harknessxo

[harknessxo]

The psychology of love (Part 11)

Studying for the exam becomes your priority with the promise of Agatha's reward hanging over you

Word count: 5.6k

Warnings: masturbation

The entire way back to your dorm, you can still taste the fruit on Agatha’s breath, can still smell her perfume, can still feel her hand on your hip sliding up, up, up…

“Fuck,” you say out loud when you stop at a red light. 

How are you ever going to be able to move on from that? You think the phantom vibrations might never go away—and you’re not sure you ever want to forget what they feel like. 

The look on her face as she was leaning in to kiss you for the first time flashes in your head and you tighten your grip on the steering wheel. Agatha had been struggling, fighting to restrain herself. You had told her that it was okay to wait—you even pretended that you could. 

But Agatha couldn’t. 

You are a good girl. I just don’t think I can. Fuck—

A searing heat tears through you and the throbbing in your clit only gets worse. 

It does things to you, knowing that she was the one to break. That she wanted you so bad she threw all caution to the wind. 

So much for delaying gratification, you think with a smirk. 

Either way, you think you’re going to end up with the bigger reward in the end. 

If you do really well on your test on Friday, I’ll make sure to give you a really good reward.

What could it be? Even the thoughts of the options have your mouth salivating. Does she mean sex? Although, you frown, would she really stake that on how you do on her exam? 

But once you consider everything else she’s done—the way she’s been conditioning you—it doesn’t seem so far-fetched. 

You need to do well on it and make her proud, even without the promise of a reward hanging over you. It would be rather embarrassing if the student she was actively taking a risk on—not to mention that she’s helping you plan for the future—got a bad grade in her class. 

Studying can wait until later though, because the ache inside you is screaming to be relieved. 

Your same parking space from earlier is miraculously still open and you park before quickly running up to your room, which is thankfully empty. 

The nightstand drawer squeaks when you open it and your fingers close around the vial of perfume. Hands trembling and breath heavy, you perch on the side of your bed, thumb tracing over the cursive lettering spelling Black Opium. You imagine Agatha getting out of bed—out of the lavender bed sheets from the picture she sent you—and walking over to her vanity before daintily spraying it on her wrists and then rubbing on her neck. Maybe, one day, you’ll get to watch her do that. 

Maybe, she’ll even let you spritz it on her. 

Does she know the effect it has on you? 

How just the smell of it is enough to get you wet now? 

You can picture the smug grin on her face if she ever does become aware of that and yet, you get the urge to text it to her just to see what she says. She’s been rewarding you for honesty. Although, she might not be so keen on you telling her that while she’s still at the mixer, especially after her light scolding for the pictures you sent earlier. 

Do you think that’s what a good girl would’ve done?

So instead, because the heat between your legs is becoming consuming, you get up onto your bed and lay on propped pillows. Your fingers slide your dress up toward your hips slowly so you can feel the warmth against your thighs. If you close your eyes, it becomes Agatha’s fingers inching closer and closer to where you most need her. 

Once the fabric is hiked up, you run the perfume bottle over your underwear and gasp. You are absolutely drenched, just from kissing your professor. The wetness sticks to your folds and it’s cold against your skin but you can also feel the heat radiating from your center. 

You slide the vial up to rest against your clit and the pressure has you grinding your hips up against the glass. It sends delicious tingles up your spine and you can’t even be mad about how quickly you’re going to come right now. 

Your hips roll against the perfume a few more times before you need more—you place the bottle right next to your nose so you can smell the faint coffee, vanilla, and spice, and then your hand delves into your underwear. Your folds are hot and wet and swollen and you bite your lip to stifle the noise that slips out of you. 

Agatha’s tongue stroking against yours. Her thigh between yours, pushing up just slightly. Her hand on your back. 

Wetness seeps out of you as you rub your clit and your walls clench around nothing. 

The look on her face when you said her name. When she finally gave in. Your hand in her hair. 

You fill yourself quickly with two fingers and your cunt bares down on them. Curling them roughly inside you, you let out a small moan. Your palm hits your clit roughly with each thrust. 

Her praises. Her conditioning you to be her good girl. 

The sound of your wetness fills the air and you inhale deeply, the Black Opium filling your nostrils. Agatha’s here, smirking at you, wanting to shape you just for her. You want her to, you need her to—

You let her. 

The gasp the tears itself out of you surprises you and your eyes shoot open as you fall over the edge, pleasure exploding through your body, and you frantically keep grinding your hips against your hand to keep the feeling going. 

It takes longer than usual for you to come down from your high and you feel a little light-headed. Your fingers are soaked and you take them into your mouth, imagining it’s Agatha making you clean yourself off for her. 

You can almost hear her voice purring, That’s my good girl. 

——

Agatha posts the study guide early Sunday afternoon and you head to the campus library, eager to open it and get a head start. You’re rather methodical when it comes to studying: you like to fill out the guide and then hand-write flashcards based on that and study those every day. And considering you already feel like you’re struggling with the biology section, the earlier you can start on this, the better. 

The nook from Thursday seems to be calling your name, a siren song if you’ve ever heard one, and you fall into the same chair you rocked against until you came only a few days ago. It takes you a minute for the daze in your mind to clear up but the history still lingers over you. 

You pull out your laptop and Personality Psychology notebook and click on the attachment Agatha sent out before making a copy. It’s a four page document, which makes you groan and almost pick up your phone to procrastinate, but you resign and begin to work. 

The questions about Trait theory are easy: define personality, reliability and validity, projective tests versus objective tests, and more like that. It doesn’t take you long to fill in that half, but when you get to the Biological approach, you get stressed. 

With a hand on your forehead, you flip through the pages of notes you took from Wednesday and yesterday, heart sinking lower and lower. Agatha talks pretty fast and there was a lot written on the slides so you had to write really quickly, which more often than not, scribbling down the text in a half-cursive, half-print script that is almost impossible to read. You spend a good three minutes trying to decipher if one word is slap or sheep before finally determining that it must be sleep, simply because the other two don’t make sense in this context. 

And you apparently forgot to write down a single thing about the brain hemispheres, which she asks about. 

Chewing on your lip, you stare at your screen, feeling defeated. You scroll down, hoping there’s some toward the bottom that you’ll be able to fill in, but she hasn’t even talked about that stuff yet. 

You’re about to live in her office for the next week. 

But then an idea sparks in your head. You know you probably shouldn’t, but your fingers are already typing the message out. Plus it’ll be a way to talk to Agatha for the first time since yesterday. 

What’s the difference between the left and right hemispheres in the brain? 

You’ve barely set your phone down before it starts buzzing and you almost fall out of the chair. 

Agatha is calling you. 

Raising your phone to your ear, you hit the green button. “Hello?” you breathe, afraid to speak too loud. 

“You really want that reward, don’t you, honey?” she husks and you feel a twinge of heat in your stomach. Before you can stammer out an answer, she continues. “The left side is involved in language, reasoning, and organizational abilities. The right side is involved in visual perception, spatial skills, and intuition.” 

You stop writing after the first few words, having completely forgotten what she said. “Can you repeat all of that slowly?” 

Agatha chuckles. “Where are you?” 

“Um, I’m—” your voice drops to a whisper, “I’m in the library.” 

She hums in amusement. “Not ruining any more chairs, I hope?” Your breath catches and your professor laughs again. You duck your head down like she can see you but there’s no denying the fresh wave of arousal that rushes over you. It’s becoming a slight problem how easy she gets to you, but you wouldn’t dream of changing it. 

“No, of course not,” you say sheepishly. You want to suggestively retort that you could be, but you think better of it. 

Agatha is silent for a moment and you pull your phone away briefly to make sure she hasn’t disconnected the call. But then she starts speaking again. “I’ll be there in ten.” 

“Wait—what?” you choke and you can almost hear her smirk through the call. 

“It seems like you’re having trouble and I just want to help my student succeed,” she coos. 

You finally regain your footing. “Or you just want me to do well so you can reward me.” 

She doesn’t dignify your quip with an answer, only says, “Be out front,” and hangs up. You stare at your phone like it will magically give you the answer to what is happening, but your screensaver of you, Nat, and Wanda last Halloween just stares back at you. 

It takes you down to the last minute to pack up, mostly because it seems so surreal that Agatha is actually coming here to pick you up. Where is she taking you? To another restaurant? To a different library? 

To her house? 

The thought makes you falter—maybe she’s not actually coming to help you study. The memory of the kiss flashes in front of your eyes again. Does she just want a repeat of yesterday? 

Or maybe more? 

You make it outside on shaky legs, fingers fiddling with the strap of your tote bag. You keep checking your phone, half expecting Agatha to text and say that she was just joking. 

But after another minute, the black Range Rover that you know too well pulls around the bend and stops right in front of you. You swallow roughly and you step forward, still feeling a bit blown away that this is actually happening. 

You open the car door and slide in, closing it behind you, and then turning to face her. She’s wearing an oversized black sweater and a pair of jeans, hair loose, long, and wavy. The sleeves of her sweater are pushed up her forearms and the veins running from her fingers up her wrist make you lightheaded. 

Heart pounding, you buckle your seatbelt and clutch your bag in your lap. “Hi,” you rasp, looking from her blue eyes down to her pink lips that quirk up. The thought of leaning in to kiss her crosses your mind before you realize that might be incredibly stupid. 

What if she regrets the whole thing, says it was just a momentary lapse in judgement? 

She’s here, isn’t she? 

Agatha puts the car into drive and lightly presses on the gas, pulling out of the lot. “Enjoying your weekend?” 

You shrug. “Yeah. Yesterday was a lot better than today though. At least so far.” She glances at you and you can see the darkness starting to swallow up her eyes. It makes you shiver. “How was the rest of the mixer?”

“Hm,” she thinks and you twist the straps of your tote around your fingers, “I have to say it wasn’t as fun once you left.” 

Feeling emboldened and falling back into your bratty streak now that things feel comfortable again, you smirk. “Maybe you should’ve come with me then.” 

She shoots you a look and your smirk morphs into a perfect, innocent smile. Agatha shakes her head with faux exasperation and pulls into the parking lot of a coffee shop that’s only a few minutes from campus. There’s barely any other cars out front and you figure it’s because it’s a Sunday afternoon. Everything around campus is usually dead this time of the week. Although, you still can’t help but feel a little disappointed that she didn’t take you to her house, no matter how far-fetched that thought was in the first place.

You open the car door, step out, and follow Agatha into the shop. The chilly air makes you cross your arms, your short-sleeve shirt doing little to protect you from the air-conditioning. 

“Do you want anything?” she asks and you scan the menu before shaking your head. 

“I’m okay, thank you.” 

Agatha smirks at your manners and points you to a table with four chairs against the window. You sit down and she sets her phone and keys down on the spot next to you. “I’ll be right back, I’m going to get a coffee,” she says and while she does that, you pull out your notebook and laptop again. 

You tap your fingers against the table while you wait, but it’s only a minute before she comes back with a small cup of coffee and a piece of pound cake on a plate. She slides the plate over to you and you look up at her in surprise. 

But before you can say something, she waves you off, sits down, and leans over to look at your computer screen. 

“Can you check the ones I’ve already filled out just to make sure they’re right?”

Agatha gives you a knowing smile and tilts your laptop to face her. “Really taking this seriously, aren’t you?” she hums and you take a big bite of pound cake while you shrug coyly. She huffs out a laugh and scrolls up the beginning, murmuring your responses under her breath while she reads them. It’s endearing to watch her, how her eyes scan from line to line and she mouths the words to herself. Her lips curl up and you know she can feel you staring, but you don’t care. 

She turns the laptop back to you once she gets as far as you did and she looks pleased. A pleasant warmth grows inside you. 

“It’s looking really good,” she says and your cheeks heat up too. Agatha must know what her praise does to you. And then she nods to the keyboard and recites what she said earlier about the right and left hemispheres. You type it, finding it much easier now that she’s slowing down and waiting for you, rather than just throwing the definitions at you. 

You fill in a few more things and as you’re trying to make out your notes again, you ask, “So, what does a weekend for Professor Harkness look like? Other than, of course, helping your students study for an exam.” You’ll feel a little guilty if she actually did have something going on, but a bit triumphant that she’s once again proving that you are special. 

Take that, Rio. 

“Not much. Just some grocery shopping and working on research. A bit of reading,” she says and you glance over at her. Instead of watching you type, she’s staring at your face and her eyes dart away when you catch her. 

“Reading anything good?” You peer harder at a word on a page in your notebook while she thinks. 

“Just a book by Freud. Beyond the Pleasure Principle. We’ll probably talk about it once we get to the Psychodynamic approach in class next.” 

You hum and type something about the amygdala. “I’m not sure if I was expecting a twentieth century book about psychology to be your definition of ‘a bit of reading’ but—” you look at her again and your muscles relax, “it’s very you.” You can see Agatha now, curled up in bed with the DSM-V just to learn a bit more. The thought makes you long to see her in that kind of space. 

Agatha purses her lips into an unconvinced smile. “Thank you, I think. What about you? What else do you get up to during the weekend?” 

Masturbating with the perfume bottle yesterday flashes in your mind and your cheeks heat up. “Not much. I just try to get ahead on school work or watch television. My roommate, her girlfriend, and I will usually hang out and do something.” 

“That sounds like a good way to relax,” she says and you nod and answer the next question. 

Agatha reaches over to point at something on your screen, maybe a typo or just to pull your attention to something, but in the process, accidentally knocks over her cup of coffee. 

If it hadn’t been sitting there for a while and adequately cooled off, it certainly would’ve burned you when the cup falls over and spills all over the edge of the table and onto your shirt. You gasp and jump up, your chair screeching against the tile. 

“Oh, fuck—” Agatha says, running over to the napkin dispenser on the counter. She comes back with maybe twenty napkins and you stand there, still slightly in shock, as she pads your soaked shirt. The napkins do very little and you know the coffee’s going to leave a stain. Agatha accepts this too and meets your eyes with a sigh. “I’m so sorry.” 

You wave the apology off and pull the fabric away from your body so it doesn't cling to your skin. “Don’t worry about it,” you say. 

But she doesn’t accept it and takes your hand before dragging you to the bathroom. It’s a single, and she locks the door behind you. Your breath catches—you’re alone with her now. 

She turns on the sink and looks at you through the reflection of the mirror and you know what she wants. 

“If you wanted me to take my shirt off, you could’ve just asked,” you rasp and she chuckles before she bites her lip as you reach down to grab the hem of your shirt. You move in slow motion, pulling it up and over your head, and then you’re standing in the bathroom in a green bra and shorts with your professor. 

Who looks like she’s imagining bending you over the sink right now and having her way with you. 

Not that you’d be opposed in the slightest. 

You hold out your sopping wet shirt to her and Agatha turns around to take it, her fingers brushing against yours. She can’t stop her eyes from darting down to your cleavage, to your breasts, to your stomach. You take a step closer to her as if daring her to do something about it. 

Agatha runs your shirt under the water for a few minutes while you desperately try not to stare at her fingers kneading the fabric. You keep imagining them on your skin, tracing patterns, moving down, down, down to where you most need them. Your cunt aches already from almost nothing and you can’t stop thinking about her lips on yours yesterday. 

When she looks up to meet your eyes in the mirror again, you realize with a jolt that you’re standing almost right behind her now. She turns again to face you and you’re so close to her…

“This is the best I could do,” she says quietly, holding your shirt out between you. There’s still a faint brown mark but it’s much better than it was. “I can take it home and wash it for you. I know the dorm laundry room is a dire place.”

“Thank you,” you whisper. It feels like if either of you speaks too loudly, the moment will be ruined.

Her eyes roam your face, looking for any sign of hesitation or reluctance because you both know what’s about to happen again. 

You’re not sure who leans in first, but it doesn't matter because Agatha’s lips are on yours again and you finally feel like you can breathe again. Like now that you know what it’s like to kiss her, you need her to survive. 

It starts out slow, much like yesterday where the timidity and nerves had taken over, but this time, you’re both just exploring each other. She tastes like the coffee that’s now staining your shirt—the irony is fitting, really—and she lets out a small sound when you sweep your tongue against her lips and then into her open mouth. 

Her hands find your waist and then her fingers are against your bare stomach and you gasp—suddenly so sensitive and her touch goes straight to your cunt. She chuckles darkly against your lips and grips you tighter to pull you closer. Your own hands stroke up and down her biceps, feeling the soft polyester of her sweater, before curling into it. 

“I can’t—” you breathe, feeling dizzy, “I can’t stop thinking about you.” 

Agatha pulls back just a smidge, just enough for you to see her grin. “Good,” she husks, and then claims your lips with hers again. Her conditioning is working, or maybe it’s just you being obsessive. 

Her kisses get more possessive, more forceful, and she nips at your bottom lip while her hands slide up the expanse of your chest again. Her thumb strokes over your nipple through your bra and you let out a moan. 

“Got to be quiet, honey,” she murmurs and trails her mouth down, planting open-mouthed kisses against your chin. Her eyes flick up to watch you bite your bottom lip and she purrs, “Good girl.” 

Heat flares up in your stomach and you instinctively rock your hips, eliciting another chuckle from her. 

“Please, please,” you beg, your fingers digging in harder to her arms. 

Agatha answers by sinking her teeth into your neck and then soothing the spot with her tongue. You hope there’s a mark tomorrow—you think about walking into class sporting the bruise that your professor gave you and it only makes you wetter. Your nerves are on fire as she nips at you again and then drags her lips down your neck to your bare shoulder. One of your hands buries itself in her hair. 

Her tongue traces against your bra strap and you’re both hot and cold at the same time, the sensations making you feel like you’re out of your body. It’s too much, yet simultaneously not enough, and when she mouths at your nipple over your bra, you let out a strangled groan—too loud.

In an instant, Agatha steps back and you’re left wet and burning and panting. “I’ll be quiet,” you say frantically and she gives you a wry smirk. 

She reaches out a hand and ghosts her thumb over your swollen lips. She comes closer like she can’t help it, leans in, and chastely kisses you before tugging on your bottom lip with her teeth. Heat flares up again, brighter and hotter than ever, and your arousal is making your head swim. 

“You need to learn how to follow directions and you have some more studying to do,” she says and other than the gravel tone in her voice and the flush in her cheeks, Agatha seems almost entirely unaffected. Meanwhile, when you look in the mirror, you look very much like a mess. Hair messy, skin and chest splotched with red, pupils blown wide. It makes your breath catch. 

Agatha’s stain on you. 

She seems to be caught up in it too, looking approvingly at the obvious desire painted on your face, and for a second, you think she might give in. 

And then she reaches down and takes off her black sweater, revealing a lilac button-down vest. The neck dips down low enough to have your mouth watering and you can see the edges of her gray bra. Her shoulders are bare and you can feel her skin on your fingertips from touching her yesterday. 

Agatha must know what you’re thinking because her lips curl as she holds out her sweater to you. You take it with trembling hands and put it on, becoming enveloped in her. Her perfume engulfs your senses and your clit aches. 

She sees the shifting and squeezing of your thighs and her eyes light up with a teasing gleam. “Need a moment, honey?”

You can only imagine the look on her face if you said yes, even though your body is screaming at you. Would she stay—would she watch? Offer to help? 

Most likely not, you decide. Agatha would just leave you in here and go back out, probably counting how long it took you to get yourself off. You’d have to wait a few extra minutes so you don’t seem too desperate. 

“I’m okay,” you rasp and she chuckles like she knows it isn’t true. But she doesn’t question it; she only advises you to splash some water on your face. 

The cold water sobers you up just slightly and your reflection in the mirror looks more like you, rather than someone ravaged by lust. But when Agatha unlocks and opens the door, you feel as if all the employees and the two people sitting at a table somehow know what you did. You’re wearing Agatha’s sweater, your hair is still mussed up, and your lips are rather swollen.

But your professor doesn’t seem fazed at all, her head stands tall as she struts back to your table and sits down in the same chair from earlier as if her tongue wasn’t in your mouth five minutes ago. One day, you vow, you’ll make her lose her composure, more than you already have. You want to see her visibly affected and not able to hide it or cover it up. 

Agatha discards her spilled coffee cup and points at your computer screen again. “We’ll be talking about neurotransmitters tomorrow but I can give you a brief overview now if you want.” 

“Yeah, that sounds good,” you agree, but when she launches into it, you find it almost impossible to pay attention. Her hands are waving in the air and you’re finding it hard to pull your focus from her fingers that were on your body, on your hips, on your breasts, and you can’t stop from imagining them elsewhere. 

She says something about dopamine and the suggestion in her voice makes it sound pointed, but then she pauses with a frown. Your eyes have been following her hands and she’s finally just noticed—or finally cared enough to do something. 

“A little distracted there?” Agatha teases and you snap back to attention, making eye contact. Your cheeks flush and she smirks knowingly. “I hope you won’t be for the test. I’d hate for you to not get your reward.” 

“What will the reward be?” you dare to ask and she reaches over to lay her hand on your wrist, subtle but everything to you. Her thumb traces circles on your skin and it’s like you can feel her touching your clit. 

She thinks for a moment. “How about…” Her words are emphasized by her fingers tapping on your arm, “if you get a one-hundred, I’ll let you ask for anything you want.” 

Your throat suddenly goes dry and your heart skips a beat. “Oh,” you choke out and Agatha’s tongue pushes against the inside of her cheek as she tries not to smile smugly. 

“Any ideas?” 

“I—I think,” you swallow roughly, mind spinning at the possibilities, “I think I want to taste you.” 

Agatha’s breath catches in her throat and you get a thrill out of catching her off guard. But she recovers quickly, as she always does, and lowers her voice. “Oh, honey, you don’t need to get a perfect score on my exam to do that.” 

Which only makes the heat inside you worse. Your breathing is ragged and you look at her desperately but she just winks sweetly. 

“What if I don’t get a one-hundred?” 

She tuts. “As long as you get above a ninety, you’ll get something. But where would the fun be in telling you what?” You pout and Agatha playfully raps your wrist. “How about—if you really want to know—I’ll tell you, but it won’t be as good of a reward as if you just waited.” 

Another delay of gratification experiment. Because of course. You laugh at how you should’ve known. 

“I guess I’ll wait and hope I do well enough,” you concede and Agatha nods toward your computer screen. 

“I think you’ll do well. It always helps when you’re sufficiently motivated, even if you got a little distracted.” 

You snort. “Can you blame me? Maybe if you wanted me to focus, you shouldn’t have made out with me in the bathroom and then denied me again.” 

Agatha shoots you a look. “You’ve got to earn your rewards, honey. But if you’re not going to study, why don’t you pack up and I’ll take you back to campus? Maybe you can clear your head a bit before getting back into it.” 

The suggestion makes your mind go blank. “Are you—I—what—” Your words don’t make any sense and it’s almost frustrating how easy it is for her to knock you off balance. Sometimes you’re smooth, but other times she knows just what to say to wipe out your ability to think. 

She leans in and you instinctively look around just to make sure no one else is looking at you. The couple at the other table is engrossed in a conversation and the two employees behind the counter are cleaning the countertops. 

“I’m going to take you back to your dorm,” she whispers slowly and you feel your cheeks heat up, “and then you’re going to be a good girl and touch yourself for me.” Another strangled gasp rips itself from your throat and you want to start packing your stuff up immediately, but you can’t move. “And once you finish—which I doubt will take very long—you’re going to study some more for this test so you can get a good grade. Okay?” 

You nod shakily and then muster up, “Will you?” 

Agatha raises an eyebrow as she pulls back. “I don’t need to study,” she says, fully knowing what you mean. 

Because, as your theory stands, she likes when you use your words. 

“Are you going to touch yourself?” Your heart pounds in time with each word and you look down at her lips again before meeting her dark eyes. 

She shrugs noncommittally. 

But it’s enough for you, because you see the pink in her cheeks and hear the way her breathing is just slightly labored. You nod, finally able to move again, and slide your notebook and computer into your bag and stand up. 

Agatha chuckles at your enthusiasm and follows you out of the shop to her car. 

The short drive feels like an eternity, and while you don’t want it to end, you can’t wait to get back to your room. 

Not many words are spoken, but tense looks are exchanged. The knowledge of what you’re both going to do is hanging over you. For a brief minute, you’re considering trying to get her to come up with you but you shoot it down because she won’t say yes and imagining Agatha in your two-hundred square foot dorm room is almost laughable. Plus there’s a very good chance someone would see and wonder why your professor is coming to your room with you. And if Wanda was there? 

Agatha pulls up in front of the building and you give her one last longing look. 

“Have fun studying,” she says, reaching out to swipe her thumb against your lips one last time after she checks that no one is walking around, “and put some concealer on your neck tomorrow.” 

You smirk at her and open the door before getting out. Agatha raises a hand as a goodbye and you watch her drive away, leaving you standing there hot and bothered and still in her sweater. 

Will it smell like you if you fuck yourself in it? You think about handing it back to Agatha tomorrow in class with the fabric smelling like Black Opium and sex. 

That’s the image that spurs you on and you quickly make your way to your room. Thankfully, it’s empty. 

You climb in your bed, shove your shorts over your hips, and inhale the perfume from her sweater one last time before finally following your professor’s directions. 

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[harknessxo]

You Were Never Mine to Lose (Chapter 18)

Synopsis: You return to New York carrying the weight of everything you wish you could undo. At home, you try to pretend—pretend you’re okay, pretend you’ve moved on—but the guilt is louder than your heartbeat, and the ache is too deep to ignore.

Word count: 5.1K

Warnings: Mention of alcohol consumption, Angst, Unresolved emotions

You land in New York just after midnight, the city lights stretching beneath the plane like veins—buzzing, alive, and far too loud for the way your heart feels right now. The ride home is quiet, your phone limp in your hand, screen blank. 

That look on her face still haunts you. Like she didn’t know how to breathe around you. Like she was breaking and you were the one who handed her the shards. 

You unlock the door and step inside, dragging your suitcase behind you, the soft wheels bumping against the wooden floor. 

“Hey, baby,” comes a voice you weren’t expecting to hear. 

You blink. 

Rio is standing in the kitchen in one of your oversized shirts, barefoot, a towel slung over her shoulder. She looks calm, at ease—like this moment fits her. And maybe it does. 

But something in your chest caves anyway. 

“I thought you were still in Chicago?” you ask before you can stop yourself. 

She grins. “I was. Wedding wrapped up early. I thought I’d surprise you. I wanted to cook for you tonight—well, technically morning now.” She gestures toward the kitchen where you catch a whiff of garlic and something roasted. “You hungry?” 

You are. But not for food. 

Still, you nod. “Yeah. Starving.” 

You kick off your shoes and set your bag aside, walking over to press a soft kiss on her cheek. You fake a smile. You’re getting good at that. You hate that you're getting good at that. 

Dinner is simple but warm—rosemary chicken, roasted potatoes, and a bottle of red you’ve had sitting on the counter for weeks. Rio lights a candle, makes a whole thing out of it like it’s date night. 

You sit across from her at the table, your fork picking at your food, chewing automatically. She talks about the wedding she worked—how the bride cried when she saw the bouquet, how the flower arch almost collapsed during setup but didn’t, miraculously. You smile in all the right places. You nod. 

Then she asks, “How was the gala?” 

Right. The gala. 

You swallow. 

“It was... fine,” you say, setting your fork down carefully. “Same old sponsors and donors. Polished speeches. Good lighting.” 

She chuckles, doesn’t push. “Any promising deals?” 

“Maybe,” you murmur. “Some things aren’t ready to go public yet.” 

Like your guilt. Like your grief. Like the part of you that’s still standing in that hallway in Washington, watching Agatha walk away. 

You change the subject. Ask about the wedding cake. She runs with it, thankful, affectionate. She’s always so gentle with you. 

You don't deserve her.  

Later that night, you lie in bed beside her. She’s curled into you, her breath warm on your shoulder, already half-asleep. Her hand rests on your stomach, soft and trusting. 

You stare at the ceiling. 

Everything feels heavier at night. There’s no distraction. No business talk. No polite smiles. Just you. And the weight of what you’ve done. 

You squeeze your eyes shut. 

Agatha tried. She called. She looked for you. And you… you shut her out. You ran the moment it got hard.  You thought she was choosing Ralph, but she was letting him go. You didn’t even let her explain. 

And now Rio is here. Loving you. Touching you like you’re her whole world. 

You feel sick. 

You shift slightly, trying not to wake her. But your heart is racing. 

You thought pretending would make it easier. That if you smiled long enough, the truth would fade. 

But it hasn’t. It’s screaming in your chest. 

You still love her. 

And now you know—you were the one who ruined everything. 

You wake to the sound of Rio’s alarm going off too early, as usual. That soft chime she swears is more “gentle” than the default tones. But it still cuts through the silence like a blade. 

Her arm is draped across your waist, her fingers curled loosely against your ribs—still warm from sleep. You feel the weight of her, the way she’s wrapped around you like you’re something worth holding onto. 

And for a moment, you think about staying. About closing your eyes again, turning into her embrace, pretending just for a little longer. Pretending you’re the person she thinks you are. Pretending you’re in love. 

But the moment passes. 

The weight of everything settles on your chest like concrete. The lies. The avoidance. The memory of Agatha’s voice catching in that hallway. The hurt in her eyes. 

You lie still for a while, staring up at the ceiling. The morning light is starting to seep through the cracks in the curtains, spilling golden across the room. Outside, the city hums to life—cars passing, someone shouting about bagels on the corner, the rattle of the train a few blocks away. 

You can’t keep running. You can’t keep pretending. 

You carefully lift Rio’s arm from your waist, fingers gentle as if moving a fragile piece of glass. She stirs slightly, shifting in her sleep, her brow furrowing like she might wake. But she doesn’t. 

You slip out of bed, your feet finding the cool floor. Every sound feels loud in the quiet—your shallow breath, the creak of the floorboard beneath the window, the whisper of your clothes as you tug on a sweatshirt. 

In the kitchen, the smell of last night’s wine still lingers faintly. Two plates sit on the counter, half-washed. You glance at the table and you remember the way she smiled when she lit the candle, like it was a normal evening, like you hadn’t just come back from a gala where your whole heart fell apart all over again. 

Your throat tightens. 

You fill a glass with water and drink it too fast, letting it burn down your dry throat. 

You lean against the counter, gripping the edge with both hands, head bowed. You don't cry. You can't. You're too full of it already—the grief, the guilt, the ache that won't leave. 

You think about calling someone. Wanda, maybe. Or just going for a walk. But your body feels heavy. Like it doesn't belong to you. 

Behind you, Rio’s alarm goes off again. She always forgets to turn off the second one. 

You stare at your reflection in the microwave door. Blurred. Warped. A version of yourself you barely recognize anymore. 

You still love her. 

And maybe it’s time you stopped lying about it. 

You hear Rio moving in the bedroom, the familiar shuffle of her feet as she slips into her slippers. She doesn’t call out to you right away—maybe she’s half-asleep, maybe she’s giving you space. 

The floorboards creak as she walks toward the kitchen. You don’t turn around. 

You feel her presence before you hear her voice, soft and groggy behind you. 

“Hey…” 

You paste on a smile before facing her. “Morning,” you say, too brightly. Too fast. 

Rio yawns, rubbing at her eyes. “You okay?” 

You nod. Lie. “Yeah. Just… couldn’t go back to sleep.” 

She steps forward, wraps her arms gently around your waist from behind. Her head rests on your shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And it is—for her. 

“I missed you,” she mumbles into your sweatshirt. “Thought you’d still be in bed.” 

Your hands come up automatically to cover hers, your fingers brushing her knuckles, but there’s a hesitation there—small, but real. You hate yourself for it. She doesn’t notice. 

“I just needed some air,” you say. “Didn’t want to wake you.” 

She hums against you. “You didn’t.” 

Silence stretches, but she doesn’t pull away. And you don’t move, afraid that if you do, the cracks will show again. That she’ll see the guilt stitched into every breath you take. 

She lets go eventually, moves past you to the fridge. “Do you want breakfast? I can make eggs.” 

You almost say yes. 

You almost sit down at the table and let her cook for you like everything’s normal. Like you’re not in love with someone else. 

But instead, you murmur, “I’ll just have coffee.” 

She doesn’t question it. She just nods and starts the machine. 

The sound of it fills the kitchen, that low rumble and drip. You stare at the window. The city beyond it. The cold glass under your fingers. 

She places the mug in front of you gently, like she always does. Like it means something. And maybe it does. 

You murmur a thank you, barely meeting her eyes. 

Rio moves around the kitchen with quiet ease, humming softly to herself as she prepares her own breakfast. The knife tapping against the chopping board, the faint sizzle of something in the pan—it should be comforting. Domestic. It used to be. 

But now, every sound feels far away. Muffled under the weight of the guilt pressing against your ribs like a cage. 

She sets two plates down, even though you told her you weren’t hungry. “Eat a little,” she says, nudging your elbow with hers. “Just try?” 

You force a smile, pick up the fork. You chew, you swallow. You pretend. Again. 

Rio sits beside you and leans into your shoulder, her warmth bleeding into your skin. “You’ve been quiet lately,” she says lightly, like she’s not trying to accuse, just… observe. 

You pause. 

“I’m just tired,” you offer, and your voice doesn’t crack, but it’s too smooth. Too rehearsed. “The gala took a lot out of me.” 

She nods slowly, taking a bite from her toast. “Yeah… I figured. I mean, it’s not every day you charm the entire Washington elite.” 

You smile again. Tired. Hollow. “Yeah.” 

There’s a pause. 

Her eyes linger on you a second too long, like she’s trying to read something on your face. Something she almost sees—but doesn’t want to. Not yet. 

But she lets it go. She always does. 

“Want me to come by the office later?” she asks. “I can bring you lunch.” 

You shake your head gently. “No, I—I’ve got a full day. Meetings. It might get hectic.” 

“Okay,” she says, voice easy, but there’s a shift behind it. Just a flicker. 

She stands up and starts clearing the plates. You offer to help, but she waves you off. “I got it.” 

You watch her back as she rinses dishes at the sink, her hair falling gently over one shoulder, the small curve of her spine where the shirt rides up. She looks so… peaceful. Unaware. 

You don’t deserve her. 

You get up quietly and head to the bathroom. You close the bathroom door behind you like you’re locking something in. 

Your breath hitches the moment you’re alone. 

You sit on the edge of the tub for a while, elbows on your knees, hands trembling in your lap. The sound of the running faucet fills the silence, but it doesn’t soothe. You stare at the floor. At nothing. 

Eventually, you stand and strip slowly. The tile is cold under your feet. You step into the shower and let the water pour over you. Hot. Scalding. Almost punishing. 

You brace your hands on the wall in front of you and let yourself crumble. 

The first sob escapes before you can stop it, cracking open in your chest like something that’s been held back too long. It comes out raw. Ugly. The kind of crying you only let happen when you’re completely, utterly alone. 

You cry for what you did. For what you ruined. 

You cry for Rio—because she’s kind, and gentle, and she loves you the way you wish you could love her back. 

You cry for Agatha—because you still love her. Because you never stopped. Because everything felt so real and for a moment, you thought you finally had her. And then you walked away, like a coward, before even asking. 

You cry for yourself—because no matter how much power you hold, no matter how much control you pretend to have… you're still just a girl who loved someone for seventeen years and didn't know what to do when she finally looked back. 

The water keeps running. It drowns your sobs. It doesn’t cleanse a damn thing. 

You’re still wrecked when you step out, wrapping yourself in a towel like it’s armor. You catch your reflection again, but you don’t stop this time. You move past it. 

You get dressed. Black blazer. White blouse. Simple jewelry. CEO uniform. The look of someone who has their life together. 

Your hands still shake a little when you do your makeup. But your eyeliner is sharp, and your lips are steady. It’s a mask, but it fits. 

You pin your hair back, slip into your heels, and head into the bedroom to grab your bag before making your way to the living room. 

Rio is sitting on the couch in the living room, flipping through a magazine, her legs tucked under her. The soft light from the morning sun filters through the window, casting gentle shadows on the floor, but everything feels distant. Too bright. Too loud. 

You stand near the couch, just watching her for a moment, trying to pull yourself together, but it’s like there’s this invisible weight pressing down on you. You don’t know how to escape it. 

When she looks up, she notices you, her expression softening. "You look good," she says, her voice quiet, unsure. It’s like she’s waiting for something—a response, a sign—that you’re still with her in this, whatever this is. 

You force a smile. It’s weak, and it doesn’t quite reach your eyes, but it’s all you can manage. “Thanks.” 

The silence stretches out between you, thick and uncomfortable, like you’re both aware of the gap that’s slowly widening, but neither of you wants to address it. 

You kiss her cheek, the gesture familiar and tender, but there’s something missing now. Something that wasn’t there before. It feels like you’re kissing her because you should, not because you want to. 

“I’ll be back later,” you say, trying to sound casual, trying to slip back into the person you were before everything started falling apart. 

She nods without saying anything, her eyes lingering on you a moment too long, like she’s waiting for you to say more, to tell her what’s wrong. But you don’t. You just grab your bag and head out the door, leaving behind a woman who loves you, unaware of how much you’re breaking inside. 

You step into your office with your usual sharp posture, the kind people expect from you. The kind that makes everyone stand a little straighter when you walk by. But today it feels like armor, heavy and suffocating. 

Your assistant greets you with a gentle, “Good morning,” and hands you your coffee like she always does. You thank her with a nod, your voice hoarse from everything you couldn’t say earlier. 

You settle into your chair, but your mind isn’t on the day’s agenda. It’s not on the stacked emails or the blinking notifications or the latest updates on the prototype. It’s on the way Rio didn’t ask, and the way you were grateful for it—and hated yourself for that. 

You reach for your phone. 

You: Hey. Can we hang out later? 

You watch the typing bubble form almost immediately. 

Wanda: Of course. You okay? 

You hesitate, then type back: 

You: I will be. 

It’s the most honest thing you’ve said all day. 

You put your phone face down on your desk, exhale slowly, and look out the window. The city moves beneath you, cars inching through traffic, people going about their lives. You wonder if they all feel like they’re pretending too. 

Later. You’ll tell Wanda everything later. 

For now, you bury yourself in work. Not because it helps, but because it’s the only thing you can control. 

You push the door open, and the low hum of music spills out—some indie band playing soft, moody tones over the gentle clatter of glasses and distant laughter. The bar is dimly lit, warm, the kind of place that doesn’t ask too much of you. Just lets you exist. 

You spot her instantly. 

Wanda’s already there, leaning over a small table in the corner, two drinks in front of her. Her gaze finds you as if she knew exactly when you’d walk in. She gives you a small smile—not the cheerful kind. The knowing kind. 

The kind that says “I know you’re not okay, and I won’t make you say it until you’re ready.” 

You make your way over, weaving past couples and tired office workers unwinding. You slip into the seat across from her, and before either of you says anything, she slides one of the drinks toward you. You don’t even ask what it is. You just take a sip, grateful. 

“Rough day?” she asks gently, even though you both know this isn’t just about today. 

You give a small, humorless laugh and nod. “Yeah… something like that.” 

Wanda doesn’t push. She never does. She just waits. Patient and solid. 

You stare down at your drink for a beat, your fingers wrapped tight around the glass. 

Then you say it—soft, like a wound still bleeding: “I messed everything up.” 

Wanda tilts her head. “You wanna tell me about it?” 

You meet her eyes. And for once, you don’t look away. 

“I think… I broke the heart of the only person I’ve ever really loved. And now I’m here pretending like I’m okay when I’m not. When I haven’t been for a long time.” 

Wanda’s face softens. “Do you love Rio?” 

You hesitate. “I care about her,” you whisper. “But that’s not the same, is it?” 

“No,” Wanda says quietly. “It’s not.” 

You nod, eyes stinging again. 

“She didn’t even do anything wrong,” you add. “She’s been nothing but kind. And I just keep… lying. To her. To myself.” 

Wanda places her hand over yours. 

“You’re not a bad person,” she says. “You’re just a person who’s hurting. And sometimes… we hurt people when we don’t know how to deal with our own pain.” 

You look at her hand on yours, and for the first time all day, you let yourself breathe. 

Maybe not fully. 

But just enough to finally fall apart. 

You take another sip of your drink. The burn is nothing compared to the ache in your chest. 

Wanda waits—still, patient, her thumb brushing gently over the back of your hand. It’s grounding. Safe. 

You draw in a shaky breath. 

“It was supposed to just be a gala,” you say quietly, almost like you’re confessing to the air. “Just… business. Tech funding. Politics. Handshakes and champagne.” 

Wanda doesn’t say anything. Just listens. 

“I didn’t know she’d be there.” 

Wanda’s gaze sharpens, but she stays quiet. 

You smile bitterly, eyes fixed on a spot on the table. “I should’ve known, though. It’s her state. Her city. Her world. I’m just—just a fucking guest.” 

There’s a silence that falls between you, but it’s not heavy. It’s protective. Wanda lets you keep going. 

Wanda’s gaze sharpens slightly, but she stays quiet, listening. 

“And then, one of my business friends dragged me into it. Said they wanted me to meet someone open-minded about tech—turned out to be her. And I—” You laugh, hollow and short. “I didn’t even realize it was her until it was too late.” 

You rub at your temple like you can scrub away the memory. 

“They introduced us. Like we were strangers. She said my name before they could. It was… awkward. Awful. She looked—hurt. And I remember thinking, how dare she? How dare she look like that when I was the one hurting.” 

Wanda shifts forward slightly. “What did you say?” 

You let out a bitter laugh. “We talked business. But not really. It was all subtext. Every word. Every smile that wasn’t. Every pause. I brought up how people make the mistake of believing things are finally real, finally happening, only to find out they were imagining it the whole time. I thought I was being clever. Thought I was defending myself.” 

Wanda doesn’t speak. She just lets you keep going. 

“I mentioned how maybe it’s better to let go before you get disappointed. That… that not all investments return what they promise. It was about us. About her. And she knew.” 

You set your glass down, a little too hard. 

“She fired back. Said something about maybe some people walk away from their partnerships without explanation. Pretend they’re fine, then move on like nothing happened. Like their loyalty doesn’t mean anything. She was talking about Rio. And me.” 

Wanda’s expression tightens. 

“And then I followed her when she left. I couldn’t help it. I was shaking. Angry. So angry. I told her to stop looking at me like I was the one who ruined everything. I told her she didn’t get to act like the victim. That night at Jen’s villa, I heard her say it.” 

You glance at Wanda, voice dropping. 

“‘I still love you, Ralph.’ That’s what I heard. That’s what I’ve been holding onto all this time. That she chose him. That I was just… temporary.” 

Wanda lets out a soft breath. She already knew this part. But you can tell it still hurts her to see you hurting. 

“She looked so confused when I said it,” you whisper. “Like she had no idea what I was talking about. And then she explained.” 

You look away. It’s all rushing back now, and it’s sharp. 

“She said he kept calling her that day. She ignored him until that night. He begged her to take him back. Told her he’d be better. A better man. A better dad. A better husband. And she told him… she still loved him. But not like that. Not anymore. She let him speak. And then she hung up.” 

Wanda’s face is calm. Understanding. She just reaches for your hand again, grounding you. 

“I misunderstood,” you say, voice cracking. “I heard one line. Took it, ran with it. Built a whole wall around it. And then I ghosted her. Didn’t answer her calls. Made my assistant lie. Told myself it was to protect myself. Told myself I was moving on. But I wasn’t. I was running.” 

Wanda’s thumb strokes the back of your hand. 

“I ruined it, Wanda,” you say softly, eyes glistening. “I ruined everything. She didn’t deserve what I did to her.” 

You look down. 

“She’s the victim. Not me.” 

And for a moment, the weight of it all just sits between you—thick, unforgiving. You’re too tired to cry anymore. Too cracked open to pretend. 

Wanda doesn’t try to fix it. She just says: 

“So what now?” 

You don’t answer right away. 

What now? 

You stare at Wanda, the question echoing in your head like it’s bouncing off every regret you’ve tried to bury. You wrap both hands around your glass like it might hold you steady. 

“I don’t know,” you whisper. 

And that’s the truth. You don’t know. You’ve been leading a whole life built on distraction—on schedules, on meetings, on Rio’s softness and stability. You convinced yourself that if you just stayed busy enough, affectionate enough, careful enough—you could fake it. Make it real. But it was never real. 

Not when you’re still haunted by a woman who wears secrets like perfume and once looked at you like you were her favorite sin. 

You wipe your face quickly, just before the tears can escape. “I’m tired, Wanda." 

“I can see that,” she murmurs. 

You laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “I don’t even know if she’ll ever want to talk to me again. I don’t know if I want her to. I just—” You stop. Swallow. “I keep thinking about how she looked at me before she left. Like I broke her. And I think maybe I did.” 

There’s a pause. 

Wanda shifts closer, voice soft. “Do you still love her?” 

Your mouth opens, then closes again. It shouldn’t be a hard question. But it feels like pulling teeth to admit it out loud—because once you do, there’s no going back. 

“Yes,” you say finally. Quiet. Small. “I do.” 

Wanda nods, like she knew, but needed you to say it anyway. 

“And Rio?” she asks gently. 

That hurts. That makes your stomach twist. 

“I care about her,” you say. “I do. But I don’t… love her the way she deserves. And I don’t think I ever will.” 

You press your fingers to your eyes. “God, I’m awful.” 

“No,” Wanda says, firm this time. “You’re just… human. Messy. Like the rest of us.” 

The silence that follows is softer. Heavy, but not as sharp. 

You glance toward the door, then back at Wanda. 

“I don’t know what to do,” you admit again. 

“You don’t have to know tonight,” Wanda says. “But when you do… just don’t lie to yourself anymore.” 

You nod. That much, at least, you can promise. 

And for now, that’s all either of you can do—sit in the mess, sit in the ache, and let the truth keep unfolding, no matter how much it hurts. 

The drive back to your apartment feels endless. Every mile adds to the heaviness in your chest. You knew you’d have to face her eventually, but now that it’s real, all you feel is sick. 

When you finally step inside, the sound of her voice catches you off guard—Rio, humming quietly in the kitchen as she moves through the rhythm of dinner prep. It’s the same routine, the same warmth, but everything feels off. She's there, like always—calm, kind, waiting for you in that quiet, unwavering way that feels too generous. 

She’s at the kitchen table when you walk in, and her face lights up at the sight of you. But the smile doesn’t sit right—it’s a little too bright, a little too careful. You catch it in the way her shoulders tense, in the way she tries to sound just a bit more upbeat than usual. 

“You’re home early,” she says, looking up from the paper she’s reading, her hands resting on her mug of tea. 

You stand in the doorway for a second, just staring at her—this woman who’s done nothing wrong except love you with a trust you can’t seem to return. It’s not fair. It’s never been fair. 

“Yeah,” you mutter, dragging your feet. “Wasn't feeling the night.” 

She tilts her head, and there's a softness to her voice when she speaks next. “You okay? You seem…” She trails off, trying to find the right words, but you hear the hesitation in her voice. “You’ve been a little off lately, and I get that it’s been tough, but…” 

You don’t want to hear the rest. You already know. She knows. And yet, she’s still here, still acting like you’re whole when you know damn well you’re not. 

“Rio…” You say her name with a quiet breath, your throat thickening. She’s already reaching for you, trying to offer comfort, but it only feels like a betrayal. Not to her—never to her—but to everything inside you that wants to tear apart the lie you’ve been living. 

“I’m sorry,” you choke out before you can stop it, your voice cracking, and it hits you all at once—just how much pain you've caused. “I’ve been lying. To you. To myself.” 

She looks up at you with wide eyes, a frown forming as she stands from the table and takes a step toward you. “What are you talking about?” Her voice is trembling now, unsure but still holding on. “What’s going on, Y/N? You’ve been distant… are we—are we okay?” 

The desperation in her voice, the way she looks at you like you might break at any moment—it’s too much. You can’t take it. 

“No, Rio. We’re not okay,” you whisper, each word harder to breathe out. “I—I’m not in love with you, not like you deserve. I don’t think I ever was.” 

She blinks, slowly at first, like she’s trying to process it. And then you see it—the hurt that spreads across her face. Like a shot to the chest. She stumbles back, as if you slapped her. 

“What? What do you mean?” Rio stammers, looking at you as if you’ve become a stranger. “I—I don’t understand. What happened, Y/N? Why now? Why are you saying this? I thought… I thought we were happy.” 

You can barely stand the pain on her face. It rips through you, but you know this moment is inevitable. You have to tell her. She deserves to hear it from you. 

“I thought I could move on,” you admit, your voice breaking again. “But I can’t. I’m still in love with someone else. I thought I could bury it, but I can’t. I—” You stop yourself. You can’t keep going. You’ve already said too much. “It’s not your fault, Rio. This is on me.” 

Rio’s hands tremble as she tries to compose herself, but it’s obvious she’s struggling. “So, that’s it?” Her voice is almost a whisper, laced with disbelief. “You’re just going to… end this? After everything? I thought… I thought we were building something real.” 

You’re dying inside as you watch her, the tears that refuse to stop. “You are real, Rio. And that’s why this is so hard. You’re everything I need. You’re kind, and you’re here, but I’m not whole. Not with you. I thought I was, but I’m not.” 

She chokes out a small sob, holding her chest like she’s physically been wounded. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you say something sooner? All this time, I thought… I thought I was the one. I thought you loved me.” 

“I do love you,” you say quickly, but it doesn’t fix anything. Not now. “But it’s not the way you deserve. I can’t give you what you want, Rio.” 

The silence that follows is suffocating. You want to reach for her. You want to comfort her. But you know better. You’ve already hurt her enough. 

Rio swallows hard, forcing a fragile breath. “So, what now?” she asks, the words barely coming out. “You’re just going to leave? Like everything we’ve built… it doesn’t matter?” 

“I never wanted to hurt you,” you whisper. “I just don’t know how to fix this.” 

She shakes her head, eyes distant, hurt. “You already have, Y/N.” 

And then she turns away, walking out of the room without another word. You want to stop her, but the truth is, you know this is how it ends. It’s been over for a while now—just a matter of when the pieces finally fell. 

You stand there, frozen. The world feels hollow without Rio’s presence, but the guilt still clings to you, suffocating you. 

You broke her. 

And you can’t fix it. 

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[harknessxo]

The psychology of love (Part 10)

A conversation with Rio at the Psychology mixer has you questioning things

Word count: 4.7k

Warnings: none

If you thought picking an outfit for class yesterday was stressful, it’s nothing compared to how you’re feeling right now. Wanda isn’t even in the room right now to help so you’re completely on your own. 

