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There were exactly two constants in the Piltover Police Department’s 13th Precinct: the overwhelming smell of burnt coffee, and Caitlyn and Vi sitting down to lunch together at 12:45 sharp.
It wasn’t scheduled. It wasn’t official. No one ever wrote it into a roster or reminded them. And yet, every day without fail — no matter what hell broke loose in the Sump or which chem-baron's operation had imploded overnight — they found themselves at the same corner table in the precinct breakroom, shoulder to shoulder, plates between them, snarking over noodles or sandwiches or whatever passed as edible that afternoon.
Today, it was dumplings. Vi had a greasy white box from some back-alley stall near the Gearhead Quarter, still steaming despite the long walk back. Caitlyn raised an eyebrow at the smell before even opening her own food.
“Don’t tell me you got them from that one shop next to the fume-vent?” she said, peeling back the paper on her neatly arranged salad. “The one with the sign that says ‘Meatish’ instead of meat?”
Vi shrugged, popping one into her mouth. “What can I say? I like to live dangerously.”
“I’m surprised your digestive system hasn’t declared independence.”
Vi grinned through a mouthful, chewing exaggeratedly slow and messy. “Bureaucracy's slow in my gut. Besides, you can’t judge until you try it.”
“I think I’ll pass on anything described as ‘meat adjacent.’”
“You’re missing out. These things are like… chewy little explosions of flavor and probably regret.”
“Emphasis on regret.”
This was typical: Vi, bringing back something questionable but enthusiastic, while Caitlyn stuck with her more careful fare — greens, poached chicken, real tea steeped from actual leaves (not synth-dust). They argued over it daily. Never missed a beat. Vi would try to swap one of her dumplings for a tomato off Caitlyn’s salad; Caitlyn would rebuff her with a smug little smirk and an eye-roll sharp enough to slice through armor.
Still, neither ate without the other.
There were days when Vi came in limping, bruised from an early-morning bust that got a little too hands-on. She’d collapse into the breakroom chair, toss her gloves onto the table, and grunt something unintelligible. Caitlyn would silently pass her a bowl of soup she hadn’t ordered — always the same spicy chicken broth from a stall Vi liked near the northern tram loop. Vi never asked how Caitlyn knew; she just accepted it with a quiet, appreciative grunt and drank it like it was medicine.
There were days when Caitlyn came in late, eyes shadowed from a long stakeout, fingers still smudged with ink from writing reports in a rush. Vi would already be there, two drinks on the table, one exactly how Caitlyn took it — two sugars, just enough lemon to cut the bitterness.
And then there were the quieter lunches. No banter, no food shaming. Just quiet chewing and the occasional nudge of elbows when one leaned too far into the shared table space. Sometimes Vi would hum under her breath, some song from Zaun with a rhythm that didn’t quite fit Piltover’s orderly pulse. Caitlyn wouldn’t tell her to stop. She liked the way it filled the silence.
They had a rhythm — unspoken, instinctive.
Vi always unwrapped her food like a kid with a birthday present, sloppy and loud. Caitlyn always folded her napkin in half before eating. Vi would lean back with her boots on another chair (which Caitlyn would swat down without looking). Caitlyn would scroll through mission reports while Vi picked food off her plate.
No one else sat with them.
Not because they were unfriendly — though, to be fair, Vi could scowl people out of the room if she was in the mood — but because everyone knew. That table wasn’t up for grabs. Even rookies learned fast: if you wanted to eat in peace, don’t interrupt the enforcer and the brawler during their lunch hour.
One particularly bold cadet once tried to join them — sandwich in hand, nervous grin, eyes full of desperate hero worship.
Vi leaned back in her chair, glanced at Caitlyn, then back at the rookie.
“You lost?” she asked, tone casual but laced with warning.
“Uh, no, ma’am—”
“Then you’ve got time to find a different seat.”
The rookie fled. Caitlyn didn’t even look up from her report.
But she smiled.
—
It wasn’t like they talked about anything important during these lunches. Usually, it was garbage — how awful the precinct coffee was (Vi would often complain “It’s a crime and I’m gonna arrest whoever brewed this”), the latest council idiocy (Caitlyn would fume “If one more noble suggests surveillance balloons, I’ll tie them to one”), or the weird cases that passed through the doors.
But every once in a while, the edges softened.
Vi would ask how Caitlyn’s father was doing — not just the typical “how’s the family,” but real, careful questions. Like she was checking in without wanting to make it a thing.
