Dahlia stepped up to the house, her heels crunching softly against the debris that littered the front yard. The front door was missing, blown off its hinges, leaving an open maw of splintered wood and jagged edges. The air was thick with the scent of ash and something metallic, like blood. Dahlia's eyes flickered over the damage with mild curiosity, the destruction almost beautiful in its way.

But her gaze didn't linger on the wreckage for long.

No, her attention was drawn to the figure standing in the center of the ruined doorway—Agatha.

Agatha Harkness, the woman who had been Dahlia's first love, the one person who had ever truly gotten under her skin. Their history was long, tangled in centuries of magic, betrayal, desire, and something darker, something Dahlia didn't dare name.

"Hey, Ags," Dahlia purred, her voice smooth and rich as velvet, a smile curling at the corners of her lips.

She leaned against the doorframe—or what remained of it—her eyes drinking in the sight of Agatha, who stood in nothing but a bathrobe, her hair wild and unkempt. There was blood—fresh, wet, and glistening—dripping down the side of her neck.

Dahlia's smile widened.

At the sound of her voice, Agatha jumped, her body tensing for a moment before her eyes found Dahlia's. The two locked gazes, and Dahlia could see the wariness there, the edge of suspicion that had always lurked just beneath Agatha's cool exterior. But there was something else too—something far more intimate and familiar.

"You gonna try to kill me, too?" Agatha asked, her voice cutting through the thick silence like a blade.

Dahlia's smile didn't falter, but she tilted her head slightly, her brows knitting together in a mockery of confusion, "Kill you, too?"

Agatha's lips twitched into something that might have been a smile, but it was laced with bitterness, her dark eyes narrowing as she regarded Dahlia with a mix of irritation and amusement, "Don't act all coy. You've wanted to kill me for centuries."

Dahlia chuckled softly, the sound low and rich, like honey dripping from her lips.

"Oh, darling," She murmured, her voice as soft as a lover's caress, "if I'd wanted to kill you, you'd have been dead a long time ago."

She took a step closer, her movements slow, deliberate, almost predatory. Her eyes never left Agatha's as she closed the distance between them, her presence filling the space with an almost unbearable tension. The air seemed to hum with the unspoken history between them, a thousand unsaid words hanging in the space between their bodies.

Agatha's breath hitched slightly as Dahlia approached, but she didn't move. She stood her ground, her chin tilted defiantly, even as Dahlia's hand came up, her fingers brushing lightly against the side of Agatha's face.

"I could never hurt you," Dahlia whispered, her thumb grazing over Agatha's cheekbone, the touch so gentle, so intimate, it made Agatha's breath catch.

But there was something dangerous beneath the softness of Dahlia's words, something dark and possessive that lingered in the space between them. Because as much as Dahlia might claim she couldn't hurt Agatha, there had always been an undercurrent of something darker between them—a desire to push, to test, to see how far they could go before one of them broke.

Agatha's eyes flickered with something unreadable, her lips parting as though she wanted to say something, but no words came. Instead, she just stood there, her pulse quickening beneath Dahlia's touch, the heat of their shared history burning between them like an open flame.

Dahlia could feel it—the pull, the connection that had never quite gone away, no matter how much time had passed, no matter how many betrayals lay between them. Agatha was her first love, the one person who had ever truly gotten under her skin, and no matter how complicated things had become, that fact had never changed.

But love was a twisted thing.

Dahlia's thumb moved lower, tracing the line of Agatha's jaw, her touch lingering just a moment too long. She could feel the heat of Agatha's skin beneath her fingertips, could feel the way her pulse raced beneath the surface, betraying the calm facade she was trying to maintain.

"You look a mess," Dahlia whispered, her voice laced with mock sympathy as her eyes flicked down to the blood still trickling from Agatha's neck.

Agatha's jaw tightened, but she didn't pull away. She never did, not when Dahlia was this close. There was always a moment of hesitation, a moment where Agatha let Dahlia's presence overwhelm her, just for a second, before she pushed back.

This time was no different.

"I don't need your concern," Agatha bit out, her voice sharp but edged with something softer, something that sounded almost like longing.

Dahlia smiled again, her fingers sliding down Agatha's neck, dangerously close to where the blood still dripped, staining the fabric of her robe, "Oh, but you do. You've always needed me. Even if you won't admit it."

The tension between them thickened, the unspoken history, the old wounds, the shared desire—it all hung in the air, suffocating and intoxicating at once. Dahlia could feel the magnetic pull between them, could feel the way Agatha's body leaned just the slightest bit closer to hers, as if drawn in by a force neither of them could control.