The mixer starts in forty-five minutes and you’re currently standing in front of your closet in nothing but a red lacy bra and a black skirt. What do you have that is professional yet toes the line just a little? 

Just for Agatha?

Wear something nice for me again tomorrow night, won’t you? 

The text is open on your phone in your hand and you chew on your thumbnail while considering your options. Truth be told, you don’t even have that many sensible outfits. 

An idea pops into your head, certainly one that your professor might not approve of. But if you don’t have the perfect outfit to wear to the mixer, you can at least tease her a little. 

So you pose in front of the floor-length mirror that’s shoved into the corner of your side of the mirror and take a picture, making sure that your face isn’t in it. It comes out perfect—your body from the neck down, your bra pushing your breasts up, and your skirt resting upper mid-thigh. There’s a new bandaid on your knee. 

Heart pounding, you send the photo to her after triple-checking that you’re in the right text chain. 

How’s this?

Her read receipt pops up immediately and she starts typing back. You hold your breath.

As much as I would appreciate that (which I very much would), I don’t know how Dr. Calderu would take it. 

You roll your eyes. Maybe that’s on you for expecting more of a response from her. Although the which I very much would sends tingles down your spine

Hmm. Let me see what else I can find then. 

Under a pile of clothes, you find a wine-red dress. You take off your skirt and put it on and judge yourself. The neckline is scooped but not too low and the fabric hugs your curves comfortably. It’s sleeveless and doesn’t end too high up your legs. Definitely leaning more towards professional, but if you muss up your hair just a little, it makes you look a little more seductive. 

You take another picture. 

Agatha writes back immediately again. 

Good girl, that’s much better. Although, save the other outfit for another time ;)

If you weren’t rushed for time, you would certainly slip your fingers up your dress and take care of the pool that’s now grown between your legs. You do consider it—plus you’d get the immense pleasure of telling Agatha exactly why you were late—but in the end, your desire to see her as soon as wins out. 

Plus you have no doubt you’ll just have to masterbate after so might as well let the tension build up. 

What’s a bit more delayed gratification? 

You slip on gray Keds, grab your keys, phone, and wallet, and head downstairs to the parking lot. Agatha sent out the address to Lilia’s house in an email yesterday after you had sufficiently worn yourself out in bed. Almost kissing her in her office and then her texts had gotten you quite worked up. 

If you didn’t know any better, you’d guess that she waited until then to send it out. 

Lilia’s house is about twenty minutes from campus. You grow more nervous the closer you get and you really hope that Agatha is already there. 

Even with the flirting aside, you don’t want to walk in and know nobody. It crosses your mind to text her and ask, but once again, you don’t want to seem too clingy. She doesn’t seem like she would like that. 

Lilia lives in a nice suburban neighborhood and as you’re driving by, you see kids playing outside and parents cooking on the grill. It tugs at your heartstrings just a little but you brush it off and focus more about the mixer. 

Mostly about Agatha. 

You’re already getting wetter from just the thought of her. Every time you’re about to see her, you’re not sure how you’ll be able to be that close to her without going mad. Just the way she looks at you sets your body on fire. 

The GPS announces that you’ve reached your destination. Lilia’s house is big, two-stories, and painted gray with a large arch structure over the front door. There’s a three-car garage and large driveway, which is already full with cars of people at the mixer. You spot Agatha’s Range Rover parked by the sidewalk just outside the house and you breathe a sigh of relief. 

More cars are parked along the side of the road so you drive a bit further down and finally find an empty space to park between two mailboxes. 

Turning off your car, you take a deep breath and flip down the sun visor and open up the mirror. You fuss over your appearance just to make sure you look okay, and then nod at your reflection to pump yourself up. 

There is no reason you should be this nervous, other than still being able to taste the coffee on Agatha’s breath from yesterday, when she was so close to you that you thought there was no way she wouldn’t kiss you.

But that’s okay. 

It feels strangely surreal as you walk down the sidewalk back to Lilia’s house. Like you’re walking toward something final. Things between you and Agatha keep changing and you’re not ever sure where they lie. 

You swallow roughly and ring the doorbell, pausing right before the welcome mat that proclaims Enter as strangers, leave as friends. The cheesiness makes you snort—and if you know anything about the head of the Psychology department, you know it’s a bit ironic. 

Dr. Calderu opens the front door for you with Agatha standing right by her side. Lilia is wearing flowy blue pants with a white wrap shirt and a multicolored shawl around her shoulders. Her gray hair is pinned up in a bun with loose curls framing her serious face. 

But you’re not paying any attention to her. 

You meet Agatha’s eyes and feel a current of electricity run through you. She’s dressed in a periwinkle drape midi dress and ruby heels, with arms bare so you can see the slight tone in her biceps, the constellation of freckles on her skin. It makes your mouth run dry and you imagine tracing them with your tongue. Her dark hair is pulled into a low ponytail, her signature strands hanging free. Her lips are a light shade of pink and the eyeliner makes her blue eyes seem even darker. 

She takes you in too, her hot gaze raking over you and admiring your outfit—the one she gave her approval on not forty-five minutes ago. Her mouth quirks up into a smile and as Lilia welcomes you into her home, Agatha mouths, Good girl. 

Heat tears through you and makes it hard to focus on putting one foot in front of the other, but you manage. 

Agatha introduces you to Lilia and you shake hands with her before your professor continues, “She’s one of my best students this year, definitely a bright future ahead of her.” You fight the urge to look down at your shoes at her praise. “And, she’s been thinking a lot about graduate school here at Westview.” 

Lilia looks at you with raised eyebrows and you clear your throat. Thankfully, you actually did some research this morning. “I’ve been looking at the Behavioral Psychology program, or maybe the Cognitive Psych one. And maybe I could be a research assistant for a professor.” You can see Agatha smirking in your periphery and your cheeks flush. 

“Oh, both good options,” Lilia says. “Well, as someone on the admissions committee, I cannot stress enough the importance of the personal essay. Your transcript doesn’t tell us everything. Oh—and make sure you have a good letter of recommendation.”

You sneak a sideways glance at Agatha, who gives you a slight nod. Is it a conflict of interest to have her write one for you? 

Maybe. But she’ll certainly make it good. 

“You know,” Lilia says while she beckons you further into the house, “we have some upcoming information sessions about the graduate programs and the application process. It would also be good to attend those. But you’re in good hands with Professor Harkness—she’s one of the best.” 

“Don’t I know it,” you respond, biting your lip and glancing at Agatha, who is walking beside you. Her eyes flit down to your lips and then back up, but there’s no denying the heat on her face. 

Like she wants you just as much as you want her right now. 

Lilia leads you down the front hall and to the right, where the space opens up into the kitchen. Mahogany wood countertops and cabinets line the main wall with a space for the oven and a range hood above it. There’s trays of tiny sandwiches and bowls of fruit and bags of chips on the island in the center of the room. 

She points to the stack of paper plates. “Why don’t you get yourself something to eat and then come mingle in the living room? There’s not that many people here at the moment, but all the better to have your questions answered.” 

You smile tersely at Lilia before she walks out of the room, leaving you and Agatha alone. 

In an instant, the atmosphere changes. It crackles with tension and you can feel her eyes on you while you reach for the smaller size plate. 

“You’re a little tease, you know that?” she says casually and grabs a plate of her own. You hum noncommittally, innocently, and she chuckles. “Sending me those pictures earlier?” 

You spin to face her, hip resting against the countertop. She tilts too so you’re both looking right at each other. Her perfume fills the air and enchants you way too easily, but you’re too far gone to even notice anymore. It’s nothing new. 

“Well, you said you wanted me to wear something nice for you,” you remind her, sickly sweet, “so I just wanted to make sure you approved.” 

Agatha huffs out with a smirk and takes a step closer. The danger of it all—the fact that the head of the Psychology department at Westview is right in the other room—only makes your blood pump faster. Your teeth find your lip again and you wonder if she’ll touch you again like she did yesterday. Your tongue can still feel the indent from her nail in your lip. 

But instead of that, she ghosts a finger down your arm and it makes you shiver. “Do you think that’s what a good girl would’ve done?” she murmurs, her breath so close you can smell the sweet citrus on it. 

“I don’t know. Does it really matter after you said we had to wait? That means I can do whatever I want from now…until then. Besides,” you simper and meet her eyes with a challenge, “I think you like me like this.” 

Agatha’s lip curls and she leans in even more. If anyone walked in, they would see a rather compromising situation, but that seems to be the furthest thing from both your minds. 

“Maybe,” she concedes and your core throbs, “but you certainly won’t be rewarded for it. So just keep that in mind.” Your professor reaches behind you, steals a grape from the bowl, and pops it into her mouth. “Enjoy the party, hon.” 

She turns on her heel and walks away from you, leaving you dumbfounded and on fire. How are you supposed to go around and make a good impression on potential future professors when you’re pretty sure you’ve already soaked through your underwear?

 You try to collect your thoughts while you pick out a sandwich and fruit and then drop a handful of chips onto a plate before grabbing a soda out of the cooler on the floor. 

The living room is both large and cozy and you pause on the outskirts of it before entering. A white entertainment center takes up most of the far wall, with a television centered in the middle of it. A brown leather sofa sits opposite it, with a matching loveseat to the right. A glass coffee table holds multiple cans of soda in the middle. 

A few groups are scattered around the room, huddled up in the corners and all talking in hushed whispers like they’re afraid the other cliques will hear them. You spot Agatha and Lilia circled up with three older men in the far side of the room. It doesn't appear that there’s many other undergraduates here right now, or even graduate students. Certainly no one from your class or that you recognize, which is just great. You showed up early because you couldn’t wait to see Agatha, and now you’re just a wallflower because she’s busy and you’re an introvert who isn’t great at starting conversations with people you don’t know. 

Eventually, someone takes pity on you. An older woman comes over and introduces herself as Dr. Emily Miller, a graduate professor of Ethics in Psychology. 

She chats with you for a while, about what you want to do after graduation and what path you’re interested in, before she excuses herself to the kitchen. You smile politely after her and then slump against the wall, trying to become invisible. Much like the presentation last Tuesday, the only real perk is Agatha. 

Who finally locks eyes with you across the room. Everything stills around you and everyone else fades out of view. The room has gotten more crowded but it’s a secret moment for just the two of you. 

Agatha pats the person next to her on the arm and starts walking across the room—a beeline straight for you. You step forward instinctively, getting ready to meet her in the middle, when someone intercepts you. 

Rio. 

She blocks your vision of Agatha and you’re forced to back up. Rio’s wearing a jade satin dress that ends before her knees, cinched in the middle around her waist, with a halter neckline. Her hazel eyes are determined. 

“Hey, Rio,” you greet, trying not to sound too disappointed. You can see Agatha walking to another group of people without looking at you. 

Rio looks at the plate of food in your hand and then back up at you. “Enjoying the mixer?”

You shrug, not sure where the small-talk is coming from. “Yeah, I’ve met some people. Learned more about grad school.” 

“Yeah, yeah, cool,” she says, discreetly looking around before jerking her head to the corner you had been standing in before Agatha started coming towards you. 

You follow her until you’re both against the wall, relatively out of earshot of everyone else. A nervous feeling blossoms in your belly—is this when she tells you to stay away from Agatha? Or worse, threatens to turn you in? 

Nothing’s happened, you tell yourself. There’s nothing for her to report. Even when she walked in yesterday on you and Agatha, your professor had already moved away from you. All Rio saw was you both standing up in front of each other. 

“You need to be careful with Agatha,” she hisses and your stomach drops. You start to stammer but she cuts you off. “Look, I know you probably think that you’re special or whatever, but trust me, you do not want to go down that road.” 

“What are you talking about?” you choke out, trying and failing miserably to keep your voice level.

She pushes her tongue against the inside of her cheek and nods. “She picks favorites. And congrats—it’s you this time. She makes you think that she likes you and hey, maybe she does. But she’ll never give you what you want.” 

“I—I don’t—”

Rio gives you a stern look and you lapse back into silence. “She did the same thing to me, okay?” 

Your jaw drops open. “What?”

It makes sense now, all of Rio’s little snide glances and the way she never seemed to like you. The pity and awareness from yesterday. Like she knew exactly what was happening. 

Rio moves closer so she can better whisper into your ear and you see Agatha’s eyes dart over to you. She looks on edge, almost. 

“She strings you along but there’s no intent to follow through. It’s just a game—we’re a fucking psychology experiment to her. She likes to get in our heads and condition us and make us think we have a chance, but we don’t. She gets off on it, having that power over us.” 

You shake your head. “I don’t believe you.” Because you are special, aren’t you? Agatha told you that after dinner. 

She surely wasn’t faking that, was she? 

How about the little touches? The way she smiled at you? The way she stormed out of the bar because she couldn’t bear to watch you and Morgan? The picture two nights ago? She’s helping you plan for your future!

Did she do all the same with Rio? 

Jealousy boils in your stomach at the thought. 

But then there’s the way Agatha pushes you away when you start getting close. Just yesterday in her office, she stopped the kiss. Is waiting just a ruse? Is she ever intending on letting you in? 

Rio sighs. “You don’t have to believe me. Just, be careful, okay? Pay attention to what she’s doing. When she praises you for answering a question in class, she’s just reinforcing you to do it more. And when you do, it excites her because it means that her conditioning is working. She just likes to know that she can. You’re just her little guinea pig. So don’t be surprised when she just keeps leading you on for something that’ll never happen.” 

Conditioning was always a little confusing for you when you learned it in general psych, but part of what she’s saying makes sense and you feel dizzy now. 

Agatha said you wouldn’t be rewarded for acting like a brat in the kitchen earlier. 

Because she didn’t want to reinforce you and have you keep acting like that. 

She walked away from you after the stunt with Morgan instead of kissing you. 

Because she didn’t want to reinforce you and have you keep acting like that. 

Has every interaction with her just been an experiment in Behaviorism? Just a practical way to test it out?

You hate it, but your core throbs at the thought of her shaping you into the perfect good girl for her, making you just how she likes you. You’re a piece of clay and she’s molding you to exactly what she wants. 

That’s not the part you’re upset about then, you decide. It’s pathetic, but you really only care that she might never touch you for real. 

Agatha’s still sneaking occasional glances over at you and you wonder if she knows what Rio is telling you. If she’s already thinking ahead about how she’s going to condition you to forget. 

“Well, thanks for the heads up,” you say dully. Rio purses her lips and looks like she wants to add more, but thinks better of it. She walks away, leaving you in a cloud of doubt. 

Agatha comes over not a minute later. “Everything okay?” she asks cautiously. “I know Rio can be…intense.” 

You look straight at her. “Is this real?”

Her brows furrow but she doesn’t answer. 

You gesture between the two of you and try to keep your voice down. “Rio said you’re just leading me on.” 

Agatha opens her mouth and then closes it. For the first time, she looks at a loss for words. And you scoff because you know what that means. 

“I’ll see you on Monday,” you say, crumpling your empty soda can in your hand. “I think I’m going to head out. I got what I needed.” 

On your way out, you throw your trash away and keep your head held high as you exit the house. It’s darker now, the pale pinks and purples of sunset streaking the sky, and there’s a few people walking up the driveway. You offer them a tight smile and begin to walk to your car. 

But someone calls your name. You know who it is so you don’t even look back. 

Agatha catches up to you and grabs your wrist, spinning you around. She quickly looks behind her just to make sure there’s no more people from the university around. 

There’s not. 

“Honey,” she says, sounding a little out of breath, “that’s not—I’m not leading you on. Do you think I’d risk my job and do all of the things I’ve done if I was leading you on?”

“But Rio—” 

She rolls her eyes. “I have a little fun sometimes. But—” she steps closer, looking down at your lips and then back up, “—I’m not just sending students pictures of myself for fun. I’m not telling them what I’m doing in my bed at night while texting them for fun. And I’m certainly—” her voice drops to a whisper and you bite your lip, “—not thinking about fucking just anyone while in class. Or outside of class, for that matter.” 

Your brain short-circuits, your breathing is ragged, and you feel an absolute mess between your legs. 

“Fuck,” you rasp. 

She chuckles throatily. “Only you.” 

“Agatha,” you say, begging for something you know you can’t have yet. 

Your professor tuts. “I know, honey. But do you think you deserve a reward for doubting me? For thinking I do this with every student?” 

“Please. I want you to show me how to be a good girl.” Your tone is hushed and you look into her dark eyes. “Show me how to be your good girl.”

Agatha gasps lightly like she can’t control it, and walks you back into the grass and then further until you’re standing against your car. She’s so close to you that you can count her eyelashes. 

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” she growls, one hand coming to rest on the window. You could easily move if you wanted to, but you’d never dream of it. 

You tilt your head up and get a thrill from the way she looks at your lips again. “I do. I want you.”

She leans in more like she can’t stop. “We can’t,” she breathes, but it’s not very convincing. You won’t be the first to make a move—you need her to choose you. 

There’s a little part of you that wishes Rio could see you two now and realize that she was wrong. 

“It’s okay,” you whisper, “we can wait. I can wait.” You really don’t know if you can, but you don’t want to push her. Her perfume is intoxicating now and you’re not completely sure this isn’t just a dream. It feels real but not at the same time. 

Agatha nods slowly, coming to terms with something. “I know you can. You are a good girl. I just don’t think I can. Fuck—”

She closes the gap between you for the first time, her lips ghosting over yours so softly that you barely feel them. But it’s enough to set your nerves on fire and you know that you’re going to be addicted to her. 

She pulls back and your eyes flutter open to see your desire reflected in her own eyes. Agatha seems a little uncertain but your hand skates up her bare arm, feeling the heat radiating from her, and pauses at the juncture of her shoulder and neck. Her dress is soft against your fingers.

“Agatha,” you implore, and that’s all it takes. 

Her mouth is back on yours in a split second and this time you can feel everything. Her lips move against yours with a rhythm that becomes sloppier by the second, both of you getting too desperate too quickly, and her tongue strokes against yours. 

One of her hands grabs your waist and the heat from her fingers splayed out seeps through the fabric of your dress and joins the fire in your core. 

She pants into your open mouth and you can taste the tartness and the sweetness of the fruit she was eating. Her loose hair tickles your cheeks. Tendrils of her perfume waft into your nose and your clit is aching. 

You wind your fingers into the wispy strands of hair on her nape that are loose from her ponytail and she lets out a small groan. You swallow it and your teeth clash and it’s like she’s trying to devour you and you’re doing the same right back. 

Agatha’s nails dig into your hip to pull you closer and you can feel her breasts against yours, you can feel her thigh that loosely slots between your own. 

She pulls away, but not too far, to rest her forehead against hers. “Fuck, we shouldn’t be doing this,” she murmurs, but betrays herself by chasing your lips again only to stop right before they meet. 

“Do you want to stop?” you ask hoarsely, not sure what you’ll do if she says yes. 

But her eyes, swallowed by darkness now, flit down to look at your swollen lips with a faint smirk on her face and then back up. 

She answers by claiming your lips again, claiming you, but this time it’s softer and slower. Her tongue languidly glides against the roof of your mouth and her hand on your hip slides around your body to hold your lower back. Pleasure is fraying your mind and all you can think about is her. 

And how on earth you’re ever going to be able to go back to her class again and be normal. 

Agatha breaks away again but you feel her thigh press up harder. You gasp at the pressure. “This has to be our secret,” she whispers, even though she’s kissing you where anyone can see. “No one can know.” 

You nod frantically. “Our secret.” 

“Good girl,” she purrs and kisses you again, kisses you senseless. It stokes the fire inside you and you’re both swallowing each other’s breaths and if you peek open your eyes, you can see the flush in her cheeks. 

You never want to stop. 

She leans into you, pressing you harder against the car, and you moan. She lets out a small sound too and you think you’re ruined for everyone else. 

Agatha sucks on your tongue, eliciting another noise from you, and then tugs on your teeth. Her hand on your back slides up, traces over your ribs, and is just about to touch your breast when there’s a loud whooping sound. 

Your professor jumps back, looking wildly around. While she does that, you take in her mussed up hair, hooded eyes, swollen and red lips. Her lipstick is smeared and you have the faint thought that if you touch your own mouth, you’ll have some of it. 

She relaxes and points off into the distance at the cul-de-sac, where three boys are peeling out of a garage on bikes. 

But the moment is gone, the danger remembered. Agatha steps back and all that’s left is the uncomfortable throbbing between your legs. 

She runs her hand through her hair and laughs. You smile too, suddenly feeling a happiness like none you’ve ever felt before. 

“I should probably get back inside,” Agatha says. You nod, even though more than anything, you want to ask her to stay. 

“Maybe after it’s over…?” 

Her hand raises and she strokes her thumb over your bottom lip. “Not yet,” she says wistfully and you can’t help your face from falling. She chuckles. “But—how about this? If you do really well on your test on Friday, I’ll make sure to give you a really good reward.” 

“Oh, yeah?” The pulsing of your clit only gets worse at the thought of what her reward would be.

Agatha smirks and gives you one last chaste kiss like she just can’t help herself. “Yeah, hon. Will you be a good girl for me?” 

You nod because how can you say no? 

She bites her lip like she really wants to stay, but ultimately her job wins out. She tosses you a look over her shoulder as she walks away and you slump against your car in a haze. 

Your mouth still tingles with the ghost of her kiss. 

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[harknessxo]

You Were Never Mine to Lose (Chapter 17)

Synopsis: At a high-profile tech gala in Washington, you find yourself in the same room as Agatha again—tense, distant, and barely holding it together.

Word count: 2.6K

Warnings: Mention of alcohol consumption, Angst, Unresolved emotions, Lingering tension, Mild language

It’s been weeks since Jen’s wedding, but the ache hasn’t softened—it’s just grown more polite. It waits. It lingers. It shows up in quieter ways now: in the stillness before sleep, in the slow, suffocating silence of mornings. You’ve kept yourself moving. Buried yourself in deadlines and appearances. Smiled like it didn’t kill you. 

Tonight is just another stage to perform on. 

The Washington tech gala is as glossy as they come—crystal chandeliers, silk gowns, laughter that doesn’t reach anyone’s eyes. You arrive alone, poised and unreadable, every inch of you curated to perfection. A woman in control. A woman with a legacy. A woman who does not flinch. 

Except you do. 

You find your seat, slip into it with practiced grace, and shoot off a message without thinking: 

"Hope the bridal bouquet turned out okay. Wish you were here." 

You stare at it for a moment. You didn’t need to send it. But your fingers did it anyway. Like they missed her. Like you missed her. 

The chair beside you is empty. Your eyes rest on it too long. 

And then it happens. 

You feel it before you see her. 

That shift in gravity. 

You lift your gaze. 

And there she is. 

Agatha. 

Across the room, radiant and devastating. Midnight-blue suit. Perfectly swept hair. A calm, magnetic presence that makes everyone around her lean in just a little closer. She’s speaking to someone—an older man in a crisp suit—and she’s laughing, hand gesturing mid-air like she’s painting her words. She’s light and sharp and alive in a way that steals the breath from your lungs. 

You didn’t think she’d be here. 

You should have. 

She’s the governor. 

This is her state. Her city. Her world. 

You’re just a guest trying not to shatter. 

She hasn’t seen you. And part of you hopes she won’t. 

But the other part—traitorous, stupid, still in love—aches for her to look up. Just once. 

Your breath catches in your throat, and you hate it. You hate how your heart still stutters when you see her. Hate the way your pulse quickens like she never broke it. Like there hasn’t been distance, silence, and everything left unsaid between you. Like all it takes is one glimpse—and suddenly, she’s still everything. 

You’re furious at yourself. 

Because here you are again. 

Feeling everything you swore you were done feeling. Wanting her the way you’re not supposed to anymore. Like your body didn’t get the memo your brain tried so hard to write. 

And that’s fucked up. 

She broke your heart. She walked away. She chose someone else every single time—and still, your chest caves in just looking at her laugh. 

You down a sip of champagne just to give your hands something to do. Anything but reach. Anything but hope. 

The night drags on. Your attempts to keep your distance from Agatha are half-hearted at best. You’ve slipped into the routine of exchanging pleasantries with others, nodding politely, forcing small talk. Your mind, however, never strays too far from her. She’s always there, even when you pretend she’s not. 

It doesn’t help that every time you move through the crowd, her presence looms just out of reach, like a memory you can’t erase. You catch glimpses—her laugh, her sharp eyes scanning the room, the flick of her fingers against the wine glass. But you refuse to approach. She hasn’t looked at you. Not once. And that’s fine. You don’t need her to. You’ve lived with that ache before. 

But then— 

"Y/N! Over here!" 

You turn to see one of your business friends waving you over with a wide grin, practically bouncing on their heels. 

“Y/N! You have to meet this person. They’re totally open-minded about investing in the next big tech leap.” 

You smile, already tuning out the words, ready for another business pitch. It’s all you’ve been doing tonight. Everything’s a pitch. Everything’s transactional. 

As you approach, your blood runs cold. 

You know that figure—the way her posture stands out, regal and commanding. The back of her head, the glint of her dark hair pulled into that familiar style. Midnight-blue suit that cuts sharp against her figure. You could spot her anywhere. Agatha. 

The last thing you want is to have a real conversation with her, especially not here. Not with everything still raw between you. But you can’t turn away. You can’t back out now. 

Your business friend, oblivious to the storm brewing in your chest, beams. “So, this is Governor Harkness! Governor, meet…" 

Before they can finish, Agatha turns her head, that cool, confident smile crossing her face, and she looks directly at you. 

"Y/N,” she says, her voice smooth, but you can hear the edge underneath, the way it catches in her throat for just a split second. 

Your stomach twists. You stare at her, your brain trying to catch up with the flood of emotions crashing over you. 

The friend blinks, then glances between the two of you, a little too eager to fill the awkward silence. "Wait, you two know each other?" 

"Yeah," Agatha says, her voice clipped. "We... go way back." 

The words hang in the air like a weight neither of you can quite shake off. 

Way back. That’s one way of putting it. 

The business friend smiles, unaware of the tension crackling between you. “Oh, wow. That’s... awkward. But hey, small world, huh?” 

You manage a tight, polite smile. “Yeah. Small world.” 

And for a moment, everything feels too small. Too suffocating. The air between you feels heavy with what you can’t say—what you don’t want to say, because you’re too tired of pretending. You want to scream at her, ask why she’s acting like she’s the one who’s been wronged, why it’s you who’s drowning in silence and not her. 

Agatha shifts slightly, her eyes flicking down for a moment, before meeting yours again. It’s subtle, but you notice it. The way she pulls back just a little. The way her lips press together like she’s trying to swallow something bitter. 

There’s an awkward silence as your friend picks up on the tension, but they’re too caught up in the business side to understand it. “So, Governor, I think you’d find Y/N’s pitch aligns with your clean energy initiatives. It’s really about revolutionizing the future, you know?” 

Agatha tilts her head, finally glancing your way. Her voice is smooth, pleasant to anyone else listening. 

“That’s the thing about innovation,” she says. “It’s full of potential. But also... uncertainty. You think you’ve found the perfect formula, only to discover... it doesn’t hold up under pressure.” 

You smile tightly, keeping your composure. “That’s why it's important to manage expectations early on. You spend so long dreaming something up, designing every piece to fit just right... and then when you finally launch it into the real world, it falls apart. Sometimes, what you imagined turns out to be an illusion. A costly one.” 

You let your words land with precision. 

Agatha's jaw ticks. She gets it. 

But you’re not done. 

“It teaches you,” you continue, voice steady, “that some things just aren’t meant to be built. No matter how long you’ve planned for them. So you let go—even when it hurts. Even when you thought it was the one thing that could finally change everything.” 

Your business friend nods along, completely buying the metaphor. “Right, because timing is everything in this industry, huh?” 

Agatha shifts her weight, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. She presses her tongue to the inside of her cheek for a beat before replying. 

“And yet,” she says, “there’s also something to be said about accountability. When a project hits a snag, real professionals don’t just abandon it without a postmortem. They communicate. They face the issue head-on. They don’t just disappear... only to resurface with a whole new partnership in place.” 

You freeze. The subtext lands hard. 

Your lips twitch into something that isn’t quite a smile. “Sometimes, the project was doomed the moment it was handed off to the wrong collaborator. Doesn’t matter how much you wanted it to work. If the decision-maker chose someone else...” 

Agatha’s eyes flicker. She knows what you’re referring to. 

She speaks slowly, carefully. “Or maybe the collaborator was never given the full specs. Maybe all they saw were prototypes. Pretty, exciting... but never fully open-source.” 

Your throat tightens. This is getting dangerous. 

Your friend laughs. “I love how passionate you both are! It’s like... two sides of the same coin, honestly.” 

You and Agatha both nod at her, too in sync, too polite. But under the table, your heart is thudding. 

You lean in slightly. “At the end of the day, we’re all just trying to avoid wasting time. Because disappointment? That’s a terrible return on investment.” 

Agatha stares at you. 

And then she says—soft, firm—“And some investments never had a fair shot, because someone pulled the funding before the trial phase was even complete.” 

That’s the one that cuts. You feel your chest tighten. 

She means you left. She means Rio. She means us. 

Your friend clears her throat, sensing something, but not enough to call it. 

“Well,” they say with a bright smile, “this has been such an energizing discussion! Governor, we’d love to send over the full pitch deck.” 

But Agatha’s already stepping back, her expression unreadable now. "Send it to my office," she says to your friend, then looks at you one last time. 

Then she’s gone. 

And you’re left standing there, heart in your throat, wondering how she can still make you feel like this. 

The moment Agatha disappears into the crowd, your body moves before your mind can catch up. 

You turn to your business friend, barely hiding the storm swirling in your chest. “Excuse me,” you say with a strained smile, “I just need a quick moment.” 

You don’t wait for a reply. 

Your heels click against the polished floors as you slip away from the noise, past glittering lights and champagne flutes, toward the exit where you last caught a glimpse of her. 

And then—there. You see her back again. She’s shrugging on a coat, her posture tired now, heavy in a way she never lets herself show in public. 

You don’t think. You just grab her hand. 

“Agatha.” 

She turns, startled, eyes widening as you tug her into the nearest hallway—dimly lit, quiet, blessedly empty. 

You let go the moment you're alone, stepping back like her skin burns. Your breathing’s erratic. You hate that she can still do this to you. 

“Why—” your voice breaks, and you push the tears back down your throat. “Why are you acting like I’m the one who ruined everything?” 

Agatha blinks, but doesn’t respond. 

“Don’t do that,” you snap. “Don’t just stand there like you get to be hurt. You don’t get to be the one who’s angry, or cold, or—whatever the hell this is. You don’t get to look at me like I broke your heart.” 

Her jaw clenches. “Y/N—” 

“No. You don’t get to say my name like that, like it still means something.” You laugh bitterly, wiping under your eyes. “I’m trying, okay? I’m really fucking trying to move on. To forget what happened, to pretend I didn’t fall for something that felt—real.” 

She flinches. 

“And you—god, you keep showing up in my head, in every goddamn room I walk into—looking at me like I’m the one who walked away.” Your voice shakes. “You want to know why I left that night, Agatha? Because I heard you.” 

Her brows furrow, mouth parting. 

“I heard you,” you repeat, quieter this time. “On the phone. That night. ‘I still love you, Ralph.’” 

Silence. Pure, aching silence. 

Agatha's face shifts from confusion to something like horror. “Wait—what?” 

You shake your head, voice rising again. “I get it, okay? I get it. He’s your husband. He’s the father of your children. Of course you'd choose him. I was stupid to think—” You break off, breath catching. “I just don’t understand why you’re making it so fucking hard for me to let you go.” 

The silence that follows is suffocating. You blink through the sting in your eyes, lips parting—but nothing comes out. The hallway suddenly feels too small. The lights too bright. Everything too loud, even in this hush. 

Agatha is just staring at you, mouth parted slightly, like she’s trying to hold herself together with sheer willpower. 

“You think I was choosing him?” she asks, voice low and brittle. “That night?” 

You say nothing. Your silence answers for you. 

Her breath shudders. “God, Y/N.” 

Agatha shakes her head slowly, her voice low. “You don’t know what that call was.” 

“Then tell me!” you snap. 

“That night… Ralph had been calling me all morning. I didn’t answer. I didn’t want to answer.” She says, not missing a beat. “But he called again that night and I just—I picked up because I was tired of running from it.” 

She pauses, and her voice grows bitter. “He was crying. Begging me to come back. Saying he’d be a better man, a better husband, a better dad. And yeah, I said I still loved him.” 

Something inside you breaks. 

“But not in that way anymore,” she adds. “Not like before. I told him I couldn’t do it. That I couldn’t lie to myself—or to him—anymore.” She pauses. “I listened to him. I let him say what he needed to say. Then I hung up.” 

You step back like you’ve been struck. 

“I went back to the party and you were gone.” Her voice cracks on the last word. “I asked Jen, and she said there was an emergency at your work. But you didn’t say anything to me. You just left.” 

“I—” 

“I tried calling you,” she continues, words laced with fire and devastation. “You didn’t pick up. I texted. Nothing. I even went to your office and your assistant told me you were on a business trip. For weeks.” 

You feel like you’re shrinking, shrinking into the floor, shame crawling up your throat like acid. 

“I didn’t know what I did wrong. I thought maybe I moved too fast, said something wrong, maybe you regretted it all. But then I saw you again. At the wedding.” Her eyes narrow slightly. “With her.” 

The breath leaves your lungs like you’ve been punched. 

“I saw the way she looked at you. The way you looked back.” Her voice is sharp now, venom-coated heartbreak. “You don’t get to make me the villain when you’re the one who ghosted me.” 

You stagger back a step, blinking hard. “It wasn’t like that with Rio.” 

“No?” she scoffs. “Because it looked like that. And I was stupid enough to think what happened between us meant something. That it was real. That you felt it too.” 

“I did.” Your voice finally rises. “I did, Agatha—god, I did. But that call—hearing you say you still loved him—it broke me. You don’t get to say that and expect me not to run.” 

“I expected you to talk to me. To trust me.” Her voice drops, something heavy laced in the words. “But you left. Without a word. And now you’re here, acting like I’m the one who hurt you.” 

Your breath catches, the fight starting to drain out of you, replaced by the crushing weight of what you've just done. What you thought you knew. 

“I didn’t know,” you whisper. 

She’s already stepping back. Her voice is tight. “Yeah. Well. Now you do.” 

You reach out, barely thinking. “Agatha—” 

“You know what? I can’t do this.” She says, shaking her head.  

That wrecks you. 

She turns, breath hitching—but you can’t move. 

You want to reach for her. 

You don’t. 

You just stand there, drowning in the weight of your own misunderstanding. 

Because you were wrong. 

So wrong. 

And now... it might be too late. 

Taglist: @6stolenangel9 @charlottelinlin1 @milflovers4 @claramelooo @loveshineslikethesky @kaymariesworld @marcelinaceciliarose @misskassycollins @greyella @theothersideofthescreen @whitelotus00 @agathaallalongg @psychickryptonitebouquet @sweetmidnights @angel-kitten-babygirl-u-choose @filmedbyharkness @brekker157 @rizzlesregal13 @starbucks-06 @aboutcustardcreams @crescendoofstars @neverfindmegone @mommy-mommy-mommy-hi @theonefairygodmother @isixxx3-blog @hannah-0730 @starryjeongyeon @atlasimagines

[harknessxo]

You Were Never Mine to Lose (Chapter 16)

Synopsis: You tell yourself you’ve finally moved on—because believing that lie is easier than facing the truth. But when your paths cross again, all the silence, the glances, and the tension you thought you buried come rushing back, sharper than ever.

Word count: 5.9K

Warnings: Mention of alcohol consumption, Angst, Unresolved emotions, Lingering tension, Mild language

The next morning, you woke up late, the sheets beside you cool to the touch. You instinctively reached out for Rio, only to find empty space. Blinking against the sunlight, you groggily sat up, rubbing your face before spotting the note on the nightstand. Her familiar handwriting was neat, the message simple yet sweet: 

Had to head to the venue early to make sure everything is perfect. I’ll see you there. Love you. 

A small smile tugged at your lips. Rio was thoughtful like that—always making sure things were in place, always considering every detail. You traced your fingers over the words before setting the note down, exhaling deeply. You’re lucky to have her. You know that. 

With that thought, you reached for your phone. A few notifications blinked on the screen—one from Jen, reminding you that you had to be at the venue by 2 PM to get ready, and another from Wanda: 

I’m picking you up. Be ready when I get there. 

You didn’t bother replying, just set the phone down and stretched. Your stomach grumbled, so you picked up the room’s telephone and ordered breakfast. Anything to settle the nervous energy coiling in your stomach. 

When the food arrived, you sat at the small table near the balcony, picking at the meal while mindlessly scrolling through your phone. Emails, social media, anything to distract yourself. But no matter how much you tried to focus on the screen, the looming thought of seeing Agatha again weighed on you. It’s fine. You’re fine. You’ve moved on. You repeated it like a mantra, as if saying it enough times would make it true. 

After breakfast, you dragged yourself into the bathroom, letting the warm shower ease the tension in your muscles. But even under the steady stream of water, the nerves refused to leave you. You scrubbed at your skin, willing away the anxiety, but it lingered. Clung to you like a second skin. 

Once you were done, you wrapped yourself in a robe and stepped out, steam curling into the cooler air of the hotel room. You took your time getting ready—light makeup, soft but precise. Your hair, styled into loose waves, cascaded past your shoulders. Finally, you slipped into the dress Jen had sent yesterday. 

You looked good. Hot, even. The kind of put-together that made it seem like you weren’t internally spiraling. You gave yourself a final once-over in the mirror, adjusting the fabric slightly before your phone buzzed on the dresser. 

Wanda. 

I’m outside. Get your ass down here. 

With a final deep breath, you grabbed your clutch and exited the hotel room, making your way to the entrance. The sun was bright, the white and blue architecture of Santorini almost blinding. But as you stepped outside, you couldn’t see Wanda’s car anywhere. 

Then, from the corner of the parking area, an impatient honk echoed through the air. You turned just in time to see Wanda leaning out of the window of a sleek rental, sunglasses perched on her nose, drumming her fingers against the steering wheel. 

“You’re slow as hell,” she called out as you approached, unlocking the doors. “Come on, let’s go.” 

Sliding into the passenger seat, you barely had time to buckle up before she pulled out of the lot. The drive started in silence, save for the distant sound of waves and the occasional hum of traffic. You kept your gaze fixed outside, watching the scenery blur past. But Wanda? Wanda watched you. 

“You look like you’re about to throw up,” she said finally, her tone casual but laced with something deeper. “You gonna be okay today?” 

You let out a forced chuckle, shaking your head. “I’m fine.” 

She didn’t buy it for a second. “Right.” 

Silence stretched again, but it was heavier now. Like she was waiting for you to say something. When you didn’t, she sighed, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter. 

“I gotta ask,” she said, glancing at you briefly. “Are you happy? With Rio, I mean.” 

You blinked, caught off guard by the question. "Again?" you muttered, letting out a tired sigh, your fingers tightening around the fabric of your dress. 

Wanda didn’t immediately respond, just kept her eyes on the road, her jaw tight. Then, softer, "You’re not just… using her to forget, are you?" 

Your stomach twisted. "Wanda—" 

"I just—" she cut in, then exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "Rio’s great. She adores you. And I think you care about her too. But this… You know this isn’t fair. Not to her. Not to you." 

A lump formed in your throat, heavy and impossible to swallow down. "I’m moving on," you said, but the words felt like paper—thin, fragile, easy to tear apart. "Agatha is in the past." 

Wanda let out a slow breath through her nose, the kind that made your chest tighten. She didn’t push, didn’t argue. But her silence? It said everything. 

She didn’t believe you. 

Neither did you. 

When you arrived at the venue, the air was thick with the scent of fresh flowers. The decorations were stunning—soft pastels, warm lights, delicate arrangements that had Rio’s touch all over them. But Jen was nowhere to be seen, likely busy getting ready. Instead, you were greeted by Lilia, who lit up at the sight of you. 

“There you are!” she grinned, pulling you into a quick hug. “Alice is inside one of the waiting rooms with Agatha.” 

Right. Agatha. 

Your stomach clenched, but you kept your expression even. Your friends didn’t know what had happened between you two. Only Wanda did. 

Lilia’s voice pulled you from your thoughts. “Oh! Agatha’s kids are here too—our godchildren.” 

You blinked, caught off guard. “And Ralph?” 

She tilted her head. “He’s not here.” 

Your brows furrowed. “Why?” 

She shrugged. “No idea.” 

Before you could say anything else, she gestured toward the entrance. “Come on, let’s go inside. The ceremony starts at 3 PM.” 

You followed her in, each step feeling heavier than the last. The moment you stepped into the waiting room, your breath caught in your throat. 

Because there she was. 

You really thought you had this under control. Thought you could face her and be fine. 

But seeing Agatha now—face to face? It knocks the air right out of you. A sharp, invisible punch to the gut. Your fingers twitch slightly at your sides, your pulse roaring in your ears. 

And then— 

"Aunt Y/N!" 

Tiny voices break through the fog, and before you can even react, two small bodies crash into you. Your godchildren. Their little arms wrap around you in tight, warm hugs, their laughter filling the space between the unbearable tension. You lower yourself to their level, hugging them back just as tightly, your breath unsteady but steady enough for them. 

"We missed you so much!" one of them chirps, looking up at you with those wide, adoring eyes. 

You try to smile, forcing something light into your tone. "Missed you guys too. How have you been, hmm? Driving your mom crazy?" 

They giggle, nodding furiously. "Always!" 

Agatha—who hadn’t said a single word yet—finally looks up. And for a second, just one unbearable second, your eyes lock. 

Everything else blurs. The kids, the voices, even Wanda beside you. It’s just her. And you. 

And then, as if snapping out of it, she blinks and looks away. 

You do the same. 

"Hey!" Wanda suddenly interjects, putting her hands on her hips in mock offense. "What is this? You guys didn’t miss me?" 

The kids giggle again. "Of course we missed you, Aunt Wanda!" 

"Mmm-hmm, sure," she says playfully, though she glances at you for just a second, reading you, knowing exactly what’s going through your mind even if you won’t admit it. 

The moment you straighten up from hugging the kids, you feel it. 

The weight of her stare. 

It’s suffocating. 

Your breath hitches, but you don’t dare look at her—not really. Your eyes flicker in her direction, and that’s all it takes. A mistake. Because the second your gazes lock, it feels like the floor tilts beneath you. 

Agatha’s eyes—dark, stormy, unreadable—bore into you with something that makes your chest tighten. Hurt? No. That can’t be right. Anger? Maybe. Or something in between, something too complicated to name. 

Why does she look at you like that? Like you’re the one who shattered something. 

She doesn’t have the right to look at you this way. 

You should be the one who’s hurt. The one who’s angry. The one who gets to glare and scoff and demand an explanation that will never be enough. Instead, you’re just… standing there, gripping onto your clutch like it’s the only thing keeping you from crumbling. 

You swallow hard, breaking eye contact first. 

You don’t greet her. You don’t acknowledge her presence at all. 

But you feel her. 

The silence is unbearable. Thick, pressing down on your ribs like it wants to squeeze the air out of your lungs. You hear Alice chatting with Wanda, trying to keep the atmosphere light, but it barely registers. You’re too busy forcing yourself to stay still, to pretend like this doesn’t hurt. 

Because it does. God, it does. 

You don’t even have to speak to her to feel it—all of it. The months of yearning, of missing her in ways you wish you didn’t. The bitterness, the anger, the nights spent trying to convince yourself that moving on was the right thing to do. 

And now she’s standing right there. Close enough to touch. Close enough to ruin you all over again. 

And she looks at you like you’re the one who did the breaking. 

The thought makes your jaw clench. A flash of heat rushes through your veins, not just from anger, but from the sheer unfairness of it. 

You refuse to give her the satisfaction of knowing just how much this affects you. 

So you turn your attention back to the kids, to Wanda, to anyone else but her. 

But the damage is already done. You’re already unraveling, and the ceremony hasn’t even started yet. 

Thirty minutes pass, the air in the waiting room thick with everything left unsaid. You’re not even sure how you’ve managed to sit through it—through the stolen glances, the weight of Agatha’s presence, the way your chest tightens every time you catch her in the corner of your vision. 

Then, finally, one of the organizers steps in. 

“All right, ladies, time to head out,” she says with a polite but urgent tone. “We need to place you all and do a quick final run-through before the guests settle in.” 

Shit. 

Right. You don’t know about this part. Probably because you skipped the rehearsal yesterday. 

You move along with the others, following the organizer down the hall. Your hands feel cold, your stomach a little unsettled—not because of nerves about the ceremony itself, but because this is getting real. You’re about to stand up there, play your part, and Agatha will be right next to you. 

You swallow down the feeling, pushing through it, until you step into the venue and— 

There she is. 

Rio. 

She’s walking toward you, a couple of small bridesmaid bouquets in her hands, looking as effortlessly radiant as always. The moment her eyes land on you, she smiles—soft and easy. 

“Hey, ladies,” she greets, handing out the bouquets. 

Your friends greet her back, warm and welcoming. You don’t say anything at first, just offering her a small smile, one she returns in quiet acknowledgment. 

She moves down the line, passing bouquets to each of you, until you’re the last one. 

Rio hands you yours, and before she lets go, she grins. “Hope you don’t mess up since this is your first and last practice.” 

You roll your eyes at her teasing, playing along. “Wow, so much faith in me.” 

Rio laughs, amused. “I’m just kidding.” 

Then, without hesitation, she leans in and kisses you. A soft, fleeting kiss, barely a brush of lips—but enough. Enough to stun you, to make your whole body lock up for a split second, because— 

Oh. 

That just happened. 

And not just in private. Not in the quiet comfort of a dinner date or a lazy morning in bed. No, this was in front of everyone. 

The moment she pulls away, she adds a lighthearted, “Good luck,” before turning to leave, giving a small wave to your friends as she walks off. 

You’re still frozen in place when you feel their stares. 

Especially hers. 

Lilia is the first to react, blinking rapidly before blurting out, “Uh—what was that?” 

You snap out of it, trying to compose yourself, shaking it off like it’s nothing. You force a casual shrug. “What? Rio and I are dating.” 

Silence. 

Then, Lilia and Alice’s faces break into surprise and delight. 

“Wait—what?!” Lilia exclaims, almost laughing. 

Alice’s eyebrows shoot up, but her reaction is softer, more understanding. “That’s amazing! How long?” 

“Almost two months,” you admit, glancing at Wanda, who already knew. “Wanda’s known.” 

Lilia looks betrayed. “And you didn’t tell us?” 

You barely manage a small chuckle. “Guess it never came up.” 

It’s mostly true. Mostly. 

But your attention is no longer on them. 

Your eyes land on Agatha. 

She doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t react like the others. She just… stands there. Unmoving. 

Until she scoffs under her breath. So quiet. So subtle. But you catch it. 

Your stomach tightens. 

What the hell was that? 

You feel something sharp twist inside you, something ugly—anger, confusion, frustration. What the fuck does she have to scoff about? She doesn’t get to react like that. She doesn’t get to feel anything about this. 

You decide to ignore it. You have to. 

The organizer returns, pulling you all back into focus. 

“All right, let’s run through this quickly.” 

The rehearsal begins. You barely register half of it. Your body moves on instinct, but your mind? Your mind is elsewhere. The organizer places everyone in position, lining you up at the front. 

Agatha, as the maid of honor, stands closest to Jen’s spot. 

Then you. 

Then Alice. Then Wanda. Then Lilia. 

And it’s unbearable. 

Standing so close to Agatha, pretending like you’re fine, like the tension isn’t making it impossible to breathe. Every second stretches on, every small movement feels amplified—her presence, her scent, the occasional shift of her weight. 

You can feel her without even looking at her. 

You hate it. 

And maybe, just maybe, you hate that you don’t hate it. 

The rehearsal is over in what feels like both a blur and an eternity. The organizer dismisses you all, and you head back to the waiting room, the air thick with unsaid things. 

Then, another organizer steps in. 

“Mrs. Harkness?” 

Agatha turns. 

“We’re seating the children now. The guests are arriving.” 

Agatha nods and turns to her kids, bending down to kiss their foreheads, murmuring something soft—something motherly. “Be good, okay? I’ll see you after.” 

The kids nod eagerly before following the organizer out the door. 

And then there were four. 

You. Wanda. Alice. 

And Agatha. 

The room is suddenly too small. 

And the silence? 

It’s deafening. 

The minutes crawled by in that suffocating room, the low hum of conversation weaving around you like static. Lilia cracked a joke about someone’s shoes. Wanda chimed in with a quip that made Alice laugh too loud.  

But you didn’t say a word. 

Neither did Agatha. 

You were both on opposite sides of the room, and yet it felt like she was everywhere. Her presence clung to your skin, inescapable, thick and electric. She sat just a few feet away, her posture deceptively casual, legs crossed at the ankle, phone in hand like she was scrolling through something important. Like she wasn’t unraveling you by simply existing. 

Her wavy hair was down today—something about that made your chest ache more than it should have. The last time you saw her like that, her head was resting on your chest in the dark, her hair spilling across your collarbone, her voice a quiet confession against your skin. 

Stop. 

You swallowed the lump in your throat and stared at your own phone like it held the answers to everything you were feeling. You kept scrolling, eyes unfocused, tapping on things you weren’t really seeing. Anything to keep from looking at her again. Anything to keep from acknowledging that the silence between you was louder than the rest of the room. 

Because when she scoffed earlier—so subtle, so cruel—you felt it like a slap. Like a needle straight through your ribs. You didn’t even know what it was for. That kiss? That look on her face like you had hurt her? 

You were trying to hold it together. 

Trying not to scream. 

Like she was the one left behind. Like she was the one who cried herself to sleep. Like she was the one who begged for answers and never got them. 

No. 

She doesn’t get to do that. 

She doesn’t get to look at you like that. 

She doesn’t get to pretend you were the one who ruin everything. 

Your jaw ached from how hard you were clenching it. Your hand around your phone was tight, too tight. You could feel your pulse hammering in your throat, fury pressing at the inside of your chest like it wanted out. You wanted to scream at her, to break the silence with something loud and messy. You wanted to ask her how dare she. 

But instead, you did nothing. 

You sat there, silent. Seething. Trying to convince yourself you were fine. That you’ve moved on. 

