Agatha sat at her desk in the dimly lit office, the harsh glow of a flickering lamp casting long shadows across the room. The smell of stale coffee hung in the air, and her desk was cluttered with papers—case files, witness statements, notes scribbled in haste. She rubbed her temples, the weight of her work pressing down on her as it always did. Every day blurred into the next, the cases piling up faster than she could solve them. She hadn't slept properly in days, maybe weeks. Time was a blur, and the constant hum of exhaustion dulled her senses, though her sharp mind refused to stop working.

This case was different. She could feel it. The threads were unraveling too fast, slipping through her fingers before she could grasp them. And every time she thought she was close to a breakthrough, she showed up.

As if summoned by the thought, the door to Agatha's office creaked open, and in walked Dahlia, her heels clicking against the cold linoleum floor with a rhythm that sent a jolt of irritation through Agatha's body. The sound was so familiar, so purposeful, that Agatha didn't even need to look up to know who it was.

"Hard at work, I see," Dahlia's voice was smooth, dripping with that honeyed sarcasm Agatha had grown to loathe—and yet, couldn't seem to escape.

Agatha's jaw clenched.

"What do you want?" She muttered, not bothering to lift her gaze from the papers scattered across her desk.

She wasn't in the mood for this—not today, not after everything that had happened in court.

Dahlia didn't answer immediately, and instead, she let the silence hang in the air, thick with tension. Agatha could feel her presence, the way she seemed to fill the room, making the already small office feel impossibly cramped. When Dahlia finally spoke, her voice was low, calculated, "I thought I'd check in on you, dear. You seemed a little... off in court earlier."

Agatha's fingers twitched, but she didn't look up, "I'm fine."

"Are you?" Dahlia asked, her tone lilting, as though the question were more of a tease than genuine concern.

Agatha's eyes snapped up, her irritation flaring, "You knew. You knew, and you still let him walk free."

Dahlia's smile widened, her lips curling into a slow, predatory grin as she stepped closer to the desk, "That's my job. I don't decide guilt or innocence. I simply make sure the jury sees things from the right perspective."

"Your perspective," Agatha bit back, her voice laced with frustration, "You manipulate the system. Twist the truth."

Dahlia shrugged, unbothered by the accusation, "And you don't?"

Agatha stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor as she planted her hands on the desk, leaning toward Dahlia, "That's not the same, and you know it."

For a moment, their eyes locked, the air between them charged with an unspoken tension that had nothing to do with the case and everything to do with them. It was always like this with Dahlia—every conversation, every encounter was laced with something deeper, something darker. Agatha hated it, hated the way Dahlia could make her feel so unbalanced, so out of control, and yet there was something else there, something that kept drawing her back.

Dahlia's eyes gleamed with amusement as she stepped even closer, closing the already narrow gap between them.

"Oh, Agnes," She purred, her voice soft but dangerous, "you're always so righteous. So sure of yourself."

Agatha's breath hitched, her heart pounding in her chest as she glared at Dahlia, "I am sure."

"Are you?" Dahlia's voice dropped lower, a whisper that sent a shiver down Agatha's spine, "Because from where I'm standing, you seem anything but. You're overworked, under-rested, and losing your grip on this case. Maybe that's why you keep lashing out at me."

"I'm not—" Agatha's protest died on her lips as Dahlia leaned in even closer, her breath warm against Agatha's skin.

"Admit it," Dahlia murmured, her lips curling into that infuriating smile, "You hate how easily I can get under your skin."

Agatha's pulse quickened, her frustration boiling over as she stood her ground, "You think you know me? You think you can just waltz in here and—"

Dahlia interrupted her, her voice soft but firm, the weight of her words pressing down on Agatha in a way that felt almost suffocating, "I do know you, Agnes. I know you better than anyone in this town. Better than you know yourself, even."

Agatha's breath hitched, her heart racing as she stared into Dahlia's dark, unreadable eyes. There was something in the way Dahlia looked at her, something that felt both dangerous and familiar, as if she was seeing past the layers of the hex, seeing her. The real her.

"I know what drives you," Dahlia continued, her voice a low, seductive whisper, "That need for control. The constant pressure to be perfect. To be right."

Agatha's chest tightened, her fingers curling into fists at her sides as she tried to steady her breathing. Dahlia was too close now, the tension between them palpable, electric.

"But here's the thing," Dahlia said, her voice dropping even lower, her lips barely inches from Agatha's ear, "You're not perfect. You're losing your grip. On this case... and on yourself."