"You're insufferable," Agatha muttered, but there was no heat behind the words.

Dahlia laughed softly, the sound warm and almost affectionate, though there was still that edge of danger in her voice, "And yet you can't stay away."

Their eyes met again, and for a moment, the world around them seemed to fall away, leaving only the two of them standing in the wreckage, their pasts tangled together like the threads of a spider's web.

Dahlia's hand lingered on Agatha's neck, her thumb brushing lightly over the still-fresh wound. Her touch was light, delicate, but the implication was there—the power she held over Agatha, the way she could hurt her if she wanted to. But she wouldn't. Not really. Dahlia was far too clever for that, far too measured.

"I don't want to hurt you, Ags," Dahlia whispered, her voice barely audible, as though the words were meant only for them.

Agatha's breath hitched again, her dark eyes flickering with something unreadable, something deep and dangerous and impossibly old, "Maybe you should."

Dahlia's lips curled into a slow, dangerous smile, her fingers sliding just a little lower, brushing against the hollow of Agatha's throat, "Oh, darling, don't tempt me."

The air between them crackled with tension, the weight of centuries of love and betrayal hanging heavy in the silence. Dahlia's heart pounded in her chest, the familiar ache of desire and anger swirling together, so tangled that she couldn't tell where one emotion ended and the other began.

But she didn't push further. Not yet.

"You left," Agatha's voice cracked, the vulnerability of her words hanging between them like a sharp blade.

Dahlia froze, her smile faltering as the words hit her harder than any spell ever could. She hadn't expected that. Not from Agatha.

"I—" Dahlia began, her voice catching in her throat.

Agatha's eyes were sharp, but there was something else there, something raw and wounded, "You could've stayed with me. All those years ago. You could've stayed, but you left."

Dahlia's heart twisted painfully at the mention of Salem, of the life they could've had if things had been different. If she had been different. But she wasn't, and she hadn't stayed. She had left, only to return centuries later, when the ashes of their shared history had long since settled into something colder.

"I had to leave," Dahlia whispered, the words weak, hollow, even to her own ears. She hated how much the truth of Agatha's words hurt, how much the regret gnawed at her now, all these years later, "I couldn't stay."

Agatha scoffed, her voice thick with emotion she rarely let show, "Couldn't, or wouldn't?"

Dahlia's hand dropped from Agatha's neck, her fingers curling into a fist at her side as she fought to keep her composure, "It doesn't matter now."

"Doesn't it?" Agatha's voice was sharp, cutting through Dahlia's defenses with precision.

The switch in their dynamic was palpable, the power shifting as Agatha's pain came to the surface, raw and exposed. For centuries, Dahlia had been the one with control, the one who pushed and pulled at Agatha's emotions, who kept her at arm's length. But now, it was Dahlia who felt vulnerable, who felt the weight of her past mistakes pressing down on her.

"I wanted to stay," Dahlia admitted, her voice barely more than a whisper, her heart heavy with the truth she had never allowed herself to speak, "A part of me has always wanted to stay with you."

Agatha's eyes softened, just for a moment, the vulnerability between them thick and painful, "Then why didn't you?"

Dahlia opened her mouth to respond, but no words came. Because what could she say? That she had been scared? That she had wanted more than she could ever ask for? That she had never felt worthy of Agatha's love, not then, not now?

Instead, she stood there, silent, her heart aching with all the things she wished she could say.

The air between them crackled, thick with tension, as Dahlia remained silent, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. The vulnerability they had just shared—however fleeting—had shifted into something darker, something far more familiar. Agatha stood just a few feet away, her arms crossed over her chest, her dark eyes blazing with accusation and something else, something much harder to define.

"So, what now?" Agatha's voice was sharp, cutting through the heavy silence like a blade, "You just leave again, pretend like none of this ever happened? Like you didn't show up here and—" She gestured around, her frustration spilling over, "Like you haven't been stalking me?"

Dahlia's lips curled into a smirk, though her eyes remained cold, distant, "Stalking you, Ags? Really?"

Agatha's expression hardened, her fingers tightening into fists at her sides, "Don't play games with me. I know you've been toying with me while I was under that spell."

"Toying with you?" Dahlia repeated, her voice dangerously calm as she took a step forward, her gaze locking onto Agatha's with an intensity that sent a chill down Agatha's spine, "I was watching you, Agatha. Keeping an eye on you. There's a difference."

"Oh, is there?" Agatha shot back, her voice rising as she glared at Dahlia, "Because from where I was standing, it felt like you were enjoying it. Enjoying seeing me trapped in that prison. Enjoying watching me suffer."