And you hated that. 

Except your heart didn’t feel moved-on. 

It felt stuck. 

Like it never left. 

Like it never healed. 

You hated that this one look from her—this one bitter, accusing glance—could undo the days of trying to put yourself back together. 

You hated how badly you still wanted her to say something. 

You hated how you still wanted to look at her. 

Still wanted her to look back. 

After a few minutes, the organizer finally came back, her voice brisk and warm. “Ladies, it’s time. Ceremony’s about to start.” 

But she didn’t. 

And neither did you. 

Everyone straightened up. Lipstick checks, quick breath mints, shoes adjusted. 

You stood. Your legs felt like lead. 

Following the group down the hall, the tension only grew heavier. Your heart thudded dully in your chest, your dress hugging your form just right, your makeup perfect, your face calm—but inside, you were falling apart. 

The moment you stepped into the vestibule near the entrance, you saw the others. The groom’s parents, Jen’s mom and dad, the flower girls with their crowns of baby’s breath, the ring bearer fidgeting with his tiny pillow, groomsmen laughing about something the best man said. 

Everything felt a little too bright. A little too loud. 

And then the music began. 

Your breath caught in your throat. 

A soft swell of piano. 

“Can’t Help Falling in Love.” 

First, the groom with his parents. Then the groomsmen and then… 

Agatha. 

She moved forward slowly, bouquet in hand, the train of her deep plum dress brushing the floor, her movements elegant, composed. People turned to look at her. Of course they did. She was beautiful. She always had been. 

You hated how your eyes followed her like gravity. Hated how even the curve of her shoulders could make your chest ache. 

Then it was your turn. 

You walked in, clutching your bouquet just a little too tightly, your face calm and composed. Smile. Just a little. Keep it together. 

Your eyes flicked to the crowd. And there—Rio. 

She was smiling, waving, her phone raised to record you. She looked so proud, so full of love, her joy uncomplicated. 

You gave her a small smile back. A weak one. The best you could do. 

Because right in front of you was Agatha. 

And that’s all you could feel. 

You reached the front, lined up, your gaze settling on the flower girls scattering petals with perfect, slow steps. Then the ring bearer. And finally— 

Jen. 

Your friend. She looked breathtaking, walking between her parents, veil trailing behind her like something out of a movie. 

Your chest tightened at the sight. She looked so happy. So sure. 

You watched as her soon-to-be husband took her hand from her parents with trembling fingers and a soft smile. 

The ceremony began. 

And as they shared their vows, you felt your throat tighten. They were beautiful. Sweet and earnest and raw. 

You blinked quickly, trying to hold back the sting in your eyes. 

But you weren’t crying because of the vows. Not really. 

You were crying because you couldn’t stop looking at Agatha’s back. Because every word about forever and love and home dug into the hollow space she left behind. 

You looked at her with all the yearning you’d tried to bury. With every ounce of grief you told yourself was gone. 

You wanted to stop. 

You wanted to look away. 

But you didn’t. 

The ceremony goes on. 

Time slows, stretches, folds in on itself. The priest’s voice is soft and steady. 

Then— 

“You may now kiss the bride.” 

The room bursts open with joy. Cheers, applause, the rustle of movement as everyone stands to celebrate. Laughter. A few wolf whistles. 

You clap too, smiling through the ache, pretending your heart isn’t unraveling thread by thread. 

Because inside? 

And then—she shifts. Just slightly. Agatha turns her head, just enough for you to see the line of her jaw, the curve of her cheek, the ghost of her profile. 

Inside, you are a storm of everything you never said. 

Of everything you kept quiet when you wanted to scream. 

But she doesn’t. 

For one breathless second, you think she might look at you. 

That maybe she’ll meet your gaze, and something unspoken will pass between you, even now. Even after everything. 

She looks past you. 

Or through you. 

You can’t tell. 

And so you keep clapping. 

You keep smiling. 

But God— 

You tell yourself you’re fine. That you’ve moved on. 

That this doesn't matter anymore. 

It doesn’t feel like it. 

Not when she’s this close. 

Not when it still hurts this much. 

The reception is a blur of music, laughter, and the clinking of glasses, but your mind keeps drifting back to one person. You stand at the bar with Rio, sipping your whiskey, the warmth of the alcohol doing little to ease the tightness in your chest. Her laughter is easy and light beside you, her soft voice carrying over the low hum of the party. She’s beautiful, and she’s here with you—smiling, leaning into you, your girlfriend, your anchor in all this chaos. 

But still, you can’t stop looking across the room. 

Agatha. 

She’s sitting with her two kids, chatting easily with your friends—Wanda, Alice, Lilia. They’re all laughing, talking like everything is normal, but it isn’t. Not for you. 

Your gaze drifts back to her. You try to tear your eyes away, to focus on Rio, but it’s like a magnet. Agatha’s there, across from you, just within reach but so far out of touch. 

“Are you okay?” Rio’s voice cuts through your thoughts, soft but insistent. You blink, realizing you’ve been staring at Agatha for far too long. 

“Yeah,” you reply quickly, forcing a small smile as you glance at Rio. “I’m fine.” 

She looks at you with those concerned eyes, not buying it for a second. She leans in, wrapping an arm around your shoulders in a gentle side hug, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek. 

“If you’re ever not okay,” she murmurs, her voice warm and sincere, “you know you can always tell me.” 

You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat, not trusting your voice to say anything more. You focus on her touch, trying to ground yourself in the comfort she offers. Still, you can’t shake the restless, unsettled feeling. The one that makes your chest ache with something too sharp and too familiar. 

The music shifts. 

The first dance begins. 

Jen and her new husband take the floor, and the soft piano melody fills the room. It’s the kind of song that makes you sigh, makes you think of the way love is supposed to feel—quiet, steady, beautiful. 

But as the couple sways together, the lyrics of "Iris" by Goo Goo Dolls wrapping around them, your eyes find their way back to Agatha. She’s still sitting there, but something in the air between you two has changed. 

It’s the chorus that gets you. 

That’s when your eyes meet hers. 

And the world freezes for a breathless moment. 

She’s looking at you, her gaze heavy with something you can’t quite name. And your stomach does this horrible, violent flip. It’s too much. Too much to bear. The emotions slam into you—resentment, longing, grief. All the things you thought you’d buried. 

And then—just like that—Agatha looks away. 

Fuck. 

Your chest tightens, and a tear pricks the corner of your eye. The ache grows unbearable, twisting up into your throat. You can feel it building, the pressure, the overwhelming need to just... collapse, to cry, to scream. 

You can’t stand it. 

You need to get out. 

You don’t even think as you turn to Rio, your voice strained as you excuse yourself. 

“I’m just gonna... go to the bathroom. I’ll be back in a minute.” 

Rio looks at you, but she doesn’t argue. She just nods, offering you a small, understanding smile. 

You leave the bar quickly, your footsteps echoing in the hall as you make your way to the bathroom. 

Once inside, the door closes behind you with a soft click. 

And you finally let go. 

The tears come, hot and sudden, streaming down your face, the weight of everything crashing into you all at once. You stand there, your hands gripping the sink, trying to keep yourself together, trying not to let the sobs shake your body. 

It feels like you’re drowning in it all—the pain, the anger, the yearning. 

You suck in a breath, steadying yourself, your hands shaking as you wipe your face. You can’t let Rio see this. She doesn’t deserve to be a part of this mess. 

Focus. 

You take deep breaths, in and out, trying to steady your heartbeat. After what feels like an eternity, you’ve calmed down enough to face the world again. 

You look at yourself in the mirror for a moment, your eyes red but empty, like everything’s been drained out of you. 

You can do this. You can go back. 

With one last steadying breath, you walk out of the bathroom, pushing the door open and stepping back into the noise, back into the party. 

Back into the world where you pretend you’re okay. 

And as you return to the bar, you find Rio waiting for you, smiling, unaware of the storm you just weathered. 

But you can’t help it. 

Your gaze drifts, again, back to her. 

Agatha. 

And though you’ve tried to move on, though you’re standing here with someone who loves you, there she is. Still pulling at you like she always has. 

The music played on, and with each passing minute, you could feel yourself slipping further into a haze. The whiskey coursing through your veins was a familiar comfort, but it also made everything feel muddled, like you were seeing the world through a fogged-up window. You were surrounded by people, but all you could focus on was Agatha, her presence lingering just beyond the blur of your mind. 

It was time for the bouquet toss. All the unmarried women, including Wanda, Alice, Lilia, you, and Rio, gathered near the center. You couldn't help but crack a small joke as Rio caught the bouquet, teasing her about how she’d arranged it to be hers. She laughed and wrapped her arm around you playfully, her eyes glinting with affection. "You know me too well," she said, smiling. 

But even as the crowd cheered and the moment felt lighthearted, your mind was elsewhere, wandering back to her—Agatha. The way she sat at the table with her kids, chatting away, smiling, but there was something in her demeanor that gnawed at you. The bitterness you’d buried so deep, all the hurt, seemed to resurface with each fleeting glance. 

As the night wore on, you found yourself sinking deeper into your drink. Maybe it was the way the room spun or the growing ache in your chest, but every laugh and every cheer felt like it was echoing inside your head. The soft buzz from the alcohol couldn’t numb the tightness in your throat whenever you thought about Agatha. She was sitting there, laughing, and yet somehow you felt the distance between you two widening. 

Then, Rio, ever so attentive, asked you to dance. You didn’t refuse. You didn’t want to. She was kind, understanding, everything you needed right now, and you could feel yourself surrendering to her warmth as her hands settled gently on your shoulders and waist. Her touch was comforting, familiar. But as she leaned into you, her head resting on your shoulder, a shift in the atmosphere tugged at your focus. 

It was subtle at first. A glance across the room. A small shift in your stomach. And there she was—Agatha—watching. Her eyes, dark and unreadable, fixed on you with such intensity that it nearly knocked the air from your lungs. You didn’t know why her gaze made you feel so… small. She was the one who hurt you. Yet her stare now made you feel as if you had done something wrong, as though you were the one to blame for everything that happened. 

Her eyes locked with yours, and you felt a wave of confusion crash over you. Why was she looking at you like that? Hurt? Jealous? Angry? You tried to shake the thought off, to ignore the tightness in your chest, but it gnawed at you. You shifted uncomfortably, and Rio, sensing the change in your mood, tightened her hold on you. 

Then, without warning, Agatha broke eye contact. She murmured something to your friends—something low, inaudible, but whatever it was, it seemed to make them pause. The conversation stilled for a beat. And then, without another word, Agatha stood up. Her two kids in tow, she made her way toward the exit, leaving the table behind. 

You couldn’t breathe for a second, caught between a whirlwind of emotions. What the hell just happened? Why did she look at you like that? After everything, it felt like she was accusing you of something. You were the one left behind, weren’t you? But her gaze... it made you second-guess everything. It made you wonder if you’d been wrong about what happened between you two. If maybe, just maybe, she was the one who had been hurt all along. But you couldn't—no, you wouldn’t—go there. You couldn’t let her back into your head. 

You forced yourself to look back at Rio, focusing on the present, on her. Her warmth, her presence, was a lifeline you desperately clung to. She deserved more than your mind wandering back to a past that had long since faded. You buried the thoughts of Agatha deep within, telling yourself it didn’t matter, that she was just another ghost of your past. What mattered now was Rio. 

But even as you tried to convince yourself, that twist in your stomach wouldn't go away. 

That night, after the last song faded and the lights dimmed down to nothing but tired laughter and sore feet, you found yourself back in your hotel room with Rio. The room smelled faintly of her—floral, warm, familiar. She had passed out almost as soon as her head hit the pillow, the day catching up to her all at once—organizing the flowers, making sure everything looked perfect, laughing and dancing until she could barely keep her eyes open. There was something peaceful in the way she slept, her breaths even, one hand curled near her chest. 

You should’ve been asleep too. God knows you were tired—your body ached, your feet throbbed, and your heart felt like it had been dragged across gravel and broken glass all day. You were tipsy, just enough to feel the room spin a little when you turned your head too fast. But even with all that, your mind wouldn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. 

You lay there, staring at the ceiling. The air conditioner hummed. Rio stirred slightly in her sleep beside you, murmured something soft under her breath. But your thoughts were somewhere else entirely. 

Agatha. 

Her name might as well have been written on the inside of your eyelids, because even when you closed your eyes, there she was—like a ghost you couldn’t shake. Every moment from the day looped in your mind like a film you didn’t ask to watch: the way she stood in the hallway, not speaking to you… the way she looked at you during the ceremony like you were the one who broke her… the way her eyes lingered on you tonight as you danced with Rio, full of something that felt too much like heartbreak. 

Why? 

That same question had echoed in your head since morning. Why did she look at you like that? 

Like you were the one who wrecked everything. 

And fuck, the worst part? It was working. That look? It had burrowed itself inside you, curled up right next to all the hurt you’d spent days after days trying to bury. You thought you were past this. You really believed that. But tonight… tonight proved you were lying to yourself. 

You turned onto your side, facing the wall, but it didn’t help. It was like you could still smell her—subtle and sharp, that scent she always wore. Like memory. Like regret. It clung to your skin in places you couldn’t scrub clean. 

You said it again. And again. Like maybe repetition could make it true. 

You whispered, just to yourself, lips barely moving: 

“I’ve moved on.” 

You had moved on. You had Rio. Sweet, soft, steady Rio, who didn’t make you question your worth, who didn’t tear open your chest and leave you to bleed alone. She was here. She chose you. And you were happy, weren’t you? 

But then why did it still hurt like this? 

Why did it feel like your ribs were being pulled apart just remembering the way Agatha looked at you? 

Why couldn’t you stop wondering if she was hurting too? 

You pressed your hand over your eyes. God, you just wanted this to end. The ache. The confusion. The guilt that you weren’t even supposed to feel. 

You weren’t the one who ruined this. 

So why were you still the one holding on? 

Why did it feel like you were stuck in some invisible thread that still tied you to her, no matter how far you tried to run? 

You didn’t know if you were going to cry or scream or just stay like this—silent, burning, cracked open in the dark beside a woman who loved you, while your heart was still tangled up in someone who broke it. 

All you knew was you couldn’t keep doing this. 

But tonight… you were too tired to figure out how to let go. 

So, you just laid there, eyes open, in the dark—waiting for the morning. 

Taglist: @6stolenangel9 @charlottelinlin1 @milflovers4 @claramelooo @loveshineslikethesky @kaymariesworld @marcelinaceciliarose @misskassycollins @greyella @theothersideofthescreen @whitelotus00 @agathaallalongg @psychickryptonitebouquet @sweetmidnights @angel-kitten-babygirl-u-choose @filmedbyharkness @brekker157 @rizzlesregal13 @starbucks-06 @aboutcustardcreams @crescendoofstars @neverfindmegone @mommy-mommy-mommy-hi @theonefairygodmother @isixxx3-blog @hannah-0730 @starryjeongyeon @atlasimagines 

[harknessxo]

You Were Never Mine to Lose (Chapter 15)

Synopsis: You left, and it just hasn’t stopped hurting. You don’t know if it ever really will, but you're trying to take it one day at a time.

Word count: 3K

Warnings: Angst, Mention of alcohol consumption, Mild language

The low hum of the jet fills the cabin, a steady vibration beneath your fingertips as you stare blankly out the window. The runway lights stretch endlessly ahead, glowing softly against the darkened tarmac. Any second now, the pilot will confirm takeoff. Any second now, you’ll be in the air, leaving Malibu behind. 

And then, your phone rings. 

Your heart clenches before your mind can process it. You don’t even have to look at the screen to know who it is. The name alone, the mere thought of her voice, sends a sharp ache through your chest. 

You hesitate. 

For a second—just one—you think about answering. About pressing the phone to your ear and demanding why? Why did she say it? Why did she let you think, even for a moment, that any of this was real? That you were something real? 

But what for? 

She made her choice. It was never going to be you. 

Your fingers tighten around the phone, and with a quiet breath, you slide your thumb across the screen— 

Powering off. 

The screen goes black. And with it, so does whatever part of you still wanted to believe in her. 

Three days later, Wanda shows up at your apartment. 

She doesn’t call beforehand. You wouldn’t have answered anyway. She just knocks, persistent and steady, and when you don’t respond fast enough, she knocks again. 

You consider ignoring it. Just like you’ve ignored everything else. The countless calls and texts, the world outside your door. But then, for the first time in days, you hear your own voice—small and hollow—murmuring, “It’s open.” 

The door creaks as it swings in. Wanda steps inside, immediately taking in the disaster that is your apartment. The unopened takeout containers on the counter. The barely touched glass of water on your nightstand. The curtains drawn tight, blocking out the city beyond the windows. And then— 

You. 

Curled up on the couch, blanket draped over your shoulders, eyes rimmed with exhaustion. You don’t look at her when she steps closer. You just keep staring at the floor, like it holds all the answers you’ll never get. 

Wanda exhales softly. “Shit.” 

You don’t argue. You don’t even move when she sits beside you, her warmth pressing against your side. 

“Have you been outside?” she asks. 

You shake your head. 

“Have you eaten?” 

Another shake. 

She sighs. “Y/N…” 

You let out a shaky breath, finally looking at her. “I don’t know what to do.” 

Wanda’s eyes soften, but there’s fire beneath them. “You don’t have to do anything. You just have to let yourself feel it.” 

“That’s the problem,” you whisper. “I am feeling it.” 

And it’s unbearable. 

The memories won’t stop. They claw at you, relentless. That night under the stars, when she looked at you like you were her whole world. The warmth of her hand in yours, the soft timbre of her voice when she called you by your name like it meant something. The way she kissed you, slow and deep, like she wanted to fall. 

It felt real. It all felt so real. 

But it wasn’t. 

Your throat tightens, and suddenly, Wanda is pulling you into her arms. You don’t resist. You break, sinking into her hold, letting the sobs shake through you as she holds you tight. 

For two weeks, you don’t check your phone. You don’t even want to see it. Not when you know her name is still there, unanswered. The voicemails you refuse to listen to. The texts you refuse to read. 

When you finally return to work, everything feels different. 

You step into your office building like a stranger, your body moving on autopilot as you greet your assistant with a nod. There’s no warmth in it, no real acknowledgment. Just muscle memory. Your assistant hesitates, eyes flickering with concern, but says nothing. 

You don’t invite conversation. You don’t want conversation. 

The office hums around you as you settle behind your desk, the weight of the past two weeks pressing heavily on your shoulders. You immerse yourself in work, burying yourself in numbers and reports, pretending that if you just keep moving, keep doing, then maybe—just maybe—you won’t think about her. 

But then, your assistant steps into the room, voice careful. “Mrs. Harkness is here.” 

Your heart stops. 

You lift your gaze, expression blank. “What?” 

“She’s at the front desk. She’s asking to see you.” 

Silence stretches between you. Your assistant waits, patient but expectant, clearly assuming that you’ll let her in. 

You inhale sharply. Then, without hesitation, you say, “Tell her I’m not here.” 

Your assistant blinks. “Ma’am?” 

“Tell her I’m on a business trip. Out of the country.” Your voice is steady, unwavering. “Make it believable.” 

A beat of hesitation, then a quiet nod. Your assistant turns and leaves, and you watch her go, something heavy settling in your chest. 

You don’t check to see if Agatha stays or leaves. You don’t move from your desk. You just sit there, hands clenched into fists, willing yourself to breathe through the ache. 

You’re not ready to face her. 

Maybe you never will be. 

Later that evening, Wanda shows up at your apartment again. 

This time, she’s not gentle. 

She takes one look at you—still in your work clothes, sitting in the dark, an untouched glass of whiskey in your hand—and sighs heavily. “Enough.” 

You glance at her, exhausted. “Wanda—” 

“Nope. Get up. Get dressed.” 

You frown. “What?” 

“We’re going out,” she announces, already heading to your closet. “You’re not going to rot in this apartment any longer.” 

You groan, sinking deeper into the couch. “I don’t want to.” 

“I don’t care.” She yanks a dress from the rack and throws it at you. “Get up.” 

You catch it, scowling. “You can’t just—” 

“I can, and I will.” She crosses her arms. “Unless you want me to start dragging you.” 

You glare at her, but she doesn’t waver. With a heavy sigh, you give in, muttering curses as you push off the couch and stomp toward the bathroom. 

Wanda smirks. “Good girl.” 

Thirty minutes later, you’re stepping into a club near your apartment, the bass thrums low and steady beneath your feet, the music pulsing through the dimly lit club. Bodies sway around you, the air thick with the scent of alcohol and perfume. Wanda had practically dragged you here, fed up with watching you waste away in your apartment. And maybe she was right to do so—maybe you did need this. A distraction. Anything to keep your mind from circling back to her. 

You weave through the crowd toward the bar, your empty glass still clutched in your hand. The bartender catches your eye, nodding as he reaches for the whiskey bottle. While you wait, you exhale slowly, running a hand through your hair, trying to shake the heaviness in your chest. 

Then, out of the corner of your eye, you catch a familiar figure. 

Your breath hitches. 

Rio. 

She’s standing a few feet away, engaged in conversation with someone you don’t recognize. But it’s definitely her—the posture, the way she gestures when she speaks, the easy smile. It takes you a second before you move, stepping toward her and reaching out, tapping her shoulder lightly. 

“Rio? Rio Vidal?” 

She turns, her brows furrowing for a split second before recognition dawns. “Y/N?” 

You nod, and she lets out a small, surprised laugh. “Holy shit, what are you doing here?” 

“I could ask you the same thing,” you counter, your lips twitching into something that almost resembles a smile. “Didn’t expect to see you in my city.” 

Rio grins. “Work, actually. I’m doing flowers for a wedding this weekend.” 

Right. Florist. You’d almost forgotten. 

“That explains it,” you say, taking a sip from your newly refilled glass. The burn of whiskey is grounding, a welcomed distraction. “How long are you in town?” 

“A few more days,” she says. “Probably won’t have much time to explore, though. The couple I’m working with is kinda…” She exhales, rolling her eyes. “Particular.” 

You chuckle. “Bridezilla?” 

“Groomzilla, actually. It’s a nightmare.” 

The conversation flows easily, like no time has passed. Like you’re not currently trying to drown your heartbreak in alcohol and dim lighting. But then, Rio’s expression shifts slightly, something unreadable flickering in her eyes. 

“By the way,” she starts, tilting her head. “I messaged you a while ago. Never heard back.” 

You freeze for a fraction of a second before forcing a casual shrug. “Yeah, uh… sorry about that. Things have been crazy on my end.” 

She studies you for a moment. “You okay?” 

You take another sip of whiskey, the lie slipping out with ease. “Yeah. Just been busy. Had some issues with my phone, too.” 

Not exactly the most convincing excuse, but Rio doesn’t press. Instead, she nods, accepting it at face value. But as the conversation continues, the memory creeps in—right, you never got to respond to her that day. You remember staring at her message, about to type a reply, when Agatha’s name had suddenly popped up on your screen. 

And just like that, you’d forgotten all about Rio. 

You shake the thought away, pushing it down. And you let yourself fall into the comfort of conversation, of distraction—because the last thing you want to think about is Agatha. 

After that night, Rio doesn’t just fade away. She starts showing up at your office with coffee or lunch, always checking in, always caring. It’s easy. Warm. Sweet. 

Rio makes you laugh, makes you feel wanted, and for a brief moment, you wonder if this could work. If maybe you can finally move on. But even as you enjoy Rio’s attention, you can’t ignore that little voice in the back of your mind. Is this real? Or am I just distracting myself? 

You and Rio start going on dates—quiet dinners, art gallery strolls, late-night drives through the city. Everything with Rio feels simple. No games. No complications. No unresolved tension. 

She’s kind and understanding, everything you’ve told yourself you need right now. And yet, every time you’re with her, your mind drifts back to Agatha. You catch yourself comparing the two—Agatha’s fire, her unpredictability, the chaos. And Rio? She’s warmth. She’s steady. She’s grounding. 

And maybe that’s the problem. 

Rio is good—too good for you, maybe. She’s kind, thoughtful, patient. Everything you’ve wanted, even though you don’t deserve it. And yet, there’s always that nagging feeling in the back of your mind. 

You know what it is. 

It’s Agatha. 

You can’t stop thinking about her—the way she would tease you, the way every glance felt like a promise of something dangerous. And no matter how many dinners, how many late-night drives you share with Rio, you can’t shake the feeling that she’s not what you’re craving. With Rio, everything is simple, but with Agatha, it was electric. 

You start convincing herself that this could work. That Rio could be enough. You lean into it—into the warm embrace of Rio’s attention. Your dates become more frequent, filled with easy smiles, laughter, and simple moments of connection. 

When Rio brushes your hair back behind your ear or casually takes your hand, you don’t pull away. In fact, you like it. You like Rio. 

And maybe—just maybe—You’re starting to want this. 

But it’s not the same. 

You can’t stop comparing them. Rio’s warmth, her stability—it's comforting, but it’s not her. Agatha was a storm. Wild. Unpredictable. Chaotic. Every touch, every glance with her felt like something forbidden, something that could burn you if you weren’t careful. But Rio? Rio is safety. She’s calm. And maybe that’s exactly what you need, but you can’t help but feel it’s not enough. 

It’s been a few weeks since you and Rio started seeing each other more regularly. You’re still not fully over everything with Agatha, and maybe that’s obvious to the people around you—especially Wanda. 

One evening, she comes by your apartment, arms crossed, a look of concern written all over her face. You’ve been talking about Rio again, about the dates, the quiet dinners, the late-night drives. Wanda listens patiently, but there's something in the way she’s looking at you that makes you pause. 

She doesn’t waste any time. 

“You’re making Rio a rebound,” Wanda says bluntly, her eyes searching yours for any sign of disagreement. “You’re doing what you always do—trying to fill the void with someone who’s not even close to what you really want.” 

Your stomach churns at her words. “I’m not,” you reply quickly, almost defensively. “I like her. She’s not a rebound.” 

Wanda doesn’t look convinced. “I know you like her. She’s good to you. But I don’t think you’re really giving her a chance, not the way she deserves.” 

You feel a tightness in your chest. “I am. I’m moving on, okay? I’m not thinking about Agatha anymore.” 

Wanda’s gaze softens, but she doesn’t drop the skepticism in her eyes. She leans forward slightly, her tone a little gentler now. “But you’re not. I can see it in the way you talk about her—how you keep comparing Rio to Agatha. You’re not fair to either of them.” 

You bite your lip, trying to hold back the frustration. “I’m trying, Wanda. I’m trying to move on, alright?” 

Her expression doesn’t change, but there’s a slight shift in her posture, like she’s deciding whether or not to press further. Finally, she exhales a soft sigh. “I just want you to be honest with yourself. It’s not fair to Rio if you’re still holding onto someone who isn’t even part of your life anymore.” 

You swallow hard, feeling a knot tighten in your throat. You want to tell Wanda that you’re over Agatha—that you’re doing your best to let go. But you know she’s right. A part of you is still stuck. Still hung up on someone who’s not coming back. 

“I am moving on,” you insist, though the words don’t feel as convincing as you want them to. 

Wanda studies you for a moment longer, and then, reluctantly, she nods. “Okay. I hope you know what you’re doing. But I don’t believe it.” She adds softly, almost under her breath, “I don’t think Rio deserves to be your second choice.” 

You feel the weight of her words, but you don’t argue anymore. She’s right, and you know it. But this is your life, your choices, and even if Wanda doesn’t believe you, you need to believe it yourself. 

Wanda doesn’t press further, though her concern is still written on her face. She stands up, giving you a last lingering look before she leaves, the door clicking shut softly behind her. 

You stand there for a moment, her words hanging heavy in the air. 

You’re moving on. You have to be. Right? 

2 Months Later 

The warm breeze carries the scent of salt and blooming jasmine as you sit on the terrace of your hotel suite, staring out at the endless stretch of the Aegean Sea. The sunset paints the sky in rich hues of orange and pink, and beside you, Rio leans back in her chair, sipping her wine with a contented sigh. 

She looks beautiful in this light—soft, effortless, glowing. 

“You’re quiet,” Rio murmurs, tilting her head to glance at you. 

You blink, realizing you’ve been silent for too long, lost in thought. “Just thinking.” 

She smiles, setting her glass down and shifting closer. “About what?” 

You hesitate. About her. About how you should’ve been at the wedding rehearsal today, but you couldn’t bring yourself to face Agatha. About how, no matter how much you try to convince yourself otherwise, you are still haunted by the weight of her presence. 

But you can’t tell Rio any of that. 

“Just about tomorrow,” you say instead, offering her a small smile. “It’s a big day for Jen.” 

Rio grins, excitement lighting up her features. “Yeah. She looked so happy at the rehearsal. You should’ve seen her.” 

Your stomach clenches at the reminder. You should’ve been there, standing beside your friends, playing your part in Jen’s big day. But the thought of standing across from Agatha, of pretending that you were fine, had felt unbearable. 

So you stayed back. 

And Rio never questioned it. 

She reaches for your hand, threading her fingers through yours. “I’m glad we’re here together,” she says softly, pressing a kiss against your knuckles. “Feels… kinda perfect, doesn’t it?” 

Your chest tightens. 

She’s perfect. This—this—should be perfect. 

But deep inside, buried beneath layers of carefully crafted denial, there’s still a hollow ache that won’t go away. 

And you hate yourself for it. 

Later that night, the soft rustle of linen sheets fills the quiet hotel room as you shift beneath them, feeling the warmth of Rio beside you. The balcony doors are slightly open, letting in the crisp night air, the distant sound of waves crashing against the cliffs below. 

You turn your head, watching as Rio’s chest rises and falls in the dim glow of the bedside lamp. Her bare shoulder peeks from under the sheets, her hair tousled against the pillows. She looks peaceful. Beautiful. 

You smile to yourself, exhaling slowly as you brush a strand of hair from her face. She stirs slightly, eyelids fluttering open, and when she sees you watching her, she grins sleepily. 

“Can’t sleep?” her voice is soft, laced with drowsiness. 

You don’t respond right away. Instead, you let the moment stretch, fingers lightly tracing the curve of her arm, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath your touch. She doesn’t rush you, doesn’t press for an answer. She just watches you, waiting. 

And then, as if sensing something deeper, she shifts closer, tucking herself against you. “It’s okay,” she whispers. “You don’t have to say anything.” 

You swallow past the lump in your throat and press a kiss to her forehead. She hums in contentment, tightening her hold on you. 

You let your eyes slip shut, sinking into her touch, into the safety of this moment. 

And for tonight, just for tonight, you let yourself believe that this is enough. 

Taglist: @6stolenangel9 @charlottelinlin1 @milflovers4 @claramelooo @loveshineslikethesky @kaymariesworld @marcelinaceciliarose @misskassycollins @greyella @theothersideofthescreen @whitelotus00 @agathaallalongg @psychickryptonitebouquet @sweetmidnights @angel-kitten-babygirl-u-choose @filmedbyharkness @brekker157 @rizzlesregal13 @starbucks-06 @aboutcustardcreams @crescendoofstars @neverfindmegone @mommy-mommy-mommy-hi @theonefairygodmother @isixxx3-blog @hannah-0730 @starryjeongyeon @atlasimagines

[harknessxo]

The psychology of love (Part 9)

Class with Agatha after the "library incident"—will you be able to keep your cool?

Word count: 5k

Warnings: none (sorry!)

Agatha calls you into her office after class. You stand up on shaky legs and ignore the stares from your classmates as you follow her out of the door. Her cloud of perfume engulfs you in her typical scent and you feel desire coursing through your veins. 

“Everything okay, Professor?” you ask once she lets you into her office. You turn around to look at her and she’s right there, her mouth so close to yours that you can feel her breath on your lips. It smells like coffee and you want to drink it in. 

She gingerly reaches out a hand like she’s afraid to touch you but she cups your cheek. “I can’t…” she says haggardly, “I can’t stop thinking about you.” 

And then she closes the gap between you and you moan into her open mouth and you’re pulling her against you and her hands are wandering your body and— 

Your alarm goes off and jolts you awake. 

Confusion and disorientation fog your senses and leave you reeling from the feeling of Agatha’s lips on yours that felt so real before it sinks in that it was just a dream. 

But then the events of last night—of Agatha sending you a picture of herself in bed and calling you her good girl, of you rutting against a chair in the library until you came after admitting that you moaned her name while Morgan was fucking you—come flooding back and a fresh wave of arousal pools in your cunt. 

That was real. 

How are you supposed to go to class today and act like everything’s normal? Even the thought of seeing her has your stomach turning and clenching. How will she act? 

Getting out of bed with a stretch, you look across from you to find Wanda’s empty bed. She thankfully wasn’t in your room last night because you were still soaked and worked up and then finally able to do something properly about it but she must’ve spent the whole night with Nat.

You’re hoping for another text from Agatha when you check your phone, but there’s nothing except a message from your mom. You ignore it and open the chain with your professor. 

The picture she sent yesterday stares back at you and you clench around nothing. You zoom in on her hand—her veins, her knuckles, her fingers slightly curled against her stomach. It’s endearing to know what she sleeps in, just a cotton t-shirt and shorts, and you long for the day that you might be able to see her like that, just so relaxed and natural. 

And hot. 

It takes you a while to get out of your dorm, mainly because of the dilemma of what to wear. You usually opt for jeans and a plain shirt, but after last night…maybe you should switch it up. 

You know you have to wait, but maybe you could tempt her a little too, just like she’s doing to you. 

After a little digging through your closet, you find a black tank top that dips to show a hint of cleavage and a white skirt that reaches down to your mid-thigh, if a little on the shorter side. You bite your lip as you look at yourself in the mirror. 

Will Agatha like it? 

You hope so. 

Sliding shoes onto your feet without tying them, you grab your tote bag, briefly checking to make sure you have your notebook and laptop, and head out to get a quick breakfast from the dining hall. Your hope is that you can maybe get to class a little early to have a chance to talk to Agatha, although you equally want just as much to show up right as it starts so you don’t have to. You’re not sure you can manage to cope if she says that last night was a mistake. 

Wanda and Nat are sitting at a table and they call your name once you swipe your card and enter the hall. They beckon you over and you quickly stop after checking your watch.

“I only have a few minutes before I have to head to class,” you hastily explain. 

Wanda offers you half a slice of a bagel from her plate and you graciously accept it. “Why are you so dressed up?” she asks and you shrug evasively while sinking your teeth into the food so you don’t have to answer. 

“There’s a comedy show here on campus tonight. Want to come with us?” Nat asks.

You swallow a big bite of the bread. “Yeah, that sounds fun. I have nothing else to do on a Friday night. Look at us—we’re really living the college life, aren’t we?” They both snicker and you look at your watch again. “Oh, I should probably get going.”

You tell them you’ll see them later, grab an apple from the buffet, and set out across campus. You slow down just a little so you don’t seem too eager, but you still arrive at the Psychology building ten minutes before class. 

But as you’re walking up the stairs, you’re violently reminded that you still haven’t tied your shoes when you step on one of your laces and trip forward. The steps catch your forearm and knee and you groan at the sharp pain in your ribs. Thankfully, your tote bag is relatively spared. 

Face burning, you push yourself up and maneuver into a sitting position, silently cursing yourself for picking today to wear a skirt. You can feel people’s eyes on you but you just try to ignore them as you assess the damage. Your right knee is scraped up, blood running down your shin, and your left forearm is skinned pretty badly. Both injuries sting but you grit your teeth and attempt to stand up but only make it to a squatting position before someone steps in front of you. 

“That was quite a spill,” someone says and you shield your eyes from the sun with your right hand to look up at the voice, but you already know who it’s going to be. 

Now your face burns for an entirely different reason. 

Agatha stands above you, an amused expression on her face. You smile weakly. Of course the first time you see her after last night is like this. 

While you’re bleeding and embarrassed, she looks as regal as ever in a bubblegum pink, long-sleeve turtleneck tucked into a long, brown, leather skirt with matching brown heels, and her black, oversized purse is over her shoulder. Her hair is loose and wavy and parted down the center and her blue eyes stare right into your soul. 

She holds out a hand to you—the same hand from the picture last night—and you take it with a ragged breath. Agatha pulls you up and you wince when you straighten your right leg. 

“Atta girl,” she purrs and helps you turn around so you’re both facing up toward the building. The fire in your stomach almost completely blocks out the pain you’re feeling. She puts a steadying hand on your bicep until you feel like you’re able to walk again. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Neither of you say a word as she leads you to the bathroom on the first floor. There’s three stalls and all of them are empty which only adds to your anxiety at being alone with her. 

Should you bring up last night?

Agatha pats the sink. “Why don’t you sit up here?” she murmurs and you hop up, slinging your tote bag aside. Your professor grabs a paper towel and wets it while you watch her tongue poke out between her lips. 

She steps back over and you chew on your thumbnail as she dabs gingerly at the scrape on your knee. It burns but you don’t make a sound. Agatha is focused, the lines on her forehead creased, and you feel a tugging in your chest. 

“Did you see the whole thing?” you ask. The silence has been growing, becoming thick and awkward. 

She smirks to herself. “Would it make you feel better if I lied?”

You groan and drop your face into your hands amidst her laughing. “I was in a hurry and I forgot to tie my shoes.” 

“Just in a rush to get to class?” Agatha prompts slyly as she gets another paper towel to wipe up the blood that’s poured down your leg. She digs through her purse and finds a band-aid before ripping open the wrapper with her teeth. 

A flash of heat explodes inside you and you can feel yourself getting wetter. Being near her elicits this reaction and you don’t think it’ll ever go away. Her perfume drifts into your nose and only adds fuel to the fire. 

“You know me, I’m just a huge fan of the Biological approach,” you joke and she smiles fondly as she puts the bandage on your knee. Then she sets on to clean up your arm, grabbing you by the wrist and turning it so she can get better access. 

Her touch singes you and you’re afraid to breathe too loudly. She dabs at the scrape and you can’t stop your gaze from darting from her eyes to her lips to her hand and back to her face. The corners of her mouth quirk up like she can feel you staring. 

“Think they’ll scar?” you rasp, suddenly finding it hard to speak. She is so close to you and the events of last night are hanging over the room. 

Agatha shrugs and tosses the towel in the trash. There isn’t much to bandage because it’s just rubbed pretty raw and there’s no central wound. “Probably not,” she says. Even though she’s done, she doesn’t move away, doesn’t let go of your wrist. Her thumb starts to stroke your skin, just faintly, like she doesn't even realize she’s doing it, but it’s enough to have you melting into a puddle. Your heart is pounding. Can she hear it?

Your dream comes back to you in full-force and sends a shiver down your spine. You can still feel her lips on yours, even though it wasn’t real. 

Agatha watches you through hooded eyes like she’s trying to figure out what’s going through your head. As if she doesn’t know that it’s always her. 

“Are you okay?” she asks cautiously. 

You blink at her and then glance down to your arm and leg. “Oh—yeah, I’ve had way worse. It doesn’t even hurt that much.” 

She chuckles despite herself. “I’m glad to hear that, but I was talking more about last night.” 

A rush of desire races through you. 

That’s my good girl. 

You nod your head, mortified both at the misunderstanding and how you fell apart so easily just from a few texts from her. “Yeah, I’m okay,” you tell her, your throat suddenly very dry. And then, because you think you might be figuring her out, you add: “There’s a chair in the library I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to sit in again.” 

Agatha’s eyes flash with a dark heat and her grip tightens on your wrist. A thrill runs through you—you hope it leaves a mark. She looks down at your lips for a fraction of a second and your heart skips a beat. 

Is she going to kiss you? 

“Sounds like you had as good of a night as I did, then,” she says quietly and while both of your statements were vague, there’s the underlying understanding of exactly what the other means. 

She was touching herself while texting you. 

Did your confession that it was her name you moaned with Morgan put her over the edge? You’re not sure you could handle her telling you that. Dizziness is already fogging up your brain and you think you might pass out. “Oh,” you stammer dumbfounded and she smiles, pleased with herself. 

But then the bathroom door opens and she drops your wrist like she’s the one who’s been burned and she takes several steps back. It’s two girls who spare you both one look before going into separate stalls. 

You shakily check your watch. Class starts in two minutes. Agatha sees the time as well and gives you a wink before grabbing her purse and swinging it back onto her shoulder. You push yourself off the sink and pick up your bag and follow a few steps behind her to your classroom. 

That was close, even though nothing was actually happening. A good reminder that while you want her and she wants you, you both need to wait. You can’t let her jeopardize her job for you. 

Most of the class is already in the room but they stop chattering when you both enter. Agatha logs into the computer and opens up the presentation. You get your notebook and pen out and gnaw on the tip while she gets ready, trying not to make eye contact. You can still feel the warmth of her hand around your wrist. 

Agatha clears her throat and you finally look at her. She runs her hands over her shirt, smoothing imaginary wrinkles, before beginning. “Before we start talking more about the Biological approach to personality, I just want to make a few announcements. Tomorrow, there will be a mixer for undergraduate and graduate students in the Psychology department at Dr. Calderu’s house.” 

Lilia Calderu is the head of the Psychology department at Westview University. She spoke at your orientation but you rarely see her around campus. 

“Dr. Calderu is on the admissions committee for the psychology graduate programs here, so if you are interested in applying—” Agatha looks at you with a slight nod, “—then you should make your best effort to attend. There will also be other professors and students from various graduate programs for you to talk to. It runs from five to nine and you can stop by whenever you want. You don’t have to stay long, but I really recommend this resource.” 

“On a Saturday? As if,” one boy snorts behind you and you roll your eyes at him. 

Agatha fixes her glare on him. “While you may have something you deem ‘better’ to do, I’m speaking more to the students who actually care about their future. I’ll reiterate: you don’t have to stay long.” 

The boy scoffs but doesn’t say anything. You doubt he’ll show up. 

“We will also be having our first text in a week from today on Friday, September sixth.” A few people gasp but Agatha keeps talking. “It will cover the Trait approach and the Biological approach. I’ll have a study guide posted sometime this weekend. We have new material to get through today and Monday and if we finish it all by then, we will have Wednesday’s class as a review.” 

In your periphery, you see someone raise their hand. 

Agatha ignores them. “There will be thirty multiple choice and two short answer questions. You will have the whole class period to take the exam.” She calls on the person with their hand in the air. 

“Would you possibly be able to post the slides? We’ve all come to class,” the girl asks meekly. You shake your head and close your eyes for a second. 

“Does anyone remember what I said about the slideshows at the beginning of the semester? I know it was almost two whole weeks ago,” Agatha asks sarcastically, eyes falling on you as they always do. 

You grimace and sit up straighter. “You said you wouldn’t post them.” 

She beams at you over-exaggeratedly and it sends a flash of heat through you. “Very good. No, I will not post them just because ‘we’ve all come to class’. Congrats on attending the lessons you pay for. You don’t get a reward for that.” 

Agatha pointedly clicks on the screen to switch to the next slide and the discussion is ended even though you can see the girl looking wildly around to your classmates for some vindication. 

“The Human Brain,” Agatha begins and you start writing everything down. “There’s three parts to it: the ‘reptilian’ brain, the ‘paleomammalian’ brain, and the ‘neomammalian’ brain. We start in the back of the brain, which is the least complex and then end with the front of the brain, which is the most complex. The reptilian brain, or the brain stem, contains the thalamus, the hypothalamus, the amygdala, the pons, and the cerebellum.” 

You inwardly say a farewell to any hope that you’re going to do well on this test because how are you supposed to remember all of this? And this is just for one part of the brain.

Guess you’ll have to seek extra help with Agatha. 

“The thalamus is responsible for relaying sensory information to the cerebral cortex, which we’ll get to in the neomammalian brain. The hypothalamus produces hormones and regulates hunger, thirst, and—” her eyes flit to meet yours and you stare back, enraptured, “—sex.” 

A searing heat tears through you and you rock forward in your chair, the pressure on your clit shooting you back to last night in the library when you came just from doing that. 

That’s my good girl. 

If Agatha doesn’t stop, you think you might actually have an orgasm in this classroom. 

And you thought biology was boring. Just from a little emphasis on one word, your imagination is running rampant again, pulling up the same thoughts from last night with a little twist. 

Her face, flushed pink, as she looks down at you on your knees for you. Her tongue pressed against her cheek while she winds a hand in your hair. Your mouth watering because you can smell her. Her trying to stay quiet and composed but failing when you suck on her clit. 

You think you can imagine what she tastes like already. You think you could spend all day lapping at her cunt. Under her desk, in her bed, against a wall. Wherever and whenever she’d let you. You picture her coming home after a rough day at work and pushing you down to your knees, all too willing. 

A whimper threatens to escape but you quickly swallow it and try to go back to paying attention. 

“This part of the brain is mostly used for physical mobility, pursuing and eating food, migrating, defending territory, and—” another glance at you and you brace yourself, “—courting and engaging in sexual activity.” 

Do your classmates see how pointed she makes everything? A cold shiver runs through you—are you both being too obvious? You’re sure the way you ogle her isn’t subtle. 

At least you sit toward the front so no one can really see your face. But Agatha’s is on display for everyone. 

You look around the room and everyone is either staring off into space or typing on their computers. You feel a sense of relief and you exhale slowly. Agatha’s eyes twinkle when you meet them again. 

“However, this part of the brain cannot plan or think about the future. It seems to have a fixed repertoire of behaviors, just like a reptile.” 

There’s some snickers around the room but Agatha doesn’t even look up from the computer. 

She moves to the next slide. “The paleomammalian brain is the middle part of the brain. On its own, it doesn’t have much function, but it creates the limbic system with the reptilian brain. Together, they’re in charge of basic emotions, motivation, curiosity, appetite, and the sex drive.” 

Agatha doesn’t have to look at you this time because you’re already a mess and she knows it. If it was her goal to make you fall apart in class, she’s definitely succeeding. 

Next slide.

“The neomammalian brain is the front part of the brain. Here, we have the cerebral cortex and this gives us the ability to be self-aware, make plans, and use meaningful and productive language. Our cerebral cortexes are more complex than those in animals because of the more layers, more connections, more folds.” 

Even when she’s talking about the most mundane things, Agatha has a knack to make them sound positively filthy and it’s turning you into a puddle. Just the sound of her voice is affecting you more than almost anything ever has. 

She pauses to give everyone some time to write everything down. You feel her eyes on you, just watching, while you finish scrawling your notes. You’re not even sure you can read some of the things you’ve written. 

And then you look up at her. Agatha smirks knowingly—can she see what she’s doing to you?

Of course she can. 

She raises her left hand up and brushes a strand of hair out of her face slowly, specifically with her ring finger and pinkie. 

The fingers tucked beneath her waistband from the picture.

She’s fucking toying with you. 

Another shift forward puts even more pressure on your clit and you bite down on your bottom lip hard. There’s a darkening in her eyes as they dart down to your mouth. 

Agatha clears her throat again before moving on and you get a silent rush from knowing that you’re affecting her too, even if it’s less obvious. “We also have the frontal lobe, which is for associating and connecting different kinds of information and motor behavior, along with executive functioning and more complex emotions. We have the occipital lobe, which processes vision, the temporal lobe that processes hearing and verbalization, and the parietal lobe that services the other sensory systems. Both the right and the left hemisphere have each lobe.” 

All of her words go in one ear and out the other. All thoughts of falling earlier are gone. The only thing you can focus on is Agatha. 

Which, you’re starting to think, is just how she likes it. 

“All right, that seems like a good stopping point. Remember: mixer tomorrow starting at five and our first test next Friday! My office hours are in the syllabus so if you have any questions, stop on by or shoot me an email. Have a good weekend if I don’t see you tomorrow,” Agatha announces, shooting a sharp look to the boy who made the fuss about it. 

You smirk to yourself and slowly pack up your stuff, hoping for maybe more than a moment alone with your professor. 

But you don’t have to orchestrate anything. She breezes by your desk before rapping her knuckles on the surface. “My office,” she says and every single muscle inside you clenches. 

Much like in your dream, you stand up on shaky legs and follow her out. Everything feels so surreal as you walk down the hallway after her, trying your hardest not to glance down at the way her skirt hugs her ass perfectly. 

She throws open the door and stalks around to the other side of her desk, sitting in her chair. Heart pounding in time with your steps, you sit across from her and place your bag on the floor under the desk. 

Agatha regards you for a second and you try not to squirm under her intense gaze. What is she thinking? Are you in trouble for something? Your scrapes start to itch now but you resist the urge to scratch. 

Instead, your nail finds its way to your mouth and you chew on it while you await her judgement. 

“You’ll be at the mixer tomorrow?” she asks finally and you feel the tension start to slowly seep out of your muscles before nodding. 

“What time should I get there?” 

She tosses her head side to side, evaluating. “The earlier you get there, the more likely it is to get some one-on-one time with graduate professors and Dr. Calderu.” 

“Will you be there then?” you ask, the hope in your voice betraying you. But Agatha just smiles and leans back in her chair, her hand coming up to tuck a piece of hair behind her ears. 

You try to not pay that much attention to it. 

“I’ll be there the whole time,” she reassures you and you’re considering staying the entire time. Would that make a good impression? 

You find that you don’t really care how everyone else perceives it—all that matters is that you’d get to spend all that time with Agatha. Or at least near her. 

She flicks her wrist. “Have you given any more thought to what program you’d be interested in?” 

Oh. Agatha did tell you to stop by her office sometime this week to talk about grad school. You’re just realizing that you never did. 

And you didn’t exactly do any research either. 

“Um, I haven’t looked yet,” you tell her sheepishly, crossing a leg over the other. Her eyes track the way your skirt rides up on your thigh and you can feel the fabric between your thighs getting even wetter. “I’ve been a little busy.” 

Agatha smirks. “I’ll bet you have.” She pushes back her chair and stands before strutting over to stop right in front of you. 

You look up at her through hooded eyelashes and bite your lip, afraid to move much more. Something flashes over her face. 

She reaches out in slow motion—or maybe that’s just how you’re seeing it—and tugs your bottom lip free with her thumb. She stays like that. 

“Were you too busy showing off at the bar with your friend?” she murmurs and your breath hitches. But Agatha isn’t done and she starts to stroke her tongue over your lip, spreading heat everywhere through your body. “Or maybe you were too busy moaning my name when you were with her.” 

Her coffee and vanilla and spice scent swirls around you and threatens to overwhelm you. 

Black Opium. 

It’s just as addictive as her. 

You squeeze your thighs together and exhale at the pressure on your clit. 