Agatha's breath caught in her throat, her mind spinning. She wanted to push Dahlia away, to tell her she was wrong, but the words wouldn't come. Because deep down, there was a part of her that feared Dahlia was right.

She felt like she was unraveling.

But then, just as quickly as the moment had come, it passed. Dahlia stepped back, her smile widening as she took in the sight of Agatha—flustered, frustrated, her composure slipping.

"You're always so much fun to rattle," Dahlia said, her voice light, teasing, as though the tension between them had never happened.

Agatha clenched her jaw, her heart still pounding as she watched Dahlia move toward the door.

"I'm not done with you," She called after her, her voice tight with anger.

Dahlia paused, her hand on the doorknob, and glanced back over her shoulder, her eyes gleaming with dark amusement.

"Oh, I don't doubt that," She said, her tone dripping with mock sympathy, "But here's the thing—neither am I."

And with that, Dahlia slipped out the door, her presence lingering in the air like a ghost, leaving Agatha standing in the middle of her cluttered office, her mind racing, her heart pounding, and the walls of her reality feeling a little less solid than they had moments before.

As the door clicked shut behind her, Agatha let out a shaky breath, her hands trembling slightly as she sank back into her chair. She hated Dahlia—hated the way she could make her feel so powerless, so out of control. But more than that, she hated the way Dahlia's words stuck with her, the way they dug deep into the cracks of her mind, making her question everything.

She had to focus. She had to get back to the case.

But as she stared down at the papers on her desk, the world around her felt... wrong. The cracks were there, just beneath the surface, but every time she tried to reach for them, to pull them apart, the fog settled back in, clouding her thoughts.

Dahlia stepped out of Agatha's office, the door closing softly behind her as she exhaled a slow breath. Her heart was still racing from the tension that had filled the small room—Agatha's frustration, the barely-contained fury in her eyes. Dahlia had always enjoyed pressing her buttons, watching the detective unravel in her presence, but this time... something had felt different. There was a crack in the air, a whisper of truth beneath the surface that even Dahlia couldn't ignore.

As she walked down the narrow hallway of the police station, her heels clicking against the linoleum, a sudden, bone-deep chill washed over her. It was cold, unnaturally so, like the touch of death itself, creeping up her spine and sending an involuntary shiver through her body. Dahlia paused, her breath hitching as her senses sharpened, the world around her seeming to narrow.

And then she saw her.

The air in the hallway shifted, becoming heavy and charged as if the very fabric of reality had tensed in anticipation of what was to come. Dahlia froze, her eyes locking onto the figure standing at the far end of the hall. Rio was leaning casually against the wall, dressed in the sharp, dark suit of a federal agent—Agent Vidal—but there was nothing casual about the way her gaze pierced through Dahlia.

It was the first time Dahlia had seen Rio in... how long? Years? Decades? Time blurred in the haze of their on-again, off-again relationship, but the impact was the same. Her heart tightened in her chest, a flood of conflicting emotions crashing over her—desire, anger, regret, longing. It was always like this with Rio.

Dahlia swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry, as she forced herself to keep moving. Her footsteps slowed, her body tense, every instinct telling her to turn away, to walk out of the station and forget she had seen her. But she couldn't. Not with Rio.

When Dahlia was close enough to see the familiar curve of Rio's smirk, the subtle glint of amusement in her dark eyes, she stopped, her pulse racing despite her best efforts to remain calm.

"Well, well," Rio drawled, her voice low and sultry, dripping with that effortless confidence Dahlia had always both admired and hated, "If it isn't Dahlia Thorne, the morally grey lawyer. Quite the role you've carved out for yourself."

Dahlia's lips pressed into a thin line, her body still humming with the chill that had crept over her just moments before. The tension between them was immediate, crackling in the air like static, making her skin prickle with the awareness of everything left unsaid.

"Agent Vidal," Dahlia replied, her voice steady, though her heart was anything but. She took a breath, forcing herself to play along, to keep up the façade, "What brings you to Westview?"

Rio's smirk widened, her eyes glinting with amusement as she pushed off the wall, her movements slow and deliberate, like a predator circling its prey, "Business, of course."

Her words were smooth, but there was something darker beneath them, something knowing. They both knew this wasn't real—that none of this was real. Yet, Rio, with her ever-infuriating ability to navigate any situation with ease, played the part just as well as Dahlia.

