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By late afternoon, the light in their apartment had turned too sharp to be beautiful. It spilled through the high windows in white sheets, bouncing off the countertops and the leaves of Rio’s potted herbs. Agatha could see her reflection in the kettle—hair pinned up, blouse still crisp from work—and for a moment she thought about how unnatural it was to live so far above the dirt.
Rio always said that. “People weren’t meant to build nests in glass boxes,” she’d tease while wiping soil-stained hands on her jeans. She designed gardens that looked effortless, full of wandering paths and wildflowers that refused to obey the original plan. She called herself a landscape architect, but Agatha thought “chaos gardener” was more accurate.
Agatha’s own work couldn’t have been further from it—hours of legal briefs, polished shoes, and relentless precision. Yet somehow, they met in the middle: Agatha finding calm in Rio’s untidy joy, Rio steadying herself against Agatha’s fierce sense of structure. They made sense in ways that shouldn’t, the way roots find cracks in stone.
Lilia Calderu often said the same. She was Rio’s mentor—part mother figure, part lifelong safety net. Being raised by Lilia from a young age, Rio couldn’t have turned out any other way: warm, stubborn, open-hearted to a fault. When Agatha first met Lilia, the woman had pulled her into a hug before introductions were over and said, “If you can keep up with my girl, you’re family already.” She’d meant it too; Agatha had been invited to Sunday dinners and unsolicited life advice ever since.
The kettle started to whisper. Agatha moved it off the heat before it could cry. The smell of lemon cookies filled the kitchen—her small peace offering after another week of separate schedules, her own packed with depositions and Rio’s with clients who wanted cheaper versions of beauty.
They lived well together, even in the quiet. They’d built a rhythm out of mismatched habits: Agatha’s obsession with order against Rio’s ability to grow life out of anything, even a chipped mug or an empty jam jar. When things broke, Rio fixed them with tape and laughter; when things fell apart, Agatha made a plan.
She reached for a plate to arrange the cookies when she heard it—the soft click of the front door, the hesitant sound of shoes slipping off, and then silence. Not the good kind. The kind that pressed against her ribs.
Agatha turned toward the hallway.
“Hey,” she said quietly.
“Hi.” Rio’s voice was softer than usual, almost fragile.
Rio stands by the door, sunglasses still on, jaw tight in that particular set that means she’s holding her face together with stubbornness alone. Her hair is up in a messy knot where curls have been pinned and then re-pinned by impatient hands. The strap of her bag digs into one shoulder. She looks both very small and very much herself.
Agatha crosses the room in three light steps and stops close without touching. “Scale of one to drill through the skull?”
“Let’s not be dramatic.” Rio tries for a smile; it lands crooked. “Just a… three? Four? Okay, five. The paperwork for this last project was… it was—” She gropes for a word, eyebrows knitting, surrendering finally. “Rude.”
Agatha’s heart sank with recognition. “That bad, huh?”
Rio tried for a shrug that ended halfway. “Just rude.”
Agatha plucks the bag off Rio’s shoulder, hangs it on the hook. The sunglasses, she eases off like they’re surgical tape. Rio sighs and lets her forehead tip to Agatha’s shoulder for a bare second.
“Sorry.” The apology is a reflex Rio hates in herself and Agatha hates to hear.
“Don’t you dare.” Agatha sweeps a knuckle under her jaw like a promise. “Bathroom first. Then bed. Then I’ll play nurse with disturbingly competent bedside manner. Okay?”
Agatha kissed her temple at the slightest nod. “So, curtains first.”
By the time she’d drawn them, the apartment had folded itself into dusk. The noise of the city dulled into something distant and kind.
Their bathroom is already prepared for days like this. Agatha has learned the choreography: a washcloth folded on the counter, peppermint oil, ibuprofen, the small amber vial of triptan that sits like a talisman on the top shelf. A cold pack waits in the freezer. The damn mug by the sink with a delicate chip in the rim—Rio’s favorite for bad days. It feels like superstition to use any other.
Agatha isn’t superstitious. She just loves a system that works.
“Light off?” Rio asks, one foot already tapping at the tile, eyes half-closed.
“Off.” Agatha clicks it and the room sighs into twilight.
There’s a moment with Rio and the sink—hands braced, head down. A breath that catches. The nausea is there, not a wave yet, just the tide starting to pull.
“Triptan now?” Agatha asks. The question is ritual; they both know the answer.
“Yeah.” Rio grimaces. “I waited too long.”
“It was a very busy being-brilliant day.” Agatha shakes two from the blister pack. “Tongue, please.”