What would she say if you came right here, completely untouched from just her words? From just her smell?

“Or…” she drawls, eyes lighting up and thumbnail sinking into the inside of your lip, “were you too busy being naughty in the library last night?” 

Possessed by something—desire or lust or foolishness—you surge up so you’re standing face-to-face with her. Her eyebrow twitches and her hand drops. 

“Just as naughty as you were, Professor,” you rasp and her mouth parts, her tongue presses against the back of her top two front teeth. She looks surprised but delighted. 

“What am I going to do with you?” she asks rhetorically, scanning all of your features like she’s trying to decide right now. 

One more thing. That’s all you have to say to seal the deal. Her pupils are swallowing all the blue in her eyes and you think she might be close to breaking. 

You look down at her lips, feeling strangely out of your body. “Whatever you want,” you whisper, like you’re afraid that if you say it too loudly, you’ll break the spell. 

She chuckles darkly before humming, “Good girl.” 

And then you lean in and she leans in, a magnetic attraction bringing you together and just as you’re about to meet in the middle, she stops. It’s as if a switch flips and you know it too.

“Honey,” she says, rather gently, you think, for someone who’s about to step on your heart, “I—we can’t—” 

At least Agatha has the decency to look a little upset about it. 

“Yeah, no, fuck—I’m sorry,” you stutter and step back and hit the backs of your knees on the chair which sends it skidding back with a screech. “You’re my professor and I’m your student and you said we had to wait, I just thought…I just wanted…” But you stop talking because there’s no point in trying to justify anything anymore. 

Her rejection stings you more than the injuries she helped you clean up just an hour ago and your face burns with shame all over again. 

Agatha reaches out for you but before she can touch you, the door opens and Rio enters. 

Just because things weren’t already bad enough. 

Rio halts and looks between the two of you and you quickly grab your tote bag from the ground. Agatha slumps back to perch against her desk with mild amusement written on her face. 

“Everything okay?” Rio asks in a guarded tone. 

You spare one last look at Agatha, who arches an eyebrow at you. “Yeah, fine,” you choke out. “Thanks, Professor Harkness.” 

Her mouth twitches at your iciness but doesn’t say anything as you walk past Rio and into the hallway. 

Rio catches your eye right before she closes the door and there’s a hint of pity but also awareness. Like she knows something you don’t. 

But the door clicks shut and you’re left alone in the corridor. 

The walk back to your dorm feels infinite. You knew you had to wait—Agatha even said that—but you still feel so sorely disappointed. 

Like you were so close to getting what you wanted. And she wanted it to. You both were spinning out of control and, of course, she was the one to regain it. 

What am I going to do with you?

Did she say that because she thinks you’re a loose cannon? 

What if she decides that you’re not worth the trouble, that you’re too desperate? 

You steel your face and grit your teeth. You can do better—you will do better. You will not be the one to break. 

You can be patient.  

But your resolve feels hollow now. 

And just as you get back to your dorm room, your phone buzzes in your bag. You have a sneaky feeling you know who it is. 

Agatha.

I’m sorry, hon. 

It should make you feel better, but it doesn’t really. You chew on your nails and contemplate a response. 

Her bubble pops back up. 

If it made you feel any better, that outfit made it very hard to keep my hands off you.

Despite her rejection, you feel the flickering heat inside your stomach roar back to life. 

And then Agatha sends another text. 

Wear something nice for me again tomorrow night, won’t you? 

She’s playing with fire—both of you are. Especially because she set that boundary.

But you can’t find it in yourself to care. 

Of course, Professor ;)

Taglist: @lostbutlovely33 @diorrxckstar @whoreforolderfictionalwomen  @katekathry @onemansdreamisanothermansdeath @tayasmellsapples @natashashill @mybraininblood @mysticalmoonlight7  @cactuslover2600 @loveem0mo @readysteddiero-nance @lonelyhalfwitch @lesbiantortilla @crescendoofstars @sol-in-wonderland @ahsfan05 @gbab09 @sasheemo @agathaharness @live-laugh-love-lupone @chiar4anna @fuckedupforkhahn @lowlyjelly @sweetmidnights @n3bula-cats @m1vfs @agathascoven1 @filmedbyharkness @autbot @claramelooo @dandelions4us @agathaallalongg @jujuu23 @21cannibal @angel-kitten-babygirl-u-choose @jeridandridge @hannibalcanniballz @chloeelou02x @hapuchika @xblinkx2

[harknessxo]

The psychology of love (Part 8)

You deal with the fallout of your mishap with Morgan

Word count: 4.7k

Warnings: semi-public masturbation (kind of?)

Morgan’s fingers freeze against your throbbing cunt and then she slowly withdraws her hand from between your legs. You brace yourself, expecting her to slap you, but she just takes a step back. 

“Morgan, I—” But you stop, because what do you say? I’m really sorry I moaned my professor’s name, I promise it won’t happen again? You settle on lamely apologizing. “Fuck, I’m really sorry.” 

She regards you for a second, a steely calm look in her green eyes now, and you almost rather her hit you or scream at you or tell you to get out. The lack of reaction from her is startling, to say the least. 

“It’s fine,” Morgan says simply and your mouth drops open. 

“You’re not mad, or—” 

She runs a hand through her hair and laughs bitterly. “Well, I’m not exactly thrilled that you’re moaning some other woman’s name when I’m trying to fuck you.” 

You take a sudden interest in your socks and you scuff your toes against her floor. “She’s—the woman—it’s not—” 

“I don’t want to know,” Morgan cuts you off and you look up in surprise. She shrugs helplessly and guilt starts gnawing at your insides. “I don’t really care if she’s an ex or someone you like right now or whatever. The point is, you weren’t thinking about me and I’m not foolish enough to think I can change that.” 

“I’m sorry,” you repeat. 

Morgan purses her lips and shrugs. “You could’ve just told me you didn’t want to be with me. You didn’t have to put us into places we both didn’t want to be in.” 

Your head hangs low again. “I know. I should’ve. I’m not really good at…that.” 

A part of you is filled with regret and remorse for how it happened—Morgan deserves a lot better than this, than you. But, and you feel awful for it, there’s a sense of relief that’s spreading through you. She won’t be led on anymore and you don’t have to feel guilty over leading her on. 

It’s a hollow, selfish victory, you know that. But Agatha’s triumphant smirk flashes in your head and it makes the way you’re feeling just the slightest bit better. 

Morgan walks to her bedroom door and opens it, clearly telling you to get out. “Maybe I’ll see you around,” she says, but her tone is flat. 

“I really am sorry,” you parrot for the third time, as if you say it enough times, it will erase what you did. 

She holds your gaze and in this light, she’s never looked more different from your professor. “I know.” 

The addicting scent of her perfume doesn’t even faze you as you walk out of her room, down the hallway, and to the front door of her apartment. You could call an Uber back to your dorm, but it’s only about half a mile away, so you decide a walk will be good to clear your head. 

You’re finally able to breathe since you ran into Agatha at the bar. Ever since then, you’ve been on high alert, aware of everything, and turned on beyond words. You had been so close to getting relief but then you had fucked it up. Your only hope is that your dorm room is empty. 

The memory of Agatha is still fresh and hot in your mind. The way she hesitated for a moment when you reminded her that she said you had to wait, the way she cut you off from finishing your sentence like it was too much to bear.

The way her face changed when you said her name. Agatha. Like you had gotten through to her, through her mask of self-control. 

Tell me you think about me when you’re with her.

Was she unsure? 

Or did she just want the power of making you say it outloud? 

And why had she simply walked away from you? 

There were a million different reasons, you scold yourself. Even though you were in the alleyway, you were still outside in a public place. Anyone could’ve walked by—including her colleagues. Two of them knew who you were too, so there was no pretending you were just a random girl if they had seen. 

Maybe, and you hope it isn’t true, it was just an ego-boost for her. Make you admit the truth and then leave you? You don’t think she would do that though but there was no denying the cocky expression on her face. She certainly got some sort of rush out of it. 

But maybe the most important reason is that you are still her student. Toying with you might be all that she feels that she can do without really crossing a line and breaking that university rule. 

It just seems like she’s trying to get you to break, trying to see how obedient you can be. 

And while you do want to be a good girl for her—you see the flash of Agatha murmuring good girl after you took a sip of her drink and it sends tingles down your spine—you’re not sure how long you’ll really be able to wait. 

But you know that she at least somewhat likes you back. She lost control for a second seeing you and Morgan dance and kiss…it makes your clit throb. The chilly air does little to cool you off, the fire inside you still blazing. 

If you called Agatha right now, would she come pick you up? You imagine getting into her car, as you’ve done a few times before now, but then her pulling you over the center console into her lap. Her lips finding yours in the dark, her hands stroking up and down your bare thighs. You can almost feel her touch right now. 

The smell of her perfume—only Agatha's now—still floats in your mind, mingling with the dark scent of her whiskey from her breath when she leaned in to whisper in your ear. If you close your eyes, it’s like she’s right in front of you. 

But you don’t call her because you wouldn’t know what to say if you did. 

So you just keep trudging back to your dorm, the exhaustion of the last few days suddenly hitting you like a train. Adrenaline has been coursing through your veins since Agatha put her phone number in her email signoff last Friday and you feel like your brain has been moving a hundred miles a second to figure out the signals she was sending. 

And you do really feel bad for what happened with Morgan. You shouldn’t have been leading her on, but moaning Agatha’s name while Morgan was fucking you? 

Your professor is really messing with your mind. 

All you want to do is collapse into your bed and sleep for the next twelve hours. You’ve gotten insight into Agatha’s feelings and closure with Morgan so you finally feel like you can let some of your anxiety go. 

The hallway on your floor in the dorm building is thankfully empty, but your room isn’t. 

Illuminated by just the glow of a laptop screen, Wanda and Natasha are cuddling in your roommate’s bed, dozing off but they jolt up when they hear you open the door. They’re watching a movie, by the sound of it. Your heart longs for a relationship like theirs—will you and Agatha ever cuddle and watch a movie? 

“There’s our Casanova,” Wanda says and you can hear the smirk in her voice. They had both known you were going out with Morgan tonight but you’re really hoping you can escape questioning. 

“Back so soon?” Nat asks slyly, sitting up. 

It would appear not. 

You kick off your shoes, cross the room, and jump up on your bed. Wanda leans over to turn on her bedside lamp and you wince at the bright light. They both move to sit criss-cross facing you now and you already know how this is going to go. 

Kicking your feet back and forth, you look at them sheepishly. “It didn’t really go well. Um, we’re done.” 

Wanda gasps dramatically and you bite your thumbnail, refusing to meet their eyes. 

“Well, what happened?” Nat demands and you shrug. “Did she meet someone at the bar? Oh—did you meet someone?” 

Your cheeks heat up but you shake your head. 

Wanda hums thoughtfully. “Did you…spill your drink on her?” Nat gives her a questioning look and Wanda raises her hands up in defense. 

“Was the sex bad?” Nat asks and you grimace. 

Because it’s clear they’re not going to drop it, you tell them. “I may have moaned someone else’s name.” 

Their synchronous “What!” makes you drop your head into your hands with a groan. Nat breaks into hysterical giggles and Wanda raps her on the arm. 

“Whose name?” Wanda asks in a hushed voice. 

After you don’t answer—because how can you?—Nat nods solemnly. “Was it my name?” 

You give her a deadpan stare. “Yeah, Nat. I moaned your name.” She tsks and Wanda rolls her eyes. “No, it was, um, just some other woman.” They both raise an eyebrow at your lame answer.  

���Do you like someone else?” Wanda probes and you chew on your nails. My professor, who sort of confirmed that she wants me back tonight doesn’t seem like an answer that would go over well. 

So you lie: “No, it was just an old hook-up. I think I got caught up in the moment.” And it makes you seem even more like a jerk than you already are, which is confirmed by Nat’s low whistle. 

“That’s fucked up,” she says and you purse your lips in agreement. Regardless of whose name it was, it is fucked up. You make a mental note to apologize to Morgan again. 

“Are you okay?” Wanda’s gentle tone almost makes you break. There has been so much going on, you’ve been in a complete whirlwind of emotions, and it’s finally catching up to you. 

You nod. “Yeah, I’m just really fucking exhausted.”

“All right, well we’ll let you get some sleep. Try not to moan anyone else’s name while you’re dreaming,” Nat snickers and you glare at her. She blows a kiss and you fondly roll your eyes before grabbing a change of clothes and your bag of toiletries and going to the bathroom. 

Your movements are dazed and slow but eventually you get changed into sweatpants and a ratty t-shirt and brush your teeth before making your way back to your room. Wanda and Nat have turned off the light and resumed their movie, but the volume is way lower. 

They murmur a good night to you and you return it as you plug your charger into your phone. It lights up with no notifications and the thought of texting Agatha crosses your mind. 

In the end, you decide to leave her be. The last thing you want to do is appear clingy or desperate, even though you are very much both at the moment. Pretending to be unbothered might be the best thing for you, and it might even drive her a little crazy. 

You expect to fall asleep the moment your head hits the pillow, but instead you lie awake for what seems like hours, just replaying your encounter with Agatha over and over. 

Eventually, the quiet noise of the movie drowns out your thoughts and you drift off, only to dream about your professor too. 

——

The next night, the campus library is almost empty when you get there. You have two discussion posts and a quiz for Physiological Psych the next day and you’re determined to crank out the homework and study. Wanda and Nat are in your room and you do not want a repeat of last night. Plus you’re always more productive when you’re in a public place like this, even if there’s no one here. 

For a second, you wonder if Agatha will just magically appear and find you, because she seems to have a knack for doing just that. 

You really hope she does. You haven’t been able to stop thinking about her and you wonder if she’s obsessing over you in the same way. 

A heavy heat pools in your core at just the thought of her. You never got relief from last night with Wanda and Nat interrogating you once you got home, and today you had classes and no time to go back to your dorm to take care of yourself. 

It wouldn’t take very long at all, just reminiscing about your professor last night, the dark, jealous look in her eye, and a few presses to your clit. Maybe a whiff of her perfume. 

Hopefully you can get some privacy when you get to your dorm tonight. You desperately need it, especially because you have to see Agatha tomorrow in class. You’re not exactly sure how you’re going to make eye contact with her, especially after what happened with Morgan. Agatha might be able to tell from just looking at you, you think. 

Will she act any differently? A line was crossed last night, there’s no denying that. She could pretend it didn’t happen or—

You won’t let yourself get carried away with imagining her asking you to stay after class before kissing you senseless because she just can’t stop thinking about you. 

There’s a secluded nook with a table for two on the third floor and you sit down on the uncomfortable wooden chair before pulling out your laptop and your notebook. You pull the directions for the discussion posts and groan when you see you have to reply to three classmates after making your initial post about a video. 

The worst sentence for any college kid to read on an assignment. 

You plug your headphones into your computer and press play, getting ready to take notes. Physiological Psych is probably your least favorite class—you’ve never been good at anatomy or biology or memorizing that kind of stuff, so you really need to pay attention. 

It also doesn’t bode well for the Biological approach in Agatha’s class. Once she starts talking about axons and dendrites and the hypothalamus, you’re completely lost. But at least there’s some overlap in these two classes at the moment, which might make it a little easier on you. 

You do, however, miss talking about Trait theory. It seemed like she was able to slip in a lot of hidden meanings specifically toward you, which you feel comfortable saying was on purpose after last night, but it’s a lot harder to make an innuendo out of neurotransmitters. 

Although you certainly won’t put it past her. 

Right as you’re scribbling down something from the video onto your paper, your phone buzzes. You ignore it until you finish the sentence, assuming it’s just Wanda asking when you’re coming back to the room. 

But when you finally look at it, your heart stops. It’s from Agatha. 

Did you get home okay last night? 

You almost laugh. It’s been almost twenty-four hours since you saw her and she’s just thinking to check now. A lot of good it’d do if you hadn’t. 

Smirking, you pick up your phone. 

I did. How about you? You left pretty quickly. 

You picture her delighted expression when the read receipt pops up immediately. She seems to like it when you go toe-to-toe with her. Will she bring up the conversation you had outside the bar?

The bubble pops up and then disappears and you chew on your lip, video forgotten. She starts typing again. 

Couldn’t have you thinking your little stunt worked. 

Heat flashes through your body and you feel a slickness growing between your thighs. 

Your fingers hover over the keys while you figure out how to respond.

Didn’t it? 

It’s bold, dangerous, and venturing into the same territory you were last night when you said yes. But you’re feeling particularly brave now, knowing that she wants you back. 

Agatha doesn’t read it right away and after a few minutes without a response, you turn back to your homework. It’s only about seven-thirty at night, she’s probably eating dinner or grading or something, even if you want her attention all on you. 

Your phone vibrates but you don’t look at it yet, telling yourself it’ll be a reward for getting through the video because if you stop now, you’re never going to finish your work. 

It’s the longest eight minutes of your life but you finally finish jotting down the rest of your thoughts on your paper. Heart pounding, you tap on the screen. 

Looking to cause trouble again? 

When you squeeze your legs together, the pressure on your clit has you gasping. You’re already sensitive. 

There’s a few different ways you could reply to this and you feel your heartbeat in your throat as you type one out. It might be pushing it a little, but you want to. 

Me? Of course not. I’m just in the library studying and being a good girl. 

Your cunt clenches when you hit send and then you write something else. 

What about you, Professor? 

Your mouth waters while you eagerly await her response. You picture her tongue pressed against her cheek while she chuckles to herself at your boldness. Does she like you like this? 

Maybe. Although you definitely know she likes to be in control, if last night was any indication. You can still see the way her face morphed back to normal as she regained her composure after snapping. 

Meanwhile, you moaned her name while Morgan’s fingers were inside you. 

Two days ago, you were so sure that you’d be able to wait until the end of the semester to finally have her. You could be patient, obedient, and most of all, her good girl. 

But now? 

Temptation dances in your head and does funny things to your thoughts. Even though you know that she would be risking her job and could get in serious trouble, there’s a part of you that doesn’t care. 

It would just have to be a secret. 

But you know that’s wrong—you can’t ask her to do that for you. You won’t, no matter how much you want to. Even if the temptation burns you alive first. 

Your phone buzzes and your breath catches. 

Oh, not much. Just laying in bed. 

Fuck. 

Fuck. 

Fuck. 

A callback to last night? It’s almost eight now. 

And then you wonder if she waited until now to start this conversation with you just so she could make that reference and let you know exactly what she’s doing. You’re suddenly so certain that’s what she did. 

Fire ignites in your stomach and you’re suddenly breaking out in a sweat and cautiously looking around to make sure no one is watching, even if you’re not doing anything wrong. 

You’re all alone. 

Shifting forward in your chair to ponder how to respond, you accidentally rock your clit against the seat and a small gasp escapes you. You chew on your fingernail while you stare holes into your phone screen. The words blur together after a while and your chest heaves rapidly. 

Reading the newspaper? 

You hit send before you can think about it and can almost hear her laughing. Your stomach twists and turns and you feel like you’re floating above your body while you wait. 

It doesn’t take long. 

Not exactly. 

And then there’s a picture and your heart stops. Her face isn’t in it, nothing identifying is, but it’s obvious that it’s still her. She’s laying down, like she said, with the camera pointed at her body. She’s wearing a loose gray t-shirt and a pair of olive green shorts that end midway down her thighs. Her pale skin against the lavender bedspread makes your clit pulse. 

But what really makes your breath catch is her hand. 

Her left hand is splayed out on her stomach, skin tight over blue veins, and the tips of her pinkie and ring finger are tucked beneath the hem of her shorts. 

Like she didn’t just make your mind go blank, another notification from her pops up and you barely register it because you’re too busy ogling her. Which you know was fully intended.  

How’s your friend from last night? 

The absurdity of the question makes you laugh. Agatha doesn’t know anything about what happened with you and Morgan and yet she still worms her way into your brain and knows exactly what to ask to get to you. 

You chew on your lip. You could be coy about it and try to make her jealous. But that didn’t work as well as you were hoping for outside the bar, even if it has led to some developments between you and her. 

Maybe she’ll reward you for being honest. 

So you lay your cards on the table. 

We ended things last night. 

Agatha reads it immediately and quickly sends an:

Oh? 

You picture her sitting up in bed now, suddenly intrigued to find out more. You wonder if her hand has delved any further into her shorts. 

Adrenaline rushes through your veins and you rock forward again on the chair as you consider what to send next. Heat floods through your body and there’s sparks in your clit. 

There’s a dizzying sensation in your head as you type out your next message. You’re scared to send it, scared of how she’ll react. The boundaries are already being pushed—she’s already risking a lot just by texting you like this. 

You scroll back up to the picture. 

Agatha wouldn’t have sent it if she didn’t like you. 

Agatha wouldn’t have stormed out of the bar last night if she didn’t like you. 

Agatha wouldn’t have done any of the stuff she has if she didn’t like you. 

You send the message. You’ve already admitted that you think about her when you’re with Morgan, why not go even further?

Yeah, something about me moaning another woman’s name didn’t sit well with her. 

The read receipt appears and you feel like you’re about to throw up. You wonder how she’s reacting to that, if she’s given in and started touching herself. You slowly roll your hips against the chair and feel the delicious pressure on your clit. 

A quick glance around confirms that you’re still alone. Your table is tucked away and rows of bookshelves line your vision. 

Accepting the fact that you’re going to come in the library like that is actually pretty easy, especially when Agatha writes back: 

Someone in particular on your mind? 

Like she doesn’t fucking know. 

It would almost be annoying how she keeps drawing it out like this, how she makes you spell it out like she isn’t fully aware of how she’s driving you crazy, if you weren’t so turned on by it. 

Because it seems like Agatha needs you to say it. Like she gets off on you admitting it. 

Is she rubbing her clit right now, watching her phone with bated breath to see how you’ll reply? Is she getting as much out of this as you are? 

Is the power in your hands right now?

Maybe. 

You send it with trembling hands. She reads it immediately and you feel yourself get even hotter. 

Are there cameras in the library? If you sneak a hand between your legs, even over your pants, will anyone know? You tilt forward so you’re sitting straight, your clit pressed right against the hard surface of the wooden chair. It throbs and you feel your heartbeat in your core. Your underwear is sticking uncomfortably to you because of how wet you are and god—you wish you had the vial of Black Opium with you. 

Although you can smell it even without it, the coffee and vanilla and spice, and you let out a small gasp again. Tension builds in your lower back and core and your clit is so sensitive, too sensitive. 

You can almost see Agatha right now, head thrown back on her pillows, dark hair strewn under her. Her back arched off the lavender duvet as her left hand works furiously in her shorts. The muscles in her neck taut and tight. Her nipples poking through her shirt.

As she touches herself because of you. 

Agatha finally texts back and you swallow to get moisture back into your dry throat. It seems like all of it has rushed south and is pooling in your underwear. 

Be a good girl and tell me. 

Your cunt clenches around nothing and you sink your teeth into your bottom lip to stop a strangled moan from escaping. You can hear her saying it in that delicious, husky voice of hers. 

The bubble pops back up, the three dots staring right back at you, but they quickly disappear. 

What was she going to say? 

Was she going to ask again? 

The image of her right on the edge flashes in your mind and stays there, uprooting any sanity you have left. She’s working herself closer and closer and she just needs this final thing… 

You give it to her. 

You. 

The confession is read instantaneously and you wish you could see her right now. You picture her face contorted in pleasure, mouth agape, eyes closed and a dangerous heat flushes through you. 

You scroll back up to the picture and imagine her hand—those fingers, god—on your body, teasing you, finally giving you what you want. 

But the image of her overtakes you again. 

You rut against the chair without even realizing it, movements becoming more and more stuttered as you think about her falling apart for you. 

Because of you. 

It’s a few minutes later before she texts back while you’re now in a state of frenzy, clit pulsing and throbbing, walls clenching around nothing, absolutely soaked—absolutely ruined. 

But when she does respond, that’s all it takes to have you writhing on the chair in pleasure. 

That’s my good girl. 

One hand grips the table and you sink your teeth into a finger on your other hand to muffle your sounds as your orgasm tears through your body right there in the campus library. 

Her good girl. 

Hers. 

The words echo around in your vision, a permanent tattoo now in your brain, and you’d give anything for her to say that out loud. 

How are you supposed to wait until December? Is Agatha just going to keep toying with you like this until then? Because you might actually go crazy. 

Is it hard for her, too? She seems like the kind of person who gets what she wants, so is she taking little morsels until she can have all of you? 

You don’t know what to think, but all you know is that waiting might be the death of you. 

She texts you again and you frantically grab your phone to read it. 

I’ll see you in class tomorrow, hon ;)

Your clit pulses against the chair again as you stare blankly at your screen. Leave it to Agatha to make you into a complete and utter mess—in the library, nonetheless—and then brush it off like that.

One thing is for certain, though. She has you wrapped around her fingers in an irrevocable way. 

Not that you mind one bit.

You pull your forgotten computer and notebook back over to you and wake your laptop up. It comes to life on the discussion post. 

Swallowing roughly, you get back to work and try to keep your thoughts from straying to your professor. 

It doesn’t work well, but you finally get everything done. You’re not expecting too high of a grade on this quiz, but you don’t care at this point because you get to see Agatha tomorrow. 

The dynamic between you has certainly changed and you’re excited and nervous to see what that brings. 

Your underwear sticks to your swollen cunt the whole back to your dorm, just a constant reminder of the intoxicating effect she has on you.

As if you really needed it to be spelled out. 

Taglist: @lostbutlovely33 @diorrxckstar @whoreforolderfictionalwomen  @katekathry @onemansdreamisanothermansdeath @tayasmellsapples @natashashill @mybraininblood @mysticalmoonlight7  @cactuslover2600 @loveem0mo @readysteddiero-nance @lonelyhalfwitch @lesbiantortilla @crescendoofstars @sol-in-wonderland @ahsfan05 @gbab09 @sasheemo @agathaharness @live-laugh-love-lupone @chiar4anna @fuckedupforkhahn @lowlyjelly @sweetmidnights @n3bula-cats @m1vfs @agathascoven1 @filmedbyharkness @autbot @claramelooo @dandelions4us @agathaallalongg @jujuu23 @21cannibal @angel-kitten-babygirl-u-choose @jeridandridge @hannibalcanniballz @chloeelou02x @hapuchika

[harknessxo]

You Were Never Mine to Lose (Chapter 14)

Synopsis: You thought everything was finally falling into place—every glance, every unspoken word, exactly how you imagined it. But just when you start to believe in it, reality hits you like a cruel joke, and suddenly, everything changes.

Word count: 11.9K

Warnings: Sexual tension, Mention of alcohol consumption, Mild language, Angst

A/N: HUGE thanks for your patience with Chapter 14! I made it longer just for you guys, so I hope you enjoy it! Thank you, thank you, thank you for reading and supporting my work, it means the world to me! Love you all♡

The first thing you feel is warmth. 

Not just the soft blanket draped over you, but Agatha’s bare skin against yours. Her breath is slow and steady, her arm draped lazily over your waist, fingers tracing absentminded patterns along your hip. The weight of her, the way her legs are tangled with yours—it makes your chest tighten. 

Then, it all comes back. 

The desperation. The whispered name. The way she touched you like she’d been starving for you. The way you gave in without hesitation. You close your eyes, inhaling deeply, trying to process the reality of it. 

You shift slightly, and that’s when you feel it—Agatha’s lips brushing against your shoulder. A slow, lazy kiss. “You awake?” she murmurs, her voice still thick with sleep. 

You swallow, pulse thrumming in your throat. “Yeah.” 

She hums, fingers tracing little circles on your skin. “You’re quiet.” 

“I’m thinking.” 

Agatha smirks against your shoulder. “Dangerous habit.” 

You roll your eyes, but you can’t fight the small smile tugging at your lips. She shifts beside you, propping herself up on one elbow to study you. There’s something unreadable in her expression, something softer than usual. 

Then— 

“HELLO? Y/N? AGATHA?” 

You jolt upright. 

Outside the tent, Jen’s voice is far too close. “Get your asses up, we’re heading back soon!” 

Panic rushes through you like a tidal wave. 

Your clothes. Where the hell are your clothes? 

You scramble to sit up, clutching the blanket against you, eyes darting around the dim tent. Your underwear is tangled somewhere in the sheets, your shirt is nowhere in sight, and Agatha— 

Agatha is still lying there, watching you with an infuriating smirk. 

“Are you just gonna sit there? Help me!” you hiss. 

“I like the view,” she muses, stretching leisurely. 

You throw the blanket at her face. “Not helping.” 

She laughs, finally sitting up. “Alright, alright.” 

The knocking on the tent’s fabric grows more insistent. “Hurry up! Seriously!” 

You don’t have time for this. You’re moving frantically, grabbing whatever clothing you can find, and Agatha is only slightly more helpful as she lazily pulls on her own clothes. You catch glimpses of her—flushed skin, marks left by your mouth, the way she keeps glancing at you like she’s committing you to memory. 

Finally, somehow, you’re dressed. But your shirt is inside out, Agatha’s hair is a mess, and you both look thoroughly fucked. 

Fantastic. 

Taking a deep breath, you step outside. 

Wanda is standing there with her arms crossed, giving you both a once-over. Jen, sipping on her water bottle, raises an eyebrow. There’s a pause. A very long pause. 

“Morning,” you say, forcing a casual smile. 

No one buys it. 

Agatha, the absolute menace, stretches and sighs like she had the best sleep of her life. “Beautiful morning, isn’t it?” 

Wanda narrows her eyes but doesn’t press. She doesn’t know what exactly happened, but she has her guesses. Still, she doesn’t question it—yet. 

You want to disappear into the earth. 

On the walk back, Agatha nudges you playfully. “Think we got away with it?” 

You scoff. “Not a chance.” 

She grins. “Wanna make a bet?” 

You shake your head. “Absolutely not.” 

But her fingers brush against yours, just briefly, and for a second, it’s easy to pretend. 

For a moment, you let yourself believe this means something. 

Then Agatha’s phone vibrates. 

You glance down instinctively. You see the name before she quickly locks the screen. 

Ralph. 

Your stomach twists. 

You tell yourself it’s nothing. Ralph and Agatha are over now. You don’t need to worry, right? 

The van ride back to Malibu Creek State Park Campground is… tense. Not in a bad way, but in the way where every little movement feels charged. You and Agatha end up side by side in the backseat, squeezed in a little too close thanks to everyone else piling in first. 

Her thigh is pressed against yours. Her hand is resting on her lap, fingers twitching slightly, like she’s debating something. 

You glance at her. “Comfortable?” 

Agatha smirks. “Very. You?” 

“Could use a little more space,” you tease, shifting slightly—but it only makes your legs brush even more. 

Agatha tilts her head. “Liar. You like it.” 

You scoff, but before you can retort, she leans in just enough for her breath to ghost against your ear. “Relax. No one suspects a thing.” 

Your heart stumbles. “Oh yeah? Wanda was practically burning holes into us earlier.” 

Agatha chuckles. “Wanda has her guesses, sure. But she won’t say anything unless she’s sure.” 

“Then let’s not give her any proof.” 

Agatha hums in amusement but doesn’t pull away. Instead, she shifts just slightly—so her pinky brushes yours. A deliberate touch. A test. 

You should pull away. But you don’t. 

Instead, you let your fingers barely, just barely, curl around hers. Not enough for anyone to see. Just enough for both of you to feel it. 

She exhales softly, pleased. 

Back at the resort, everything is different. 

As soon as you arrive, Jen claps her hands together. “Alright, everyone, listen up! Party at my villa, 8 PM sharp! And before you ask—yes, there will be alcohol, yes, there will be snacks, and yes, there will be male strippers.” 

Excited murmurs erupt from the group. Some are already talking about what they’re going to wear. You, however, just blink. 

Male strippers. 

Fantastic. 

You don’t react outwardly, but internally, you sigh. You have no interest in that kind of entertainment—not that anyone here needs an explanation. Instead, you force a chuckle and mumble something noncommittal before heading to your villa. 

Once inside, you kick off your shoes and collapse onto the bed. Your phone buzzes. 

A message from Rio. 

Rio: Hey, how's your day going? 

You hesitate for a moment, fingers hovering over the screen. It’s been a long day already, and you’re not sure how to sum it up in a text. 

And then another message follows— 

Rio: Are you not busy today? 

Your lips press together as you stare at the messages. Before you can even think of how to respond, another notification pops up. 

Agatha: Hey... so... uh, are you free today? I mean, if you're not busy... or, you know, if you want to. 

Another message follows almost immediately. 

Agatha: Actually—never mind, that sounded weird. What I meant was... I was thinking I could pick you up. Just for a bit. If you’re up for it? 

Another pause. Then— 

Agatha: Not that I’m desperate or anything. Just thought it might be nice. 

You smirk, shaking your head before typing. 

You: Governor Harkness, stumbling over her words? Shouldn’t you be exuding confidence? 

Agatha: Excuse you, I am always confident. 

You: Sure. That’s why you’re texting like a nervous high schooler. 

Agatha: Consider this a rare invitation. Don't waste it.  

You: Oh wow, what an honor. 

Agatha: Damn right it is. So, you coming or not? 

Your fingers hover over the keyboard for a second longer than necessary. 

You: Fine. Pick me up. 

Her response comes quickly. 

Agatha: Be ready in an hour. Wear something nice. 

Your pulse skips. You set your phone down, exhaling slowly. 

Rio’s message lingers unanswered. 

You went upstairs to your bedroom, your phone still in hand as Agatha’s last message lingers on the screen. A small, amused smile tugs at your lips before you toss the phone onto the bed, exhaling slowly. Your heart is beating just a little faster than it should. This is a date. There’s no use pretending otherwise. 

You head for the bathroom, twisting the shower knob until steam begins to curl through the air. The moment the warm water hits your skin, you sigh, letting it wash away the remnants of sleep and the tangled thoughts in your head. But they creep back in almost instantly. Agatha wanted to take you out. Agatha. The woman who used to be so off-limits you had to shove down every feeling before it could even form properly. But now, here she is, asking you out like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And maybe it is. 

You press your forehead against the cool tile, inhaling deeply. What does this mean for the two of you? For everything? You shake your head. Overthinking isn’t going to help. It’s happening. That’s all that matters. 

The water feels good, but your nerves still hum beneath your skin. You wash your hair twice, even though once would have been enough. You take a little extra time shaving, exfoliating, making sure you feel soft, fresh. You tell yourself it’s just part of getting ready, but deep down, you know it’s more than that. You want to feel good, to be confident—not just for yourself, but for her. 

Shaking off the thoughts, you turn off the shower and wrap yourself in a towel, stepping into your bedroom. You wipe the condensation from the mirror, staring at your reflection. Your hair drips onto your shoulders, and you tilt your head slightly, scrutinizing yourself. You need to look good. Not just presentable—good. You sift through your luggage, pulling out and discarding outfit after outfit, your pulse quickening. It’s ridiculous how much you care. But of course, you care. 

You pause, holding up a dress against your body in the mirror. Too much? You shake your head and try another. Too casual. Another. Too formal. Another. Too… safe. You roll your eyes at yourself, muttering under your breath. 

“God, get a grip.” 

After what feels like forever, you settle on a black satin slip dress from Saint Laurent—effortlessly elegant, skimming over your body in all the right ways. The neckline dips just enough to be intriguing, the hem brushing mid-thigh, teasing without trying too hard. You smooth the fabric over your hips, adjusting the straps, making sure everything sits just right. For shoes, you choose a pair of Louboutin heels—sleek, classic, adding just the right amount of height. Then, jewelry—a delicate Cartier bracelet, small diamond studs, something subtle but intentional, something that catches the light just enough to be noticed. A hint of Tom Ford’s Soleil Blanc at your wrists, your collarbone. You don’t want it to be overpowering, but you want her to notice when she leans in. 

As you give yourself one last glance in the mirror, you take in the way you look today—something expectant, something quietly thrilled. Your lips curve, just slightly, as your fingers briefly skim over your wrist, feeling the delicate weight of the bracelet. It’s subtle, but enough. 

You grab your phone, checking the time. Any minute now. 

Instead of heading straight for the door, you sink onto the couch, smoothing down the front of your dress as you try to steady your nerves. The anticipation hums in your veins, a quiet, insistent buzz that makes it impossible to sit still. You cross one leg over the other, then uncross them. Your fingers drum absently against the cushion before you clasp them together in your lap, pressing down as if that might keep the restless energy at bay. 

The air in the villa feels heavier now, charged with something unspoken. You glance at the door, at the warm afternoon light filtering through the curtains. She’ll be here soon. You inhale deeply, exhale slowly, willing yourself to stay calm. But calm isn’t exactly what you feel. 

Ten minutes pass. The waiting feels longer than it should, stretching thin with every second. Just as you shift in your seat, trying to steady your nerves, a knock echoes through the villa. 

Your breath catches. 

She’s here. 

You stand up, smoothing your dress one last time before making your way to the door. Your fingers hesitate on the handle for just a second, a fleeting moment of nerves curling in your stomach. But then you inhale deeply, steady yourself, and pull it open. 

And there she is. 

Agatha stands on the other side, dressed in a perfectly tailored navy-blue suit with the top buttons of her blouse undone, revealing just a hint of skin. The jacket fits snugly, accentuating the sharp lines of her frame, while her dark slacks flow effortlessly with each shift of her stance. Her hair is down, waves spilling past her shoulders, softer than you’re used to seeing. But it’s her eyes that hold you captive—the deep blue catching in the golden afternoon light, making them look almost impossibly bright. You swallow hard, momentarily forgetting how to breathe. 

She clears her throat, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, her usual confidence tempered by something hesitant. "Hey," she says, her voice low, almost careful. "Hope I’m not too early." 

You shake your head quickly, forcing yourself to snap out of your daze. "No, you're right on time." 

Agatha's gaze flickers down your figure, slow, deliberate, before meeting your eyes again. A small smirk tugs at the corner of her lips. "You look..." she pauses, as if searching for the right word, then settles on, "stunning." 

The compliment sends a warmth curling through your chest, but you keep your expression even, tilting your head slightly. "Not bad yourself, Governor. Didn't think you'd pull out a suit just for me." 

She lets out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. "You say that like it's something new." 

"Well, it's not the first time this week," you admit, letting your gaze flick over her again. "But still, it’s a nice touch." 

Agatha shrugs, adjusting the cuff of her sleeve, her voice effortlessly smooth. "Maybe I just like wearing suits. Or maybe," she pauses, a playful glint in her eye, "I knew you'd be looking." 

You huff a soft laugh, shaking your head. "Confident, aren't you? Guess I’ll have to see if you can back it up." 

Agatha smirks, the corner of her mouth twitching upward. "Guess you will." 

She exhales a small chuckle, motioning towards the door. "Come on, before I start thinking too hard about this and ruin my own charm." 

You grab your purse and step outside, closing the door behind you. Agatha moves slightly to the side, giving you space, but there’s a moment—a charged, weighty pause—where neither of you step away completely. Close enough to catch the faint scent of her perfume, something deep and warm, something unmistakably her. 

She watches you for a beat longer than necessary, then clears her throat again, motioning towards the car parked just outside the villa. "Shall we?" 

You nod, letting her guide you toward the sleek black vehicle waiting at the curb. As you approach, Agatha reaches for the door handle first, pulling it open for you. The small, effortless gesture sends a thrill through you, but you keep your expression unreadable as you slip into the passenger seat. 

She rounds the car and gets in beside you, adjusting the cuffs of her suit before starting the engine. You glance around the sleek interior, raising a brow. "So… did you rent this just for today?" 

Agatha smirks, tilting her head. "Why? Would that impress you?" 

You huff a laugh. "More like confirm that you’re trying really hard to make this a thing." 

Her smirk widens. "A thing?" 

You shift in your seat, suddenly unsure. "You know. This. Whatever this is. A—" You clear your throat. "A lunch date? Or just two people having food together like normal human beings?" 

Agatha hums, pretending to consider. "Well, let’s see. I dressed up, picked you up, and planned the whole afternoon. Sounds pretty date-like to me." 

Your stomach twists, and you quickly backtrack. "Unless it’s not? I mean, maybe you just wanted to hang, and I totally misread the whole thing—" 

Agatha chuckles, eyes gleaming with amusement. "You’re adorable when you overthink." 

You groan, covering your face. "I should just stop talking." 

Agatha leans back, smirk deepening. "You really should. Because, sweetheart, after everything we've done, I’d think you'd know the difference between a hangout and a date. Or do I need to remind you?" 

Your mouth opens, then snaps shut as heat floods your face. "I—That’s not—I mean—" 

She laughs, utterly delighted. "You kill me, truly. But just so we’re clear—it’s a date." 

You hum softly, the certainty settling in. 

You clear your throat, eager to redirect the conversation. "So, uh... you still haven't told me where we’re actually going. You’re not just driving me around in this fancy car to keep me guessing, right?" 

Agatha smirks, fingers drumming lightly against the wheel as she steers down the sunlit road. "Maybe I just like watching you squirm. Ever think of that?" 

You shoot her a look, deadpan. "Oh, constantly. But I also like knowing whether I should be preparing for an elaborate escape plan. You know, just in case your ‘surprise’ involves a dramatic plot twist." 

Agatha huffs a quiet laugh, shaking her head. "Relax. No hidden agendas. Just a place I think you'll like." 

You exhale dramatically, sinking back into your seat. "Fine. But if I spot a surveillance van, I’m throwing you under the bus." 

She glances at you, amused. "Good to know where we stand." 

The car hums along the highway, the city blurring past in warm, golden hues. The conversation ebbs and flows easily, a mix of teasing and silence that feels comfortable rather than awkward. Every so often, you catch Agatha watching you from the corner of her eye, but she never says anything about it. 

Traffic stretches the drive a little longer, but she doesn’t seem to mind. You fiddle with the music, skipping through songs until a familiar beat plays through the speakers—Sabrina Carpenter. Agatha glances at you, one brow raising ever so slightly. 

"Seriously?" she asks, but there's no real bite to it. 

You grin, turning the volume up just a little. "What? She’s good." 

Agatha exhales through her nose, shaking her head as if she’s unimpressed, but the way her fingers start tapping lightly against the wheel gives her away. 

The coastal breeze lingers as Agatha veers inland, the ocean giving way to winding roads lined with rugged hills and sunlit canyons. The car hums along the curves of Agoura Hills Road, climbing higher into the quiet, scenic stretch of Calabasas' summit. Golden-hour light flickers through the trees, casting long shadows that dance across the pavement. There's a stillness to the air, interrupted only by the low purr of the engine and the occasional sound of birds overhead. 

Agatha doesn’t offer any hints about the destination, her focus on the road ahead, but there's a knowing smirk playing at the corner of her lips. You watch her for a moment, then exhale dramatically. "Are you driving me to an undisclosed location just to throw me off a cliff? Be honest." 

She huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. "Wouldn't dream of it. You're way too entertaining to get rid of." 

You narrow your eyes, but you’re smiling. "That doesn’t sound as reassuring as you think it does." 

"You'll live," she replies smoothly, tapping her fingers idly against the wheel. 

You let out a mock sigh and sink into your seat, watching the scenery shift around you. The teasing, the easy back-and-forth—it settles into something comfortable, a natural rhythm between the two of you as the road stretches on. 

She parks and steps out, rounding the car before pulling open your door. You raise a brow as you step out. "You really don’t have to do all this, you know." 

"Oh, I know." She flashes a smirk. "But I want to." 

You shake your head, but there’s no hiding the warmth curling in your stomach. As she leads you up the stone pathway, the hostess greets Agatha politely before showing you to a quiet patio table. The scent of blooming jasmine lingers in the air, the flicker of candles giving the space an effortless intimacy. 

Agatha pulls out your chair, and you pause, eyeing her. "Seriously?" 

She grins. "Let me have this one." 

You sigh, shaking your head as you sit. "Fine. But only because the effort is impressive." 

She settles into her seat across from you, a knowing glint in her eyes. "You love it." 

You huff, pretending to study the menu. "Debatable." 

Agatha chuckles but doesn’t press. A comfortable silence stretches between you, filled only by the murmur of conversation around you. Then, after a beat, she speaks, her voice softer. 

“You’re quiet.” 

You blink, forcing a small smile. “Just thinking.” 

Agatha hums, setting her menu down. “That’s not a good sign. Should I be worried?” 

You shake your head, but your fingers toy with the edge of your napkin. “No, it’s just… I guess I’m wondering what happens after this.” 

Agatha leans back slightly, one brow arching. “After this?” 

You gesture vaguely. “Yeah. After this trip. After this… whatever this is.” 

Agatha watches you carefully, as if weighing her words. “Do you want to tell people?” 

You hesitate. “I don’t know. I just don’t want to pretend nothing’s happening. But I also don’t know how people will take it. Or if you even want them to know.” 

She exhales softly, running a hand through her hair. “I don’t want to hide it,” she says finally. “But I also don’t want to rush whatever this is. We’ll figure it out.” 

Her certainty steadies something in you, but the worry still lingers. Before you can voice it, Agatha reaches out across the table, her fingers brushing gently against yours. It’s a simple touch, but it feels grounding, like she’s telling you everything’s going to be okay without having to say the words. 

You meet her eyes, and the warmth in them reassures you more than anything. You nod just as the waiter arrives, breaking the moment. After you both place your orders, Agatha leans in with a smirk. “For the record, I thought you were quiet because you were too busy admiring how good I look in this suit.” 

You roll your eyes, lips twitching. “Don’t push your luck, Governor.” 

Agatha laughs, but her gaze lingers, warm and knowing, and for now, that’s enough. 

As you wait for your food, the quiet between you two stretches just enough for Agatha to notice the slight tension in your posture. She smirks, a teasing glint in her eyes. “You’re thinking too much. Relax.” 

You raise an eyebrow. “I’m not thinking at all.” 

“Oh, right. Because it’s not like you’ve been staring at me this entire time.” Agatha leans back, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. 

You roll your eyes but can’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. “Maybe I’m just waiting for you to stop being so smug.” 

Agatha chuckles, but the smile fades when you don't immediately follow up with the usual banter. Instead, you sit back, letting out a slow breath. 

“You’re worried about Wanda, aren’t you?” she asks, her tone shifting a little. 

You hesitate, glancing up at her. “Wanda’s protective. And she’s not exactly fond of you right now.” You wince, thinking about how much Wanda would likely hate the idea of you two together—especially after everything that’s happened. 

Agatha tilts her head, her expression softening, and she reaches over, giving your hand a light squeeze. “I get it. Wanda cares about you. She’s just trying to look out for you, right?” 

You nod, surprised at how easily Agatha says it. It’s not something you expected her to understand, given everything that’s happened between the two of you. “Yeah… She doesn’t trust me with… well, you.” 

Agatha laughs quietly, the sound warm and soft. “I think it’s because I’m still married, and she’s worried I’m playing games with your heart.” She pauses, her voice softening as she continues, “I get it. I don’t blame her. I haven’t exactly given her any reason to think I’m the right person to be around you.” 

You glance at her, surprised by her bluntness. “You don’t think so?” 

“I’m not stupid,” Agatha says, shrugging slightly, a teasing smile tugging at her lips. “Wanda has every right to be protective. You’ve got a big heart,” she adds with a light chuckle, “even if you can be a little... attitude-y sometimes.” She winks, clearly joking, before her tone softens. “I’m a little… complicated. It makes sense that she’d be wary of what’s going on between us, especially with the whole Ralph situation.” 

You blink, unsure how to respond to that, but Agatha gives you a soft, almost apologetic smile. “But, don’t worry. I’m not in a hurry to make things worse. Whatever happens with us… we’ll take it slow. I’m not trying to make anyone mad.” 

You give a small, somewhat relieved smile, but the unease is still there. “I’m not sure what Wanda’s going to say if she finds out. She might—” 

“—She’ll be fine,” Agatha interrupts, cutting you off with a soft laugh. “It’s her job to protect you. I get it. I’m not angry with her. And I’d be a hypocrite if I was.” 

There’s a beat of silence, and you catch her gaze. For a moment, the teasing and banter fades, and there’s just something softer between you both. You’re not sure where this is going, but you’re starting to feel like, maybe, it doesn’t need to be figured out all at once. 

Agatha leans in just slightly, her eyes holding yours. “But let’s not make her hate me, okay? I’m still figuring out how to keep my life from falling apart.” 

You laugh lightly, shaking your head. “You’ve been keeping that life together for a long time, Agatha. You’re not the villain in this story. I know that.” 

She gives you a small, appreciative nod, but there’s a flicker of something more in her gaze before she smirks again. “Good to know. Now, can we talk about how good I look in this suit? Because it’s kind of the most important thing right now.” 

You chuckle, rolling your eyes, but there's an undeniable warmth in the way you look at her. “You’re insufferable, you know that?” 

Agatha laughs, leaning back in her seat, but her hand doesn’t leave yours. 

The waiter arrives, setting down the plates in front of you both. The rich aroma of the food fills the air, and for a moment, there’s nothing but the clinking of utensils and the quiet hum of the restaurant around you. It’s easy—being here like this, just the two of you, no expectations, no prying eyes. 

Agatha takes a bite of her food, then gestures toward you with her fork. “So, how does it feel?” 

You glance up at her, eyebrows raised. “How does what feel?” 

She leans back slightly, smirking. “Running a multi-billion-dollar company. You know, the empire you built while the rest of us were just trying to figure out how to pay mortage.” 

You roll your eyes, but there’s a small smile on your lips. “I didn’t build it. I inherited it.” 

Agatha tilts her head, unconvinced. “Maybe. But you didn’t let it crash and burn, either. You kept it going, made it even bigger.” She pauses, swirling her drink in her glass before glancing back at you. “That takes something, Y/N. And don’t tell me it was ‘just luck.’” 

You exhale, pushing a piece of food around your plate. “I guess… I don’t think about it that way. It’s just my life. It’s always been there. But sometimes, I wonder what it would’ve been like if I had the chance to choose something different, you know?” 

Agatha hums in understanding, cutting into her food. “I get that.” 

You scoff lightly. “Oh, do you, Governor Harkness?” 

She chuckles, shaking her head. “Yeah, yeah. I chose this path, I know. But it’s not like it came without its own expectations. When I first ran for office, everyone thought I was out of my mind. And when I won… well, let’s just say being a female governor of Washington was more of a fight than I expected.” 

You nod, watching her carefully. There’s something in her voice—something proud but also exhausted. 

“Do you regret it?” you ask. 