Dahlia's fingers twitched at her side, the weight of Rio's presence pulling at her in a way she hated to admit. Rio had always had that effect on her—an intoxicating mix of desire and rage, the kind of connection that burned too hot to last but was impossible to extinguish. And now, standing here, after all this time, it was as if nothing had changed.

"I'm sure you're very busy," Dahlia said, her tone clipped as she tried to regain control of the conversation, of herself, "But I don't have time for whatever game you're playing, Rio."

Rio raised an eyebrow, her smirk never faltering as she took a step closer, closing the distance between them, "Oh, Dahlia, don't be so cold. You know I'm not playing games. Not with you."

Dahlia felt her chest tighten, her pulse racing as Rio's presence pressed in on her, suffocating and electrifying all at once. She hated this—hated the way Rio could make her feel so exposed, so vulnerable, and yet so utterly alive.

Rio's gaze softened, but only slightly, as her eyes roved over Dahlia's face, taking in every detail with that unsettling intensity.

"You look... different," Rio said quietly, her voice dropping to a low, intimate murmur, "But still the same, in all the ways that matter."

Dahlia's breath hitched, the words hitting her like a punch to the gut. She wanted to snap back, to remind Rio that this wasn't the time or place for whatever twisted reunion this was, but the words caught in her throat. Because the truth was, Rio was right. Despite everything, despite the years and the distance, the connection between them was still there, still burning.

And that terrified Dahlia.

She took a step back, needing space, needing air, "Don't do this."

Rio tilted her head, her expression unreadable as she studied Dahlia, "Do what, exactly?"

Dahlia swallowed hard, the tension between them thick and suffocating, "You know exactly what you're doing. You always do."

Rio's smile widened, though it didn't quite reach her eyes, "Maybe I do. But I think you're forgetting something."

"What's that?" Dahlia asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Rio leaned in, her lips inches from Dahlia's ear as she whispered, her voice laced with both menace and desire, "I know you just as well as you know me. And I know that no matter how much you pretend otherwise, you've missed me."

Dahlia's breath caught in her throat, her heart hammering in her chest as Rio's words sliced through her defenses. She wanted to deny it, wanted to push Rio away and walk out of the station, but she couldn't. The truth was, Rio was right. She had missed her.

But that didn't mean she could trust her.

Dahlia stepped back, her gaze hardening as she forced herself to regain control, "This isn't the time for whatever this is."

Rio's smirk faded, her eyes narrowing slightly as the tension between them shifted, darkened, "Oh, I think it is, Dahlia. I think this is exactly the time."

For a moment, they stood there, locked in a silent standoff, the weight of their past pressing down on them like a shadow. Dahlia could feel the chill of death still clinging to her skin, but now, it wasn't the cold that sent shivers down her spine—it was Rio.

The woman who could make her want to kiss her and kill her, all in the same breath.

Finally, Rio stepped back, her expression softening, though the intensity in her gaze never wavered, "I'll be seeing you around, mi flor."

And with that, she turned and walked away, leaving Dahlia standing alone in the hallway, her mind racing, her heart pounding.

As Rio's silhouette disappeared around the corner, Dahlia let out a shaky breath, her hands trembling slightly as she ran them through her hair.

Damn her.

Damn Rio for always knowing exactly how to get under her skin. For always making her feel like she was caught between two worlds—desire and rage, love and hate.

But most of all, damn her for making Dahlia want her all over again.

She had spent years perfecting the art of control, keeping her emotions in check, her power balanced between the light and dark. But Rio—Rio had always been able to unravel her with nothing more than a glance, a whispered word.

Dahlia stormed into her hotel room, slamming the door behind her, the sound reverberating through the empty space. She paced the floor, her heels clicking against the polished wood, her mind spinning. Seeing Rio again had sent her emotions into a spiral—anger, desire, frustration, and something else, something deeper, buried beneath layers of pride and denial.

She should have been able to handle it, to brush it off like she always did. But Rio's arrival had caught her off guard. The way she had looked at Dahlia, the smug confidence in her voice, the way she had leaned in and whispered into her ear—it had been too much.

Dahlia stopped pacing, her breath coming in short bursts as she ran a hand through her hair, pulling it loose from the elegant style she had worn earlier. Her heart was still racing, her skin tingling with the aftershocks of their encounter. She hated that Rio could still do this to her, still make her feel so completely out of control.

A knock on the door shattered the silence.

Dahlia's heart leapt into her throat as she turned toward the sound, her body tensing instinctively. She knew who it was before she even opened the door.

Rio.