Rio sticks her tongue out, because she’s a menace even when she’s in pain. Agatha rolls her eyes, places the pill, watches the swallow. A hand ghosts to the back of Rio’s neck. Thumb. Pressure. Small, slow circles.
When Rio looks up, her eyes are glossy. “Could you—” She gestures to her head, toward the crown. “Not the temples. The… you know. The… fork. Little triangle where everything feels like a… knot.”
“Suboccipital trigger points,” Agatha says, because she enjoys being insufferable. “Otherwise known as: the fork.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet.” She steps behind her and finds the places Lilia taught her: thumbs at the base of the skull where muscles anchor, careful pressure inward and upward. She presses, waits for the count, eases. Rio gasps, a small animal sound, followed by relief loosening her shoulders. The water in the sink scratches faintly. Far away a car horn bleats and stops. Their apartment breathes.
“Sit,” Agatha said softly. “I’ll run the water.”
Rio obeyed, folding herself onto the closed toilet lid, elbows on her knees. She rubbed her palms into her eyes like she could push the pain back where it came from.
Agatha turned on the tap, steam began to ghost up from the surface, curling against the mirror. She poured in a handful of Epsom salts, the faint scent of lavender filling the air.
Rio undressed slowly, fingers clumsy. Agatha averted her gaze in the way of people who know each other’s bodies too well to make it an act. She held out a hand to steady her when she stepped in.
The sigh that left Rio when the heat met her skin was half pain, half release. She sank until the water touched her shoulders, head tilting back against the rim.
“Better?” Agatha asked.
“It helps,” Rio whispered, eyes closed. “The water always feels quieter than air.”
Agatha crouched beside the tub, rolling her sleeves above her elbows. “I’ll stay a bit, if that’s okay.”
Rio nodded. Her face looked younger in the half-dark, unguarded and small. Agatha dipped a cloth into the water and let it trail across her forehead, tracing the hairline in slow, tender strokes.
“Remember the first time?” Agatha murmured.
Rio’s lips twitched. “You thought I was dying.”
“I still do, every time.”
Rio’s laugh was faint, a ripple across the steam. “You’ve gotten better at pretending you don’t.”
“I had a good teacher.”
Agatha went to the kitchen while Rio finished her bath and got dressed but quickly got back to help her to bed.
“I got the tea ready,” she said. “Cookies too.”
Rio smiled faintly. “You’re too good to me.”
“I’m statistically decent,” Agatha countered. “Now, let’s make the cave.”
That was Lilia’s phrase—the first time Agatha had ever called her in a panic, hands shaking, Rio pale and trembling under a blanket. Agatha had been useless, searching symptoms online until she convinced herself it was something terminal. Lilia had been calm as always.
“Close the curtains,” she’d said. “Make her a cave. She’s had these since she was a child. The light turns cruel first. You can’t fight it—you just keep it out until she’s safe again.”
Agatha had followed every instruction. Later, when the storm passed, she’d buried herself in research and phone calls until she could recite every kind of migraine care in her sleep. Lilia had laughed, but kindly.
“Love and cool cloths go further than any prescription,” she’d said.
Now Agatha moved through the familiar rhythm without thinking: pills ready, cold pack wrapped in a towel, water glass filled, peppermint oil and ginger tea waiting nearby. Rio sat gingerly on the edge of the bed, eyes half-lidded, her hands pressed to her temples.
“Temples or crown?” Agatha asked.
“Crown.”
Agatha stepped behind her, fingers finding the base of her skull, pressing gently in slow circles. Rio exhaled, the tension in her shoulders softening.
“Better?”
“Less stabbing, more… pounding.”
“Progress.”
Agatha kept working in silence until the rhythm of Rio’s breathing steadied. Then she guided her down to lie back, sliding the cold pack beneath the pillowcase, adjusting it until Rio sighed in relief.
“You’re getting too good at this,” Rio murmured.
“Professional-grade caretaker,” Agatha said, smoothing a stray curl from her face. “The bar exam didn’t prepare me for this.”
Rio smiled weakly. “You could’ve fooled me.”
Agatha sat on the bed’s edge, brushing her thumb across Rio’s cheek. “Do you want me to call Lilia?”
“Just text her,” Rio said, voice fading. “Tell her I’m surviving rude light.”
Agatha smiled and did exactly that. Lilia’s reply came within seconds: Good girl. Proud of both of you. Keep the cave dark, darling, and give her my love.