She hesitates, then exhales through her nose, a small smile playing on her lips. “No. But I do wonder what life would’ve been like if I’d chosen something quieter.” She glances at you, something unreadable in her expression. “Then again… maybe I wouldn’t have ended up here.” 

You hold her gaze, your stomach twisting—not in an unpleasant way, but in a way that makes you feel like you’re on the edge of something. 

“What about you?” she asks, bringing you back to the moment. “If you could’ve picked something else, what would it be?” 

You think about it for a second, then shrug. “Something small. Something that doesn’t require a press release every time I breathe.” 

Agatha smirks. “Maybe a café owner? Little bookstore by the beach?” 

You chuckle. “Maybe.” 

She tilts her head, considering. “You’d be terrible at it.” 

You gasp, feigning offense. “Excuse me?” 

She grins. “You’d get bored in a week. You thrive in chaos, Y/N. You like fixing things, building things. You think you want quiet, but I don’t think you’d know what to do with it.” 

You narrow your eyes at her, but she just smiles knowingly, as if she sees something in you that you’re not even sure you see yourself. 

And just like that, the conversation shifts—easy, warm, lingering between teasing and something deeper. And for the first time in a long while, you feel like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be. 

You both linger at the table after finishing your meal, neither in a hurry to leave. The conversation flows easily, shifting between teasing remarks and quieter moments of honesty. Agatha leans back in her chair, swirling the last of her drink in her glass, while you rest your elbow on the table, chin propped against your palm. 

“So,” you start casually, watching her over the rim of your own glass. “What’s next for Governor Harkness? Running for President? Retiring to a vineyard in Italy?” 

Agatha huffs out a soft laugh, shaking her head. “Oh, absolutely. The White House is just dying to have someone like me in charge.” She tilts her head, considering. “Though, a vineyard doesn’t sound half bad. Maybe a little house by the sea. Spend my days making terrible wine and regretting my life choices.” 

“Oh, so you’d be a menace even in retirement,” you tease, smirking. “Good to know.” 

Agatha laughs again, but then her gaze softens as she looks at you. “Honestly? I don’t know. I’ve spent so much of my life moving from one goal to the next, I never really stopped to think about what comes after. When this term is up... I guess I’ll just have to figure it out.” 

There’s something thoughtful in the way she says it, and you can tell she means it. It’s rare to see Agatha uncertain about anything, and for some reason, it makes your chest ache a little. 

“Well,” you say after a moment, nudging her foot lightly under the table. “Whatever you do, I’m sure it’ll be something ridiculous and over-the-top, because that’s just who you are.” 

She smirks, her foot grazing yours in response. “And you’ll be right there, rolling your eyes at me.” 

“Probably,” you admit with a grin. 

She watches you for a long beat, her expression unreadable, but there’s something different in her eyes. Something a little less guarded. 

“You ever think about what’s next for you?” she asks, voice dipping just slightly, almost like she already knows the answer but wants to hear you say it. 

You let out a soft breath, fingers tracing the rim of your glass. “I try not to think too far ahead. But I guess I’d like to figure out what really makes me happy.” 

Agatha hums in understanding, her thumb absently running along the edge of her glass. Then, slowly, deliberately, she reaches across the table, her fingers brushing against yours before settling over your hand. Her touch is warm, grounding—a silent reassurance. 

“I think you’ll figure it out,” she murmurs, giving your hand the faintest squeeze before pulling away, leaving a lingering warmth behind. 

The moment stretches, thick with something unspoken. You swear you catch the corner of her mouth twitch like she wants to say something else, but instead, she leans back, running a hand through her hair. 

“You know,” she muses, glancing at you with a smirk just shy of playful. “If I do end up retiring to some vineyard, I could always use a business partner. Someone who knows their way around an empire.” 

You let out a small laugh, shaking your head. “Oh, sure. From tech mogul to failing winemaker? That sounds like a logical next step.” 

Agatha shrugs, her gaze drifting back to you, something deeper beneath the teasing. “You never know. Stranger things might happen.” 

A comfortable silence settles between you two, the afternoon sun casting a golden glow over the restaurant. Neither of you moves to leave just yet. Just enjoying the moment, the conversation, and the quiet understanding between you. 

As you both finish your drinks and the afternoon sun starts to dip lower in the sky, you both stand up, the weight of the day’s intimacy lingering between you. Agatha offers her hand, and you take it without hesitation, her fingers brushing against yours in a quiet, almost unspoken connection. 

“You ready to head back?” Agatha asks, her voice soft, with a hint of that teasing warmth you’ve come to love. 

You nod, giving her a small smile. “Yeah, let’s go.” 

The drive back to the resort is slow and peaceful, but the silence between you and Agatha isn’t as easy as it used to be. There’s a new tension now, one that neither of you seems ready to fully name. The air feels charged, like something is hanging between you, unspoken, but undeniable. 

You glance over at her, catching a glimpse of her profile. Her eyes are locked on the road ahead, her expression calm, though you can tell she’s a little tense, her jaw set just a bit firmer than usual. She’s trying to focus, but you can see the way her hand twitches slightly on the steering wheel every time you make a small movement. 

You can’t resist. The teasing side of you won’t stay quiet. “You know,” you say, voice light, “for someone who’s running an entire state, you sure seem distracted behind the wheel. Shouldn’t the Governor be better at multitasking?” 

Agatha glances at you, a small smirk tugging at her lips, but she quickly looks back at the road. “I’m always focused when I’m driving. But thanks for the vote of confidence.” 

You lean back in your seat, smirking. “I’m just saying, with all that power in your hands, you’re not exactly using it right now.” You let your eyes linger on her, knowing you’ve got her attention. “Maybe you should be taking control, Governor. Show me what it means to be in charge.” 

She stifles a laugh, but there’s a slight hitch in her breath, a subtle crack in her usual composure. “I’m always in control,” she replies, her tone smooth but a little too quick, a little too defensive. 

“Oh, really?” You tilt your head, eyeing her playfully. “Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like I’m the one calling the shots right now.” 

Agatha’s grip tightens just slightly on the steering wheel. You notice it, and it makes your smile widen. “You’re pushing it, you know that?” 

“Am I?” You lean forward slightly, lowering your voice just enough for her to hear. “I think you like it when I push you.” 

Her eyes flicker to you for a moment before she quickly looks away again, her cheeks betraying the slightest pink. “Maybe you should keep your hands to yourself.” 

But it’s too late—you already have. Without thinking, your hand reaches out, fingers brushing lightly against her arm. You watch her carefully as her body reacts to the touch, the way her muscles seem to tighten for a split second before relaxing. 

Her breathing shifts, and for a brief moment, you wonder if she’s going to pull away or scold you. But instead, her voice comes out low, almost too soft. “Stop teasing me.” 

You smirk, your fingers drifting gently up and down her arm, just enough to keep her on edge. “Oh, but it’s so fun. You make it too easy, Agatha.” 

“Seriously,” she mutters, her voice a little strained now, and you swear you hear the edge of frustration in it. “You’re testing me. Don’t think I won’t stop this car right here.” 

“Oh, you wouldn’t,” you tease, giving her arm another soft, lingering touch. “Not when you know we’re almost at the resort. Besides, I think you’re enjoying this too much.” 

Agatha exhales sharply, her grip on the wheel tightening again, but she doesn’t pull away. You can feel the slight shake in her fingers, the way her breath quickens, but she’s doing her best to remain composed. “You’re insufferable,” she mutters, but the playful glint in her eyes betrays her words. 

“Well, you started it,” you shoot back, leaning back in your seat. You can’t stop the smile that creeps onto your face, a mix of satisfaction and something deeper that you can’t quite put into words. “Maybe next time, I won’t be so subtle.” 

Agatha’s smirk softens, just a little, and for a moment, you feel the tension between you dissipate. The quiet, lingering connection you’ve both been avoiding for so long finally feels like it’s settling into something more. 

The rest of the ride to the resort is quiet, but it’s different now. The space between you has shifted, and for once, it feels like there’s something more to explore—something unspoken but very much present. 

As the car pulls into the resort, you half-expect Agatha to park near the entrance and let you walk the rest of the way, but she doesn’t. Instead, she keeps driving, following the winding path toward your villa—the same place she picked you up from earlier. 

“You’re really going the full chauffeur route, huh?” you tease, glancing at her with a smirk. “Didn’t know governors did personal drop-offs.” 

Agatha huffs out a laugh, shaking her head. “Consider it a special service,” she quips, but there’s something softer in her tone, something unspoken. 

You steal a glance at her, the way her hands rest on the wheel, the way the sunlight filters through the windshield, casting a warm glow over her features. She looks… calm. More at ease than you expected, especially after all your teasing. 

“You didn’t have to,” you murmur after a beat. 

Agatha glances at you briefly, her lips twitching. “I know.” 

She parks in front of your villa and cuts the engine, but neither of you moves right away. There’s something lingering between you—something neither of you seems eager to break. 

You finally exhale, reaching for the door handle, but before you can step out, Agatha beats you to it. She unbuckles her seatbelt, pushing her door open. 

You blink. “What are you doing?” 

She raises a brow as she steps out. “Walking you to your door.” 

Your heart stumbles in your chest. “Very proper of you,” you muse, stepping out as well. 

“Just being polite,” she shrugs, but there’s an amused glint in her blue eyes. 

The two of you fall into step, the only sound between you the rhythmic click of your heels against the pavement and the faint rustling of palm trees in the afternoon breeze. When you finally reach your door, you hesitate, turning to face her. 

“I really enjoyed this,” you admit, voice quieter now. “With you.” 

Agatha’s lips part slightly, like she wasn’t expecting you to say it outright. But she recovers quickly, giving you a small, almost shy smile. “Me too.” 

For a moment, you just stand there, looking at each other. The air shifts—something warm, something undeniable. 

You don’t think too hard about it. You just move. 

Your fingers brush against hers first, testing, before your hand slides up her arm, curling lightly around her bicep. You lean in—slowly, giving her time to pull away if she wants to. But she doesn’t. She tilts her head slightly, her breath warm against your lips. 

And then, you kiss her. 

It’s soft at first, unhurried. A question, not a demand. But then Agatha exhales sharply, and her hands find your waist, tugging you closer. Your back bumps lightly against the door, and a quiet hum escapes you as she deepens the kiss, her fingers pressing into the fabric of your dress. 

You don’t want her to leave. Not yet. 

Without breaking the kiss, you fumble behind you, reaching for the handle. The door gives way easily, and as it swings open, you pull Agatha inside. 

She chuckles against your lips, shaking her head slightly. “You planned this, didn’t you?” 

You grin, tugging her closer. “Shut up.” 

Agatha laughs again, but she doesn’t argue. She just lets you pull her in, the door clicking shut behind you. 

You sigh into the kiss, fingers sliding up the lapels of her suit jacket before pushing it off her shoulders. It lands somewhere on the floor, forgotten. She exhales a quiet laugh against your mouth, hands smoothing over your waist, your hips—mapping you out like she’s relearning something she should’ve never forgotten. 

You guide her toward the couch, pulling her with you as you sink onto the cushions. She follows easily, her knee pressing between your legs as she leans over you, one hand bracing against the back of the couch, the other slipping up your thigh, just beneath the hem of your dress. 

Her lips leave yours, trailing down the line of your jaw, down your neck. You tilt your head back, breath hitching when she finds a sensitive spot just below your ear. 

“Agatha…” you murmur, fingers curling into her suit. 

She hums against your skin, not stopping, not slowing down. “Hmm?” 

You don’t even know what you were going to say. You just needed to say her name. 

Her lips ghost over your collarbone, her fingers teasing against the bare skin of your thigh, dipping just under the fabric. Your breath stutters, your grip on her tightening. 

She grins, pressing another kiss just above your pulse. “Tell me to stop, and I will.” 

You don’t. 

Instead, you pull her closer, capturing her mouth with yours again. 

And Agatha? 

She takes that as an answer. 

You’re lost in her—all hands and lips and heat—when a loud knock shatters the moment. 

“Y/N?” 

Wanda. 

Your stomach drops. You freeze. 

Another knock, harder this time. “I know you’re in there! Open up!” 

Panic surges through you as you push at Agatha’s shoulders, breaking the kiss. “Shit, shit, shit—” 

Agatha blinks, dazed, her lips red and swollen. “What?” 

You scramble off the couch, straightening your dress, your hands shaking. “It’s Wanda. You need to go. Now.” 

She frowns, still breathless. “Go?” 

Another knock. 

You grab Agatha’s arm, dragging her toward the kitchen. “I have a back door. You can slip out—” 

She resists, arching an eyebrow. “You want me to sneak out like some scandalous affair?” 

“Yes!” You whisper-yell, shoving her toward the door. 

She hesitates, eyes flicking between you and the front door. You can tell she wants to argue, but Wanda knocks again, louder this time. 

“I swear, Y/N, if you don’t open this door in five seconds—” 

You give Agatha one last, desperate push. “Go!” 

She huffs but finally moves, slipping out the back just as you rush toward the front door, trying to smooth out your hair and slow your racing heart. 

With one last deep breath, you unlock it and pull it open. 

Wanda stands there, arms crossed, eyes narrowing as she takes you in. 

“Finally,” she huffs, stepping inside like she owns the place. “I was about to break your damn door down.” 

You force a casual smile, but the second you see her expression shift—eyes scanning you from head to toe—you realize your mistake. 

You look wrecked. 

Your lipstick is smudged. Your hair is definitely not how it was when you left for your date with Agatha. And Wanda? Oh, she notices. 

Her gaze sharpens. “...Why do you look like that?” 

You clear your throat, quickly wiping at your mouth. “Like what?” 

Her eyes narrow further. “Like you just made out with someone on that couch.” 

Your heart stops. 

Wanda doesn’t even wait for your response. She just knows. 

She sighs, shaking her head. “Who was it?” 

You scoff. “What—” 

“Y/N.” She gives you that look. “Was it Rio?” 

You choke on absolutely nothing. “What?! No!” 

She raises an eyebrow. “Then who?” 

Your mouth opens—but no sound comes out. 

Wanda steps closer, her voice lower now, playful but dangerous. “Don’t make me start guessing.” 

You swallow hard, forcing a laugh. “Oh my god, Wanda, I just got back. Maybe I just—freshened up too fast.” 

She sniffs the air. 

You stare at her. “...Are you serious?” 

“Hmm.” She walks past you, peering toward the couch like it holds evidence. “Smells like—expensive perfume. Not yours, though.” 

You hate that she’s a human lie detector. 

“Wanda.” You block her path, forcing a casual grin. “Why are you even here?” 

She pauses, tilting her head, like you are the weird one. “Uh, because I’m your best friend? And there’s a party tonight? You know, the one Jen is throwing?” She studies you again, lips pursed. “I figured you’d need help getting ready. But clearly, you’ve been very busy.” 

Your face burns. 

She smirks. “I’m gonna find out, you know. I have my guesses” 

You roll your eyes, turning away. “You think you know everything.” 

“I do know everything.” 

Wanda's eyes narrow suspiciously as she flops onto the couch, and you try to steady yourself, praying she doesn’t connect the dots. But she’s always been too sharp for her own good. 

"Let's start with: why does this cushion feel warm?" she asks, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. 

You freeze, heart pounding in your chest. "What?" you laugh nervously, hoping she won’t notice the sweat on your palms. 

"Y/N, I saw the car parked outside," she continues, clearly not fooled. "Don't think I didn’t notice." She tilts her head, her gaze probing. "I’m not dumb, you know." 

You open your mouth, but no words come out. You’re scrambling to come up with some sort of reasonable explanation, but you know she’s not going to let you off the hook. 

“I’m serious, Y/N,” Wanda says, her voice lowering slightly, almost too serious. “You’ve been acting weird all day, and since yesterday too. You and Agatha... what’s going on? Is there something I need to know?” 

Your stomach drops. She knows. She knows something. You can see the concern and frustration building in her eyes, and you feel the weight of the lie that you’ve been carrying for the last few days. 

You rub your hands together, trying to stall. "Wanda, it’s not—" 

"Don’t lie to me, Y/N," she snaps, her voice cold. "This is... this is a mess. You and Agatha are a mess. She’s still married. What, are you her mistress now?" 

You flinch, the word hitting you harder than you expected. "No!" you quickly protest. "It’s not like that." 

Wanda doesn’t seem convinced, her arms folding tightly across her chest. "Then what’s the deal? Why have you been acting so... different with her? Yesterday, you were practically glued to each other. And now this—" She gestures to the room, her expression sharp with disbelief. "I just—I don’t understand." 

You sigh, running a hand through your hair. "Wanda... it’s not like you think." You hesitate for a moment, glancing away. You haven’t told Agatha about the drunk kiss. You haven't even thought about telling her. 

She crosses her arms tighter. "Did you tell her about the drunk kiss?" 

The room seems to close in on you as you stay silent. Your heart races, and you can feel the panic creeping up your throat. 

"Y/N," Wanda's voice softens, a hint of concern. "You didn’t, did you?" 

You shake your head, barely able to speak. "No, I didn’t tell her." 

She huffs, frustration rising again. "Why not? Is it because you’re scared of what she’ll think of herself? Or are you just trying to keep it all from her? This... whatever you two have, it’s messy." 

"I know," you whisper. "But we... we cleared things up, Wanda. After the dress fitting, Agatha and I talked. She told me that she feels the same way, and I—" You stop yourself, biting your lip. You’ve never felt so exposed in your life. 

Wanda’s eyes search yours, her expression skeptical. "Did she?" Her tone holds something close to disbelief. "What about her husband, Y/N? What about Ralph?" 

You glance away, frustration bubbling. "It’s over between them. They’re done." 

She scoffs, shaking her head. "Are you sure? You don’t think maybe she’s just saying that because... because it’s easier? Because it’s convenient? This isn’t some kind of fairytale, Y/N. People don’t just... change overnight." 

You stand up, pacing, your anxiety rising. "It’s real, Wanda. I swear to you, it’s real. Agatha and I... we’re not perfect. But we’re both in this, okay?" 

Wanda stands too, walking toward you. Her gaze softens for a brief moment, but she still looks pissed. "I hope you’re right," she says, her voice heavy. "I really do. But you better be sure, Y/N. Because if she hurts you—if she’s just using you—there’s no going back. And I can’t just watch you get hurt." 

You meet her eyes, feeling a pang of guilt at her words. She cares about you, even if she’s angry right now. "I know, Wanda. I’m not taking this lightly." You pause, your throat tightening. "I don’t want to be hurt. But this... I don’t want to lose her either." 

Wanda sighs, looking conflicted. "I hope you’re making the right choice, Y/N." She softens, but there’s still a hint of concern in her voice. "Just—don’t make this harder than it needs to be. Please." 

You nod, feeling the weight of her words. She’s worried, and you can’t blame her. You’re worried too. But somehow, you still can’t walk away. Not yet. 

"Okay," you whisper. "I’ll be careful." 

Wanda gives you one last look, then turns and heads for the door. Before she leaves, she pauses, looking back at you. "Just... make sure she’s worth it, Y/N. I don’t want to see you get hurt." 

You watch her for a moment, both of you caught in the weight of everything that’s been said. Then she walks over to the door, and before she leaves, she turns back to you. "I’m here for you, no matter what." 

You give her a small, grateful smile, the tension in the air thick but softened by the underlying care she has for you. "Thanks, Wanda." 

The tension in the air still lingers, but it softens as Wanda steps toward you. Without saying a word, she pulls you into a hug. It’s warm and tight, a little comforting despite everything. 

Wanda sighs, squeezing your arms one more time before letting go. “Alright. Just... freshen up before the party tonight, yeah? It’s almost 6 PM already, and you’re a mess.” She gestures at your smudged lipstick, the disheveled state of your outfit, and the overall chaos of the room. "You might want to clean up a bit before you make your grand entrance.” 

You laugh softly, the tension breaking just a little. "Yeah, I probably should." 

Wanda gives you a knowing look. "And don't go running off on me again, okay? You deserve to enjoy this. Just... keep your eyes open." 

"I will," you reply, feeling a strange sense of reassurance from her words. 

She lingers by the door for a moment, looking you over with a last, long glance, before she grins. "Take care of yourself, okay? I’m not going anywhere. But you—" she pauses, a playful glint appearing in her eyes. "Just don’t make me regret this, alright?" 

You smile at her teasing. "I won’t. Thanks, Wanda." 

With one last hug, she leaves, shutting the door softly behind her. You stand there for a moment, letting the silence settle in. A small part of you feels lighter, but there's still the looming uncertainty of what’s to come. 

As you take a deep breath, you glance at the time. The party is just a few hours away. Wanda’s right. You need to freshen up—physically, mentally—before you face the next step in this whirlwind. 

You step into the bathroom, the sound of the door clicking shut behind you, and the quiet hum of the evening settling in around you. You take a quick shower, letting the warm water wash away the tension and stress of the day. The scent of lavender body wash fills the air, calming your mind as you let the water cascade over you. 

As you finish up, you step out of the shower, wrapping yourself in a soft, plush towel. The cool air against your damp skin feels refreshing, and you take a moment to breathe in, gathering yourself. You move to the vanity, eyes scanning the assortment of products laid out in front of you. 

For tonight’s party, you want to look polished, but comfortable. You start with your favorite silk blouse—a soft, cream-colored one from Silk & Stone. The fabric feels smooth under your fingertips, luxurious against your skin. You leave a couple of buttons undone at the top, adding just a hint of casual elegance, and you pair it with high-waisted black trousers from Aritzia, which have a sleek fit that shows off your figure but also give you room to move comfortably. 

Next, you slip into a pair of black heels—simple yet elegant—by Jimmy Choo, the thin stiletto heel making you feel just the right amount of poised, but not over the top. You decide to add a touch of playful sophistication with a black suspender belt, the straps resting gently against your hips, adding a bit of edge to the outfit. 

For perfume, you spritz yourself with Chanel No. 5, a classic scent with a floral, elegant touch that lingers in the air as you move. It’s timeless—just like the outfit you’ve chosen for tonight. 

You move over to the full-length mirror, taking a long look at yourself. You run a hand through your damp hair, letting it fall in soft waves over your shoulders. The light catches the strands, giving your hair a natural shine that matches the quiet, confident energy you want to project tonight. 

You smile softly at your reflection, adjusting the suspenders one last time before nodding to yourself. You look good—comfortable, but undeniably sharp. 

It’s 7:30 now. You take a final glance at your phone, checking the time, and then grab your small black clutch. You make your way toward the door, feeling the flutter of nerves and excitement blend together in your stomach. 

You step outside, the warm evening air greeting you as you make your way toward Jen’s villa, feeling the promise of a fun night ahead. 

You arrive at Jen's villa, the soft evening air carrying the scent of the ocean as you step up to the door. You take a deep breath, feeling a mix of excitement and anticipation. The sound of the music and laughter carries from the inside, and as you knock, you hear the familiar sound of Jen’s footsteps approaching. 

The door swings open, and Jen stands there with her signature bright smile. "Hey, you made it!" she exclaims, pulling you into a quick hug. "You look amazing," she adds, stepping back to take in your outfit. You smile, feeling the warmth of her welcome. 

"Thanks! You look great too," you reply, glancing around the room. 

"Come on in," Jen says, stepping aside to let you in. You walk through the villa, the sound of laughter and chatter filling the air. It’s relaxed but upbeat—exactly the vibe for the night. Jen leads you out to the pool area, where the party is already underway. Fairy lights hang from the trees, and the pool glows in the dim light, the soft sound of water lapping at the edges of the pool adding to the atmosphere. 

There she is. 

Agatha is standing near the edge of the pool, a drink in hand, her presence effortlessly commanding attention. She’s wearing a white, asymmetrical off-the-shoulder top with ruffled sleeves that dance around her arms. The top hugs her figure, showcasing her sharp lines, and she’s paired it with high-waisted black trousers, the wide black belt cinching her waist and making her look even more striking. Her hair is loose, cascading over her shoulders in soft waves, and her eyes meet yours from across the pool. 

You can’t help but notice the subtle smile that plays on her lips as she looks at you. It’s small, almost imperceptible, but you catch it—the way her eyes light up just a little bit more when she sees you. 

You return her smile, a little shy but full of warmth. It’s like a silent exchange, the tension between the two of you hanging in the air like a spark waiting to ignite. 

As you make your way towards Agatha, the others are scattered around the pool area. Alice is chatting with Lilia, both laughing at something, and Wanda... well, Wanda’s standing by herself, her gaze fixed on you for a moment before she meets your eyes. The look she gives you is knowing, almost like she’s trying to read you in a way that makes you feel a little exposed. You nod at her and offer a polite smile, trying to play it cool despite the way her gaze lingers. She doesn’t break her stare immediately, but after a beat, she nods back, her expression unreadable.  

Jen leaves you to hang out with your friends, leaving you standing there in front of Agatha, the air between you both charged with something unspoken. You smile at her again, and she responds with a small tilt of her head, her eyes flickering down to the drink in her hand before meeting your gaze again. 

"Glad you could make it," she says, her voice warm but with that usual cool edge. 

"Yeah, wouldn't miss it," you reply, your smile lingering as you take in the way she looks tonight. "You look incredible," you add without thinking, your tone light but genuine. 

Agatha’s smile widens just a touch, and you feel the flutter in your chest. "Thanks," she says softly, her voice almost a whisper as the two of you stand there, taking in the party around you. The group continues to laugh and chat, but you and Agatha are just there, sharing this quiet moment, the weight of everything between you two hanging in the air, full of possibility. 

The group chatters and laughs, the energy light and lively as the evening unfolds. Drinks are poured, inside jokes resurface, and everything feels effortlessly fun. Hours pass, and then, the much-anticipated entertainment arrives—the male strippers. 

Lilia practically shrieks in delight, clutching Alice’s arm. “Oh my god. Oh my god. This is the best decision we’ve ever made.” 

Alice is already laughing, cheeks flushed from both the alcohol and the sheer absurdity of it all. Jen, of course, is absolutely reveling in it, encouraging the dancers like she’s their manager. 

Agatha, sitting across from you, just shakes her head with a laugh, clearly entertained but not nearly as enthusiastic as the others. She catches your eye and smirks as Lilia dramatically fans herself. 

Then there’s Wanda. She gives you a knowing look from across the patio, one brow quirked. You meet her gaze, scrunch your nose slightly, and mouth, ‘ick.’ This really isn’t your thing. You’d rather sit back and watch them enjoy themselves than actually participate. 

You sink into one of the patio chaise lounges, nursing your drink, occasionally laughing at Lilia’s over-the-top reactions. It’s genuinely fun seeing them have fun. 

After a while, Agatha makes her way over to you, hands in her pockets. “Are you enjoying yourself?” she asks, tilting her head slightly. 

You smirk. “Actually, yes. This is too good. Lilia is cracking me up.” 

Agatha nods, watching Lilia practically climb Alice in excitement as one of the dancers starts unbuttoning his shirt. 

You turn to Agatha with a teasing grin. “What about you? Enjoying this too much?” 

Agatha scoffs, arms crossing. “Oh, please.” 

You’re about to fire back when one of the strippers suddenly approaches you. You blink up at him, confused. 

“Come on, gorgeous,” he says smoothly. “Your turn.” 

Your gaze flicks to the empty chair now placed in the center of the space, your stomach immediately dropping. “Oh—no, no. I’m good.” 

But the group isn’t having it. 

Jen, Alice, and Lilia start cheering. Even Wanda is smirking, raising her drink. And then Agatha—traitor that she is—grins and gives you a little push toward the chair. “Go on, sweetheart. Indulge them.” 

You glare at her, eyes wide. ‘Help me,’ you mouth. 

Agatha just winks. 

You sigh dramatically, finally giving in. The group erupts in cheers as you hesitantly sit down. The stripper smirks and starts his routine, circling you before smoothly dropping into his performance. 

You’re stiff as a board, hands gripping the chair like it’s your only lifeline. Your expression must be absolutely priceless because the group is losing it, laughter echoing around the patio. You endure it—barely. 

Then, out of the corner of your eye, you notice Agatha’s phone buzzing on the table. She glances at the screen, her expression shifting in an instant. Without a word, she stands up and steps away, phone pressed to her ear as she moves toward a quieter area by the pool. 

Something about the way her posture tenses makes your stomach turn. 

A moment later, the lap dance finally ends, and you’re practically launching out of the chair as Alice is pulled in for her turn. But your focus is elsewhere. 

You scan the patio, finding Agatha’s figure in the dim light. She’s standing near the water, her back to you, phone still at her ear. As you quietly approach, her voice carries in the stillness of the night. 

“I still love you, Ralph.” 

The words hit like a gut punch. 

You freeze mid-step, heart slamming against your ribs. For a second, you don’t even feel like you’re in your own body, just floating in some horrible, detached reality where everything suddenly makes sense and nothing does at all. 

She still loves him. 

You don’t know how to react. Confront her? Walk away? Pretend you didn’t hear it? Every instinct in your body tells you to leave. To get out of here before she turns around and sees the way you’re crumbling. 

So you do. 

Spinning on your heel, you make a beeline back toward the party. Your pulse pounds in your ears as you find Jen. 

“I have to go,” you blurt out. “There’s—there’s an emergency with the company.” 

Jen blinks. “Wait, now?” 

“Yeah, I’m sorry. It’s important.” You’re already hugging her goodbye, your hands shaking. 

She studies you, brows furrowing. “Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine.” It sounds weak. You force a small smile. “I’ll see you at the wedding?” 

Jen hesitates but eventually nods. You quickly say your goodbyes to Alice and Lilia before finding Wanda. 

The moment you face her, you know she doesn’t buy it. Her arms are crossed, lips pressed into a firm line. “What’s going on?” 

“Nothing,” you lie. 

Wanda’s stare burns into you. 

You turn away before she can press further, heading straight for the exit. The second you step outside, the cool night air hits you like a shock to the system, and the need to get away becomes unbearable. 

So you run. 

Tears blur your vision as you push yourself forward, feet pounding against the pavement. The night air is cool against your overheated skin, but it does nothing to calm the storm raging inside you. Your breath comes in ragged gasps, your chest tight and burning, but you don’t stop. You can’t. 

Wanda’s voice cuts through the pounding in your ears. She calls your name once, then again, louder, more urgent. But you don’t slow down. If anything, you run faster, as if putting enough distance between yourself and that moment will erase what you just heard. 

I still love you, Ralph. 

The words echo, relentless. A cruel, looping torment in your mind. You squeeze your eyes shut as another tear slips down your cheek. It feels like something inside you is caving in, like your ribs are folding around your heart to shield it from the pain, but it’s too late. You already heard it. You already felt it. 

The moment you step into your villa, the weight of everything crashes down on you like a tidal wave. Your vision blurs as tears well up in your eyes, your hands trembling as you reach for your phone. 

Uber. One-way. Airport. 

With shaking fingers, you confirm the ride before dialing the private jet service. "Tonight. Be ready by then," you manage to say, your voice hollow and detached. You barely register their response before hanging up. You need to get out of here. Now. 

You make your way up the stairs, each step feeling heavier than the last. By the time you reach your bedroom, the sob you’ve been holding back tears free from your throat. You throw open your closet, grabbing at your clothes, stuffing them into your suitcase with no care for neatness. You just need to leave—leave before the pain completely consumes you. 

Then, suddenly, the door bursts open. 

"Y/N!" 

It’s Wanda. 

She’s gasping for air, her chest rising and falling rapidly—she must have sprinted here the moment she found out. But you don’t stop. You don’t acknowledge her. Your hands move on autopilot, folding, shoving, zipping up compartments, anything to avoid looking at her. If you stop now, if you let her in— 

"Y/N, talk to me," Wanda pleads, stepping closer. "What happened?" 

You shake your head violently, your breath hitching. "Nothing," you croak. "Nothing happened. Everything's just... as it should be." 

Wanda doesn’t buy it. She steps forward, her hands reaching for yours, but you pull away, stuffing another piece of clothing into your bag. "Y/N—" she tries again. 

"Wanda, don’t. Please," you whisper, voice barely holding together. 

And then she does the only thing she can think of. She grabs your wrists, forcing you to stop. 

"Look at me," she murmurs, her grip firm but gentle. "Please, just look at me." 

Your vision is blurred, your chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths. Slowly, reluctantly, you meet her eyes. 

She gasps at the sight of you—tear-streaked, eyes swollen, completely shattered. 

"Y/N… what did she do?" she whispers, voice thick with emotion. 

A bitter laugh escapes your lips. "She did exactly what she was always going to do, Wanda. She chose him." 

Wanda’s expression shifts—anger, sadness, something else brewing behind those green eyes. "She—she said that?" 

You nod, blinking away fresh tears. "I heard her. I heard her say she loves him. That she picks him. That I was never supposed to mean anything." Your voice cracks on the last word, and suddenly, you can’t hold it in anymore. A broken sob tears through you, your body trembling under the weight of it all. 

Wanda doesn’t hesitate. She pulls you into her arms, wrapping you in the kind of warmth you’ve been desperately trying to avoid. It’s soft. It’s safe. And it completely undoes you. 

"Oh, Y/N…" she breathes, holding you tighter as you cry into her shoulder. "I’m so sorry." 

You clutch onto her like she’s the only thing keeping you from crumbling entirely. "I was so stupid, Wanda. I actually believed… I thought she…" You shake your head against her, another sob escaping. "Why did I believe it? Why did I think I was enough?" 

Wanda pulls back just enough to cup your face, her thumbs brushing away your tears. "Hey. You are enough. Don’t you dare think otherwise." 

You let out a broken, bitter laugh. "Then why wasn’t I the one she picked?" 

Wanda's jaw clenches, her anger barely contained. "Because she’s a coward, Y/N. She’s too afraid to choose what she really wants. And you—you deserved better than someone who makes you question your worth." 

Your throat tightens. "I just… I just want to go." 

Wanda studies you for a long moment before exhaling slowly. "Okay," she finally says. "I won’t go after her." 

Relief floods through you, but it does nothing to soothe the pain still carving its way through your heart. Wanda pulls you in for one last hug, holding on just a little tighter this time, as if she can shield you from the hurt just for a few more seconds. "You’re not alone in this," she whispers. "Even if it feels like it." 

You close your eyes, savoring the warmth of her before pulling away. 

Your Uber arrives. 

You and Wanda step outside, the cool night air stinging against your damp cheeks. She wipes away the last remnants of your tears with gentle fingers, her expression filled with nothing but tenderness. "Take care of yourself, okay?" 

You nod, voice too broken to respond properly. With one final glance at her, you turn and step into the car. 

As the driver pulls away, you watch Wanda shrink into the distance through the rearview mirror, her figure standing still, arms wrapped tightly around herself as if trying to hold in all the things she wanted to say but couldn’t. 

You press your forehead against the cool glass of the window, closing your eyes for a moment, hoping that when you open them, the ache in your chest will have dulled. It doesn’t. If anything, it grows sharper, slicing through your ribs like broken glass. 

The silence in the car is suffocating, save for the occasional hum of the engine and the soft murmuring of the radio—a song you don’t recognize, but somehow, its melancholic tune feels like a cruel joke. 

Then the first sob escapes—a quiet, strangled sound. You bite your lip, trying to keep it together, but it’s useless. The dam breaks. Your shoulders shake, your hands clench into fists in your lap, and the tears come in waves, hot and unrelenting. 

You laugh bitterly through the tears, shaking your head at yourself. How could you have been so naive? How could you have let yourself believe, even for a moment, that this would end any differently? 

You really believed it, didn’t you? That you were enough. That she could choose you. That love alone would be enough to change everything. 

The entire drive to the airport is nothing but the sound of your own heartbreak echoing in the quiet of the night, filling every empty space in the car, every breath, every thought, every shattered piece of yourself left in her absence.

Taglist: @6stolenangel9 @charlottelinlin1 @milflovers4 @claramelooo @loveshineslikethesky @kaymariesworld @marcelinaceciliarose @misskassycollins @greyella @theothersideofthescreen @whitelotus00 @agathaallalongg @psychickryptonitebouquet @sweetmidnights @angel-kitten-babygirl-u-choose @filmedbyharkness @brekker157 @rizzlesregal13 @starbucks-06 @aboutcustardcreams @crescendoofstars @neverfindmegone @mommy-mommy-mommy-hi @theonefairygodmother @isixxx3-blog @hannah-0730 @starryjeongyeon

[harknessxo]

Mamma Daddy Mommy

[harknessxo]

You Were Never Mine to Lose (Chapter 13)

Synopsis: You wake from a short nap, but the day has already shifted—conversations tense, glances lingering, something unspoken hanging in the air. As night falls, ghost stories and laughter blur into something else, something quieter, something charged.

Word count: 6.6K

Warnings: Sexual tension, Mild language

A/N: My sincere apologies for the delay in updates. My studies as a maritime student, including recent training exercises, have unfortunately limited my writing time. Thank you for your understanding and continued support♡

You wake to the sound of soft rustling and the smell of food.

 Your eyes flutter open, and the first thing you see is Agatha crouched next to you, holding a plate.

"For you," she says simply.

 You blink, still groggy, pushing yourself up onto your elbows. "How long was I out?"

 "Thirty minutes, give or take." She shrugs. "You looked dead to the world."

 You rub the sleep from your eyes, staring at the plate. It’s rice and some beef strips. Simple, but warm.

 "You—" You clear your throat. "You brought this for me?"

 Agatha smirks, setting the plate down beside you. "You did tell me to wake you when lunch was ready."

 You hadn’t expected her to actually bring you food, though.

 There’s a flicker of something soft in your chest.

 But Agatha is already turning away, crawling toward the tent entrance. "Come on. Eat with the rest of us."

 You glance down at the plate, then back at her.

 For a second, you consider just eating inside the tent, away from everyone, away from the possibility of Wanda staring at you again.

 But Agatha pauses at the tent’s entrance, looking over her shoulder. She raises an eyebrow.

 "What?" you mumble.

 She tilts her head, amused. "Don’t tell me you’re hiding."

 Your face heats up. "I’m not hiding."

 Agatha hums, not believing a word of it.

 Then, before she exits, she adds, "Better hurry before I eat your food instead."

 And just like that, she’s gone.

 You groan, running a hand down your face.

 She’s insufferable.

 You crawl toward the entrance, preparing yourself for whatever chaos awaits outside.

 The moment you step out of the tent, Alice calls you out immediately.

 “There you are! We thought you were gonna sleep through lunch.”

 You barely have time to react before your eyes land on Wanda.

 She’s looking at you—but she’s also looking at Agatha.

 Your stomach clenches.

 "Are you feeling better?" Wanda asks, her brows knitting together in concern.

 Well, of course you are. It’s a hickey, not a damn injury.

 But they don’t know that.

 You clear your throat, nodding quickly. "Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. Just needed a quick nap."

 You step forward, grabbing your plate—the one still in Agatha’s hand.

 She doesn’t say anything as she hands it over, but there’s a look on her face.

 Alice raises an eyebrow.

 “Wow, Agatha, serving Y/N food?” she teases, grinning. “Since when?”

 You nearly choke on air.

 “I—She didn’t—” You fumble for a response, but Agatha beats you to it.

 “She was practically dead to the world.” Agatha shrugs, completely unfazed. “Figured I’d do a good deed.”

 Jen snorts. “That’s a first.”

 Lilia leans in, amused. “What’s next, Agatha? Carrying Y/N’s backpack?”

 Agatha smirks, eyes flicking to you. “I mean, if she asks nicely.”

 Your face burns.

 You’re about to snap back—say something, anything—but then you feel a hand on your arm.

 It’s Wanda.

 You glance at her, and she gives you a look. “Can I talk to you for a sec?”

 Oh, shit.

 You force a nod, letting her pull you aside while the others go back to eating.

 Once you’re out of earshot, Wanda folds her arms.

 “So…” she starts, tilting her head. “You sure you’re feeling better?”

 You gulp. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

 She stares at you for a long moment, then exhales.

 “Look,” she says, softer this time. “I know you don’t wanna make a big deal out of it, but… if something’s going on, you can tell me, okay?”

 Your heart skips.

 Shit.

 Does she know?

 You force a smile. “Nothing’s going on.”

 Wanda watches you carefully. Then, finally, she sighs.

 “Okay,” she says, though she doesn’t sound convinced.

 Before you can dwell on it, Alice calls out, “Hey, are you two coming back?”

 You immediately turn away, heading back toward the group. “Coming!”

 You take a seat next to Wanda on one of the logs, the warmth of the fire licking at your skin despite the afternoon heat. Across from you, Agatha settles down next to Jen, her posture relaxed, legs stretched out in front of her like she doesn’t have a single care in the world. Alice and Lilia share the last log, already picking at their food as they talk about something you’re not paying attention to.

 You blink, glancing up just in time to see Agatha standing up, making her way over to you. She hands you the can of soda, then, just as smoothly, returns to her seat across the fire, smirking.

You didn’t even ask for one.

She just knew.

You hesitate for a moment before cracking it open, taking a sip, and looking away before anyone notices the warmth creeping up your neck.

Well. Before most your friends notice.

Wanda is staring.

 She’s watching Agatha, then you, then Agatha again.

 Then, suddenly, she clears her throat. “So, about that bite.”

 You freeze mid-sip.

 Agatha raises an eyebrow. “What about it?”

 Wanda tilts her head slightly, eyes narrowing just a little. “You were with Y/N when it happened, right?”

 Agatha leans back, unbothered. “She was with me, yeah.”

 Wanda’s fingers tap against her knee. “And you didn’t see it?”

 The air shifts slightly.

 Agatha shrugs. “Guess I was looking the other way.”

 Wanda doesn’t look convinced. “That’s weird, isn’t it?”

 You clear your throat, trying to cut in. “It happened fast, Wanda. It’s not a big deal—”

 “It’s just—” Wanda exhales sharply, shaking her head. “You’re usually more aware of things, Agatha.”

 Agatha just tilts her head. “Well, guess I slipped up.”

 There’s a flicker of something in Wanda’s eyes. She’s still staring at Agatha like she’s trying to piece something together.

 You grip your can tighter, resisting the urge to press your hand over the band-aid again.

 Alice, sensing the tension, jumps in. “Well, let’s just be glad it wasn’t worse, right?”

 Lilia hums in agreement. “Yeah. Could’ve been a snake.”

 Great. Now you have to worry about that too.

 Wanda pushes further, ignoring Alice and Lilia’s attempts to steer the conversation elsewhere. "It could've been worse, you know. What if it had been something venomous? What if it got infected?"

 She crosses her arms, gaze flicking between you and Agatha. "And earlier, Agatha, you were laughing like it was funny. What’s so funny about Y/N getting bitten?"

 Agatha smirks, lips twitching as she fights back another chuckle. "Nothing. Just—" She waves a hand vaguely. "It’s not as bad as you’re making it out to be."

 Wanda scoffs, not letting up. "You sure about that?"

Before Agatha can reply, Jen suddenly cuts in. "Alright, alright," she says, loud enough to break the tension. "Let’s talk about something else. What’s the plan after lunch? Maybe we should explore the area a bit?"

The group agrees, though Wanda is still watching Agatha with narrowed eyes. Eventually, she exhales sharply and shrugs it off, but you can tell she’s still irritated. Agatha, as expected, doesn’t seem to care.

After lunch, the group decides to explore the surrounding area. The air is crisp, the trees providing shade as you all navigate through the trails. It’s peaceful—until Agatha falls into step beside you.

“You’re walking kinda slow,” she comments, smirking. “Getting old?”

You roll your eyes. “Or maybe I’m just enjoying the view.”

Agatha raises a brow, glancing around dramatically. “Oh yeah, breathtaking trees. Real once-in-a-lifetime experience.”

You shove her lightly with your elbow. “I meant the scenery.”

She snorts. “Sure you did.”

Behind you, Wanda is keeping a close eye on the both of you. You can feel her gaze burning into the back of your head, and every now and then, when you steal a glance, she doesn’t even try to hide it.

At some point, the group stumbles upon a really scenic spot—overlooking the valley, the trees opening up just enough to give a perfect view of the horizon. Jen immediately pulls out her phone. “Okay, group photo. Everyone get in.”

You shuffle into place, Wanda beside you, and Agatha on your other side. Just as Jen is setting up the shot, Agatha reaches out, flicking a stray leaf out of your hair without a second thought.

You freeze.

Your eyes meet hers, and for a second, everything around you fades. The warmth of her fingers lingers near your temple, the touch barely there, but enough to send a shiver down your spine.

Then—

Wanda clears her throat.

Loudly.

The moment shatters. Agatha pulls her hand back, smirking like nothing happened. You force yourself to look straight ahead, pretending your face isn’t suddenly burning. The camera clicks, and just like that, the moment is over.

The rest of the afternoon passes with the group continuing to explore, snapping photos, and taking in the scenery. Every so often, you catch Agatha looking at you, and each time, when your eyes meet, she just smirks. It’s infuriating. It’s distracting. And yet, you can’t stop yourself from glancing at her, too.

Eventually, as the sun begins to dip lower in the sky, the group makes their way back to camp. As you settle in, Lilia glances around and announces, “We need more firewood.”

You straighten, about to volunteer, when Wanda nudges you sharply. When you glance at her, she’s already shaking her head, giving you a look that clearly says, Don’t.

Before you can argue, Agatha stretches lazily and says, “I’ll go.”

“I’ll go too,” Wanda adds immediately, tone firm.

Your stomach twists.

Agatha lifts an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Afraid I’ll get lost?”

Wanda just crosses her arms. “Just making sure we get enough firewood.”

They hold eye contact for a bit too long before Agatha chuckles under her breath and starts walking. Wanda follows, glancing at you one last time before disappearing into the trees with her.

You exhale, slumping slightly as the rest of the group starts chatting again. A small pit of unease settles in your stomach, knowing Wanda isn’t the type to just let things go—especially when it comes to you.

After some time, Agatha returns with some firewood, but Wanda isn’t with her.

When Jen asks, Agatha just shrugs. "She’s still out there."

You frown. "Alone?"

Agatha glances at you, tossing a log onto the pile. "She insisted."

Without another word, you turn and head into the woods, calling out for Wanda. The sun is starting to dip, casting golden light through the trees. After a few moments, you find her silently gathering wood, methodically picking up sticks and branches as if she’s trying to focus on anything but whatever’s on her mind.

"Wanda," you call again, stepping closer. She glances at you briefly but doesn’t say anything, just bends down to pick up another branch.

You sigh. "Why did you let Agatha leave you out here alone?"

She shrugs. "I didn’t let her do anything. She just left."

You press your lips together, watching her work. "Wanda, what’s going on? You’ve been acting weird."

She lets out a sharp breath and straightens up, turning to you. "You tell me."

Your stomach twists. "What do you mean?"

Wanda crosses her arms, her gaze sharp. "That 'bug bite,' Y/N. Neither of us saw it happen. Agatha didn’t see it happen. But she thought it was funny—she was laughing earlier when we found out. Why?"

You freeze for a second before quickly composing yourself. "It’s not that deep, Wanda. We’re in the woods, bugs are everywhere. It’s not a big deal."

She squints at you, unconvinced. "It’s just... Agatha’s been weird with you. Clingy. She wasn’t like this before. And now she’s always near you, touching you, looking at you like—" Wanda exhales sharply, rubbing her temples. "I don’t know, Y/N. It just feels off. Like something’s changed, and I don’t get why. I just don’t want you getting hurt, okay?"

You hesitate. Your best friend is worried. And she has every reason to be, given how complicated things have been with Agatha. You want to tell her—you should tell her—but now doesn’t feel like the right time.

So instead, you shake your head and offer a small smile. "I get it, Wanda. I do. But you don’t need to worry about me. I can handle Agatha."

She studies you for a moment before sighing and shaking her head. "I don’t know if I believe that."

You nudge her shoulder. "Trust me."

She exhales, then reluctantly smiles. "Fine. But if she messes with you, I will fight her."

You chuckle. "Noted."

The two of you walk back to camp, the tension easing slightly. As you step into the clearing, your eyes immediately land on Agatha. She’s sitting on one of the logs with Alice, casually chatting. Then she looks up and meets your gaze.

Your breath catches for half a second before you manage a small smile and quickly look away, following Wanda back to the group.

The afternoon stretches on as the scent of sizzling food fills the air. You’re standing by the fire, stirring a pan of stir-fried mushrooms and bell peppers, the wooden spoon warm in your grip. Wanda, Lilia and Jen are chatting nearby while Alice turns marinated chicken on the grill with practiced ease.

A voice behind you makes you pause. "What’s this supposed to be?"

You glance over your shoulder. It’s Agatha, peering into your pan with an amused smirk.

"Stir-fry," you say. "Want to try?"

She picks up a piece with her fingers before you can even grab a fork and pops it into her mouth. She chews, then makes a face. "Needs more flavor."

You blink. "Seriously?"

A second later, she grins. "Nah. I’m just messing with you. It’s good."

You huff, shaking your head. "You’re impossible."

She leans in slightly, voice just for you. "And yet, you like it."

Your breath catches for a half-second, but before you can respond, she winks and walks away. Not before glancing back with a teasing smile, though.

By the time dinner is ready, everyone is starving. Plates are passed around, laughter and conversation flowing easily. You sit beside Agatha this time, knees brushing, arms occasionally bumping. It’s casual, natural—except for the way Wanda, sitting on the log across from you, keeps glancing over. Her expression is unreadable, but you can feel her eyes on you both.

After dinner, Lilia claps her hands together. "Okay, so... horror stories. Who’s in?"

"Absolutely not," Alice groans. "I hate scary stories."

"Which is exactly why you need to hear them!" Jen grins. "Come on, it’s a camping tradition."

Alice groans again but stays put, resigned to her fate.

Everyone takes turns sharing stories. Lilia starts with a classic—something about a woman in white wandering the roads at night, her ghostly figure appearing in car mirrors before vanishing. Wanda follows with a chilling ghost encounter from her childhood, describing the eerie whispers she once heard in her grandmother’s old house. Jen’s is dramatic and animated, her gestures exaggerated as she recounts a tale about an abandoned cabin deep in the woods, making Alice grip her own arms and mutter, "Why did I agree to this?"

Then it’s your turn. You recall a story you heard years ago—one about a cursed path in the woods, where travelers who stray from the trail hear footsteps behind them, but when they turn around, no one is there. Some say the footsteps get faster the more you ignore them, until they’re right behind you, breath on your neck, a shadow stretching too close. And if you run? That’s when they reach for you.