For a brief moment, Dahlia considered ignoring her, letting her stand out in the hall until she gave up and left. But that was never how things worked between them. They were like magnets, pulled together by an invisible force that neither of them could resist, no matter how much they might want to.

With a sigh, Dahlia walked to the door and pulled it open.

Rio stood in the doorway, her dark eyes gleaming with that same infuriating confidence. She didn't say anything at first, just leaned against the doorframe, her lips curling into a slow, knowing smile that sent a shiver down Dahlia's spine.

"Flor," Rio purred, using that old nickname that always made Dahlia's chest tighten, "you left in such a hurry. I thought we could finish our conversation."

Dahlia's jaw clenched, her hand gripping the doorframe as she fought to maintain her composure, "What are you doing here?"

Rio's smile widened, her gaze flicking over Dahlia's face with that familiar intensity that made her feel both seen and exposed, "You know exactly why I'm here."

Dahlia exhaled sharply, stepping aside to let Rio into the room, though her entire body screamed at her to close the door, to push her away. But she couldn't. She never could when it came to Rio.

The door clicked shut behind them, and the tension in the room thickened, the air heavy with unspoken words, unresolved emotions. Dahlia could feel it pressing down on her, suffocating her, and yet she couldn't bring herself to stop it.

Rio took a slow, deliberate step toward her, her eyes never leaving Dahlia's, "You're still in love with her, aren't you?"

Dahlia's heart skipped a beat, her breath catching in her throat, "Don't."

Rio's smile softened, but there was something dangerous in her gaze, something teasing, "Agatha. I can see it in your eyes. You've always had a soft spot for her."

"That's none of your business," Dahlia snapped, her voice sharper than she intended, the sting of Rio's words cutting deeper than she wanted to admit.

"Oh, but it is," Rio said, her voice low and seductive as she took another step closer, the heat of her presence making Dahlia's skin prickle, "It always has been."

Dahlia's pulse quickened, her body responding to the proximity, the tension between them simmering just beneath the surface.

"I don't—" She began, but the words died on her lips as Rio closed the distance between them, her breath warm against Dahlia's cheek.

"You can lie to yourself all you want," Rio whispered, her voice sending a shiver down Dahlia's spine, "but you can't lie to me."

Dahlia's breath hitched, her heart pounding in her chest as Rio's fingers brushed against her arm, a touch so soft it was almost cruel. She wanted to push her away, to tell her to leave, but instead, she found herself leaning into the touch, her body betraying her.

"This changes nothing," Dahlia muttered, her voice barely above a whisper as she closed her eyes, letting herself feel the warmth of Rio's skin, the weight of her presence.

Rio's lips curled into a smirk, her hand sliding up to cup Dahlia's cheek, "It never does."

And then, before Dahlia could stop herself, before she could think, their lips met in a rush of heat and want, the kiss fierce and desperate, like two forces colliding. It was a kiss born of anger and passion, of years of unresolved tension, and it consumed them both.

Dahlia's hands tangled in Rio's hair, pulling her closer, the weight of everything they had been through pressing down on them as they kissed like it was the last thing they would ever do. Rio's hands roamed over Dahlia's body, her touch sending sparks of electricity through her, igniting the flame that had never truly gone out.

They stumbled toward the bed, their movements frantic, clothes discarded in a blur as they gave in to the desire that had been simmering between them for so long. It was raw, unrestrained, a moment of weakness that they both knew would lead nowhere. But in that moment, it didn't matter. All that mattered was the way Rio's hands felt on her skin, the way her lips tasted earthy and dangerous.

And for the first time in years, Dahlia let herself feel it all—every touch, every kiss, every ounce of love and hate wrapped into one.

When it was over, they lay in silence, their bodies tangled in the sheets, the weight of what had just happened settling over them like a heavy blanket. Dahlia stared at the ceiling, her chest rising and falling with each labored breath, her mind spinning.

When Dahlia woke the next morning, the space beside her in the bed was empty, the faint scent of Rio still lingering in the air. She sat up slowly, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, her heart heavy with the knowledge that this moment of weakness had changed everything—and yet, nothing at all.

Her gaze drifted to the bedside table, and her breath caught in her throat.

There, resting on the table, was a single flower.

A Dahlia.

Dahlia's chest tightened, her heart skipping a beat as she reached out to touch the delicate petals, her fingers trembling. It was such a small gesture, so simple, and yet it nearly broke her.

And for the first time in what felt like centuries, Dahlia felt the smallest crack in the armor she had built around her heart.

But as always, the moment passed, and she steeled herself once more.

Because this changed nothing.

It never did.

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