Dahlia's eyes darkened, her smirk fading as she took another step closer, the space between them shrinking with every tense breath, "I was making sure you didn't get yourself killed. You should be thanking me."

"Thanking you?" Agatha scoffed, her voice dripping with disbelief, "For what? For standing by and doing nothing while I was trapped inside that twisted reality?"

Dahlia's jaw clenched, her fingers twitching at her sides as the tension between them continued to build, threatening to boil over.

"I was keeping you alive," Dahlia said, her voice low and cold, "You were vulnerable. I couldn't risk—"

"You couldn't risk it?" Agatha interrupted, her voice shaking with fury, "Or you just didn't care enough to try?"

Dahlia's lips parted, a sharp retort on the tip of her tongue, but the words died before she could speak them. Because deep down, she knew there was some truth to Agatha's words. She had watched, yes. She had kept an eye on Agatha while Wanda's hex had held her in its grip. But she hadn't interfered. She hadn't tried to break the spell.

Because part of her hadn't wanted to.

Part of her had wanted to see Agatha suffer, to see her brought low by someone else's power for once. After centuries of their twisted back-and-forth, Dahlia had let herself believe that maybe—just maybe—Agatha deserved it.

But that wasn't the whole truth, and they both knew it.

"I did what I could," Dahlia said, her voice softer now, though the tension in her body remained, "You know how powerful the Scarlet Witch is. I couldn't just barge in and break the spell. It would've killed you."

Agatha shook her head, her anger still simmering just beneath the surface, though there was something else in her eyes now—something like disappointment, "You always have an excuse, don't you?"

Dahlia opened her mouth to respond, but Agatha wasn't done.

"You always run away when things get difficult," Agatha continued, her voice low and filled with accusation, "You did it back in Salem. You did it when I needed you most. And now, here we are, centuries later, and you're still doing the same thing. Watching from the shadows. Messing with me. But never actually staying."

The words hit Dahlia harder than any spell could. She felt them like a physical blow, her chest tightening with a mix of guilt and anger. She hadn't come here to dredge up old wounds, but it seemed inevitable with Agatha. Their past always found a way to creep back in, no matter how hard they tried to bury it.

"I stayed longer than you deserved," Dahlia hissed, her voice sharp as a blade as she took a step closer to Agatha, her fingers twitching with the urge to grab her, to shake her, to make her understand, "You think I wanted to leave? You think I wanted to watch you fall apart?"

Agatha's eyes flashed with something dangerous, her jaw tightening as she glared at Dahlia, "I think you enjoyed it. I think you liked seeing me vulnerable. You always did, didn't you? That's why you left in. You couldn't handle it when things got too real. When it wasn't just about magic or power, but about—"

"Don't," Dahlia snapped, her voice low and venomous as she cut Agatha off, "Don't act like you know why I left."

"Then tell me!" Agatha shouted, her voice cracking with the force of her emotion, "Tell me why you left. Tell me why you always run away."

Dahlia's heart pounded in her chest, the anger rising in her like a storm. She couldn't stand the way Agatha was looking at her, like she was right, like she had Dahlia all figured out. But she wasn't going to explain herself. Not now. Not after all these years.

"You don't get to ask that," Dahlia said, her voice low and dangerous, "You don't get to stand there and pretend like you're the victim."

Agatha's lips curled into a bitter smile, her eyes glinting with something cold and cruel, "Right. I forgot. You're the only one allowed to play the victim, aren't you?"

Dahlia's fists clenched at her sides, her anger burning hot and fierce. She couldn't do this. Not again. Not with Agatha.

Without another word, she turned on her heel and started to walk away, her steps quick and deliberate, her chest heaving with barely contained rage.

"I knew it," Agatha called after her, her voice laced with bitterness. "I knew it. Coward."

The word echoed in Dahlia's mind, striking a chord that made her heart twist painfully in her chest. She paused for a brief moment, her breath catching, but she didn't turn around. She kept walking, her lips curling into a sneer, even as the word coward clung to her like a curse.

Because deep down, she knew that was exactly what she was.

And Agatha knew it too.

The night was thick and silent as Dahlia walked through the dark streets of Westview, her heels clicking against the pavement in a steady rhythm that matched her pounding heartbeat. She'd meant to go back to her hotel, to retreat and lose herself in the quiet solitude of her room, but something had pulled her in another direction, guiding her steps without her consent. She didn't fight it. There was no point.

She could feel the weight of the night pressing down on her, a dark, inky presence that seeped into her bones. Her fingers tingled with the pull of dark magic, a familiar sensation that whispered to her, tempting her to let go, to give in to the darkness that simmered just beneath the surface. But she resisted, as she always did, the ever-present guilt tightening around her like a vice, grounding her in a way that kept her from falling too far.

