Rio exhales sharply and shakes her head. Do not engage. More importantly, do not get a speeding ticket.
But Agatha’s hand is moving—teasing, light circles on her own thigh, her nails trailing slow, absentminded swirls that are so clearly deliberate.
Rio white knuckles the steering wheel. “Agatha.”
“Hmm?” she hums, feigning naivety, even as her fingers move higher. “I’m just sitting here.”
“I can see you are not just sitting there.”
Agatha chuckles, turning to where she’s facing more toward Rio, gaze fixed on her like it’s a challenge. “If you can’t handle me sitting in your car, perhaps I should drive.”
Rio lets her gaze flick to Agatha, just briefly, just long enough to see the smirk on her face—burning temptation thinly veiled by forced innocence, the way her legs are stretched out just so, allowing the peak of the slit to ride up her thigh the tiniest bit more.
“Absolutely not.” Rio tightens her jaw, unsure whether it’s her refusal to let Agatha push her over the edge, or her knowledge of Agatha’s previous traffic violations that tenses her body so much.
Agatha grins. “Then keep your eyes on the road, narc.”
Rio obeys. But it’s nearly fucking impossible when Agatha continues talking, keeps moving, relentlessly pushes every single button Rio has—
And all of a sudden, her perfect driving record feels dangerously at risk.
She genuinely fears she might test the safety limits advertised in every Subaru commercial and crash her fucking car.
Her grip on the steering wheel is a vice, her knuckles white, her foot nearly pressing the gas pedal into the floorboard. She knows she needs to take a breath, to allow herself to relax, to focus—but how the fuck is she supposed to do any of that when in her peripheral, Agatha’s hand is dipping beneath the black fabric of her dress, disappearing from view like it belongs there?
The only sound between them for a long, excruciating moment is the low hum of the car’s engine. And then—
Agatha’s head falls back into her headrest as she lets out a low, breathy moan.
Every muscle in Rio’s body seizes.
If she squeezes the steering wheel any harder, she will surely break it in half. Heat washes over her, pooling low and hot in her core. She is going to rip the steering wheel off of the fucking column. She is going to pull over and climb on top of Agatha and—
“ Fuck, ” she grits out instead, glaring at the road like it’s wronged her, voice breaking in a way that’s almost pained. “Agatha, please—”
Agatha hums, her saccharine tone a carrot dangling in front of Rio’s face. “Hmm?”
“ Wait. ”
A beat passes and Agatha remains still. A pause where Rio swears she can hear Agatha considering it, as if she’s being given an actual choice. Then—
“Oh.” Agatha huffs a theatrical sigh, and when Rio’s gaze flicks toward her, she catches the movement—Agatha’s hand slipping out from beneath her dress, retreating as if nothing even happened. She shrugs. “Alright.”
Rio exhales sharply through her nose, clenching her jaw so hard she’s afraid she might develop TMJ before they get back to Agatha’s.
And then, a few hundred feet in front of her, she sees the sign for Agatha and Wanda’s neighborhood.
Fuck the speed limit.
She whips through the entrance, ignoring every stop sign, every potential speed trap or nosy neighborhood watch member, every fucking thing that stands between her and getting Agatha home as soon as humanly possible. Agatha watches her, smug as ever, but she says nothing—not even as Rio violently swerves into her driveway, slams the car into park, and yanks the keys from the ignition like she has personal beef with it.
She barely remembers shoving her car door open.
Agatha, as per usual, is entirely unbothered. If anything, she takes her sweet ass time, unbuckling her seatbelt and shifting in her seat, the slit in her dress riding up her thigh as she reaches for the leftovers she stashed down by her feet.
“Y’know,” she muses, lifting their leftovers and setting them gently on the dashboard as she prepares to exit the vehicle, “if you wanted to get me home so bad, you could’ve just—”
Rio grabs her hand and yanks. Hard.
She doesn’t give Agatha an opportunity to finish her one-sided banter before she slams the door behind them and drags her up Agatha’s front walkway, her grip strong, determined—desperate. Agatha lets her, because why would she not? It’s adorable, really, how Rio is unraveling right before her eyes, how she’s all but vibrating with impatience, her usual composed demeanor shattered in the span of a ten minute car ride.
The warm glow of the porch light flickers on as they reach the door, and Rio reaches out to turn the knob, only to find it’s locked.
She waits three seconds. Exactly three. Then she huffs, jabbing the wood with her index finger as if she’s capable of bullying it into submission. “Please open it.”
Agatha snorts, finding Rio’s sheer level of horny distress far too entertaining to rush. “Patience, babe,” she purrs, languidly dipping her hand into her purse.
Rio groans, fighting the urge to bounce on her toes like some kind of pent-up, touch-starved lesbian loser as Agatha struggles—”struggles?”—to locate her ring of keys.
And she knows there is no way it’s taking her this long on accident.
“Agatha.” Rio’s voice drops, dangerously close to a growl, toeing the line between a plea and a warning.
“Hmm?” Agatha hums, feigning innocence as she pulls out a crumpled Rite Aid receipt. Then a single, loose AirPod, Then—is that a fucking Fireball shooter?
Rio’s already razor-thin patience is about to snap.
She knows if Agatha doesn’t hurry, she just might have to fuck her right here, right now, against her front door, porch light be damned.
So she takes the purse from Agatha, shoving a hand inside herself, only to immediately close around the cold metal of keys, because of course they were right there the whole time.
“Oh.” Agatha smirks, shrugging. “I guess they were—”
Rio doesn’t wait for her to finish.
She yanks them out of Agatha’s bag and flips to the key labeled Home (because Agatha would have all three of her keys labeled. …Actually, that’s a good idea Rio may have to visit at a later time), jams it into the lock, and shoves the door open so hard, the thud it makes against the wall briefly startles even her.
Their leftovers sit abandoned on the dashboard of her Subaru, long forgotten.
Unfortunately for the nachos, Rio doesn’t care.
She has something else to devour.
The door slams closed behind them.
Darkness.
A breathless pause.
A devilish grin curling against Rio’s lips.
And then—
Her back hits the door.