Caitlyn would listen when Vi grumbled about the nightmares she never admitted to having, and never pressed when the words trailed off mid-sentence. She’d just offer her last bite of sandwich, or refill Vi’s tea, or let the silence carry the rest.
Sometimes, Vi looked at her like she wanted to say something more. Like there was something on her tongue too delicate to fit between jokes and takeout. But she'd swallow it down with the last bite, wipe her mouth on her sleeve, and slap the table like nothing ever happened.
“All right,” she'd say. “Back to the grind.”
And Caitlyn would stand with her, always a second later. Always with a glance, and a faint smile that said she understood even if nothing was said aloud.
—
There were rumors, of course. Whispers from other officers. Half-hearted bets. One poor soul from Records even had the guts to ask Vi about it outright.
“So, you and Caitlyn. You two, uh…?”
Vi raised an eyebrow. “We eat lunch.”
“Every day?”
“Yeah.”
“Just lunch?”
Vi smiled, slow and dangerous. “You want me to describe it for you, or are you just gonna keep being weird?”
The poor guy backed off. But even he noticed, next lunch break, how Caitlyn walked in with Vi’s favorite kind of noodles without being asked. How Vi stood and pulled the chair out for her, just enough, before sitting down herself. How they fell into conversation like gravity, like muscle memory, like the next breath.
Maybe it was just lunch.
Maybe it was more.
But for Caitlyn and Vi, it didn’t need a label.
It just was.
And everyone knew not to interrupt it.
—
A few months passed, and something had shifted.
It was hard to pinpoint exactly when it started — the day Vi sat a little closer than usual, or when Caitlyn stopped bringing two separate meals and just handed Vi a fork — but the change was obvious to anyone with a functioning set of eyes. The precinct buzzed with it, quietly, beneath the usual chatter of case files and mechanical failures.
Lunch at 12:45 was still sacred.
But now they shared one meal.
They didn’t make a show of it. There was no grand announcement. Just a slow, undeniable folding into each other’s space. If Vi brought curry, Caitlyn took the spoon without asking. If Caitlyn brought something from that new Demacian cafe uptown — the kind of high-end bistro Vi would usually make snide comments about — Vi still ate it anyway, grinning the whole time as Caitlyn scolded her for getting sauce on the corners of the file they were sharing.
Today, it was buttered noodles and steamed vegetables, the kind that came in an ornate little tin from the upper-tier food hall where Caitlyn had been running errands that morning. Vi was already halfway through chewing when Caitlyn calmly took the chopsticks from her hand and used them to feed herself a bite.
“You’ll choke if you don’t slow down,” Caitlyn murmured.
Vi chewed with a raised brow, tongue poking into her cheek like she was holding back something sharp and clever. “Pretty sure you’re just mad I got to the carrots first.”
“I bought them. That entitles me to at least two.”
“Fine. Take your little royalty tax.” She leaned forward, nudging the tin across the table between them, letting her thigh brush against Caitlyn’s under the table.
The touch lingered. Neither moved away.
Around the room, conversations slowed to a crawl.
A few enforcers tried very hard to act normal — sipping their cold coffee, pretending to read status reports that had been printed three days ago. One pair of rookies sat at a nearby table, whispering to each other behind poorly hidden hands. Vi caught one of them staring and gave a slow, deliberate wink. The poor kid nearly dropped his fork.
Caitlyn noticed, of course. She noticed everything. But she said nothing. Just reached forward with an easy confidence that had grown between them — brushed a bit of sauce off Vi’s chin with her napkin, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And Vi — who once would’ve made a joke or shrugged her off — just let her.
Let her hand linger for a moment too long. Let herself look.
It was quiet. Warm. Intimate.
And then, like a wrench in the gears—
“Just kiss already!” someone blurted.
The room stopped breathing.
It came from the corner — one of the junior officers. She had a tray in her hands and wide, panicked eyes the moment the words left her mouth, like she hadn’t meant to say it aloud. Like it had slipped out on accident after weeks of watching this almost-thing between them.
Vi’s grin froze. Caitlyn’s hand fell away from Vi’s face like she’d been burned.
And for one second, the tension in the room snapped taut — a live wire stretched between two too-close chairs.
Then Caitlyn stood up.
Slowly. With precision. Her chair scraped quietly against the tile. The silence in the breakroom was thick enough to cut. Her shoulders were straight, her hands still, her voice like crystal: sharp, clear, cold.
“Let me make one thing very clear to everyone here.”
She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to. The room bent around her the way it always did when she was in uniform and serious — when Sheriff Caitlyn Kiramman stepped into the light and the air turned formal.