As you speak, the fire crackles, casting shadows that dance against the trees. The wind rustles the leaves, making them sound almost like whispers. A twig snaps somewhere in the darkness, and Alice jumps, clutching Lilia’s arm. "Nope. Nope, I hate this."

Jen leans in, intrigued. "What happens if they catch you?"

You hesitate for effect, letting the silence stretch. "No one knows," you say finally, voice barely above a whisper. "Because no one who’s been caught has ever come back."

The group shivers collectively, drawn into your words. Even Agatha, who had been smirking through most of the stories, watches you with quiet intrigue, her expression unreadable.

And then there’s Agatha.

Her voice dips low, deliberate, weaving an eerie tale that seems to creep into the very air around you. "There was a girl," she begins, her tone almost hypnotic. "She went missing in the woods, not far from here. Search parties looked for weeks. They never found her." The fire crackles, casting long, twisting shadows.

"Some say she never really left," Agatha continues, her gaze flickering to the darkness beyond. "They say if you listen closely, you can hear her crying at night—begging for someone to find her. But if you answer? She takes your voice. Steals it. And then... she’s not the one crying anymore."

The fire flickers, and suddenly, a gust of wind rustles the trees. The woods seem darker, the silence stretching uncomfortably. A branch snaps somewhere unseen, and Alice lets out a startled yelp. Your pulse jumps.

You don’t realize you’re leaning in until Agatha meets your gaze and smirks, knowing exactly what she’s doing. Her eyes glint with amusement, but there’s something else there too—something unreadable. The moment lingers, heavy, before she suddenly claps her hands sharply.

You flinch. "What the hell!"

She laughs, clearly enjoying herself. "Gotcha."

"I hate you," you mutter, but there’s no heat behind it.

She leans in just slightly, voice near your ear. "Liar."

Before you can respond, Alice jumps up. "No. Enough. We need to shake this creepy feeling off. Play some music or something!"

Jen pulls out her phone, scrolling through her playlist. A lively song starts playing, breaking the tension, and soon enough, everyone is swaying, moving to the beat. Lilia and Jen dance dramatically, spinning each other, and even Wanda bobs her head slightly, a small smile breaking through.

Then the music shifts. A slower song comes on, soft and warm against the cool night air.

Your friends pair off playfully, and before you can react, Agatha grabs your wrist. "C’mon," she says, pulling you up.

 You roll your eyes but let her guide you. "You just want another excuse to mess with me."

 She spins you once, teasingly, before settling close, hands resting lightly on your waist. "Maybe."

 The firelight flickers, casting a golden glow over everything. Wanda is still watching. Definitely watching. But you can’t focus on that because Agatha’s hands are warm against your sides, and she’s closer than she probably should be.

 Her voice drops just for you. "Still scared?"

 You scoff. "Scared? I’m not—"

 "Yeah, right" Agatha cuts in, smirking.

You shake your head, exasperated but smiling. The two of you dance, and so do the others. The music and laughter blend with the crackling fire, easing the lingering tension from the ghost stories.

The song fades, but Agatha doesn’t let go right away. Her hands linger at your waist, her fingers just barely brushing your sides before she finally steps back. It’s only a second or two longer than necessary, but you notice it. And so does Wanda.

You settle back onto the logs, the fire crackling as everyone starts reaching for marshmallows and skewers. The conversation is lighter now, the eerie tension from the ghost stories fading into quiet laughter and teasing remarks.

“Okay, but real talk,” Jen says, stuffing a marshmallow into her mouth before she even roasts it. “If we hear something in the woods tonight, are we ignoring it or investigating like idiots in a horror movie?”

“Ignore it,” Wanda says immediately. “Don’t be stupid.”

Alice, still jumpy from the ghost stories, shivers. "I swear, if something taps on my tent, I will freak out. Or—whoever I’m sharing with, you better be ready to wake up with me."

Jen grins. "Speaking of that... who’s sharing with who?"

“I’ll be with Lilia,” Jen adds before anyone can answer.

“Guess that leaves me with you, Y/N,” Wanda says, her tone casual—but there’s an edge to it, like she’s already decided for you.

Before you can process that, Agatha scoffs. “Actually, Y/N and I are sharing.”

Wanda turns to her, eyebrows raised. “Since when?”

“Since this morning,” Agatha says smoothly. “Before lunch. Y/N went into a tent, and I followed. We already put our stuff there.”

Wanda’s gaze flicks to you, expecting some kind of confirmation or denial. You hesitate.

“I mean… yeah,” you say, rubbing the back of your neck. “Agatha’s right. That’s kind of how it happened.”

Wanda’s lips press into a thin line. “You could’ve said something earlier.”

You shrug, suddenly feeling awkward. “Didn’t really think it was a big deal.”

Alice looks between the three of you, blinking.

The tension in the air is impossible to ignore. Agatha smirks slightly, clearly enjoying the way Wanda bristles, but she doesn’t say anything else.

Wanda, on the other hand, exhales sharply, visibly holding something back. But after a moment, she just shakes her head and mutters, “Whatever. Do what you want.”

Lilia, oblivious to the quiet standoff, yawns and stands up, brushing off her hands. “Alright, I’m heading in.”

One by one, the rest of the group follows, dousing the fire until only the faint glow of embers remains. Wanda hesitates for just a second, shooting you one last unreadable look before stepping into her tent with Alice.

You let out a slow breath, suddenly aware of the way your shoulders had tensed. Agatha is already beside you, watching with a knowing expression.

“Didn’t really think it was a big deal, huh?” she murmurs, her voice laced with amusement.

You shoot her a look. “Don’t start.”

Agatha just chuckles, bumping her shoulder against yours before turning toward the tent. “Come on.”

You sigh, following her inside, the quiet rustling of the trees outside the only sound accompanying you.

The air inside the tent feels warmer than it should, the weight of the day settling in as you shift slightly on your sleeping bag. Agatha mirrors your movement, lying on her side, propped up on one elbow as she looks at you. The soft glow from the dying bonfire outside barely illuminates her face, but you can still make out the teasing glint in her eyes.

"So," she starts, voice hushed, "what's up with Wanda breathing down my neck all day?"

You huff out a quiet laugh, turning onto your side to face her. "You noticed that, huh?"

"Kinda hard not to when she looks like she wants to tackle me every time I get near you," Agatha mutters, lips twitching into a smirk. "What did I do to piss off your best friend?"

You hesitate for a second, then shrug. "She’s just… protective."

Agatha raises a brow. "That protective?"

You sigh, running a hand through your hair. "Wanda knows I got hurt before. Not, like, physically, but… you know. She doesn’t want me to go through that again."

There’s a beat of silence before Agatha tilts her head slightly, studying you. "And she thinks I'm the one who's gonna hurt you?"

You don’t answer immediately. Instead, you pick at a loose thread on your blanket, avoiding her gaze. The truth is, she did hurt you—even if she doesn’t realize it. And she still doesn’t know how much. But it’s not like you haven’t wondered the same thing yourself. There’s no label on whatever this is between you and Agatha. And sure, she kissed you last night—really kissed you. But is that enough to say she wouldn’t hurt you?

You don’t have an answer, so instead, you just shrug. "No. You know what? Let’s just forget about it. Wanda’s protectiveness will pass… eventually."

Agatha watches you for a moment, then smirks. "You sure? ‘Cause I think she’s about two seconds away from putting a leash on you."

You roll your eyes but can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips. "She’s just—she’s Wanda. She’s always been like that."

"Mhm." Agatha props her head up with her hand, grinning.

A comfortable silence falls over you both, and then you find yourself asking, “By the way, what did Wanda say to you earlier? When you two went to get firewood?”

Agatha exhales, like she expected this. “She told me to stop messing with you.”

You frown. “Messing with me?”

Agatha turns on her side to face you, her lips curl into a smirk, even in the dark. “You know, like annoying you, pissing you off—” She leans in slightly. “Making you blush.”

Before you can protest, a sudden rustling noise outside the tent makes you both freeze.

Your breath catches in your throat. “Did you hear that?” you whisper.

Agatha sits up slightly. “Probably just the wind.”

Another rustle. Louder this time.

You tighten your grip on your sleeping bag. “Or it’s one of those ghosts from the stories earlier,” you mutter.

Agatha chuckles. “Only one way to find out.”

She starts unzipping the tent, and you grab her wrist. “Are you serious? Just ignore it.”

Agatha grins. “Where’s the fun in that?” Before you can stop her, she slips outside.

You wait a few seconds, listening intently. “Agatha?” you call quietly. No response.

Your stomach tightens. You fumble for your phone, turning on the flashlight, and crawl out of the tent. The beam cuts through the darkness—but Agatha is nowhere to be seen.

Your pulse quickens. “Agatha, this isn’t funny,” you whisper-shout, stepping toward your friends’ tents, ready to wake someone up.

Then—

“Boo.”

You whip around, nearly jumping out of your skin. Agatha stands behind you, arms crossed, a smug grin on her face.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” you hiss, shoving her arm. “I thought—I thought something happened to you!”

Agatha shrugs, looking amused. “Relax, it was just a rabbit. I saw it.”

You glare at her, still catching your breath. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” she says easily, nudging you back toward the tent. “Come on, scaredy-cat.”

When you both get back inside the tent, you’re still pissed at Agatha. She’s still grinning, stretching out lazily on her sleeping bag like she didn’t just scare the hell out of you.

“I didn’t know you scared so easily,” she murmurs, amusement still laced in her tone.

You glare at her, still feeling your heart race from earlier. “I wasn’t scared. I just didn’t want to be the idiot in a horror movie who investigates a noise and dies first.”

Agatha chuckles, shaking her head. Then, quieter this time—like it’s something she hadn’t meant to say aloud—“I wouldn’t let anything happen to you, you know.”

The air shifts. The usual teasing in her voice is gone, replaced by something softer, something real. You glance at her, expecting a smirk, but she’s just looking at you, eyes unreadable in the dim glow of the tent.

A beat passes. Then another.

Agatha reaches over, her fingers brushing against your cheek before tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. It’s such a small, simple gesture, but the way her touch lingers sends a shiver through you. You feel the warmth of her skin, the way her fingers hesitate—just a second too long.

She looks at your lips, then back to your eyes.

Your pulse pounds, but you don’t pull away. Maybe you should. Maybe you should say something snarky, break the tension—but you don’t.

Agatha’s fingers trail down to your jaw, tilting your chin slightly, as if testing. As if waiting for you to stop her. When you don’t, she doesn’t ask for permission—she just moves.

The kiss starts slow, hesitant—like neither of you can quite believe it’s happening. But then something shifts. Agatha lets out a quiet sound against your lips, and suddenly, it’s like neither of you want to stop.

Your fingers find the hem of her long-sleeved white polo, gripping it like you need something to ground yourself. Agatha responds by pressing closer, her body half over yours now, her lips moving against yours with a hunger that makes your breath hitch.

Agatha’s fingers slide higher, tracing the curve of your spine. Her touch is slow, unhurried, like she’s memorizing the feel of you beneath her hands. The weight of her palm lingers, pressing into your skin in a way that makes your breath stutter.

Then she pauses.

Her hands still under your tank top, warm against your bare skin, but she doesn’t move further. Instead, she leans in just enough that her breath ghosts over your lips.

“Is this okay?” she murmurs, her voice quieter now—softer.

The teasing edge is gone, replaced with something else entirely. Something careful. Something that makes your chest ache.

You swallow, pulse hammering. You should say something, but the words stick in your throat. Instead, you nod, barely more than a small tilt of your head.

Agatha studies you for half a second longer—like she’s making sure—before she kisses you again. This time, there’s no hesitation.

Her hands begin to move, slow but deliberate. Fingertips tracing up the curve of your spine, then down again, pressing into the small of your back as she pulls you closer. Her touch burns, leaving a trail of warmth wherever she goes.

She shifts slightly, half rolling you onto your back as her palm flattens against your stomach, sliding higher beneath your tank top. Every inch she covers feels electric, every slow drag of her fingers leaving you breathless.

When her thumb brushes just beneath your ribs, you gasp against her lips. Agatha catches the sound, swallowing it with a smirk you can feel rather than see.

“You’re so sensitive,” she whispers, her voice rich with amusement—and something else. Something darker.

Her hand moves higher. Testing. Exploring. Her fingers skim over the edge of your bra, teasing but never quite going further. Like she’s waiting for you to stop her.

But you don’t.

And that seems to be all the confirmation Agatha needs.

Her fingers slide higher, brushing over lace and skin with an unbearable slowness. Her touch is teasing, savoring every reaction—every shiver, every caught breath, every way your body responds to hers.

“You’re shaking again,” she whispers, her lips barely grazing your jaw.

You exhale sharply, fingers gripping the fabric of her sleeve. “And you’re talking too much.”

Agatha huffs a quiet laugh against your skin, her breath warm, teasing. “Bossy,” she murmurs, but there’s no bite to it—only amusement, only something softer.

The tent fabric rustles as she shifts, pressing herself closer. The weight of her is dizzying, grounding, and when her thigh slides between yours, the sensation makes your breath hitch.

Her fingers move again, slipping beneath your bra with deliberate slowness. The tent isn’t exactly thin, but it isn’t soundproof either. A few feet away, their friends are probably asleep—but not far enough that they wouldn’t hear if either of them got too carried away.

Agatha seems to remember this at the same time you do.

She leans in, lips brushing against your ear as her thumb finds your nipple through the lace of your bra, pressing just enough to make you shiver.

The thin fabric does nothing to dull the sensation. If anything, it makes it worse—frustrating in the way that leaves you aching for more.

Then, Agatha suddenly pauses. Her breath is warm against your ear when she murmurs, “You do realize these tents aren’t exactly soundproof, right?”

You swallow, pulse still racing, and murmur, “Yeah.” You pause, lips brushing against hers as you add, “Let’s just hope everyone’s actually asleep.”

Agatha hums, her fingers still teasing over lace.

You should be more careful. You should be thinking about the thin fabric of the tent, about the way sound carries in the stillness of the night.

But then Agatha’s hand moves again—slow, deliberate—her fingers slipping just beneath the lace, and suddenly, nothing else seems to matter.

A sharp inhale catches in your throat, your body tensing under her touch. Agatha stills for half a second, like she’s waiting—giving you space to stop this, to pull away.

You don’t.

Instead, your hands move—almost on their own—reaching for the buttons of her long-sleeved polo. Your fingers fumble slightly, the fabric slipping under your grip as you undo the first one, then the second.

Agatha exhales a quiet laugh, her breath warm against your lips. “In a hurry?” she murmurs.

You don’t answer. You just keep going, pushing the fabric apart, your fingertips skimming over warm skin.

Agatha doesn’t stop you. If anything, she encourages it—shifting slightly, letting you peel the fabric away. The sight of her, the heat of her beneath your hands, sends something electric through you.

Then she’s kissing you again, deeper this time, hungrier, as if your touch has set something loose inside her. Her hands slide up your sides again, slipping fully beneath your bra now, her palms warm, fingers tracing, exploring.

She groans softly against your lips, and the sound sends a shiver straight through you.

The air between you is feverish, breathless, but somewhere in the back of your mind, you remember—your friends are still nearby.

Agatha must remember too, because when she leans in, her voice is barely more than a whisper against your ear.

“We really shouldn’t be doing this here,” she murmurs, though there’s no conviction behind it.

And yet, neither of you stop.

You let out a quiet breath, your hands still resting against the warm skin beneath her open polo. “Then stop,” you whisper back, but neither of you move.

Agatha’s lips twitch, her fingers flexing slightly against your skin. “You don’t want me to.”

You don’t. Not even a little.

Instead of answering, you slide your hands further beneath her shirt, palms skimming up her stomach, tracing the curve of her ribs. She exhales shakily, her grip on you tightening for just a second.

“Thought so,” she breathes.

Then she’s kissing you again, swallowing whatever response you might’ve had.

And just like that, the rest of the world—the tents, the risk, the lingering thread of reason—fades away.

You break the kiss just long enough to pull your tank top over your head, the fabric slipping from your fingers as you toss it aside. The cool air brushes over your skin, sending a shiver through you—but then Agatha’s hands are back, and she’s so much warmer.

Her eyes darken as she takes you in, but she doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t have to. The way she looks at you—like she wants—is enough.

You reach for her next, pushing her polo past her shoulders, dragging it down her arms. She helps, shrugging it off in one smooth motion before leaning back in, her lips finding yours as if she can’t stand the space between you.

Her hands trace your sides, fingers ghosting over bare skin. She moves slow—like she’s savoring every touch, every inch of you.

Then, with deliberate intent, her fingers slip beneath the strap of your bra, tracing the curve of your shoulder before gliding lower, lower—

Her breath is warm against your lips. Your pulse thrums beneath her touch. The rest of the world fades.

Nothing else matters.

Your hands move without thought, sliding over the bare skin of her back, tracing the dips and curves with slow, deliberate strokes. You feel the shift of her muscles beneath your touch, the way she tenses slightly when your fingers drag lower, just above the waistband of her pants.

Agatha exhales, her breath fanning against your cheek, but she doesn’t pause.

Her hands begin to wander—slowly, deliberately. They glide down past your waist, fingertips barely grazing the curve of your hips before trailing lower, teasing over the fabric of your leggings, where your skin burns beneath.

Your breath catches.

She lingers there, her touch light, almost too light, like she’s waiting—watching for your reaction. And when your body responds—when your legs part just slightly, instinctively—her lips curl into the faintest smirk against your skin.

Her fingers press in just a little more, still teasing, still not enough.

The anticipation coils in your stomach, heat pooling low, your grip tightening against her back.

Still, neither of you speak.

There’s no need.

Everything is understood in the way your bodies move, in the way you hold onto each other, in the way she touches you—slow and purposeful, like she has all the time in the world.

Like she’s savoring this.

Savoring you.

Agatha’s hand drifts lower, fingertips barely brushing over your thigh, featherlight and deliberate. She moves in slow, teasing circles, each pass of her fingers bringing her closer—so close—to where you want her.

Your breath stutters, your grip tightening against her back.

Then, she presses just a little harder, her fingers grazing the inside of your thigh, just shy of where you need her most.

A quiet whimper escapes before you can stop it. Your body reacts on instinct, heat pooling low, thighs twitching as you clench around nothing.

Agatha notices. Of course, she does.

She exhales a soft, amused sound, her lips brushing over your jaw. Her fingers flex against your skin, lingering, not giving you what you want—not yet.

She’s savoring this. Drawing it out. Watching the way you react, the way your body responds to her touch.

The tension coils tighter, your breathing uneven, anticipation burning through every nerve.

Agatha’s fingers slip from your thigh, trailing up—slow, agonizing—until they reach the waistband of your leggings. She toys with it, brushing her fingers just beneath the fabric, just enough to make your stomach tighten, to make your hips shift ever so slightly toward her.

She notices. She always notices.

Her lips ghost over your cheek, her breath warm against your skin. Then, with a slow, deliberate drag, she tugs at the band, just an inch, just enough to make you shiver.

Her voice is barely a whisper. "You still okay?"

You nod—maybe too quickly, too eager—but she doesn’t tease you for it.

Instead, her lips find your pulse point, pressing a kiss there as her fingers slip further beneath the fabric, dragging lower, lower—

Just as Agatha’s fingers dip lower, the faint sound of footsteps crunching outside makes both of you freeze.

Your breath catches, your heart pounding for an entirely different reason now.

Then—

"I know you guys are still awake."

Lilia’s voice.

"I heard… muffled noises."

Your heart stops.

Muffled noises?

You snap your gaze to Agatha, wide-eyed, heat rushing to your face. But Agatha—Agatha—has the audacity to look amused. The startled tension in her face melts in an instant, replaced by something far too smug for the situation.

"Muffled?" she calls back, feigning innocence. "You mean, like, whispering?"

Lilia hesitates. "I mean… I guess? I don’t know! I just—do you have extra socks? My feet are freezing."

Agatha sighs—dramatically—but finally pulls away, reaching for her bag. You use the moment to press your palms to your burning face, silently willing your body to calm the hell down.

The tent unzips just slightly, and Agatha wordlessly slips the socks through the small opening.

"Thanks," Lilia mumbles, footsteps crunching away.

The moment Lilia’s footsteps fade, the tent falls into silence.

You exhale, pressing a hand to your face, still trying to cool the heat burning under your skin.

Agatha, of course, is thriving.

"Muffled noises, huh?" she echoes, lips twitching.

You groan, shoving at her shoulder, but she only laughs—low and pleased with herself.

Then, her laughter softens. Her eyes flicker over you, glinting with something darker. Something mischievous.

She leans back in, close enough that her breath tickles your lips, fingers already finding their way back to your waist.

"Now… where were we?"

Taglist: @6stolenangel9 @charlottelinlin1 @milflovers4 @claramelooo @loveshineslikethesky @kaymariesworld @marcelinaceciliarose @misskassycollins @greyella @theothersideofthescreen @whitelotus00 @agathaallalongg @psychickryptonitebouquet @sweetmidnights @angel-kitten-babygirl-u-choose @filmedbyharkness @brekker157 @rizzlesregal13 @starbucks-06 @aboutcustardcreams @crescendoofstars @neverfindmegone @mommy-mommy-mommy-hi @theonefairygodmother @isixxxx

[harknessxo]

bring back kathryn wearing suits pls

[harknessxo]

You Were Never Mine to Lose (Chapter 12)

Synopsis: After last night’s kiss, everything feels different—but maybe that’s not a bad thing. With a camping trip ahead and your friends still in the dark, stolen glances and shared spaces make it impossible to ignore the shift between you and Agatha.

Word count: 6.9K

Warnings: Sexual tension, Mild language

A/N: Hey everyone, just wanted to say a massive thank you for all the love and support! It really means the world to me that you're reading my stuff. Love you all♡

You wake up to the sound of your phone alarm, the one you set last night with the full intention of regretting it. You reach out blindly, fumbling to silence it before the noise burrows too deep into your skull. Your fingers finally manage to swipe at the screen, and the room falls quiet again. 

You blink up at the ceiling. And then it hits you. Last night happened. The kiss happened. 

Your stomach flips—not in panic, but in a holy shit, that was real kind of way. A slow warmth spreads through you, settling in your chest like a secret. For a few seconds, you just lie there, letting it all sink in, no rush, no dramatic gasp—just the weight of realization curling around you like a blanket. 

And then, before you can stop it, a small smile tugs at your lips. 

You exhale, rolling onto your side and running a hand through your hair. No spiraling. You’re cool. You’re collected. Today is just… a day. A day after the kiss. A day where the world keeps spinning, even if it feels a little different now. 

Swinging your legs over the edge of the bed, you stand up—only to immediately slam your knee against the nightstand. 

“Shit—!” 

You squeeze your eyes shut, sucking in a breath as a sharp sting shoots up your leg. Well, that’s one way to keep yourself grounded. 

Not today. Today is a great day. 

You grab your phone and scroll through your Spotify, looking for the right song. This Will Be (An Everlasting Love) by Natalie Cole catches your eye, and without thinking twice, you hit play—then set it on repeat. It just feels right. Humming along, you stretch your arms, the upbeat melody lifting your mood as you head to the bathroom. 

The memory of the kiss sneaks in—uninvited, but not exactly unwelcome. 

Her lips, softer than you expected. The way she hesitated, just for a second, before giving in. The way your heart tripped over itself, trying to catch up. 

You shake your head, grinning as you grab your toothbrush. You’re being ridiculous, but who cares? Pointing the toothbrush like a microphone, you mouth along to the lyrics, swaying a little as you brush. 

The shower is warm, the steam wrapping around you as you lather up, still humming along to the song. The tune has officially lodged itself in your brain, and before you know it, you’re full-on singing, letting your voice flow effortlessly through the lyrics. The acoustics in the bathroom are perfect, amplifying the richness of your tone, and you can’t help but revel in it. 

"This will be, an everlasting love..." 

You close your eyes as you rinse the shampoo from your hair, the melody carrying through the air with ease. You’re fully into it now, singing without a care, completely lost in the song. The ridiculous, giddy energy bubbling in your chest only makes the song sound even sweeter. A laugh escapes you between lines—you can’t help it. 

Last night happened. And it was great. 

With a final, perfectly controlled note of "You brought a lot of sunshine into my life!" you grin to yourself, stepping out and grabbing a towel. 

After your shower, you go through your luggage, picking out what you need for the hike. A black fitted moisture-wicking tank top, high-waisted dark gray hiking leggings, and sturdy brown hiking boots. You tie a light gray long-sleeve shirt around your waist—just in case the weather turns—and top it off with black shades and a deep olive-green cap. 

You always come prepared. 

You grab your small black hiking backpack, making sure you have the essentials—water bottle, sunscreen, windbreaker, wet wipes, tissue, power bank, extra shirt, and blanket. You didn’t exactly pack for camping, so you’ll have to stop by the resort shop on the way to the meeting place. 

Breakfast is quick, but This Will Be is still playing. You should probably switch it up, but honestly? You’re feeling it. You’re feeling all of it. 

You lean back in your chair, tapping your fingers against the table as you chew. You’re happy. Like, really happy. It’s kind of embarrassing, actually. Maybe you need to tone it down a little. 

You shake your head to yourself, taking another bite. 

Yeah. Maybe later. 

After your breakfast, you get up, stretching your arms as you push your plate aside. You give yourself one last look in the mirror, smoothing down your outfit before turning off the music. Satisfied, you grab your things and step out of your villa, heading toward the resort shop. 

The store is stocked with everything you need for the trip—flashlights, protein bars, bug spray, and a first aid kit. As you browse, you decide to grab six sleeping bags, just in case no one else remembered to buy them. You also pick up three tents because there’s absolutely no way you’re sleeping unprotected in the woods. Just as you’re about to check out, you pause. 

“Shit,” you mutter under your breath, snapping your fingers as you remember Wanda doesn’t have hiking boots. With a sigh, you head back to the shelves and pick out a sturdy, comfortable pair in her size. 

By the time you make your way to the resort’s main entrance, you’re carrying shopping bags in both arms, the weight slightly annoying but manageable. As you walk, you start practicing how to casually greet Agatha when you see her. 

"Hey, Agatha." No, too chill. 

"Heyyy, Agatha!" Absolutely not. 

"Morning, Ags!" What did you just say? Ags?! 

You cringe to yourself before shaking your head. Right. You two don’t even greet each other like that. You decide to just wing it. 

When you finally reach the group, you realize you’re the last one to arrive. Your eyes scan over everyone before landing on Agatha. You do a double take—because, seriously? She looks unfairly good in hiking gear. Fitted, practical, and somehow still managing to make it look effortlessly stylish. You blink, trying not to stare too long. 

You clear your throat and offer a casual, “Hey.” 

“Finally,” Jennifer says with a smirk, eyeing your shopping bags. “Did you buy out the whole store?” 

“Very funny,” you deadpan, shifting the bags in your arms. “This isn’t just for me, by the way. I got tents, sleeping bags—you’re welcome, by the way.” 

Wanda perks up when you hand her the bag with the hiking boots. “Oh, you got these for me?” 

You nod. “Figured you’d need ‘em.” 

The group erupts into playful teasing, calling you their ‘sugar mommy.’ You roll your eyes. “Okay, first of all, I’m just being practical.” 

“Ohhh, practical,” Agatha drawls, smirking. “Is that what we’re calling it?” 

You narrow your eyes at her. “Would you prefer thoughtful and generous? Because I can work with that.” 

She chuckles, shaking her head. “Oh, you’re feeling bold today, huh?” 

You smirk. “I try.” 

You’re aware of how Agatha’s lips twitch, like she’s holding back another quip, and how her gaze lingers just a beat longer than necessary. It sends an unexpected warmth through your chest, one you stubbornly ignore. 

Before either of you can push it further, Jen claps her hands. “Alright, you two, let’s save the banter for later. We need to get going.” 

You blink, snapping back to reality, realizing the others have been watching the exchange with varying levels of amusement. Clearing your throat, you shift the bags in your arms and force a nonchalant shrug. 

You huff playfully, but nod, motioning toward the van. “Help me load this up, then.” 

With a few more laughs and a couple of nudges, the group moves to stash the supplies in the van. 

You guys pile into the van, the energy buzzing with excitement for the trip ahead. You slide into your seat beside Wanda, settling in when suddenly, Agatha slides in right next to you. The shift is subtle, but you feel it—the way her presence fills the small space between you. 

You glance at her, and just as your eyes meet, she winks. 

Your breath hitches for half a second before you force yourself to look away, clearing your throat as if that will help steady you. Your fingers tighten slightly around the fabric of your jeans, grounding yourself, but you swear you can feel her smirking beside you. She doesn’t need to say anything—you just know she’s enjoying this. 

A light nudge on your elbow snaps you out of your spiraling thoughts. Wanda, leaning in close, whispers, "Do you wanna switch seats?" 

Her voice is careful, almost hesitant, and when you turn to her, there’s concern in her eyes. Of course. The last thing she knows about you and Agatha is the kiss. The drunken, heart-wrenching kiss that she remembers you remember, but Agatha does not. 

You force a small smile. "I’m fine." 

"You sure?" Wanda presses, brows knitting together slightly. 

You nod, offering her what you hope is a reassuring look. "Yeah. I promise." 

She doesn’t seem entirely convinced, but she doesn’t push further. Instead, she just exhales and settles back into her seat, though you feel her steal a glance at you every now and then. 

Up front, Jen claps her hands together. "Alright, before we head straight to Malibu Creek, we need to stop by the Malibu Country Mart. We need food." 

She starts listing off things—rice, marinated chicken skewers, beef strips, crackers, chocolate, marshmallows for s’mores, maybe some mushrooms and bell peppers, foil, skewers. 

"Don’t worry about the drinks. That’s already taken care of," she adds with a smirk. 

The drive to Malibu Country Mart is short, filled with easy chatter and the occasional singing from Lilia and Jennifer. When you finally pull into the parking lot, you glance around and then casually say, "I got this. I’ll pay for whatever we need." 

The van goes silent for a second before the teasing starts. 

"Damn, okay, sugar mommy," Lilia snickers. 

"You feelin’ extra generous today, huh?" Wanda raises a brow, clearly amused. 

You just shrug. "It’s easier than splitting the bill. Besides, what’s the point of having money if I can’t spend it?" 

Without hesitation, you pull out your black card and hand it over to Jen. She takes it with zero shame, flipping it between her fingers. "Big mistake, handing this over to me. I could go wild with this." 

You just roll your eyes. "Go crazy. I won’t even notice." 

She laughs but wastes no time hopping out of the van, Lilia following close behind. 

You lean back in your seat, letting your eyes drift to the window as you exhale slowly. Agatha is still right there beside you, quiet now, but her presence is impossible to ignore. The space between you feels both too much and not enough. 

After a few minutes, Jen and Lilia return, arms full of bags. With everything loaded up, the van pulls out of the lot, and you’re officially on your way to Malibu Creek State Park Campground. 

The van is filled with easy conversation—your friends chatting, the occasional burst of laughter, going over the hike details—but you’re barely listening. You’re busy on your phone, scrolling through your socials, pretending not to notice Agatha beside you. But you do. You really do. Every brush of her arm against yours, every shift in her seat that makes her knee nudge against yours. 

And then the van hits a small bump, and this time, her knee stays pressed against yours. She doesn’t move away. Neither do you. 

Then Agatha speaks. "You're oddly quiet," she murmurs, just above a whisper. There's a teasing lilt to her tone, something knowing. 

You glance at her, keeping your voice light. "Just making sure I have enough energy to actually finish the hike. Unlike you." 

Agatha raises an eyebrow, smirking. "Unlike me?" 

You shrug. "I just have this feeling you’ll be the first one begging for a break." 

Agatha scoffs, turning slightly in her seat to face you. "Excuse you. I have incredible stamina." 

You bite back a smirk. "Right. I’ll believe that when I see it." 

She narrows her eyes, tilting her head. "You’re underestimating me." 

"No, I’m just being realistic," you counter, shifting on your seat. "I can already picture it—you, conveniently ‘admiring the scenery’ every five minutes while the rest of us keep going." 

"That’s called appreciating nature," Agatha corrects. "Some of us don’t just power-walk through everything like we’re being chased." 

You shake your head, eyes flickering back to your phone, scrolling aimlessly. "Sure, sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night." 

She hums, shifting slightly. "Guess we’ll just have to see who makes it to the top first," she muses, voice casual but laced with something else. 

You huff a quiet laugh, shaking your head. "Didn’t know this was a competition." 

"Oh, it’s not," she says lightly, shifting in her seat. Her knee presses against yours again—just barely, just enough. "Unless you’re scared of a little challenge?" 

You don’t look up, but you smirk, thumb idly swiping across the screen. "Scared? No. Just wondering if I should take it easy on you." 

Agatha hums, tilting her head slightly. "How generous." Her voice is smooth, unreadable, like she’s enjoying this little back and forth a little too much. 

Your grip on your phone tightens—not enough to be noticeable, but enough that you feel it. There’s a weight in the air, a quiet, slow-building awareness that neither of you acknowledge out loud. Just a shift in the way she’s looking at you. The way your knee presses back against hers, deliberate now. No one else notices. 

You open your mouth to respond, but before you can, the van slows to a stop. 

"We’re here!" Jen announces, pushing open the door. 

Just like that, the moment slips away. You and Agatha pull back, effortless, like nothing ever happened. 

You guys get off the van, stretching your legs after the long ride. The sun is high, filtering through the trees, casting dappled light over the trail ahead. Before setting off, everyone takes a moment to apply bug repellent lotion, the sharp citrus scent filling the air. 

Alice hefts the cooler packed with drinks, while Jen carries the one filled with meats. Lilia is in charge of the bag stuffed with utensils, cookware, foil, and skewers. Wanda and Agatha split the sleeping bags between them, their arms looped through the straps. And then there’s you—stuck with the three camping tents, each one heavier than you expected. Maybe around 5 kg each? It's definitely a lot to carry for a hike, but you’re not about to complain. Not yet. 

The campsite is an hour’s walk away, and Jen confidently takes the lead, guiding the group along the dirt trail. You lag behind a little, letting the others chat freely while you settle into the rhythm of the hike. The conversation ahead of you is filled with laughter, stories, and easy banter. You listen in, but your attention keeps flickering toward Agatha, walking just a few steps away. 

After about twenty minutes, the weight on your back starts to press in. Your shoulders ache, and a dull strain creeps up your spine. You shift the straps, rolling your shoulders in an attempt to ease the discomfort. 

Then Agatha nudges you lightly with her shoulder. "You okay?" Her voice is casual, but there’s a teasing lilt to it. "You’re awfully quiet. Getting tired already? I thought I was supposed to be the one who’d give up first." 

You roll your eyes, but the corner of your mouth twitches upward. "I’m fine," you mutter, brushing off the teasing. She doesn’t push, but you can tell she’s watching you. 

The two of you keep walking side by side. Occasionally, your arms brush—just light, fleeting touches, but each one makes your breath hitch. You fight the urge to glance at her, keeping your eyes trained on the path ahead. Then, distracted by your own thoughts, you stumble over a tree root. Before you can even react, Agatha’s hand shoots out, steadying you by the arm. Her grip is firm, warm, and it lingers just a little too long. 

"You okay?" she asks again, this time with a smirk. 

You nod quickly, chuckling. "Yeah. Just—these tents are heavy." 

"Want me to help?" she offers, though her hands are already full. 

You smirk back. "Oh, how generous of you." 

She laughs, shaking her head. "Hey, the thought counts." 

The trail grows steeper, and you pause, adjusting your grip on the straps. Without a word, Agatha extends a hand toward you. You hesitate for just a second before taking it, her fingers wrapping securely around yours. The touch lingers, her thumb brushing ever so slightly against your palm before she lets go. 

Eventually, you all arrive at the campsite, breathless but relieved. You waste no time dropping the tent bag from your shoulders, sighing at the sudden weightlessness. Your backpack follows, hitting the ground with a soft thud. The others do the same, stretching out sore muscles before flopping onto logs or leaning against nearby trees. 

You sit on a fallen log, gulping down water. As you lift your arm to wipe the sweat from your brow, your gaze unintentionally lands on Agatha across from you. She stands there, wiping the sweat from her forehead, down to her neck. The way she grips the towel, the slow drag of fabric against her skin—it shouldn’t be mesmerizing, but somehow, it is. Your eyes follow the movement, watching the way the towel traces the curve of her neck, the dip of her collarbone. 

Your breath catches. Just for a second.  

Then, Agatha’s eyes catch yours, her gaze unwavering, carrying an unreadable weight. 

Panic sets in, and you tear your gaze away, focusing way too hard on wiping your own sweat. But even without looking, you can still feel her smirking. Like she knows exactly what you were thinking. 

You guys are now about to set up the tents. The others are already making progress, but you find yourself struggling with the tent poles—maybe because your hands are clumsy, or maybe because you can feel Agatha’s eyes on you. You try to shake off the awareness, to focus, but it's impossible to ignore the weight of her gaze. 

You fumble with the pole again, cursing under your breath. And then, just as you expected, she approaches. You pretend not to notice, keeping your eyes on the tangled mess in front of you. 

Agatha’s voice comes low near your ear. "You’re doing it wrong." 

You stiffen, swallowing. "No, I’m not." 

She huffs a quiet laugh. "You are so stubborn." 

You roll your eyes, but before you can argue further, she reaches out and snatches the pole from your hands. "Here, let me—" she says, already fixing the issue before you can protest. 

Within seconds, she has it all in place, the tent poles standing firm. She turns to you with an amused smirk. "That was painful to watch. Were you even trying?" 

You scoff, shrugging. "It’s not like I do this every weekend." 

You reach to continue setting up, but she stops you with a hand on your wrist. "It’ll be faster if I just do it," she says matter-of-factly. "You’re clearly struggling." 

You frown. "I can do it." 

"Sure you did." She tilts her head, studying you, then places a hand on your shoulder before lightly pushing you down onto a nearby log. "Just sit there, hon. I’ll handle this." 

She gives you a look—one that clearly says she doesn’t believe you. "Just sit down." 

You hesitate, but eventually, you sigh and drop onto a nearby log. With nothing else to do, you watch her. She moves easily, assembling the tent with practiced efficiency. It’s unfair how effortless she makes it look. The way her fingers work the straps, the way she tugs on the fabric with precision—it’s almost mesmerizing. 

Then, a sharp nudge to your side nearly makes you lose your balance. 

"Ow—what?" you mutter, glaring at Wanda. 

She doesn’t even try to hide her irritation. "What are you doing?" 

"Sitting?" you say, feigning innocence. 

"Yeah. Sitting there while she does all the work and staring at her like she hung the damn moon." She folds her arms, unimpressed. 

You scoff. "I was not staring." 

Wanda gives you a flat look. "Right. And I’m the Queen of England." 

You huff, looking away again, but Wanda doesn’t let it go. She leans in slightly, lowering her voice. "You do remember what happened, right?" 

Your breath catches in your throat. 

Yeah, you remember. You remember Agatha’s lips on yours, warm and certain. The way she whispered your name between kisses, hands cradling your face like you were something she wanted to hold onto. The way your heart nearly gave out when you realized—finally, finally—that she wanted this too. That you weren’t alone in this. 

But that’s not what Wanda is talking about. 

You blink, snapping out of it. Your chest feels tight. 

"Yeah," you say quickly, your voice coming out rougher than intended. 

Wanda watches you for a moment, her expression unreadable, before exhaling sharply. "Then don’t forget it." Her voice softens—just a little. "I just don’t want to see you get hurt again." 

You nod, unable to meet her eyes. You know she means well. But she doesn’t know everything. 

Not yet. 

Jen instructs the group on their tasks. She, Wanda, and Lilia will cook lunch, Alice will handle the fire, and you and Agatha will gather wood. Wanda doesn’t look thrilled about this arrangement, but she doesn’t argue. She just throws you a warning glance before heading toward the campsite kitchen setup. 

The two of you wander a little farther from camp, the quiet settling in like a soft blanket. The air is thick with the scent of pine and damp earth. The only sounds are the rustling of leaves and the occasional snap of a twig underfoot. It’s peaceful, yet charged with something else—something unspoken. 

You shift the small bundle of sticks in your arms, stealing a glance at Agatha. She walks beside you with easy confidence, her posture relaxed, but her eyes are sharp, watchful. She’s quiet—not tense, just... observing. Like she’s waiting for something. 

"You’re staring," you murmur without looking at her. 

She huffs out a small laugh. "You’re one to talk." 

You frown slightly, glancing at her. "What’s that supposed to mean?" 

Agatha smirks, amusement dancing in her eyes. "Earlier. When we got to the campsite. Thought I didn’t notice?" 

Your grip on the firewood tightens. The memory flickers back—the relief of setting your bag down, the burn in your muscles finally easing. You had sat on a log, drinking water, wiping sweat from your face… and then, your gaze had drifted. 

Agatha had been standing across from you, dragging a towel along her forehead, down the side of her neck. Slow, deliberate movements. The towel skimming along her collarbone. The shift of her jaw. And then she saw you... 

"I wasn’t—" you start, but Agatha shakes her head, clearly entertained. 

"Relax, Y/N," she says lightly, nudging you with her elbow. "I didn’t mind." 

Your face warms, and you hate that she sees it. You clear your throat and keep walking, eyes ahead, but the distraction is there now. It lingers in the way your pulse picks up when she steps a little closer. 

Then, suddenly— 

Her fingers curl around your wrist. 

"Hey—" 

You don’t get to finish. Agatha tugs you off the trail, steering you behind a thick tree trunk, out of sight. Your back presses against the rough bark as she steps in close, too close, her hands bracketing your waist. 

Your breath stutters. "Agatha, what are you—" 

She doesn’t answer. Instead, her fingers skim up, trailing along your jaw, tilting your chin up. Her gaze flickers to your lips, dark with intent. 

And then she kisses you. 

It’s not soft. It’s a claiming—hot, urgent, a head-spinning kind of kiss that makes your fingers tighten around the small bundle of sticks in your arms before they inevitably slip—falling to the ground with a quiet thud. 

Agatha smirks against your lips but doesn’t let up. Her fingers slip to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, deepening the kiss. She kisses you like she’s been waiting—like she’s finally giving in to something she’s wanted for too long. 

You gasp when she presses you harder against the tree, her lips trailing from your mouth to your jaw, then lower—to your neck. 

Her teeth graze your skin. 

"Agatha—" you start, but your voice falters the second you feel her suck, slow and deliberate, right beneath your jaw. 

Your entire body tenses. 

She hums against your skin, pleased, like she knows exactly what she’s doing. The sensation sends heat pooling in your stomach, a mix of pleasure and realization—she’s leaving a mark. 

"Agatha," you hiss, hands gripping at her sides, but she just grins against your skin. 

"Mhm?" she murmurs, her breath warm as she lingers there, pressing one last kiss to the spot before finally pulling back. 

Before you can react— 

The sharp sound of a twig snapping nearby makes you both freeze. 

Your heart jumps to your throat. 

Agatha barely moves, her body still pressed close to yours, her breath warm against your skin as her eyes flick toward the noise. Your pulse pounds in your ears as you strain to listen, but after a few beats of silence, nothing else follows. No footsteps, no rustling—just the distant hum of the wind through the trees. 

She tilts her head, eyes glinting with amusement. "Relax, Y/N," she murmurs, her voice low, teasing. "Probably just a squirrel." 

You let out a sharp breath, shoving her away slightly, your eyes wide with disbelief. "Agatha, you’ve got to be kidding me—" 

Agatha raises a brow, feigning innocence, a smirk already tugging at her lips. "What?" 

You gesture wildly at your neck. "Agatha, I’m wearing a tank top!" 

Her smirk deepens, slow and smug. "Yeah. I noticed." 

You groan, slapping a hand over the spot. Your fingers press against your skin, and—yep. It’s definitely there. 

Agatha bites back a laugh. 

You glare at her. "How am I supposed to hide this?! This wasn’t here when we left!" 

She tilts her head like she’s actually considering it. "Well, you could say you walked into a tree." 

You blink. "What?" 

"A tree branch. Scratched your neck. It happens." She shrugs. "Or, oh! A mosquito bite." 

You stare at her. "A mosquito bite?" 

She grins. "A very… passionate mosquito." 

You scoff. "You are insufferable." 

She just laughs, stepping back and casually picking up a stick like nothing happened. 

And that’s when it hits you. 

Your first aid kit. 

There are band-aids in your first aid kit. Back at camp. 

If you can just make it back there, you can cover it up. 

Only problem? 

You still have to carry the firewood back first. 

You groan internally. This is going to be hell. 

You continue gathering firewood, and so does Agatha. 

After a few minutes... 

Your arms are full—too full. The rough bark digs into your skin, and you’re struggling to keep everything balanced. And Agatha? She’s no help at all. 

She strolls beside you, hands in her pockets, smirking as she watches you suffer. 

Because carrying firewood is already a pain. But carrying firewood while also trying to keep a hand on your neck to cover a very obvious hickey? 

It’s borderline impossible. 

"You know," Agatha muses, hands still in her pockets, "if you admit I’m good at what I do, I might be convinced to help you out." 

You glare at her. "Not a chance." 

She snickers, clearly entertained. 

You shift awkwardly, attempting to balance the wood while keeping your other hand glued to your neck. The problem is—it’s not working. The firewood wobbles in your grasp, threatening to spill at any second. 

And then—you nearly trip over a rock. 

Agatha reacts fast, her hand darting out to catch your elbow. Her grin is downright evil. "Careful, hon. Hate for you to fall and add another mark." 

You grit your teeth. "I swear to God, Agatha—" 

And then— 

"Y/N?" 

You flinch violently, nearly dropping the firewood. 

Alice. 

You whip around, eyes wide. "YES??" 

Alice blinks at you, confused. "...Are you okay?" 

"YEP!" you rush out, forcing the most unnatural smile in existence. 

Alice eyes you suspiciously. "Why are you holding your neck like that?" 

You freeze. 

Before you can even think of an excuse, Agatha—being an absolute menace—sighs dramatically and drapes an arm over your shoulders. "Oh, don’t mind her," she says smoothly, voice dripping with amusement. "She’s just feeling a little... sensitive today." 

You elbow her immediately, trying to shove her away, but she barely budges. 

Alice frowns. "Sensitive how?" 

You panic. 

Agatha grins, clearly about to say something ridiculous. "Oh, you know—" 

You cut her off, practically yelling, "I GOT BIT. BY A BUG. A BIG ONE." 

Alice blinks. "Oh. Are you okay?" 

You nod aggressively. "Mhm! Just need a band-aid." 

Alice opens her mouth, probably to ask another question, but you don’t give her the chance. You bolt past her, speed-walking straight back to the camp. 

Okay. Okay. You can do this. Just—act casual. Act normal. 

When you reach the camp, you drop the firewood with a relieved sigh, finally free to use both hands again. You roll your shoulders, trying to shake off the lingering ache. The sting on your neck pulses, a dull reminder of your misfortune. You make a mental note to check it later—when no one’s watching. 

But then— 

"Y/N, wait." 

You stiffen. 

Alice. 

You turn slowly, already dreading what’s coming. "Yeah?" 

She’s eyeing you, concerned. "Are you sure you’re okay? Let me see." 

Your soul leaves your body. Your stomach twists. 

"SEE??" You choke out. "OH, UH, NO NEED." 

Alice frowns, clearly not convinced. "What if it’s a poisonous bite?" 

Panic grips you. 

And then— 

"Who got bit by what?" 

Jen appears out of nowhere, like she was summoned by the word "bite." 

Lilia, right behind her. "Wait, yeah, who got bit?" 

"Y/N did," Alice says helpfully. 

You wish she wasn’t so helpful. 

Wanda, hearing that, immediately looks alarmed. "WHAT?!" She steps closer, her brows furrowed as she scans you for injuries. "By WHAT? Are you okay??" 

Jen, intrigued. "Is it bad? Does it look weird?" 

Lilia, curious. "Ooo, maybe it’s swollen!" 

Your face burns. You feel cornered. 

"IT’S FINE. IT’S NOTHING. I’M GOOD. I’M—" 

Alice narrows her eyes. "Then why are you still covering it?" 

Crap. 

Jen, gasping. "WHAT IF IT LAID EGGS?" 

Lilia, horrified. "OH MY GOD—" 

Wanda, 100% serious, hands on your shoulders. "Y/N, we need to check. What if it's poisonous? Or infected? Just let us see, please." 

Your heartbeat spikes. You can practically feel the pressure of their stares drilling into you, suffocating you. 

And then— 

"OH MY GOD, LOOK!" you suddenly shout, pointing wildly behind them. 

It’s a long shot, but desperation fuels you. 

Everyone whirls around. 

"WHERE?!" Alice gasps. 

"WHAT?!" Lilia yells. 

"IS IT THE THING THAT BIT YOU?!" Jen demands. 

Wanda, more concerned for you than whatever they’re looking for. "Y/N, we need to get you checked—" 

But you don’t hear the rest because you BOLT. 

Straight to your bag. 

Straight to the damn first aid kit. 

Behind you, the confusion erupts into chaos. 

"I don't see anything??" Alice frowns. 

"Wait, where did Y/N go?" Lilia turns back. 

Jen gasps. "SHE FLED THE SCENE." 

Your hands are shaking as you rip open the first aid kit, slapping a band-aid onto your neck without even checking if it’s in the right spot. You exhale sharply, still feeling the ghost of their worried stares. 

You turn back, panting. 

Wanda is standing there, arms crossed, absolutely not buying it. 

"Y/N." 

You freeze. 

She’s staring at you. 

You follow her gaze. 

The band-aid is on the wrong side. 

Your stomach drops. 

Wanda narrows her eyes. "Why is the band-aid on the wrong side of your neck?" 

You mutter a low, fuck, mentally kicking yourself for the rookie mistake. 

Without missing a beat, you rip it off and slap it onto the right spot. 

"Fixed it," you say, forcing a smile. 

Wanda blinks. 

Jen squints. 

Lilia whispers, "Suspicious." 

Alice just shrugs. "Okay, well, as long as you're okay." 

Jen, still eyeing you. "If something hatches, we’re not helping." 

You exhale, pretending you didn’t just have a near-death experience. 

A quiet chuckle drifts through the air. You grit your teeth, already knowing who it is. 

You glance at her, catching the amused tilt of her lips as she adjusts her sleeves, but she doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t even look at you directly. 