It was that guilt that kept her tethered to the grey, kept her from plunging headfirst into the corruption that so many black magic witches embraced without question. But the temptation was always there, lingering in the back of her mind, taunting her, pulling her toward the shadows.

She didn't realize where she was until she saw the low stone walls and rows of graves stretching out before her, bathed in the faint glow of moonlight. The Westview cemetery. She stopped, her breath catching as she looked out over the silent expanse, the weight of the place settling over her like a shroud.

A small, bitter smile played on her lips as she took a step forward, the grass crunching softly beneath her heels.

Fitting.

She had come here without meaning to, as though something—or someone—had drawn her to this place of rest and silence.

She let out a soft, bitter chuckle, the sound swallowed up by the heavy silence. She was alone, or so it seemed. But there was a prickle at the back of her neck, a whisper of something familiar and dark that made her skin tingle and her breath hitch.

And then she felt it. The unmistakable presence, a subtle but potent aura that wrapped around her like a cold, suffocating blanket. She didn't have to turn around to know who it was.

Rio.

Dahlia's shoulders tensed, her heart pounding as she felt the faintest brush of fingers against her neck, a touch so light it was almost a whisper. Her breath hitched, a shiver running down her spine as Rio's presence filled the air around her, thick and intoxicating, like the scent of crushed leaves and dark earth after a storm.

"Flor," Rio's voice was a soft murmur, her breath warm against the back of Dahlia's neck, sending a thrill of both fear and longing racing through her veins, "What are you doing here, all alone in the dark?"

Dahlia's hands clenched into fists at her sides, her nails digging into her palms as she tried to steady herself.

"Don't," she said, her voice barely more than a whisper, though the word held a note of warning.

But it was weak, too weak.

Rio's fingers brushed over her shoulders, tracing the line of her collarbone with a slow, deliberate touch that made Dahlia's pulse quicken.

"Don't what?" Rio purred, her voice low and dangerous, laced with a seductive edge that Dahlia knew all too well, "Don't remind you how much you missed me?"

Dahlia's jaw tightened, her breath coming in shallow gasps as Rio's hands slid down her arms, her touch featherlight yet possessive. She could feel the heat radiating from Rio's body, the scent of earth and something darker filling her senses, making her dizzy.

Rio's fingers ghosted over her wrists, her touch soft yet firm, a reminder of the power she held, the pull she had always had over Dahlia.

"You don't have to pretend, you know," She whispered, her lips brushing against the curve of Dahlia's neck, "I know you've missed this. Missed me."

Dahlia closed her eyes, her heart pounding in her chest as Rio's touch sent a shiver through her, weakening her resolve, chipping away at the walls she had so carefully built. She hated how easily Rio could make her feel this way, make her lose control.

But she couldn't let herself fall. Not again.

Summoning every ounce of strength she had, Dahlia's hands began to glow with a faint, pulsing light, a grey magic that wrapped around her fingers like smoke. She felt the power surge through her, filling her with a resolve she hadn't felt in a long time.

With a swift movement, she reached up, her magic-laden hands gripping Rio's wrists and forcibly pulling them away from her body. The light wrapped around Rio's hands, holding them in place, the strength of Dahlia's magic crackling in the space between them.

Rio's eyes widened slightly, a flicker of surprise passing over her face before it was replaced by a slow, dangerous smile.

Dahlia's gaze was cold, her eyes hard as she tightened her grip on Rio's wrists, her magic pulsing with a steady, unrelenting force.

Rio's smile didn't falter, but there was a glint of something darker in her eyes, a spark of anger mingled with desire.

Dahlia's hands trembled slightly, the weight of her guilt and desire pressing down on her, but she didn't let go. She held her ground, her gaze never wavering as she stared into Rio's eyes, her resolve hardening with every passing second.

"I'm done flirting with death," She whispered, her voice filled with a quiet, steely determination that left no room for argument.

For a moment, there was silence, the tension between them thick and suffocating. Dahlia could feel the weight of Rio's gaze, the intensity of her presence, but she didn't falter. She wouldn't let herself.

Rio's smile faded, her gaze turning cool, detached, as she watched Dahlia walk away. But as Dahlia reached the edge of the cemetery, she heard Rio's voice, soft and haunting, lingering in the air like a ghostly whisper.

"This isn't over."

Dahlia didn't look back. She kept walking, her steps firm, unyielding, as she left the cemetery behind, the weight of her decision settling over her like a shroud.

Because she knew, deep down, that Rio was right.

It was never truly over.

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