She read the message aloud, earning a quiet laugh from Rio. “She’s sweet,” Rio whispered. “Tell her I love her too.”
“I will.” Agatha leaned down, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “And she told me to remind you she’s still the boss.”
“That’s implied,” Rio mumbled, eyes closing.
Agatha stayed beside her, tracing light circles against her wrist until Rio’s breathing evened out. The faint hum of the fan filled the space between their words.
When the nausea passed, Agatha coaxed her into sipping water, then tea. She brushes a strand of hair off her forehead. “Water. Crackers. Tea. The bathroom trash bin, just in case. Phone on silent.”
“And you?” Rio asks, eyes thin slits. “You’ll… stay?”
Agatha ought to be annoyed by the question, because it implies that there’s a world where the answer wouldn’t be yes. But she understands how pain lies, how it re-lights old insecure pathways like broken Christmas bulbs. She tucks the blanket around Rio’s ankles, just so. “Always.”
Rio leaned her head against Agatha’s shoulder. “Did I ruin your evening?”
“Hardly,” Agatha said. “I was about to argue with the oven timer, so you saved me from public humiliation.”
Rio chuckled softly. “That’s love.”
“It is.” Agatha smiled against her hair. “And tomorrow, you’ll be fine again.”
“I hate that it comes out of nowhere.”
“I know.” Agatha tilted her head. “You said the same thing when I met you—about the gardens. You can’t control how they grow.”
Rio blinked up at her, the faintest curve of a smile appearing. “You and your metaphors.”
“Occupational hazard.”
The evening stretched quiet and gentle. Agatha switched the ice pack, replaced the towel, let Rio drift while the city outside hummed through its own headache. When she finally called Lilia again, the older woman’s voice was full of warmth, not worry.
“How’s my girl?”
“Sleeping,” Agatha said. “I think we caught it early this time.”
“You always do,” Lilia said. “You’ve learned the rhythm. You listen.”
“I had the best teacher.”
Lilia laughed. “And you love her right. That’s the trick. The rest is just tea and patience.”
Agatha smiled. “I’ll add that to the chart.”
“Still keeping charts?”
“Color-coded.”
Lilia hummed, amused. “That’s my Agatha.”
When the call ended, Agatha slipped back into the bedroom. Rio stirred but didn’t wake. The curtains glowed faintly with the soft light of a city that never really slept. Agatha lay down beside her, curling close but leaving space for breath and comfort.
“Talk to me,” Rio murmured, half-asleep. “Not about work. Something small.”
Agatha thought for a moment. “There’s a pigeon that sits on the air conditioner and glares at me when I water the basil. I think he believes the balcony is his. We may have to negotiate a treaty.”
“Give him… one leaf.” Rio’s lips twitched. “Not the whole plant. You’ll… you’ll surrender the city.”
“Just a leaf. I’ll draft a formal agreement. Article One: The Sovereignty of Pigeons is Recognized Only in Pigeon-Specific Matters.”
“Article Two,” Rio murmurs, “Pigeons don’t get to… to determine basil use.”
“Fine. Dictator.” Agatha presses her smile to Rio’s shoulder blade. “Article Three: Agatha will always make tea and also do the scary phone calls.”
“Especially the phone calls.” The words barely make it past Rio’s lips, more thought than sound. “You’re good at… at making people do what you want.”
“I prefer ‘persuasive.’” Agatha squeezes her hand. “And you’re good at surviving light.”
That wins a little huff of air. The worst of the wave is receding; Agatha can feel the drop in Rio’s shoulders, the way her breath has lengthened. The triptan will do what it can. The ice will do what it can. Time will do the rest; care will make the time less cruel.
Rio smiled, eyes still closed. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You love that about me.”
“I do.” A pause. “Agatha?”
“Mm?”
“Thank you for closing the curtains.”
Agatha kissed her temple. “You mean drawing them.”
Rio breathed out a soft laugh. “Right. Drawing them.”
“You make a very good cave,” Agatha said.
Rio reached blindly for her hand. “You make a very good home.”
The room fell quiet again. Outside, the world kept on buzzing, unaware of the small sanctuary behind drawn curtains.
Later, when the light softened and the pain finally let go, they would open the windows and share the last of the cookies. They’d text Lilia a picture of Rio smiling with messy hair and tea in hand, and Lilia would reply with a bear emoji, a heart, and a lemon that looked like a concerned bean.
For now, the world could wait.
Agatha smoothed a wrinkle from Rio’s pillow and whispered, “Sleep, my cave troll.”
Rio smiled into the dark. “Love you too.”
And the cave held.