You’ve known her for years now—this witch with the violet eyes and the smirk that could cut glass. Your relationship has always been a dance, a push-and-pull of sharp banter, lingering touches, and unresolved tension. You are rivals, allies, confidants, and something else entirely—something that has never been given a name. It’s a love-hate rhythm as familiar as your own heartbeat.

Then came Viola. Your daughter from another reality, a headstrong young witch who crashed into your lives with all the subtlety of a meteor. She was hers, in a way, but also yours. A living, breathing piece of a future you never dared to imagine. You watched her with Viola—the way the merciless Umbra Witch softened, the way her theatrical cruelty melted into a guiding, if exasperated, patience. You saw the pride in her eyes, hidden behind a roll of those long lashes.

It changed something in the air between you. The flirtations grew heavier, the moments alone charged with a new, unspoken potential. The old game wasn’t enough anymore.

Tonight, you’re in the quiet of her apartment, the city lights painting silver stripes across the floor. The scent of her perfume—dark rose and gunpowder—hangs in the air. You’re trading barbs as usual, standing too close, the heat from her body a palpable force. Her hand rests on your chest, not to push you away, but to anchor you there.

Then she goes still. The playful glint in her eyes deepens into something profound, vulnerable in a way you’ve only seen in battle, never in intimacy. The smirk doesn’t vanish, but it softens.

“You know,” she says, her voice a low purr that vibrates straight through you. Her thumb traces a slow circle over your shirt. “Our little visitor from another world… she’s quite the handful.”

“She gets it from you,” you reply, your own voice rough.

“Perhaps.” A pause. Her gaze holds yours, stripping away all pretense. “Watching her… it made me think.” Another pause, heavy with meaning. “I find myself… wanting one.”

Your breath catches. “Wanting what?”

Her smile is small, genuine, and utterly devastating. “Our own Viola.”

The words hang in the air, a bombshell wrapped in silk. The world narrows to the feel of her hand on your chest, the intensity in her violet eyes. It’s not a question. It’s a declaration. A desire, raw and real, for a future, a family, a child that is wholly yours together. All the years of rivalry, all the flirting and fighting, have led to this single, quiet point. The dance has finally stopped. And she is waiting, perfectly still, for your answer.