Your irritation flares. You shoot her a sharp glare, but she only shakes her head slightly, like she’s enjoying the show. 

You huff, turning away, trying to will down the heat in your cheeks. 

After a few moments, the others move on—but not Wanda. She stands in front of you with her arms crossed, staring you down like a personal bodyguard. 

"Sit," she orders, pointing at a log. 

You sigh, but comply, dropping onto the rough wood with your arms crossed. "I can still move, you know. I didn’t lose a leg." 

"You got bit. It could be bad." Her hands find her hips, her stance firm. "What if it’s venomous?" 

"It’s literally nothing." 

"You don’t know that," she counters. "So sit. Stay. Rest." 

You groan, leaning back against the log. "You act like I’m dying." 

"Not on my watch," she quips before turning on her heel and heading off to help the others. 

So now you’re here. Doing nothing. Watching everyone else prepare food for lunch. Feeling useless. Bored. Restless. 

Then, a shadow falls over you. 

"You look very hardworking." 

You glance up. Agatha. 

She stands before you, arms crossed, head tilted, amusement flickering in her eyes. 

"Don’t start," you mutter, looking away. 

She hums, then—completely ignoring the availability of literally any other seat—plops down right next to you. Too close. Close enough that your shoulder brushes against hers for a split second, and your heart does something stupid in response. 

"You should be helping," you point out. 

She shrugs, stretching her legs out in front of her. "Since you can’t move, I might as well keep you company." 

You roll your eyes. "You just don’t wanna work." 

"Correct," she says easily. Then, with a smirk, she adds, "Besides… it’s kind of nice seeing you sit still for once." 

You narrow your eyes. "I can sit still." 

She raises an eyebrow. 

You cross your arms. "I can." 

Agatha leans in slightly, gaze flickering down—first to your face, then lower. It’s quick, barely a glance, but you catch it. And when her eyes land on your neck, lingering just a second longer, your skin burns like a brand was pressed against it. 

Your breath catches, but before you can react, she leans back, pretending nothing happened. She just sits there, relaxed, like she didn’t just set your entire body on fire. 

You stare at the ground, willing yourself to not combust on the spot. Agatha, completely unbothered, stretches her arms above her head like she has all the time in the world. 

Then you feel it. 

A stare. 

You glance up—and Wanda is walking toward you. 

She has firewood in her arms, her expression unreadable as she approaches. But when her eyes flick to Agatha, something sharp flashes across her face. 

"What are you doing here?" Wanda asks, her tone clipped, her gaze locked onto Agatha. 

Your breath stutters. You sit up straighter, pulling your shoulders in like that would somehow make you look less guilty. "I—she—uh—" 

Agatha, unbothered, finally acknowledges her. "She’s on strict ‘do nothing’ orders, remember?" 

Wanda narrows her eyes. "Right. And you’re here because...?" 

Agatha smirks. "Moral support." 

Wanda does not look convinced. 

You’re hyper-aware of your exposed shoulders, the way Agatha’s eyes had lingered earlier, and most importantly—the hickey on your neck that you barely covered in time. 

You resist the urge to rub at the band-aid. You can’t give Wanda a reason to look any closer. 

But she is looking. 

Too long. Too sharp. 

Your heart pounds. Does she see it? Did she notice?? 

Then, finally, Wanda just sighs. "Fine. But don’t let her get up, Agatha." 

You nod too fast. Agatha? She just smiles. 

Wanda gives you one last, long, considering look before walking off. 

You exhale. 

Agatha leans in slightly, voice low. "You looked like you were about to pass out." 

"Shut up." 

She grins. "Maybe I should check your pulse. You know, since you’re injured and all." 

Your face burns. 

The moment Wanda is out of sight, you spring to your feet like the ground just burned you. 

Agatha raises an eyebrow. "Where are you going?" 

You don’t answer. You just grab your backpack and a sleeping bag and beeline for one of the tents. 

There are three tents set up. You don’t even think before ducking into one, zipping it up behind you, and letting out a long, deep breath. 

Holy shit. 

Your heart is still pounding. 

You press a hand over the band-aid on your neck, as if that will somehow erase the very real, very recent mark Agatha left. 

Wanda was staring too hard. You’re sure she suspects something. 

You groan, flopping down onto the sleeping bag. What the hell was that? 

You can still feel the ghost of Agatha’s lips, the way she had tilted your head, the warmth of her breath before she— 

Nope. Not thinking about that. Not right now. 

You exhale sharply, running a hand down your face. Maybe if you just stay here for a while, let things settle, it won’t feel so… overwhelming. Maybe even take a nap. Yeah, that sounds like a plan. 

And then— 

The tent unzips. 

Your stomach drops as you sit up too fast, heart hammering. 

And Agatha steps inside. 

She doesn’t come empty-handed. No, she’s carrying her own backpack and a sleeping bag. 

Wait. What. 

She zips the tent back up behind her and smirks down at you. 

"Relax," she says, tossing her stuff onto the other side of the tent. "I figured we’re tentmates." 

Your brain short-circuits. "We—what?" 

She shrugs. "Three tents. Six people. Pairs make sense, don't you think?" 

You hadn't thought of that. 

And judging by the absolute gleam of mischief in her eyes, Agatha had definitely thought of it way before now. 

You swallow hard. “And you just… decided on your own that we’re sharing?” 

She smirks. “You ran in here first.” 

“That doesn’t mean—” 

“Oh, relax.” She flops down next to you, propping herself up on one elbow, her face way too close. “You’re acting like I bite.” 

You glare. “You literally did.” 

Her smirk deepens. “Want me to apologize?” 

You do not like where this is going. 

You scramble to put space between you, pressing a hand to your very much still sore neck. “We are not talking about that.” 

Agatha just hums, stretching out on her back like she belongs there. 

Silence settles between you for a moment, but your thoughts are far from quiet. You keep replaying last night in your head—the way her lips felt against yours, the way she looked at you right before— 

Nope. Not going there. 

Then a thought hits you, and panic creeps in. “Wait—what if our friends get suspicious?” 

Agatha blinks at you, then actually laughs. “Suspicious of what?” 

You wave vaguely between the two of you. “You. Me. This.” 

She just shrugs, completely unbothered. “Doubt it.” 

You narrow your eyes. “You sound way too confident about that.” 

Agatha smirks. “Come on, everyone thinks we’re always at each other’s throats. No one’s gonna assume we’re—” She gestures toward your neck. “—secretly doing… whatever this is.” 

Your breath catches. 

Whatever this is. 

You linger on those words. 

Because—what is this, really? 

You don’t ask. You don’t say anything. You just keep it to yourself. 

It’s too soon to even bring it up, right? 

You guys just kissed last night. 

The real kiss. 

You now know she likes you back. 

That’s enough… for now. 

Right? 

Agatha watches you for a beat, like she can tell you’re lost in thought, but she doesn’t push. 

She just smirks and stretches her arms over her head, her shirt riding up just enough to make you look away fast. 

"Anyway," she drawls, "get comfortable, tentmate. Looks like you’re stuck with me all night." 

You groan and flop back onto the sleeping bag, throwing an arm over your face. “Fantastic.” 

Agatha just chuckles, clearly enjoying herself way too much. “Try not to miss me too much in your sleep.” 

You turn onto your side, putting some distance between you. "Yeah, right." 

Agatha just hums, clearly entertained. "Oh, hon, I'm always right." 

You can hear the smirk in her voice, but you're too tired to argue. 

Your body finally relaxes, exhaustion settling deep in your bones. Maybe it’s the long hike, maybe it’s the chaos of earlier, or maybe it’s just being in this tent with her—but you feel completely drained. 

Agatha stays quiet after that. 

Just as sleep starts pulling you under, you murmur, "Wake me up for lunch." 

There's a beat of silence, then a quiet chuckle. "Sure thing, sleeping beauty." 

If you weren’t already halfway gone, you might’ve rolled your eyes. Instead, you let the warmth of sleep take over, Agatha’s voice the last thing lingering in your mind. 

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[harknessxo]

You Were Never Mine to Lose (Chapter 11)

Synopsis: Tension lingers in every glance, every unspoken word. Between teasing remarks and fleeting touches, you find yourself toeing a line with Agatha that feels dangerously thin—like one wrong step could change everything.

Word count: 5.1K

Warnings: Mentions of alcohol consumption, Subtle angst, Unresolved emotions, Sexual tension, Mild language 

You wake up with a startled gasp as pain shoots up your side. Your back hits the cold floor, and it takes a second to register what just happened—you fell. Groaning, you rub your face, trying to piece together last night. Too drunk to make it to bed, so you crashed on the couch instead. And now, apparently, the floor. 

With a sigh, you sit up, running a hand through your hair. The ache in your chest is familiar, persistent. Agatha. Her voice, her laughter, the way she moved around you, effortlessly slipping under your skin. You curse under your breath. Of course she still has this effect on you. 

Shaking it off, you grab your phone from the coffee table.  

8 AM.  

A few notifications light up the screen—messages from the group chat and one from Rio. Right, she texted yesterday. Just a simple "Hey there." You’d replied with a half-hearted "Hi." Now, another message sits below it. 

Rio: You good? You sound dead inside. More than usual. 

Guilt creeps in for muting your phone last night. You quickly type back: 

You: Morning! Sorry for the late reply, I muted my phone. Went out for karaoke with my friends—y'know, girls’ night, no distractions. Not that you're a distraction! You get what I mean, right? Sorry, I swear I'm not usually this awkward over text. But yeah, I’m fine. Thanks for checking in. 

A few seconds later, Rio replies. 

Rio: lol, you’re overthinking. Glad you had fun. No hangover? 

You: Surprisingly, no. Just a sore back from passing out on my couch. Not my best moment. 

Rio: Classic. Anyway, gotta open the shop now. Talk later? 

You: Yeah, of course. Have a good one! 

You set your phone down, exhaling. For a brief moment, your mind isn’t occupied by Agatha. Just for a moment. 

After that, you open the group chat. There are a ton of messages, so you scroll back to catch up. Most of it is teasing—Alice, Jen, Lilia, and Agatha going back and forth, poking fun at each other and, mostly, at you for disappearing last night. 

Alice: Y/N's gone. She’s dead to us now. 

Wanda: Tragic. She had a good run. 

Lilia: Imagine falling asleep before the chaos. Rookie move. 

Agatha: Sleep, or something else? 🤨 

Alice: If it’s Rio, just say that. 

Jen: Y/N’s first-ever vacation romance? 😳 

Lilia: I’m so proud. 

Agatha: Huh. Didn’t take her for the type to go for someone like Rio. 

Alice: Ooooh, what does that mean? 👀 

Agatha: Nothing. Just saying. 

Alice: Just saying you sound a little... invested. 🤭 

Agatha: You’re all unbearable. 

You pause, reading that exchange again. There’s something about Agatha’s words that sticks. It’s subtle, but knowing her, there’s a weight beneath the teasing—something almost bitter. Or maybe you’re just reading into things. Maybe it’s nothing. But for some reason, you find yourself staring at her messages a little longer than necessary before shaking your head and moving on. 

You shake your head, scrolling past more playful accusations about your sudden disappearance. Then, a final message from Jen stands out: 

Jen: Dress fitting tomorrow after lunch. Meet at the main entrance of the resort, as usual. Be on time, people! 

You sigh and set your phone down. Time to start the day. Standing up, you stretch, your muscles still stiff from sleeping on the couch. You make your way to the kitchen, grab a glass of water, and down it in a few gulps before heading upstairs to your bedroom. 

The routine is familiar—shower, skincare, getting dressed. But Agatha lingers in your mind. The drunk kiss. The way she sang last night. The way she looked at you when you sang that song. It’s too much. It frustrates you. 

Three more days. That’s all you have to get through, and then you’ll both go back to your own lives. You just need to survive these last three days. 

You spent the morning trying to keep busy—checking emails, scrolling through your phone, pretending you weren’t overthinking about last night. 

Then Rio sends a message. You guys chat for a bit—light, easy, nothing serious. It helps, at least for a while, to have a distraction. But soon enough, it was time to face the next challenge: the bridesmaid dress fitting. 

You pick your outfit carefully—Black Tailored Linen Trousers, a Black L’autre Chose vest, and Gucci Arielle crystal-heel ankle boots. Sleek, effortless. You add your Bvlgari Serpenti sunglasses for an extra touch, the weight of them grounding you as you sling your Black Saint Laurent Le 5 à 7 Mini bag over your shoulder. One last look in the mirror. Composed. Cool. You can do this. 

Stepping out of your villa, the warm breeze greets you as you make your way to the main entrance of the resort. The group is already there, voices overlapping in easy conversation. Your eyes scan over them briefly—Alice laughing at something Lilia said, Jen on her phone, Wanda adjusting her sunglasses. And then, Agatha. 

Your gaze catches on her before you can stop it. She looks good. Of course she does. It’s irritating how effortlessly she pulls off that casual elegance, like she doesn’t even have to try. But the second you realize you’re staring, you look away, swallowing down whatever that feeling is before it can settle. 

You head straight for the van. Without thinking, you grab Wanda’s arm and pull her to sit beside you. She doesn’t protest. She knows why. 

“Got it,” she murmurs under her breath, a small smirk playing at her lips. 

You just nudge her lightly, pretending not to hear Agatha’s voice as she climbs into the van behind you. 

After a few minutes, the van stops in front of an upscale boutique. You step out with the others, immediately greeted by soft ambient lighting, the faint scent of fresh flowers, and the quiet hum of classical music playing in the background. A well-dressed consultant approaches with a warm smile, offering champagne and sparkling water as assistants begin arranging dresses based on previous selections. 

The boutique is elegant, with rows of luxurious gowns lining the space, mannequins displaying intricate designs, and a plush fitting area with ornate mirrors and velvet seating waiting at the back. The energy shifts as everyone spreads out—some admiring fabrics, others flipping through the selections, excitement bubbling in their conversations. 

Alice is the first to take a sip of champagne, grinning at Jen. "If I get tipsy, does that mean I can say no to anything that makes me look like a bridesmaid from hell?" 

Jen rolls her eyes but smiles. "You’re wearing whatever I tell you to wear." 

"Damn. A dictatorship." 

Wanda hums, looking over a deep red gown. "Honestly, I kind of love this one." 

"You would," Alice teases. "It’s screaming 'mysterious and sexy.'" 

The fitting begins, fabric swatches and accessories being presented as the consultant moves efficiently, pinning and clipping dresses as needed. Your friends exchange opinions—some playful, some sincere. 

Then Agatha steps out in her dress. 

At first, you barely glance up, focused on adjusting your cuff, but the moment you do, your breath catches. She looks... effortless. The dress hugs her in all the right places, the deep shade accentuating her striking features. She looks good—too good. You force yourself to remain composed, willing away the way your heart stumbles. 

"Wow," Lilia says, eyes sweeping over Agatha. "That's... unfair." 

Agatha smirks, adjusting one of the straps. "Flattery will get you everywhere." 

Alice elbows you lightly. "You good over there?" 

"Yeah, why wouldn't I be?" you reply smoothly, reaching for your drink like it’s the most natural thing in the world. 

As the consultant gathers the last of the gowns and steps out, she offers a polite smile. “I’ll give you all a moment,” she says before disappearing through the curtains, leaving the group in complete privacy. The room settles into a quieter atmosphere—just the soft rustling of fabric and the occasional clink of a hanger. 

One by one, everyone disappears into their fitting rooms. You step into yours, pulling the curtain closed before carefully unzipping your dress. The boutique is mostly silent except for muffled voices and the occasional shuffle of feet. Then— 

“Y/N?” 

It’s Agatha’s voice. Low, unhurried. 

You pause, fingers still gripping the fabric of your dress. “What?” 

“I need a hand,” she calls from the last fitting room. “Zipper’s stuck.” 

You hesitate. Of course she needs help. Of course it has to be you. 

“Not my problem,” you say, feigning indifference, even though the idea of being near her sends a quiet thrill up your spine. “I’m sure someone else would be happy to assist.” 

Agatha chuckles. “Come on. I’d rather not get stuck in this dress.” 

You let out a dramatic sigh, if only to mask the fact that you already know you’re going to help her. You step out of your fitting room and approach hers, pushing the curtain aside just enough to slip inside. 

And there she is. 

The dress clings to her, the fabric smooth and elegant, but the zipper remains stuck near the top, leaving just a small gap. Her shoulders rise and fall as she waits, one hand on her hip, the other reaching back in vain. 

“You really couldn’t do this yourself?” you tease, stepping closer. 

She huffs a quiet laugh. “If I could, you wouldn’t be here, would you?” 

You roll your eyes but place your hands on the zipper, fingers just barely brushing her skin as you slide it down. The room feels impossibly small, the scent of her perfume lingering in the air. Your hands pause for a second longer than they should—just barely, but enough to notice. Enough to feel. 

“There. Crisis averted,” you murmur, voice softer than intended. 

Agatha turns her head slightly, as if she wants to say something, but instead, she just smirks. “How heroic of you.” 

You step back, shaking your head as you retreat to your own fitting room. As you pull on the dress you picked, you can’t shake the way your skin still tingles where it brushed against hers. 

Once everyone is dressed, you step out to compare designs. The group exchanges opinions, some more critical than others, but you don’t miss the way Agatha watches you from across the room. You glance away quickly, pretending not to notice. 

Eventually, the decision is made—Wanda’s dress wins. The consultant takes measurements, noting final adjustments. 

As the group heads back to the resort, Jen reminds everyone, “Hiking and camping tomorrow. Hope you packed for it. Be at the main entrance by 8 AM. No excuses.” 

Wanda groans. “Do we really have to? Can’t we just pretend we got lost on the way?” 

“Not a chance,” Jen replies. “You’re all coming, and you’re all carrying your own stuff.” 

“I didn’t even bring hiking boots,” Wanda mutters. 

“Same,” another voice chimes in. “Didn’t think we’d actually be doing outdoorsy stuff.” 

Jen rolls her eyes but waves a hand dismissively. “Just buy some at the resort shop. They probably sell overpriced survival gear for people exactly like you.” 

You sigh, already dreading the early morning. “Great. Can’t wait to climb a mountain on minimal sleep.” 

“Think of it as bonding,” Jen says cheerfully. 

Agatha snorts beside you. “Nothing bonds people like suffering together.” 

You nod, already dreading the early morning. But your mind is elsewhere—lingering on the soft touch of a zipper, a whisper of skin against skin, and the way Agatha’s eyes never quite left you. Or maybe you’re just reading into things. 

When you get to your villa, you sink into the bathtub, letting the warm water relax your muscles. A glass of whiskey rests on the edge, and you take slow sips, staring at nothing in particular—except your mind is full of Agatha. You shake your head, pushing the thought away. 

After your bath, you eat a quiet dinner, then head to your bedroom. You check some emails for work, scroll through social media—anything to keep your mind busy. But no matter how much you distract yourself, Agatha lingers in the back of your thoughts. 

Eventually, you try to sleep, knowing you need rest for tomorrow’s hike. But it doesn’t happen. You toss and turn, staring at the ceiling, sighing in frustration. You check your phone again, hoping exhaustion will take over soon. It doesn’t. 

Finally, you sit up and mutter, “Screw it. I need air.” 

You grab a hoodie—the one Agatha gave you, though you try not to think too hard about that—and step outside for a walk, hoping to tire yourself out. 

The resort is peaceful at this hour. You walk past the villas, then down toward the beach, letting the cool night air fill your lungs. The sound of waves rolling onto the shore is steady, calming. You walk along the seashore, the soft sand beneath your feet, letting your mind settle. 

And then—you spot a familiar figure sitting on one of the patio chaise lounges, bathed in the soft glow of the outdoor lanterns. A glass of something dark rests in her hand. 

Agatha. 

You freeze, instinctively stepping back. She hasn’t seen you yet. Maybe you can slip away before— 

Too late. 

Agatha looks up, her gaze flickering in your direction. 

“Y/N?” Her voice carries that teasing lilt, like she already knows. 

You immediately turn on your heel. Nope. Not tonight. You start walking away, pretending you didn’t hear her. 

“Really?” Agatha calls after you, amused. “You trying to avoid me?” There’s a pause. Then, more pointedly, “I know that hoodie, you know.” 

You groan under your breath. Well, shit. That’s embarrassing. There’s no denying it now. 

Agatha shifts in her seat, tilting her head slightly. "Come on, Y/N," she drawls. "I don’t bite." 

You hesitate, arms crossing over your chest. "That’s debatable." 

She chuckles, swirling her drink lazily. "Only if you ask nicely." 

Your face burns at that, but you try to play it off with an eye roll. With a resigned sigh, you trudge over, sinking into the lounge chair beside hers. Agatha watches you with that ever-present smirk, her gaze lingering just a little too long. 

She tilts her head, eyes glinting with amusement. “Was that an attempt to escape?” 

You scoff. “Please. I was just taking a walk.” 

“Mm-hmm.” She swirls her drink lazily. “And yet, here you are.” 

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, yeah. What are you even doing out here?” 

Agatha exhales, gazing out at the waves. “Couldn’t sleep. Needed some air.” 

You nod. “Same.” 

She gestures toward the bottle on the small table between you. “Red wine?” 

You hesitate for a second, then take the offered glass. “Thanks.” You sip, still avoiding her gaze. 

A comfortable silence settles between you, the sound of the ocean filling the space. Then Agatha speaks again, her voice softer this time. “You looked nice earlier.” 

You blink, caught off guard. “Huh?” 

“At the fitting.” She glances at you, something unreadable in her expression. “That dress suited you.” 

You feel your cheeks heat up despite yourself. “Oh. Uh… thanks.” 

Agatha hums, taking another sip of wine, twirling the glass in her fingers. "If I had picked the final dress, you know it would’ve been yours." Her voice is casual, but there’s something beneath it, something unreadable. 

You glance at her, trying to gauge what she means. "What, like you would’ve picked it just to mess with me?" 

Agatha chuckles, tilting her head. "No. I just know what looks good on you." 

You huff out a small laugh, shaking your head. "You have too much confidence in your taste." 

She smirks. "And yet, I’m never wrong." 

You turn your head, startled. She’s not looking at you, but there’s a thoughtful air about her, like she’s been holding onto the compliment for a while. 

You swallow, looking out at the sea, trying to sound casual. "Well… you looked nice too." 

Agatha’s lips twitch into a small smile. “Obviously.” 

You scoff, shaking your head. “Right. Should’ve known you’d say that.” 

She chuckles, stretching her legs out in front of her. "Confidence is key, darling." 

You roll your eyes, but there’s an undeniable warmth in your chest. You tell yourself it’s just Agatha being Agatha—teasing, cocky, effortlessly charming. But the way she said it, the way her eyes lingered on you for just a second longer than necessary… 

It makes you wonder. 

Still, you shake the thought away, scoffing lightly. "Yeah, yeah. Whatever helps you sleep at night." 

The silence is deafening, stretching between you like a barrier neither of you knows how to break. Then, Agatha speaks, her voice playful but laced with curiosity. 

"Okay, be honest. What did you think of me when we first met?" 

You blink, caught off guard. "That’s random," you say, narrowing your eyes. "Why?" 

Agatha just tilts her head, waiting, a knowing look in her gaze. You exhale, shaking your head. "Fine." 

You pretend to think for a second, then grin. "I thought you were a total menace." 

Agatha gasps, pressing a hand to her chest in mock offense. "A menace?" 

You nod, biting back a laugh. "Yeah. All smug and mysterious, like you had everyone wrapped around your finger." 

Agatha tilts her head, a slow smirk forming. "Is that really such a problem?" 

You shrug, not meeting her gaze. "I didn't say that." 

You tilt your head, watching her carefully. "Alright, my turn. What did you think of me?" 

Agatha leans back, gaze flickering with amusement. "That you were a spoiled little thing who always got her way." 

Your mouth falls open. "Wow. Judgmental much?" 

Agatha shrugs unapologetically. "Was I wrong?" 

You narrow your eyes at her, but the teasing glint in her gaze makes you grin. "Okay, fine. What do you think of me now?" 

She pauses, watching you closely. The smirk fades just a little, replaced by something more thoughtful. "Still spoiled," she admits, her voice softer now. "But also… different." 

You frown slightly, intrigued. "Different how?" 

Instead of answering, Agatha takes a slow sip of her drink, her eyes steady on the waves. She doesn’t say another word, and for some reason, you don’t push. The silence settles between you again, but this time, it’s not uncomfortable. 

You both sit there for a while, just listening to the ocean, the rhythmic crash of waves filling the space where words aren’t needed. 

Then, after a beat, Agatha speaks again, her voice quieter this time. "I like nights like this. When everything’s quiet. No expectations, no noise. Just… being." 

You nod, sinking deeper into the lounge chair. "Yeah. It’s nice." 

Agatha exhales slowly, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass. 

You glance at her, noting the way her expression softens as she stares out at the sea. There’s something unreadable in her gaze, something quiet and distant. She doesn’t look at you, but you get the feeling she’s not entirely lost in her thoughts either. 

Maybe she’s waiting. Maybe she wants to say something but won’t. Or maybe you’re just imagining it, reading into things that aren’t really there. 

Still, for a moment, you let yourself wonder what she really meant by that. 

More silence. A kind that feels heavier, but not unpleasant. Just full of something neither of you are saying. Then, Agatha puts her glass down, stretches, and stands up. "I think I’m gonna swim." 

You blink, glancing at her. "Right now?" 

"Why not?" Agatha grins, kicking off her shoes. "The water’s calling me." 

You watch her, hesitating. "You’re actually serious." 

"Deadly." Agatha smirks before stripping off her clothes until she’s down to her undergarments. The moonlight catches in her hair as she steps forward, and your stomach does something weird. 

Agatha glances back over her shoulder, eyes twinkling. "Come on. Live a little." 

You hesitate. The water is dark, endless. "I don’t know…" 

Agatha’s grin widens. "Oh, don’t tell me you’re scared." 

You scoff. "Of the ocean? No. Of getting hypothermia? Yes." 

You fold your arms, watching Agatha with a mix of amusement and concern. "Just a few days ago, you went from a hot tub straight into a sauna like you were trying to cook yourself. And now you’re about to throw yourself into the open sea at night? Do you actually want to get sick?" 

Agatha rolls her eyes, waving you off. "You are no fun." 

Without another word, she takes off running, the cool night air rushing around her as she sprints toward the water. You watch, your eyes following Agatha as she dives into the waves, surf crashing around her. 

From the water, Agatha yells back, laughing. "Come on! It’s amazing!" 

You shake your head, wrapping your arms around yourself. "Absolutely not." 

Agatha floats on her back, arms stretched wide, reveling in the cool embrace of the ocean. "You’re really missing out." 

You smirk, settling back into your seat. "I think I’ll live." 

Agatha just laughs, splashing playfully before disappearing beneath the surface, leaving you to watch her, torn between rolling your eyes and smiling. 

Then, Agatha vanishes. One second, she’s there, and the next—gone. Your heart drops. Panic grips you as you scan the water, your pulse hammering in your ears. Without a second thought, you strip down and sprint toward the sea, wading in as fast as you can. 

"Agatha!" You call out, voice edged with worry. "Agatha, where—" 

Something grabs your leg. 

You scream—loud, startled, borderline terrified—before Agatha bursts out of the water, laughing. She tosses her wet hair back, eyes twinkling. "You should’ve seen your face!" 

Your heart is still racing, but now it’s fueled by frustration. "Are you kidding me? That’s not funny!" 

Agatha grins, completely unapologetic. "Oh, come on. Just a little fun." 

"A little fun? I thought you drowned!" You glare at her, crossing your arms even as the waves lap around you. "You scared the hell out of me." 

She swims closer, a playful smirk still on her lips. "Okay, okay. I’m sorry," she says, but the amusement in her voice betrays her. 

You huff, shaking your head. "Unbelievable." 

Agatha tilts her head, considering you for a moment. Then, without warning, she splashes you. 

You gasp. "Oh, you did not just—" 

Before you can finish, she does it again, laughing. That’s it. You retaliate, sending a wave of water her way, and soon, it turns into an all-out splash war. You’re both laughing, shrieking when the water hits just right, playing like teenagers without a care in the world. 

For a moment, it’s just that—laughter, water, the easy lightness of being in the moment. No complications. No weight of the past. Just this. 

After some time, you stop first, breathless, pushing your wet hair back. Agatha is watching you, her laughter trailing off, something unreadable in her gaze. The air thickens between you. The ocean suddenly feels quieter. 

“You’ve got something,” she murmurs, tilting her head slightly. 

You blink. “What?” 

Agatha lifts her hand—hesitates—then reaches out, brushing a wet strand of hair from your cheek. Her fingers are gentle, lingering just a second too long. You exhale, your heart stammering. The waves hush around you, the moment stretching. 

Agatha’s hand starts to drop—but she pauses. It’s such a simple touch, but it makes your breath catch. Her gaze flickers to your lips, then back to your eyes. Her thumb lingers just a second too long, tracing lightly against your skin, like she’s memorizing the feeling. 

“Y/N,” she says, barely above a whisper. It’s not a question, not a statement. Just your name, spoken like a thought slipping out before she can stop it. 

And then—she leans in, slow and deliberate, her gaze flickering to your lips just once before closing the distance.  

It’s soft, tentative, like she’s waiting for something. But you’re so caught off guard that you don’t move, don’t react. Not right away. 

She notices. She pulls back, face suddenly unreadable. “I—” She exhales, shaking her head. “Shit. Sorry. I thought—” She lets out a hollow laugh, already turning away. “Forget it.” 

But then— 

“Agatha, wait.” 

You grab her wrist, not forceful. She stills. 

Your heart slams against your ribs. You don’t think—you just act. You tug her back toward you, closing the space between you. 

And then you kiss her. 

For real this time. 

She tenses for half a second, like she can’t believe it, and then she melts into it. Her hands find your waist, pulling you in as the waves swirl around you. You can taste the salt on her lips, feel the warmth of her breath mixing with yours. It’s overwhelming and dizzying and everything all at once. 

She tilts her head, deepening it just slightly, her fingers pressing into your skin like she’s anchoring herself. You feel like you might float away if she weren’t holding you there. 

And just like that, you’re lost in her. 

You and Agatha stay close, foreheads nearly touching. Her hand comes up, fingers skimming over your jaw. 

“…You kissed me back,” Agatha murmurs, almost like she can’t believe it. 

You let out a shaky breath, nodding. “Yeah.” 

You search Agatha’s eyes, hesitant. “Why did you kiss me?” 

Agatha exhales slowly, the weight of the question settling between you. "I don’t know," she admits, her voice quieter than you expected. 

You swallow, your shoulders rising with a deep inhale, then falling as you exhale. 

"I just— It felt right." 

You hesitate, then finally ask, “What about your marriage?” 

Agatha flinches—just the slightest twitch, but you catch it. You see the way her lips part like she’s about to say something, then hesitate. “My marriage,” she echoes, almost to herself. Her hand lingers on your jaw for a moment longer before she pulls it away, fingers curling into a fist at her side. Then, quietly, she says, “It’s already over.” 

Your breath catches. “So…” 

Agatha meets your gaze again, something raw and unguarded flickering in her eyes. “So there’s nothing stopping me anymore.” 

You watch her, heart pounding, searching her face for any hint of doubt. But Agatha looks steady, certain in a way you’re not sure you’ve seen before. “Then what happens now?” 

Agatha’s thumb brushes against your cheek, her touch lingering like she’s memorizing the moment. “I guess… we find out together.” 

Your heart clenches at that—at the honesty in her voice, the quiet promise in her words. So you nod, squeezing her waist gently. “Okay,” you whisper. 

Agatha smiles again, soft and just for you. “Okay.” And for the first time in a long time, it feels like something between you is finally falling into place. 

You let out a soft laugh, tilting your head as you look at her. “You know… maybe we should get out of the ocean now.” 

Agatha blinks, like she only just remembered where you are. The water laps at your waists, the night air cool against your damp skin. She smirks. “Why? Worried about sharks?” 

You roll your eyes, biting back a grin. “No, I’m worried about hypothermia. Or, I don’t know, getting pruny.” 

Agatha chuckles, shaking her head. “Alright, alright.” She takes a step back, but before she turns toward the shore, she reaches for your hand, threading your fingers together under the water. The simple gesture sends warmth flooding through your chest. 

“Come on,” Agatha murmurs, giving your hand a squeeze. “Let’s go.” 

You squeeze back, and together, you wade through the gentle waves, leaving the ocean behind—but carrying something new between you. Something warmer than the water, steadier than the tide. 

Back on the chaise lounges, the night air feels colder now that your clothes are damp and clinging to you. You shift uncomfortably, adjusting the fabric, but it doesn’t make much of a difference. Across from you, Agatha does the same, pulling her sleeves down, her movements slower, more deliberate. 

Neither of you says anything for a long moment. The ocean is still there, waves rolling gently in the distance, but the silence between you feels louder. Everything feels different now—charged, fragile, like if you say the wrong thing, it’ll shatter. 

Agatha exhales first, rubbing a hand over her face before glancing at you. “We should probably… head back to our villa now.” Her voice is quieter than usual. 

You nod, fidgeting with your damp sleeve. “Yeah. Probably.” 

Neither of you moves. It’s almost ridiculous, how awkward this feels—like you’re teenagers again, fumbling through the aftermath of something that means too much. 

Eventually, Agatha stands, brushing imaginary dust off her pants. “Well… goodnight, then.” She hesitates, eyes flickering to yours. “Take care.” 

You swallow, nodding. “You too.” 

You step away from each other, turning in opposite directions, but your chest tightens the farther you walk. It feels… wrong to just leave like this. Like something is unfinished. 

You stop, turning back before you can second-guess yourself. “Agatha.” 

She freezes, shoulders stiffening just slightly before she turns around. 

For a second, you don’t know what you want to say. You just know you don’t want to walk away yet. Feeling a little ridiculous, you lift your hand in a small wave. “Goodnight… again.” 

Agatha stares at you, her face unreadable at first. Then—slowly, softly—a small smile tugs at the corner of her lips. 

“Goodnight,” she murmurs. 

You stand there for a few more seconds, looking at each other, neither of you moving, neither of you quite ready to let go. 

Then, finally, you do. You turn away, walking back to your villa, but you don’t stop yourself from glancing over your shoulder one last time. 

And you catch her doing the same. 

Back at the villa, you close the door behind you and lean against it, exhaling a breath you didn’t even realize you were holding. Your clothes are still damp, clinging uncomfortably to your skin, but you can’t bring yourself to care. 

Your mind spins, replaying every moment that just unfolded. The kiss—real this time. The way Agatha looked at you. The softness in her voice when she spoke, like she was afraid to break the moment. The way she lingered, as if walking away was the last thing she wanted to do. 

You press your fingers to your lips, still feeling the ghost of her touch there. Your heart is pounding, too loud in the quiet room. 

This wasn’t supposed to happen. 

And yet… you don’t regret it. 

You push off the door and walk toward the bed, running a hand through your damp hair. You should change. You should dry off. You should sleep. 

But instead, you sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor, lost in the feeling of Agatha’s hands on you, her voice in your ear, the way she looked back one last time. 

Something between you has shifted. There's no denying it now. 

You exhale sharply, shaking your head at yourself. 

What the hell are you supposed to do now? 

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[harknessxo]

You Were Never Mine to Lose (Chapter 10)

Synopsis: You're barely holding yourself together. Last night’s kiss lingers in your mind, turning every second around her into slow, agonizing torture. She carries on like nothing happened, while you're drowning in everything unspoken. But how much longer can you pretend before it all comes crashing down? 

Word count: 4.7K 

Warnings: Mentions of alcohol consumption, Angst, Unspoken emotions, Lingering tension, Mild language, Physical injury 

You wake up to the sound of your phone ringing. Groaning, you force your eyes open, blinking against the morning light. Without even checking the screen, you reach for your phone, already feeling the dull ache in your head. When you finally glance at it, you see Wanda’s name flashing. 

You answer with a weak, barely audible, "Hello?" 

Wanda, however, sounds wide awake—and annoyed. "Where are you? We’re at the beach having surf lessons." 

You close your eyes, exhaling slowly. Just the thought of moving, of facing people, makes your exhaustion feel heavier. "I’ll pass," you mumble. "Not in the mood." 

Before she can protest, you end the call and, without hesitation, turn your phone off. You don’t even bother checking the time. What does it matter, anyway? 

With a sigh, you pinch the bridge of your nose, trying to ease the pounding in your head. Your gaze drifts to the ceiling, empty and unfocused. Last night lingers in your mind like a ghost, refusing to let you rest. That kiss. Or, more likely, the one Agatha won’t even remember. 

You couldn’t sleep last night, your thoughts running in circles, your body weighed down by something heavier than exhaustion. At some point, sleep must have taken over, but it doesn’t feel like rest. Just a momentary escape before reality came knocking again. 

You let out a humorless chuckle. You must look pathetic right now. 

Minutes pass in a haze before your doorbell starts ringing. At first, you ignore it, too drained to care. But when it keeps going—again and again, insistently—you sigh, already knowing who it is. 

Wanda. 

Dragging yourself out of bed, you still feel groggy as you make your way to the door. When you open it, Wanda takes one look at you—still in last night’s dress, hair a mess, dark circles under your eyes—and immediately deadpans, "Seriously?" 

Before you can respond, she steps inside like she owns the place, not even waiting for an invitation. You sigh and shut the door, watching as she heads straight for the couch, making herself comfortable. 

"You’re still in that dress?" she calls you out, raising an eyebrow. 

You shrug, not really in the mood for her commentary. 

Wanda sighs, leaning forward. "Go change into a swimsuit. We’re having a surf lesson." 

"I’m not going," you say flatly, sinking into the couch across from her. "I’m too tired." 

She studies you carefully, her sharp gaze softening after a moment. "Are you okay?" 

"I’m fine. Just tired, that’s all." 

She doesn’t buy it. You can see it in her face, the way her brows knit together in concern. She gets up, stepping closer, her hands gently squeezing your arms as she lowers her voice. "What happened?" 

You force a weak smile. "Nothing." 

Wanda isn’t convinced. "Did Rio do something?" 

You shake your head. "No." 

A pause. Then, carefully, "Agatha?" 

Your stomach twists. You shake your head again, but it feels less convincing this time. 

Wanda frowns, her worry only deepening. She’s your best friend—of course she sees right through you. And the last thing you want is to make her worry more. So, despite everything, you take a breath and force yourself to say, "Fine. I’ll get ready." 

Your voice lacks enthusiasm, and Wanda knows it, but she lets it go. 

Upstairs, you step into the shower, letting the cold water jolt you awake. The chill does nothing to erase the weight in your chest, but at least it helps clear your head. After drying off, you slip into a red two-piece bikini, draping a sheer black kimono over it. To hide whatever exhaustion still lingers on your face, you throw on oversized black sunglasses, grab your tote bag, and head back downstairs. 

Wanda gives you an approving once-over and smirks. "Look at that, you’re a human being again." 

You roll your eyes but smirk back. "Shut up." 

With that, the two of you leave the villa, heading toward the beach. 

But as you walk, your stomach tightens. 

Because soon, you’ll have to face Agatha. And after last night… you don’t know if you’re ready for that. 

When you arrive at the beach, you spot Jen, Lilia, Alice, and... Agatha. The sight of her sends a jolt through you, and you fight to keep your expression neutral. Your stomach twists, your cheeks threaten to flush, but you force yourself to keep it together. You have to. 

As you approach the group, Jen is the first to greet you with a bright smile. 

"Look who finally decided to show up!" Alice teases, smirking. "We thought you bailed on us." 

Lilia chimes in with a chuckle, "Or maybe she just needed her beauty sleep." 

"Or," Jen interjects, a knowing glint in her eyes, "she was exhausted from taking Agatha home last night and making sure she didn’t pass out on the floor." 

Your body tenses at her words, though she says it playfully. It’s meant to be lighthearted—a teasing defense—but it only makes your chest feel heavier. 

Agatha, who had been quiet until now, tilts her head toward you. "Thank you." 

Then, with a smirk, she adds, "I just hope I didn’t do anything too reckless." She lets out a small laugh, like it’s a joke, like it’s nothing. 

Your breath catches for just a second. 

Reckless? 

She kissed you. She kissed you, and now she’s standing here, acting like nothing happened. Because, to her, nothing did happen. 

You muster a small smile and shake your head. "You didn’t," you lie. 

She watches you for a bit too long, like she’s trying to read something on your face. Your fingers twitch at your side. You’re the one to break eye contact first. 

Before anything else can be said, a voice speaks behind you and Wanda. 

"Alright, where we at?" 

You and Wanda turn around—and your breath catches in your throat. Your eyes widen in surprise. 

She looks just as shocked as you. "Y/N?" 

You stutter, barely managing to get her name out. "Natasha?" 

Wanda blinks between the two of you. "Wait, you guys know each other?" 

Natasha smirks, arms crossed over her chest. "Yeah, we do." Then, with an amused tilt of her head, she adds, "I’m her ex." 

The group collectively gasps. 

"Our surf instructor is your ex?" Jen blurts out, gaping at you. 

You don’t miss the way Agatha shifts slightly at the revelation. You don’t dare look at her directly, but you feel the shift in her energy. 

The questions are about to start flying, but you shut them down quickly. "Can we just get to learning how to surf? Please?" 

Thankfully, that’s enough to steer everyone’s attention back to the lesson. 

Natasha walks you all through the basics, demonstrating movements on the sand before sending you off into the water. You do your best to focus, but it’s hard when Agatha is only a few feet away—and now Natasha is here, too. 

You feel Natasha’s gaze linger on you more than once, but you ignore it, keeping your head down and listening. 

Once the lesson is over, Natasha claps her hands together. "Alright, let’s see what you got." 

Alice, Jen, and Lilia eagerly grab their boards and head straight for the ocean. You and Wanda are about to follow when Natasha calls your name. 

You hesitate before turning back to face her. "Yeah?" 

She gives you a slow, amused once-over before grinning. "Long time no see, Y/N L/N." 

You exhale sharply through your nose. "Natasha Romanoff." You mirror her teasing tone. 

She tilts her head. "Well, didn’t expect to run into you here. What are you doing in Malibu?" 

"Bachelorette vacation," you explain. "Jen’s the bride—she’s the one who probably hired you. And I’m one of her bridesmaids." 

Natasha nods, processing that. "Makes sense." 

She’s about to say something else, but you cut her off. "I should go. My friends are waiting." 

She smirks but doesn’t push. "Go ahead, then. Try not to wipe out too hard." 

You roll your eyes, grabbing Wanda’s wrist and dragging her toward the water. 

Wanda, of course, is grinning like an idiot. "So. That happened." 

"Shut up," you mutter. 

You attempt surfing, but after multiple failed attempts, you give up, dragging your board back to the shore and opting to just swim instead. The ocean feels cool against your skin, a temporary relief from the weight in your chest. 

As you float in the water, you glance back toward the waves, watching your friends ride them with varying levels of success. Your gaze drifts, scanning the group, until it inevitably lands on Agatha. 

Your heart clenches. 

She kissed you last night. 

And she doesn’t even know. 

You swallow the lump in your throat and tear your eyes away from her, turning and swimming farther out. Away from her. Away from everything. 

But no matter how far you swim, the ache follows you. 

Because you’re the only one who remembers. 

After some time of swimming, your leg suddenly cramps, and a sharp pain shoots through your calf. Panic sets in as you struggle to stay afloat, your arms flailing against the relentless waves. Your breaths turn shallow, frantic. 

"Help!" you manage to choke out, your voice barely carrying over the noise of the waves. You try again, louder, but the water pulls you under before you can see if anyone hears. Your limbs feel heavier, exhaustion creeping in. The last thing you register is a blurred figure rushing toward you before everything goes dark. 

A rush of air fills your lungs as you sputter, coughing up seawater. The world around you is hazy, but the sensation of wet sand beneath your back is grounding. You gasp for air, blinking rapidly against the harsh sunlight. 

"Hey, hey—you're okay," a familiar voice soothes. 

Your vision clears, and the first thing you see is Agatha kneeling beside you, her brows furrowed in deep concern. Her damp hair clings to her face, and her breathing is still uneven. Natasha is on your other side, watching you intently, her lips pressed together in something like relief. 

Jen exhales sharply, pressing a hand to her chest. "Jesus, Y/N, you scared the hell out of us. If Agatha hadn't noticed—" 

"Luckily, she did," Lilia adds, still looking shaken. "And Natasha got to you fast with CPR." 

Your chest tightens at their words. You slowly sit up, Agatha’s hands immediately steadying you. 

"You okay?" she asks, her voice lower now, softer. There’s something in her expression—something that mirrors the look she gave you last night. It makes your stomach flip. 

You nod, offering a small, reassuring smile. "Yeah… thanks to you." 

Agatha doesn’t respond right away. Instead, her gaze flickers briefly toward Natasha before she helps you to your feet. Natasha moves in beside you, a steadying presence as you find your balance. 

"Thanks, Natasha," you say, turning to her with another small smile. She nods, but you swear there’s a flicker of irritation in Agatha’s eyes when you look back at her. 

Jen sighs, rubbing a hand over her face. "Alright, let’s get you out of the sun for a bit." 

You all make your way back to where your belongings are scattered on the sand. Wrapping your kimono around yourself, you grab your tote bag, your body still trembling slightly from the ordeal. Just as you take a breath to collect yourself, Natasha steps closer. 

"You sure you're really okay?" she asks, her voice dipping slightly. 

You smirk, already knowing where this is going. "I’m fine, Natasha." 

She grins. "Well, if you start feeling lightheaded or anything, I can always give you mouth-to-mouth resuscitation again. Just say the word." 

You laugh, shaking your head. "Appreciate the offer, but I think I’ll live." 

Natasha chuckles before shifting gears, her tone turning casual. "How about tonight? Let’s catch up over drinks." 

You hesitate. "I’d love to, but… I really just want to spend time with my friends for now." It’s not a complete lie, but it’s also not the full truth. You just aren’t interested. 

Natasha studies you for a moment, then nods knowingly. "Alright. You’ve got my number—call me after the vacation if you change your mind." 

You smile politely. "Nice seeing you again, though." 

She returns the smile before giving you one last look and heading off. You exhale, letting the tension roll off your shoulders. When you glance back at your group, Agatha is watching you, an unreadable expression on her face, but the moment your eyes meet, she quickly looks away. 

Your heart starts pounding all over again, and you know exactly why. 

After that, you all head to Geoffrey’s for a late brunch. You order a ridiculous amount of food, realizing just how hungry you are after skipping breakfast and everything that happened today. The conversation flows easily between the group, filled with laughter and teasing, but you’re hyper-aware of Agatha sitting across from you. You do your best to avoid looking at her, but you can feel her gaze on you from time to time. Every glance makes your skin prickle with something you refuse to name. 

Just when you think you’ve regained your composure, Wanda smirks and drops a grenade into the conversation. "So… how was your surfing lesson?" she asks, clearly enjoying herself. 

You groan, already knowing where this is going. "It was fine." 

"Fine?" Lilia echoes, raising an eyebrow. "You looked anything but fine when Natasha was giving you CPR." 

You roll your eyes. "First of all, I almost drowned. Maybe focus on that? And second, it wasn’t that dramatic." 

"Oh, come on," Jen cuts in, leaning forward with a grin. "You dated her. That’s pretty dramatic." 

"Yeah, and we broke up," you remind them, stabbing at your food. "Over a year ago." 

"Wait, how did you two even meet?" Alice asks, curiosity piqued. 

You sigh, deciding there’s no escaping this conversation. "Some club. A year ago. We were together for three months, and it ended on good terms." 

"And you didn’t know she could surf?" Lilia asks, amused. 

"Nope. No idea." 

They exchange glances before Wanda smirks. "Natasha still looks like she’s down bad for you." 

You shrug. "That’s not my problem." 

"First Rio, now Natasha?" Lilia teases. "What is this, a rom-com? Who are you gonna pick?" 

You chuckle, shaking your head. "Neither." 

Before they can push further, Jen claps her hands together. "Alright, enough of that. We’re going to karaoke tonight. Be at the main entrance of the resort at five. No excuses." 

Lilia practically vibrates with excitement. "Oh my God, it’s been ages since we’ve done this! I can’t wait." 

You smile, relieved that the topic has shifted. The conversation continues with lighthearted chatter, and soon, everyone finishes their meals and heads back to their villas to get ready for the night ahead. 

You’re back at your villa now, moving quickly as you take a shower, letting the warm water soothe the tension from earlier. After drying off, you throw on a black cropped tee, high-waisted jeans, white Nike sneakers, and grab your black Saint Laurent Le 5 à 7 Mini bag. Simple, comfortable, effortless—or at least that’s what you’re telling yourself. 

Just as you’re about to head out, your phone buzzes. You check the screen—Rio. 

Hey there... 

You stare at the message for a second before typing out a response. 

Hi. 

You cringe. That was so lame. But you don’t want to think too much about it, so you put your phone on silent and shove it into your bag before stepping out of your villa. 

When you arrive at the meeting spot, they’re all already there, waiting. Your eyes instinctively land on Agatha. She’s wearing a black blazer draped over a black silk camisole tucked into high-waisted jeans, paired with black boots. 

You swallow, pushing down whatever reaction threatens to surface, forcing yourself to look away. 

Lilia claps her hands together, practically bouncing on her feet. "Okay, now that we’re finally complete, can we go? I’ve been waiting all day for this!" 

Everyone chuckles, and soon you all pile into the van. You slide in beside Wanda, settling in, only for Agatha to climb in next, taking the open seat beside you. 

You freeze for a second. You’re sandwiched now—trapped between Wanda and Agatha. 

You subtly shift, trying to create even the smallest bit of space between you and Agatha, but she notices. 

"It’s fine," she says casually, her voice smooth as ever. "I have plenty of space." 

You glance at her. She offers you a small, knowing smile. You force yourself to return it, a tight-lipped attempt at nonchalance, before pulling out your phone as a distraction. 

Inside, though? 

You are dying. 

Every second feels like an eternity, every inch between you both—too little. Your heart pounds, your mind races, but you sit there, face impassive, acting as if nothing is wrong. Acting as if this isn’t absolute torture. 

After twenty minutes, the van pulls up in front of a karaoke bar. Jen hops out first, grinning as she leads the way inside. The receptionist greets you all warmly and escorts you to the private room Jen reserved. The space is dimly lit, with neon-colored lights casting soft glows across the plush seating and the large screen at the front of the room. A sleek karaoke machine stands ready, microphones resting in their holders. 

