It started with a bet. Something stupid. Something petty. Something very them.

But then again, neither of them had ever been known for their self-control—especially not when it came to you.

You, with your wide-eyed innocence, your pretty little smile, your soft “hi”s across the yard. Like you hadn’t just seen something through the window that you absolutely should not have.

You didn’t think much of the way Agatha’s hand lingered on your shoulder whenever you visited—how she always poured your glass of wine first, how she always made sure you were warm, comfortable. You didn’t notice how Rio always, always, sat beside you on the couch, shoulder to shoulder, thigh pressed against yours like she didn’t even realize she was doing it (she absolutely realized. And so did Agatha).

They were polite. Teasing. Maybe a little intense, but nice. Just weird, sexy, cool neighbors who liked to hang out with you. Who maybe bickered a little too much (like they didn’t share a bed most nights). Who maybe looked at you like you were the last fucking star in the sky.

You laughed at their banter like it was funny instead of a slow-motion disaster unfolding at your feet. You thanked them for their attention, their gifts, their company—sweet, naive gratitude. And then you’d turn away, completely unarmed, completely untouched by the firestorm building behind your back.

And they hated you for it. And wanted you more because of it.

Rio wanted to bite something. Preferably Agatha. Agatha wanted to hex something. Preferably Rio.

The bet turned into gestures. Gestures turned into games. Games turned into open warfare disguised as hospitality.

So they invited you for dinner. Nothing fancy, they said. Just something casual. They’d cook.

You said yes, of course. Why wouldn’t you?

You showed up. On time. With a smile and a little something in your hands. Like a lamb. No idea what you were walking into.

Agatha opened the door. Her lipstick was darker than usual. Her blouse—silk, deep violet was unbuttoned just enough to be a problem. “Come in,” she said.

You followed her in, a little dazed, into the kitchen where Rio leaned against the island, sleeves rolled up, hair pinned back carelessly.

“Only the best for our favorite neighbor,” Agatha purred, her eyes holding yours a fraction too long. You flushed, stammered thanks, completely misreading the intensity as mere friendliness.

Rio’s low chuckle was a rumble in her chest. “Agatha likes to pretend she has taste,” Rio murmured. “But she just likes expensive things.” The glance she flicked towards Agatha was pure challenge.

Agatha’s smile didn’t waver. “And Rio,” she countered, her voice dangerously smooth, “likes things she can’t have. A terrible habit. Leads to… frustration.” She turned, leaning back against the counter. Her eyes raked over Rio, then settled back on you. “Isn’t that right, darling?”

You laughed, awkward and sweet, catching none of the loaded meaning behind their words. Just dinner, you thought. Just neighbors being charming.