"Alright, drinks first or singing first?" Jen asks, plopping down onto the lounge sofa. 

"Drinks!" Lilia exclaims immediately, and the group laughs. 

You all place your orders—food, snacks, and, of course, more alcohol. The drinks arrive quickly, and soon, everyone is eating and chatting, laughter filling the space. Then, the karaoke begins. Lilia confidently takes the mic first, dramatically performing a power ballad, exaggerating every note just to make the group crack up. Jen follows, belting out an early 2000s pop anthem with so much enthusiasm that no one even minds when she goes off-key.  As the night goes on, the drinks keep flowing, and so does the music. Everyone is tipsy now, swaying to the rhythm, arms draped over each other’s shoulders. You don’t sing much, choosing instead to sit back and watch, occasionally taking a sip of your drink. But mostly, you watch Agatha. 

You try not to. You really do. But the way she laughs, the way she throws her head back when she sings along to someone else’s performance—it’s impossible to look away. You tell yourself it's just the alcohol making you sentimental. But you know the truth. You’re still thinking about last night. About the kiss. About the way her lips felt against yours, even if it wasn’t real. Even if she doesn’t remember. 

Then, it’s Agatha’s turn. 

She stands up, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear before grabbing the microphone. She scrolls through the song list for a moment, then selects something. When the opening chords play, your heart drops. 

Something by The Beatles. 

Of all songs, why this one? 

She starts, her voice softer than expected but effortlessly beautiful. 

"Something in the way she moves…" 

You swallow hard. It’s just a song, you tell yourself. But every word feels like a dagger, lodging itself deeper into your chest. The worst part? Agatha doesn’t even seem to notice. She just sings, swaying lightly to the melody, her voice wrapping around the lyrics like a gentle caress. 

"Attracts me like no other lover…" 

You grip your drink, staring at the condensation forming on the glass as if it holds the answers to your unraveling composure. Your friends are enraptured, some singing along, others watching Agatha in admiration. But she keeps glancing at you. Like she’s trying to gauge your reaction. Like she knows—no, she doesn’t know. She can’t. 

And then, the bridge. The part that absolutely ruins you. 

"You're asking me, will my love grow…" 

"I don't know, I don't know…" 

Your breath catches in your throat. You press your lips together, gripping your drink tighter, your knuckles whitening. You should look away, should laugh it off like it’s nothing. But you can’t. Because it’s not nothing. It’s everything. 

Agatha sings the next line, her eyes flickering toward you just as she reaches it. 

"You stick around, now it may show…" 

As if you haven’t been sticking around. As if you haven’t been carrying this ache for years, waiting for something, anything, to tell you that maybe—maybe—you weren’t alone in it. 

By the time the song ends, your eyes are stinging, but you refuse to let a tear fall. You quickly wipe at the corner of your eye before anyone notices. Before she notices. 

Agatha beams as she puts the mic down. "That was fun!" she says, completely unaware of the damage she just did. 

You feel like you’re drowning. You don’t know whether to leave, drink more, or just sit there and endure it. You stare at your drink, hoping the liquor will burn away the lump in your throat. 

A gentle nudge pulls you from your thoughts. Wanda slides in next to you, lowering her voice. "Hey, you okay? You’ve been acting weird all night. Actually, all morning too." 

You force a small, weak smile. "I’m fine." 

She doesn’t look convinced, but she doesn’t push. Instead, she sighs and hands you another drink. "Here. At least pretend to have fun." 

You take it, offering a quiet thanks, but your mind is elsewhere. On a song you wish you hadn’t heard. On a girl who doesn’t even realize she’s breaking you apart, piece by piece. 

After a few drinks and multiple songs—mostly sung by Lilia—Jen finally notices that you’ve been unusually quiet. You haven’t picked up the mic even once. 

“Alright, what’s going on with you?” Jen nudges you with her elbow. “You’re not getting away with just sitting there.” 

“I’m fine,” you say, waving her off. “Just enjoying the show.” 

“Lies,” Lilia interjects, grinning. “C’mon, Y/N, it’s your turn!” 

You shake your head, but then Agatha speaks up. “Yeah, what’s up with that? Don’t tell me you’re shy.” There’s a teasing lilt to her voice, playful but expectant. 

Alice smirks. “Maybe she just need the right song.” 

You hesitate, but the way everyone’s looking at you—especially Agatha, who now raises an eyebrow in challenge—makes it impossible to refuse. With a resigned sigh, you push yourself up from the couch and head toward the song selection screen. 

“Fine. One song.” 

You scroll aimlessly, then, without thinking, you pick Can’t Take My Eyes Off You by Frankie Valli. 

The moment the opening chords play, something in your chest tightens. Why this song? You don’t even know. Maybe it just slipped out. But the second the melody fills the room, memories from last night flood back. The way Agatha had drunkenly sung it on the way back to her villa, swaying slightly, smiling at you like she really meant it. Then— the kiss. 

You steal a glance at Agatha. She’s not looking at you. 

Taking a breath, you start singing, your voice softer than usual. “You're just too good to be true… Can’t take my eyes off you…” 

The words sting. This used to be a happy song for you. Now, it’s a cruel reminder of something that only you seem to remember. Your voice wavers slightly as you push through the verse, trying not to think about how unfair this is. Agatha got to have that moment without consequences—without the weight of remembering—while you’re stuck feeling every second of it. 

You reach the next line, forcing yourself to meet Agatha’s gaze. “But if you feel like I feel…” 

It’s brief. Just a flicker of eye contact. Not enough to raise suspicion, but enough that something in Agatha’s expression changes. She wasn’t paying attention before, but now she is. Her head tilts slightly, lips parting just a fraction, as if some part of this is tugging at her memory. 

You reach the chorus, willing yourself to keep your voice steady. “I love you, baby, and if it’s quite all right…” 

You try to smile through it, but your eyes betray you. There’s an ache in your voice that wasn’t there before. The others notice—Jen and Alice exchange glances, Wanda’s gaze sharpens slightly. She’s thinking. Wondering. Who was this song really for? 

Then, you see it—Agatha shifting in her seat, suddenly looking uneasy. She rubs the back of her neck, her fingers tapping against her knee like she’s trying to place a familiar feeling. Like something about this song is stirring something inside her. 

But she doesn’t remember, does she? You can’t let yourself hope. 

You finish the song, but there’s no relief. The room erupts in light applause, and Lilia nudges you with a grin. “See? That wasn’t so bad.” 

Alice teases, “Damn, Y/N, that was kinda romantic.” 

You force a laugh, shaking your head. “Yeah, sure.” 

And then— 

Agatha leans over, a smirk playing at her lips. “Didn’t expect you to pick that one.” 

Your stomach drops. Of course, she doesn’t get it. Of course, she has no idea why you picked it. 

You tilt your head, forcing casualness into your voice. “Funny, I could’ve sworn I heard you singing it first.” 

Agatha blinks, caught off guard for a second, before she laughs lightly. “Did I? Must’ve been the tequila.” 

And that’s when you know. 

She really, truly doesn’t remember. 

Your chest feels tight. You nod, forcing a small smile before muttering, “Gonna get some air.” 

You don’t wait for anyone to respond before slipping out of the room, the sound of laughter and music fading behind you. Because you cannot sit there and pretend everything is fine. 

You step outside into the cool night air, the neon lights from the bar casting shifting colors over the pavement. The distant hum of laughter and music filters through the walls, but out here, it’s quieter. Just the sound of your own unsteady breathing. 

You lean back against the wall, tilting your head up, blinking rapidly against the sting in your eyes. Your shoulders shake, but you don’t sob. You just let the tears fall, silent and unchecked, gripping your own arms like it’s the only thing keeping you together. 

The door swings open, and footsteps pause. A moment of hesitation before a familiar voice speaks—soft, careful. It’s Wanda. 

“…Hey.” 

You quickly wipe at your face, sniffling as you force a weak chuckle. “God. I—this is so stupid.” 

Wanda doesn’t reply right away. Instead, she leans against the wall beside you, arms crossed, letting the quiet settle between you. She doesn’t push, doesn’t pry. Just waits. 

Finally, gently. “It’s not stupid.” 

You let out a shaky breath, staring up at the sky. “You ever just—want to forget someone?” 

Wanda tilts her head, considering. “That bad, huh?” 

You swallow hard, your fingers curling into the fabric of your sleeve. And then, barely above a whisper, “She kissed me last night.” 

Wanda blinks. “…Agatha?” 

You nod, lips pressing together like you can still feel it. 

Wanda exhales, understanding dawning in her expression. “And she doesn’t remember.” 

A hollow laugh escapes you, one that holds no humor. “Nope.” 

Silence stretches between you. Then, Wanda huffs out a quiet, almost incredulous laugh, shaking her head. 

“Of course she fucking doesn’t.” 

You drag your hands over your face, frustration and exhaustion pulling at your features. “She was wasted. She—she grabbed me, and she looked at me like—like I was everything. And then she just—” Your voice catches, your throat tightening around the words. But you force yourself to go on. “She kissed me. And I—God, I wanted to kiss her back so bad, Wanda. But I didn’t. Because I knew. I knew she wasn’t thinking straight.” 

Wanda watches you quietly, her gaze unreadable, steady. 

You let out another laugh, brittle and strained. “And now she’s in there, laughing, drinking, acting like nothing ever happened. And I’m out here like a fucking idiot, crying about it.” 

Wanda doesn’t tell you that you’re overreacting. She doesn’t tell you to move on, to brush it off, to pretend it didn’t matter. 

She just sighs softly, then reaches out and pulls you into a hug. 

For a second, you don’t move. You hesitate, frozen. And then you break—burying your face in Wanda’s shoulder, gripping onto her like she’s the only thing keeping you from falling apart. 

And maybe, for now, that’s enough. 

Taglist: @6stolenangel9 @charlottelinlin1 @milflovers4 @claramelooo @loveshineslikethesky @kaymariesworld @marcelinaceciliarose @misskassycollins @greyella @theothersideofthescreen @whitelotus00 @agathaallalongg @psychickryptonitebouquet @sweetmidnights @angel-kitten-babygirl-u-choose @filmedbyharkness @brekker157 @rizzlesregal13 @starbucks-06 @aboutcustardcreams @crescendoofstars @neverfindmegone @mommy-mommy-mommy-hi @theonefairygodmother

[harknessxo]

You Were Never Mine to Lose (Chapter 9)

Synopsis: A night out with friends turns into something far more complicated as emotions run high and unspoken tensions linger. You tried to keep your distance, but some things are impossible to ignore. 

Word count: 5.1K 

Warnings: Mentions of alcohol consumption, Angst, Unspoken emotions, Lingering tension, Mild language 

The room is quiet, except for the soft, steady breathing of your friends. The sun is just beginning to rise, casting a faint golden glow through the sheer curtains. It’s peaceful—until you stir slightly, shifting in your sleep, and realize something feels…off. 

Your arm. 

It’s draped over someone. Warm. Comfortable. 

You blink, still groggy, but as your vision clears, the realization slams into you like a truck. 

It’s Agatha. 

Your breath catches in your throat. WTF? Your pulse picks up, your whole body going rigid as the weight of the situation sinks in. 

When the hell did this happen? You don’t even remember moving in your sleep, let alone ending up in this position. 

You need to move. Now. 

Very, very slowly, you start to retract your arm, making sure not to make any sudden movements. But then—Agatha shifts. 

Your entire body locks up as she turns ever so slightly toward you, her face now just inches from yours. Her breathing remains soft, steady, oblivious to your internal crisis. But you? You’re completely frozen, hyper-aware of the way her lips are barely parted, of the faint scent of lavender and something deeper, something distinctly her lingering between you. 

You swallow hard. She’s still asleep. It’s fine. Just move—carefully. 

Your eyes flick to the others—Wanda, still curled up on her side, completely knocked out. Jen, Alice and Lilia, equally dead to the world. No one saw. No one knows. Good. 

You take a slow, careful breath and start again, inching your arm away, moving like you’re defusing a bomb. 

Finally, after what feels like forever, you pull back completely. You don’t dare look at Agatha again as you carefully, so carefully, shift away from her warmth and push yourself upright. 

The second you’re free, you slip out of the mattress and quietly make your way toward the bathroom, your heart still hammering in your chest. The moment the door clicks shut behind you, you let out a breath you didn’t even realize you were holding. 

You brace yourself against the sink, staring at your reflection in the mirror. Your hair’s a mess, your face is flushed, and your mind is racing. 

What the hell was that? 

Shaking your head, you reach for the faucet, splashing cool water onto your face, trying—desperately—to get it together. 

When everyone finally wakes up, you do everything in your power to avoid looking at Agatha. You keep your head down, focusing on your food, trying to act as normal as possible. But inside? You’re spiraling. 

Your mind keeps replaying the morning over and over. How long had your arm been around her? Did you move in your sleep, or—God, what if she had been the one to move closer? No. No, that’s insane. Right? You shake the thought away, stabbing at your scrambled eggs like they personally offended you. 

Meanwhile, Agatha is just casually eating pancakes, completely unbothered. Because of course she is. She doesn’t even know about it. Meanwhile, you’re sitting here, losing your damn mind. 

Wanda, ever perceptive, narrows her eyes at you from across the table. “You good?” she asks, sipping her coffee. 

You blink at her, then quickly nod. “Yeah. Just… head hurts. Probably a hangover.” 

It’s not a complete lie. Your head does feel kind of heavy, but that’s not really the problem. The real problem is the fact that you woke up cuddling Agatha-fucking-Harkness and now you have to act like everything is fine. 

The conversation at the table continues, and you do your best to stay quiet, to blend in. But then Lilia, ever the social butterfly, claps her hands together. “Okay, so. I was thinking—since we had a cute little slumber party last night, why not go all out and hit the town tonight?” 

“Oh, I’m so down for that,” Alice chimes in immediately. “It’s been forever since we had a real night out.” 

Wanda nods. “I could use some dancing.” 

You, however, tense at the idea. The last thing you want is another night of potential chaos, not when you’re still recovering from this morning’s crisis. “I don’t know…” you start hesitantly, but before you can even finish, Alice is already rolling her eyes. 

“Oh, come on. We’re all going,” she insists, nudging you. “Don’t be lame.” 

Jen raises a brow at you. “Yeah, don’t be lame.” 

You sigh, already knowing you’ve lost this battle. “Fine.” 

Jen grins. “Great! Then pre-game at my villa. Be there at six.” 

And just like that, your fate for the night is sealed. After breakfast, you retreat to your villa, hoping—praying—that you can shake off whatever this morning was before the sun sets. 

The time passes quickly, and before you know it, the sun has dipped below the horizon, casting deep hues of orange and purple across the sky. You stand before the mirror, putting the final touches on your outfit—a black satin slip dress with a high thigh slit, paired with Bottega Veneta Spritz Strap Pumps. The thin diamond tennis bracelet on your wrist catches the light as you adjust your RCJ 14K Yellow Gold Long Polished Teardrop Dangling Earrings. Your hair is sleek and straight, every strand perfectly in place, and your makeup is soft glam—sultry but effortless. You throw on your Black Saint Laurent Le 5 à 7 Mini bag, taking one last glance at your reflection. 

You’re putting in extra effort tonight, not that you’d ever admit why. 

With a deep breath, you head out and make your way to Jen’s villa for pre-game. Music hums through the space, laughter fills the air, and the energy is already buzzing. You keep your distance from Agatha, making it a point to steer clear whenever possible. Not that anyone notices—after all, you and Agatha aren’t exactly known for being close. Just two people existing in the same space. That’s all. 

At least, that’s what you tell yourself. 

Drinks are poured, shots are taken, and the group is in high spirits by the time you all pile into the van heading to the club. The moment you step inside, you quickly drag Wanda to sit beside you, using her as a barrier between you and Agatha. You don’t even glance in her direction, focusing instead on the road ahead. 

Tonight, you’re determined to have fun. To forget. 

Or at least, try to. 

At the club, the music is pounding, the air thick with the scent of alcohol, sweat, and perfume. Neon lights flash in dizzying patterns over the dance floor, illuminating the crowd as they move in sync with the heavy bass. The energy inside is infectious—an intoxicating blend of excitement and chaos, like anything could happen tonight. 

You and your friends weave through the crowd, heading straight for the bar. The bartender barely acknowledges you as he pours drinks with practiced efficiency. Once everyone has their orders, you settle into a booth across from the bar section. The conversation flows effortlessly, laughter mixing with the pounding music and occasional cheers from the crowd. It’s comfortable, fun—until your glass is empty, and you find yourself hyper-aware of a certain presence nearby. 

Agatha. 

You refuse to glance in her direction, even though you know she’s there, sitting with the others. It’s ridiculous, really—acting like avoiding eye contact will make the morning’s incident disappear. But the memory of waking up with your arm draped over her is still seared into your mind, making your pulse quicken despite your best efforts to act normal. 

“I’m gonna grab another drink,” you announce, standing up. 

No one pays much attention as you weave through the crowd back to the bar. You slide onto a barstool, signaling the bartender. 

“Whiskey, neat.” 

As you wait, a figure slides into the seat next to you. 

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” a familiar voice says smoothly. 

You turn, and there she is—Rio Vidal. 

Your brain momentarily short-circuits. 

“Uh… hi,” you stutter, caught off guard. 

Rio smirks, clearly amused by your reaction. Her white silk shirt is unbuttoned just enough to be distracting, tucked into black tailored pants that accentuate her frame. Her hair is in a messy bun, and somehow, that only makes her look more put together. She looks effortlessly hot. 

“You were at my flower shop yesterday. And now here you are,” she muses, tilting her head. 

“Wow, fate,” you tease, mirroring her smirk. 

Your whiskey arrives, and you take a sip, feeling bolder under the influence of alcohol and Rio’s presence. 

“My friends are here, too,” you say, nodding toward your booth. 

Rio follows your gaze, then turns back to you with a raised brow. “And yet, you’re over here. With me.” 

“What can I say? I like good company,” you quip. 

The conversation flows easily. You tell her what you actually do for a living, and Rio raises an eyebrow, setting her drink down with a quiet clink. 

"Wait, you’re a CEO? Of a tech company?" she repeats, clearly impressed, but there’s also a hint of amusement in her tone, like she’s reevaluating you. 

“You don’t believe me?” you challenge, feigning offense, tilting your head slightly. 

“Oh, I believe you." She studies you for a second, then smirks. "It just wasn’t what I was expecting." She takes a sip of her own drink, her gaze lingering on you over the rim of her glass. "Guess I should stop underestimating you, huh?" 

Somehow, you find yourself bringing up last night’s dare. 

“So, funny story,” you start, grinning, “I actually texted you last night.” 

Rio tilts her head. “What?” 

“My friends dared me to text you. Just a ‘hey~’ but, um, yeah… you kinda blocked me,” you admit, laughing. 

Rio chuckles, shaking her head. “That was you? I thought it was some random prank. Guess I should unblock you, huh?” 

Before you can respond, Wanda approaches. She glances between you and Rio, her lips curling into a knowing smirk. 

“Oh, don’t let me interrupt,” she teases, but her eyes gleam with amusement. 

“Wanda,” you warn. 

“Rio,” Wanda greets, offering a polite nod. 

“Wanda,” Rio acknowledges smoothly. 

Wanda shoots you one last smirk before sauntering off, leaving you with Rio again. 

As the drinks keep flowing, you grow bolder, a little more reckless. Your fingers brush Rio’s arm when you laugh, the warmth of her skin lingering against yours. You lean in just a little too close, your faces inches apart, her cologne mixing with the scent of whiskey on your breath. And Rio—she doesn’t move away. Instead, she smirks, tilting her head slightly, eyes flickering to your lips before meeting your gaze again. The moment stretches, charged and unspoken, the club's music pulsing around you like a heartbeat. 

The conversation shifts into deeper territory. Rio talks about her work, her passions—the way she started her flower shop, how she loves the artistry behind arranging bouquets, how she finds peace in the quiet moments before the shop opens. She speaks with a quiet intensity, her hands moving as she describes the feeling of working with something alive, something delicate. 

You find yourself listening closely, watching the way her brows furrow when she talks about the struggles of running a business, how her voice softens when she mentions the flowers her mother used to love. There's something deeply personal about the way she shares these things, as if she’s not used to talking about herself like this. 

The way she gestures with her hands when she speaks, the intelligence in her eyes—it’s familiar. Too familiar. 

She reminds you of Agatha. 

That realization sits uneasily in your stomach, a whisper of something you don’t want to examine too closely. 

“Come dance with me,” Rio suddenly says, extending a hand. 

“Oh, I don’t really—” 

“Come on,” she insists, grabbing your hand before you can protest further. 

You let her pull you onto the dance floor, the alcohol buzzing in your veins. She’s a good dancer—confident, fluid. The way she moves her hips, the way her brown eyes lock onto yours—it’s hypnotic. 

And yet, as you sway to the music, as Rio pulls you closer, your mind betrays you. 

For a split second, you imagine Agatha in her place. 

That thought snaps you back to reality. 

“I— I need to go to the bathroom,” you blurt out, pulling away. 

Before Rio can respond, you slip through the crowd, your heart pounding as you make your way to the restroom, desperate to catch your breath. 

While you’re inside the cubicle, trying to steady your breathing, the bathroom door swings open with a loud creak, followed by the sharp click of heels against the tile floor. You freeze. Then, you hear it—that voice. 

Agatha. 

She’s on the phone. 

Your stomach tightens as you strain to listen, her words clipped, her tone sharp. At first, it sounds like she’s instructing Ralph to find something in their house, but the irritation in her voice grows quickly. 

“What do you mean you can’t find it?” she snaps. 

A pause. You imagine Ralph giving some lazy excuse on the other end. 

A scoff. “Are you serious right now?” 

Then, her voice changes—lower, colder. “I left you alone for two weeks. Two. Weeks. And you still can’t handle basic responsibilities?” 

There’s another pause. Then Agatha actually lets out a bitter laugh, sharp and humorless. "Must be nice to just sit back and have a good time while I’m the one keeping everything from falling apart." 

Your breath catches. 

She sounds nothing like the Agatha you’re used to—calm, in control, always with a teasing edge. No, this is different. This is raw, her voice trembling with frustration, exhaustion. Like she’s at the end of her rope. 

Ralph must say something that makes it worse because her voice turns even more bitter. 

“Real problems?” she repeats, disbelief dripping from her words. “What do you even know about real problems, Ralph?” 

Her footsteps pace across the bathroom floor, the sharp tap of her heels echoing in the quiet space. 

“You have no job. No responsibilities. You just sit in a house that I pay for, acting like you’re the one suffering.” 

Silence. Then, a sharp inhale—like she’s trying to hold something back. 

“You don’t even care, do you?” she asks, softer this time. But there’s something broken in her voice now, something she can’t hide anymore. 

You squeeze your eyes shut. 

It’s not your business. You shouldn’t be listening. But you can’t move. You can’t stop hearing it. 

Then, the final blow comes. 

“I can’t do this anymore,” Agatha says, and her voice isn’t raised, isn’t full of anger—it’s just… final. “We’re done, Ralph. It’s over.” 

Silence stretches. Your heartbeat pounds in your ears. 

Then, a quiet, “Okay then.” 

And the call ends. 

For a long moment, there’s nothing but heavy breathing. Then, the unmistakable sound of a quiet sob. 

Your chest tightens. 

You stay frozen in the stall, hands gripping your own arms, feeling like an intruder in a moment that wasn’t meant for anyone else to witness. 

Then, Agatha moves. You hear the creak of another cubicle door opening, then the soft click of it closing. 

Now’s your chance. 

You push the door open as quietly as possible, stepping out on light feet, careful not to make a sound. You glance once at the closed cubicle where Agatha is, then slip out of the bathroom, the air outside feeling heavier than before. 

You make your way back to the bar section, swallowing hard. When you reach Rio, she gives you a curious look, brow slightly furrowed. 

“Everything okay?” she asks, studying you. 

You force a smile, shaking off the weight in your chest. “Yeah. Just—needed a moment.” 

Rio doesn’t look convinced, but she doesn’t press. 

You pick up your drink, taking a longer sip than necessary, forcing yourself to focus back on her. It’s fine. You’re fine. 

But out of the corner of your eye, you see Agatha walk out of the bathroom, heading toward the booth seating. She looks composed, but there’s something in her eyes—something not quite put together. 

And you know. 

She’s not okay. 

After some time, Jen walks over to you, looking a little uneasy. She sighs, rubbing her temple before speaking. "Hey, we’re heading out early. Lilia’s not feeling well—her stomach is killing her. And Alice… well, she’s a little too drunk right now." 

You glance over at Alice, who is giggling at something Wanda is saying, her head resting lazily against Lilia’s shoulder. Wanda looks like she’s already bracing herself for the chaos of getting them both back to their villas. 

"Do you need help?" you ask, already preparing to get up. 

Jen shakes her head. "No, we got it. But…" She hesitates, then nods in Agatha’s direction. "She doesn’t want to leave. Said she wants to drink more. Can you keep an eye on her?"  

Your stomach twists. Yeah, you do know why. 

You glance toward Agatha, sitting alone at the booth, swirling the last of her drink, her eyes distant. You swallow, forcing down the hesitance rising in your chest. 

"Yeah," you say finally. "I got her." 

Jen offers a grateful smile and squeezes your arm lightly. "Thanks. I owe you one." 

She turns back to Alice and Lilia, helping Wanda guide them toward the exit. You watch them leave, then exhale slowly, glancing back at Agatha. 

You’re still talking to Rio, but your attention keeps drifting. You steal glances toward Agatha, watching the way she nurses her drink, her fingers idly tracing the rim of the glass. There’s something heavy in her posture, something resigned. You know why she’s like this, and it breaks you a little to see her like that. It takes everything in you not to go to her immediately, to fix whatever’s weighing her down. 

Rio notices. 

She nudges your arm, her eyes flickering to Agatha. "Hey, I was thinking of staying a bit longer, but…" She trails off, tilting her head slightly toward the woman sitting alone. "Your friend needs you tonight." 

You shift uncomfortably, chewing on the inside of your cheek. You don’t want Rio to go—not yet. But at the same time, you don’t want to stay put either—you want to go to Agatha. But she’s right. 

"You sure?" you ask, glancing at her. 

Rio smiles, an easy, knowing look in her eyes. "Yeah. You got this?" 

You hesitate for a moment, looking back at Agatha. There’s something about the way she’s sitting, like the weight of the world is pressing down on her shoulders. 

You nod. "Yeah. I got this." 

Rio gives you a small smile and squeezes your shoulder briefly before stepping back. As she turns to leave, you call out, "Unblock me and give me a call, okay?" 

She glances back over her shoulder, smirks, and nods. "We’ll see." 

And just like that, she’s gone. 

You stand up from the bar stool and head toward the booth where Agatha is sitting. She’s slouched against the seat, swirling the last of her drink, eyes distant. You hesitate for a second before sliding in beside her, leaving just enough space to not feel intrusive. 

There’s a beat of silence before Agatha speaks, her voice laced with something unreadable. "So… is the date over?" 

You huff a quiet laugh, picking up your whiskey. "It wasn’t a date." 

She hums, taking a long sip of her drink like it’s water. "Could’ve fooled me." 

Something about her tone makes you pause, but before you can figure it out, Agatha lets out a shaky breath—and then, just like that, she breaks. 

Tears slip down her cheeks, silent at first. Then, her shoulders shake, and she quickly wipes at her face like she’s ashamed to be seen like this. Your chest tightens at the sight. 

You inch closer, hesitating only for a moment before placing a gentle hand on her back. She leans into the touch ever so slightly. 

"Are you okay?" Your voice is quiet, careful. 

Agatha swallows hard, staring at the table. It takes her a few seconds before she finally speaks, voice barely above a whisper. "What did I do wrong?" 

She keeps going, her words spilling out faster than she can catch them. "I tried, you know? I really did. But it was never enough. It’s like… no matter what I did, he always had one foot out the door." 

You don’t say anything—just let her talk, let her get it all out. 

"It’s over, Y/N," she says, voice breaking. "Like, really over." 

You knew this already, but hearing her say it still twists something deep inside you. You squeeze her arm gently. "I’m sorry, Agatha. I know this… I know this hurts." 

She sniffles, laughing bitterly. "You don’t have to do that." 

"Do what?" 

"Act like you care. We both know I’ve been nothing but a pain in your ass." 

You roll your eyes, exhaling sharply. "Oh, don’t flatter yourself. You think you’re the only one? We’ve both been a pain in each other’s ass." 

Agatha lets out a dry chuckle, wiping at her cheek. "Fair point." 

You soften just a little, tilting your head at her. "But I do care, Agatha. More than you think." 

Agatha turns to look at you then, eyes glossy and searching. For a moment, you think she might say something, but instead, she reaches for her drink and downs the rest of it in one go. 

Eventually, the two of you move to the bar. The crowd has thinned out, leaving just a few stragglers nursing their drinks. You don’t drink anymore, but Agatha does. She’s still crying, though it’s quieter now, more subdued. 

She nudges you with her elbow, a small smirk playing on her lips. "You’re actually a good listener. Who would’ve thought?" 

You chuckle. "I have my moments." 

"Mm." She rests her chin on her palm, studying you. "I guess you’re not so bad." 

"High praise." 

The night stretches on, and before you know it, Agatha is completely drunk. You don’t hesitate to call an Uber. When it arrives, you help her up, but she stumbles against you, unable to walk straight. 

"Alright, come on," you murmur, wrapping an arm around her waist to guide her outside. She leans heavily against you, her breath warm against your shoulder. 

You place her inside the passenger seat and slide in beside her. The driver doesn’t say anything, used to late-night drunks, but you keep talking to Agatha, making sure she doesn’t fall asleep. 

"We’re almost there," you whisper as the car pulls up to the resort. 

She suddenly perks up, a drowsy smile on her lips, her head lolling slightly to the side. "You know what?" she slurs, blinking up at you like she’s just had the most brilliant idea. 

You tilt your head, amused. "What?" 

And then, completely out of nowhere, she starts singing, voice hushed and syrupy. "Can’t take my eyes off of you…" 

You blink, caught entirely off guard. "Agatha—" 

She points a wobbly finger at you, her expression serious despite the alcohol in her system. "You’d be like heaven to touch…" 

Your face is on fire, but you can’t stop the small chuckle that escapes. "Oh my god." 

She keeps going, her voice lilting unevenly, slightly out of tune but full of feeling. "I wanna hold you so much…" Her eyes meet yours, and for a second, something flickers between you. Something dangerous. Something you don’t have the strength to analyze right now. 

You shake your head, breathless in disbelief. "Alright, Frankie Valli, let’s get you to bed." 

She giggles but doesn’t stop singing, leaning into you as you guide her toward her villa. "At long last, love has arrived…" 

"Oh, for the love of—" You sigh dramatically, but there’s no real frustration behind it. 

She clings to your arm, her grip surprisingly firm. "And I thank God I’m alive…" Her voice hitches, and there’s a moment—just a fleeting second—where she looks at you like she means every word she’s singing. 

Your throat tightens. You pretend not to notice. 

By the time you get her to the door, her voice is softer, the words slurring together. "Can’t take my eyes off of you…" 

You sigh, unlocking the door with some difficulty. "Alright, Agatha. Time to sleep." 

She hums, resting her head against your shoulder for just a moment before murmuring, "Mmm. You’re warm." 

You swallow hard, ignoring the way your heart stumbles over itself. "Yeah, yeah. Come on, inside." 

And even though she’s drunk, and this whole situation is ridiculous, you can’t help but feel your heart clench at the sight of her like this—so vulnerable, so utterly unlike the Agatha Harkness you once knew. 

You guide Agatha upstairs to her bedroom, careful with every step as she leans heavily against you. When you finally reach her bed, you help her sit down gently, her body swaying slightly. Her eyes are glassy, lost in thoughts you can’t quite reach. 

“I’ll be right back,” you murmur, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear without thinking. She doesn’t respond, just stares at the floor. 

You hurry downstairs, filling a glass of water and grabbing some Advil from the kitchen. When you return, she’s not lying down like you expected. Instead, she’s still sitting at the edge of the bed, her shoulders shaking, quiet sobs wracking her frame. 

Your stomach twists. 

“Agatha?” You set the glass and the Advil down on the nightstand and immediately sit beside her. “Hey, what’s wrong?” 

She lets out a shuddering breath, wiping at her face. “Whatever I do… I’ll never be enough.” 

Her voice is so small, so broken, it nearly shatters you. 

Your heart clenches as you reach for her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. She leans into you, her body warm despite the chill in her words. “That’s not true,” you say firmly. “You are enough, Agatha. Ralph is just too damn stupid to see it.” 

She laughs wetly, shaking her head. “You don’t mean that.” 

“I do.” You pull back slightly, looking at her. “You are brilliant. You’re sharp, funny in that mean, sarcastic way. You care about the people you love, even if you pretend not to. You have this way of making people feel… seen.” 

Your throat tightens as you speak. You don’t even realize you’re getting emotional until your voice cracks slightly on the last word. You blink rapidly, trying to hold it together. 

Agatha notices. 

She gently pulls away from the hug, and when you meet her gaze, there’s something intense in the way she looks at you. Her eyes are searching, tracing every part of your face like she’s trying to memorize it, like she’s grasping onto something unspoken between you. 

Then, so softly, she whispers your name, her voice barely above a breath, like it holds the weight of everything she can’t say out loud. 

Your breath catches, a lump forming in your throat as the moment stretches, fragile and heavy all at once. 

Before you can fully process what’s happening, she cups your cheek, her touch warm, grounding. Your heart is hammering against your ribs, your mind screaming— 

And then she leans in. 

Her lips meet yours, gentle and soft, everything you’ve ever wanted—except not like this. Not when she’s vulnerable, not when she’s breaking right in front of you. 

You freeze for a second, torn between every part of you that has dreamed of this moment and the part of you that knows it isn’t right. 

With every ounce of willpower, you gently pull away, your hands on her shoulders. “Agatha…” 

She blinks at you, confused, her lips still parted. 

“You don’t know what you’re doing right now,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. 

A flicker of something passes through her eyes—hurt, maybe, or realization. But you don’t let yourself look too closely. You stand up, stepping back. “You need to sleep, Agatha.” 

She doesn’t argue, just watches you with something unreadable in her gaze. And then, just like that, you turn, walking to the door. 

You close it softly behind you as you leave her villa, your heart pounding, your mind an absolute mess. 

When you get to your villa, you head straight to your bedroom. The silence is suffocating. After the noise of the club, the villa feels too quiet. Too empty. But your mind is loud. The moment you close the door behind you, it all crashes down at once. 

You drop your keys onto the table with a shaky breath, your fingers lingering on the cool surface as if grounding yourself will stop the spiraling thoughts. You stumble toward the bed, collapsing onto it without bothering to change. Your dress clings to your skin, the faint scent of perfume and alcohol mixing with something heavier—something painful. 

You replay the kiss over and over again. Not just the kiss itself, but the way Agatha looked at you before it happened—the glassiness in her eyes, the slight tremble in her lips, the way she whispered your name like it meant something. Like you meant something. 

Your heart clenches as you remember how she leaned in, like you were the only thing keeping her from falling apart. And for a second, you let yourself believe it. For a second, you let yourself want it. But now, in the quiet of your room, the reality is sharp, cutting through any illusion you might have entertained. 

You let out a quiet, humorless laugh. What else is there to do? Cry? Maybe. But what good would that do? 

If this kiss had meant something, Agatha wouldn’t have done it like this. She wouldn’t have done it drunk, desperate, tangled in the mess of her failing marriage. You know it wasn’t about you. It was about escaping, about numbing whatever pain she was feeling. And you were just there. 

You squeeze your eyes shut, willing yourself to sleep, to forget—but how could you? Every time you close your eyes, you see her again. Feel the ghost of her lips, the heat of her breath, the way she fit against you like she belonged there. 

Your fingers brush against your lips as if trying to erase the feeling, but it lingers. It sinks into your skin, into your chest, into every part of you, refusing to let go. 

With a frustrated sigh, you press a pillow over your face, trying to drown out the ache, the longing, the stupid, unrelenting hope that still clings to the edges of your heart. But it doesn’t help. Nothing does. 

Because even with your eyes open, even with the distance between you, Agatha is still there. And that’s the cruelest part of all. 

Taglist: @6stolenangel9 @charlottelinlin1 @milflovers4 @claramelooo @loveshineslikethesky @kaymariesworld @marcelinaceciliarose @misskassycollins @greyella @theothersideofthescreen @whitelotus00 @agathaallalongg @psychickryptonitebouquet @sweetmidnights @angel-kitten-babygirl-u-choose @filmedbyharkness @brekker157 @rizzlesregal13 @starbucks-06 @aboutcustardcreams @crescendoofstars @neverfindmegone @mommy-mommy-mommy-hi 

[harknessxo]

Happy Endings

Summary: When Melissa books your massage services, you both get more than you bargained for.

Chapter: 3/3

Warnings: Smut with feelings, age difference, fem reader, soft Mel, praise kink

Chapter 3

The second time you met Melissa, you were hurrying through the halls of Abbott Elementary. Your brother had gotten stuck working a double shift and needed someone to pick Frankie up from school.

“I can be there in 10 minutes,” you estimated, flicking your blinker on and pulling a quick U-turn.

“You’re a lifesaver, sis,” he said.

You cradled your cell in the crook of your shoulder, glad he couldn’t see the furious flush on your face as you thought about the possibility of seeing Melissa.

“I really am a saint, aren’t I?”

“Yeah, yeah, patron saint of goombas like me.” There was some yelling in the warehouse behind him. “Gotta go, see ya later.”

It had only been a few days since Melissa…well, since Melissa. You felt like you were living in a fever dream of pale skin, soft curves, and quivering legs. The memory of how she sounded—needy, desperate—kept you up at night. More than once you’d awoken sweaty, throbbing, embarrassingly wet.

You slid into a parking spot, checked your reflection in the rearview, then bounded up the steps, trying to remember where her classroom was.

You had been to Abbott before. Being one of Frankie’s official emergency contacts was a point of pride, thank you very much, and you had even attended an open house or two over the years.

Rounding a corner, distracted and rushing, you careened headlong into something fleshy and solid. A man’s voice floated up from the floor.

“My bad! That was totally my bad!”

You extended a hand and hauled him to his feet.

“You ok, Mr….Hill?” you asked, squinting to read the name on his badge.

He shot you a nervous but friendly smile. The teacher rubbed his chest where it had collided with your shoulder.

“All good,” he said. “And you can call me Jacob. Mr. Hill sounds so…square.“

“Jacob,” you smiled. “Maybe you can help me, I’m looking for my niece, Frankie. She’s in Melissa’s class.”

He did a double take, staring at you curiously. “Melissa? Melissa Schemmenti?”

Just then you heard a squeal of delight and the sound of Frankie yelling your name. A few seconds later, a tangle of arms and legs crashed into you, hugging your midsection tightly. You bent down and scooped her up, spinning her around in a fanfare of giggles.

“Ah,” Jacob said. “There she is.”

You turned around. The woman in question was walking toward you wearing leather pants and a low-cut black top. Several gold pendants bounced on her chest, and a ring of keys jangled in her hand.

“Ms. Schemmenti, this is my aunt, the one I told you about,” Frankie announced proudly. “She’s a mongoose.”

“Masseuse,” you corrected with a snort.

“Masseuse,” Frankie repeated, sounding the word out.

Melissa extended her hand, grinning. “Nice to see ya,” she said, voice raspy and eyes tired at the end of a long day. But damn if she wasn’t every bit as gorgeous as you remembered.

Jacob’s eyes brightened in sudden recognition.

“Oh, this is the hot massage therapist —“

Melissa elbowed him sharply in the ribs. “Mr. Hill had a question about hot stone massage therapy,” she corrected smoothly.

“Precisely,” Jacob wheezed. “That’s what I meant.”

“Oh?” you said, fighting to keep a straight face.

Alright, so maybe Melissa had mentioned you in the staff room on Monday. It was kinda unavoidable, given a certain someone’s meddling role in orchestrating everything.

“Did you enjoy yourself?” Barb had asked innocently, taking a demure sip of coffee.

And maybe Melissa’s excellent poker face had faltered for just a moment, the memory of your fingers heating her up from the inside. Certainly there was a pause long enough that the room fell silent and a few other teachers looked up to see a dusty rosiness rising in Melissa’s cheeks, her composure slipping.

“Enjoy what?” asked Jacob.

“Yeah, it was alright,” Melissa said, trying and failing to keep the suggestive smirk off her face. “She was…she was real good with her hands.”

“Melissa Schemmenti,” Barbara gasped, eyes widening in disbelief. “Tell me you didn’t.”

“What can I say?” Melissa poured herself a cup of coffee, unrepentant. “She was hot.”

And that was how word of the hot massage therapist came to dominate the staff lounge for a few days.

“Well,” you said, oblivious to your own reputation. “You can find that service at our brick-and-mortar location downtown. But I only do house calls.”

You fixed Melissa with a meaningful stare.

“Speaking of which,” you said innocently. “I was wondering when you wanted to book your next appointment.”

“You were, huh?” Her gaze darkened, became almost predatory. “Jacob can you help little Miss Frankie gather up her book bag and lunchbox? I need a word with this one.”

You set Frankie down and she trundled off with Mr. Hill, who cast another lingering look back at the two of you before disappearing into Melissa’s classroom.

“We should keep working on that knot,” you said lightly. “I’m free this weekend.”

“I’d love to, but you’re a little out of my budget with no voucher,” she pouted. “Teacher’s salary and all.”

She batted her eyelashes at you, beckoning you closer.

“What if we made a trade?” you asked. “My services for yours.”

“I’m listenin’.”

“You could…cook me dinner?”

“Careful,” she warned. “That almost sounds like a date.”

“If you don’t want to…” you shrugged, trailing off, starting to turn away. The other woman grabbed your bicep, swinging you back around and boxing you in against the lockers.

“I’ll cook a 7-course meal, so long as you finish what ya started.”

She somehow made it sound like a threat and a promise, bringing one hand up to brush the hair out of your eyes. You inhaled sharply, pinned to the spot by her hooded gaze.

“Cause I been real distracted all week,” she continued, voice little more than a growl, eyes flickering up and down your figure.

“That’s terrible, Ms. Schemmenti,” you breathed. “Why didn’t you call me? You know all you have to do is tell me what you need.”

She barely suppressed a shiver. “Don’t toy with me, doll.”

“What are you gonna do, put me in detention?”

Her pupils blackened with desire. Glancing down the hallway to make sure you were still alone, she slotted her thigh between your legs and leaned forward until she was pressing against you in all the right spots. Ghosting her lips around the shell of your ear, she whispered, “Not if you promise to make me feel good.”

A helpless sound formed in the back of your throat. Melissa clamped a hand over your mouth before it could spill out and echo obscenely down the hallway. Her eyes sparkled with laughter.

“Do ya promise?” she repeated softly.

You nodded.

“Saturday, 4:00,” she husked. “Bring the table.”

Then she was walking away and your eyes were glued to her ass in those leather pants, hypnotized by the sway of her hips.

The following days passed in a blur.

When Saturday finally rolled around, you showed up early, parking your truck in front of her sweet little bungalow. You walked up the driveway carrying the portable table and your usual bag of tricks—soft Turkish linens, aromatherapy oils, coconut water. You knocked on the door and waited, flicking your hair out of your eyes. A dog barked in the distance; you could smell bonfire on the breeze.

When she swung the door open, she had a lopsided grin on her face. With one finger, she beckoned you inside. She was already wearing a robe, loosely tied in the front.

“Ms. Schemmenti,” you said, trying to keep your voice from trembling. “I’ve been looking forward to our session all week.”

“Likewise,” she said, clearly enjoying how desperate you were.

You stepped into the entryway, crowding her slightly. Her eyes darted down to your mouth, then back up again.

“Let’s pick up where we left off last time?”

You walked into the living room on unsteady legs. You could feel her behind you, watching your every move. The air was thick with tension. Your hands shook slightly as you erected the table, tucked the sheet into place.

“Now why don’t you—“

You turned around to find that the robe had slipped down around her shoulders. The perfect swell of her tits and the dusky edges of her nipples were just visible. All the breath left your body in a rush. You had never seen anything so fucking perfect.

“I know the drill,” she said softly.

Then she shimmied out of the robe completely, letting the fabric slip off and pool around her feet. You groaned. She wasn’t wearing any underwear.

“Fuck,” you whispered, hands flexing in excitement as you drank in the buxom shape of her, itching to touch her again, to map the soft peaks and valleys of her body.

Melissa bit her lip, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. Any insecurity she might have had instantly flew out the window. She felt her nipples getting hard as you stared. There was a raw look of need painted across your pretty face, a flush of arousal in your cheeks. You swayed a little on the spot and licked your lips, sending a pulse of excitement through her.

The redhead stepped forward and draped herself across the table. Your table, she thought, dizzy with arousal. You fumbled in your bag, searching for the bottle of oil.

“Any areas you want to work on?” you asked roughly, eyes glued to the twin dimples in her lower back, directly above her ass.

She turned her head to the side, fixing you with a suggestive stare.

“I have this real bad ache,” she confessed quietly. “It’s been keeping me up at night.”

“Let me take a look.”

She shivered, and you draped the sheet over her.

“I’ll start by warming you up,” you explained. “Warming your muscles up, so we can work on any tension. Is it ok if I touch you here?”

She nodded, unable to speak. You ghosted your fingertips over her lower back, then around the outside of her hips, humming with pleasure at the heat radiating off her skin.

“What about here?” You asked, gripping her inner thigh. “Spread your legs for me, so I can massage some oil…” you trailed off as she complied.

“Oh,” you gasped, eyes transfixed by the glistening sheen of wetness that was already coating her pussy. “But it looks like maybe you don’t need any oil there.”

She’d been wet for hours at this point, imagining this exact scenario. Melissa breathed your name, sounding helpless, grinding down into the table. A fuzzy static filled your brain. You felt like a cartoon character that had just been hit over the head with an anvil, birds and stars fluttering around your head.

“Why don’t you turn over?” you demanded gently, compelled by a fresh sense of urgency. “So I can work on opening up those hip flexors.”

Melissa rushed to obey your instruction, fumbling under the sheet. She had no clue what a hip flexor was, but she was pretty sure she’d die if you didn’t open hers up in the next five minutes.

“Perfect,” you breathed reverently, looking down at her flushed face in awe. “You’re perfect.”

She might have been embarrassed if she wasn’t so desperate to feel you everywhere.

“Can I touch you here?” you asked, voice shaking with need as you moved the sheet down to expose her breasts. The pink nipples hardened again and she moaned.

Melissa nodded, eyes glassy with lust.

“I need to hear you say it,” you managed.

Her eyes rolled back as she groaned at your torment.

“Yes, please,” she said, begging. “Please touch me there.”

You quickly added some more oil to your hands, lathering them up and then palming her tits. They were deliciously soft, and she arched into your touch, whining pathetically.

“Oh I think you like that,” you murmured, feeling drunk. You massaged the oil until her skin was glistening, slick with a mix of sweat and lubricant.

“More,” she whined. “Harder.”

You tweaked her nipple and she cried out.

“So good for me,” she husked. “You’re makin’ me feel so good.”

You removed the sheet entirely, running both hands over her belly and hips and then urging her legs apart. Melissa’s arousal was so profound she could feel it dripping down her legs. A smear of wetness had gathered on the surface of the table.

“Is this the spot you were telling me about?”

“Mm-hmm,” she nodded.

She threw her head back when you pushed a finger inside. The slick heat was almost unbearable. It was like you had forgotten how to breathe. Or rather, that you had transcended the need for such inconsequential habits. Your body no longer required oxygen to survive. Just Melissa.

“Oh, you needed this,” you said reverently, watching as she clenched around you, hips chasing your hand. You bit your lip to keep from groaning, then added another finger.

Leaning down, you dragged hot, open-mouthed kisses across her chest.

“Can I suck?” you asked hungrily.

She answered by fisting a hand in your hair and pushing you down further, until your mouth found her nipple. You placed a gentle bite there and then soothed it with your tongue. She made a strangled noise in the back of her throat. The stimulation was making her brain foggy.

“Can I—“ you started to ask again, but she interrupted you.

“Everywhere,” she said. “I need you everywhere.”

Her legs fell open wider and she pulled your hair, until you were facing her properly. For a moment you stared at her, reminded suddenly of the first time you’d seen her in the doorway, her impossible beauty rendering you speechless. You wrapped your other arm around her shoulders, cradling her, and getting better leverage.

“Good girl,” you said, twisting your two fingers deep inside her cunt.

Her mouth parted in surprise and tears of pleasure pricked the corners of her eyes. She surged forward and kissed you for the first time, licking into you.

“Tell me again,” she whined against your mouth.

“So fucking good,” you repeated, adding a third finger and driving into her. You felt her clenching, bearing down as your pace became more merciless, almost sloppy. “I want you to come for me, come all over my hand, come all over this table.”

“Fuck,” she cried, head tipped back in ecstasy, completely unraveling.

“So perfect for me,” you whispered in her ear, brushing the palm of your hand over her clit. “There’s nothing more beautiful than you, getting exactly what you deserve.”

She stilled for a moment, then a gush of wetness coated your hand. Melissa sobbed in disbelief at the magnitude of the feeling, her orgasm so deep it extended to the marrow of her bones.

You sagged forward, still holding her, resting your forehead on her chest. Both of you were sweaty and panting. Finally, you withdrew your hand from where it was still buried inside her. She ached at the sudden emptiness, and fisted a hand in your shirt.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you promised.

Melissa’s eyes widened as you brought your hand up and plunged the sticky fingers into your own mouth, licking her off your fingertips. You clenched your legs together, throbbing painfully.

“So good,” you keened.

Melissa gasped, unable to tear her gaze away from your mouth and the glistening digits that were lazily disappearing between swollen lips. Finally her brain managed to form a single word.

“Bed,” she ordered, squirming in your arms.

“Bed,” you agreed, overwhelmed by the thought of spreading her out properly on a mattress.

Hours later, pleasure wrung from every muscle and tendon in both your bodies, Melissa picked up the phone to order takeout.

“Hey,” you said softly, playing with her hair. “What about my 7-course meal?”

She gave you a sly look, pressed a kiss to your temple. “Guess we’ll just have to take another rain check.”