“I am the sheriff of this precinct. Enforcer Vi is my partner. Our duty is to uphold Piltover’s law, maintain this city’s safety, and conduct ourselves with the professionalism expected of this office. We are not here to provide entertainment. We are not a gossip circle.”
The room said nothing. No one moved.
“Comments of that nature—” she turned her eyes toward the unfortunate officer, who looked like she wanted to melt through the floor, “—are disrespectful. Inappropriate. And, frankly, beneath the dignity of this department.”
She smoothed her gloves down slowly, a precise motion.
“If there are any further remarks about the personal nature of my partnership with Enforcer Vi, I will consider it grounds for disciplinary review. Is that understood?”
A chorus of quiet murmurs answered her. Yes ma’am. Understood. Sorry, Sheriff.
Caitlyn nodded once, curt and controlled.
Then she turned on her heel and walked out of the room.
No tray, no lunch, no final glance.
Just gone.
Vi sat there for a second longer, letting the silence weigh down around her. The dumpling tin sat half-eaten between two empty chairs. She looked at it like it had betrayed her.
Then she stood. Not as sharp, not as polished, but with a scowl dark enough to discourage comment. She shoved her gloves into her belt, muttered something under her breath about “idiots who don’t know when to shut up,” and followed Caitlyn out the door.
The break room remained still. One of the rookies exhaled, loudly, only to wince when a nearby lieutenant smacked the back of his head.
“I told you not to say anything,” he whispered.
“I didn’t!” the rookie hissed back.
“You were thinking about it.”
“Everyone was thinking about it!”
The lieutenant looked toward the door Caitlyn had just stormed through, then toward the table still radiating leftover tension.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “And now we’re all gonna feel it for the rest of the week.”
—
It was the same table.
Same cracked corner. Same chipped chair Vi always leaned back on. Same faint smell of disinfectant and someone else’s reheated curry lingering in the breakroom air.
But everything felt different.
The next day — their first day — started like any other. Patrol reports, council requests, two arrests by 11:00, and a brief shouting match with a stubborn chem-runner who mistook Vi’s “friendly warning” for a suggestion. Normal.
But now it was 12:45.
Lunch time.
And everything was not normal.
Vi stood at the door to the breakroom, tray in hand, suddenly very aware of her heartbeat. She hadn’t felt this kind of nervous since she’d punched a wall trying to impress Caitlyn back during their first joint op. (Caitlyn had not been impressed. She’d handed her a medkit and called her a child. It had somehow made Vi like her even more.)
This was different, though. This was them — not almost, not maybe, not “what if.” This was real. And public. And terrifying.
Caitlyn was already there.
She sat at their usual table, one leg crossed over the other, tapping through notes on a file with one hand while sipping tea with the other. She looked as composed as ever — polished, calm, elegant in a way Vi never understood but always admired.
Until she looked up and smiled. And then that composure cracked into something soft. Something theirs.
Vi exhaled. Walked over. Dropped into her usual chair, like she had a hundred times before. Only this time, when her knee bumped Caitlyn’s, she didn’t pull it away.
Neither of them did.
“Hey,” Vi said, setting her tray down. “Got your usual.”
Caitlyn arched a brow. “My usual?”
Vi gestured at the neatly packed box — grilled chicken and rice with steamed greens on the side. “Told the vendor it was for a ‘tall uptight noble type with scary eyes and high standards.’ He didn’t even ask. Just packed this and told me to run.”
Caitlyn gave a long-suffering sigh, but the corners of her mouth betrayed her.
“You’re impossible.”
Vi leaned forward, grinning. “But you’re dating me now. That makes you impossible-adjacent.”
Caitlyn let out a soft laugh, and the tension between them cracked like morning sunlight breaking across rooftops. Something unspoken but heavy — the are we okay in public? kind of tension — dissipated under the familiar rhythm of banter.
They started to eat.
Still shoulder to shoulder. Still nudging each other for bites. Still the same casual warmth — except now it buzzed with something new. Caitlyn found herself hyper-aware of the way Vi’s leg pressed against hers. Of the brief, accidental brush of hands when they reached for the same utensil. Of the slight curve of Vi’s lips when she smiled mid-chew.
It was comfortable. Easy. But every second throbbed with that soft, giddy kind of energy that only came in the afterglow of something finally said aloud.
Vi handed Caitlyn a dumpling and smiled as she leaned close, whispering just above the noise of the room, “Careful. These are hot, babe.”
Caitlyn froze, dumpling mid-air.
Vi blinked. Realized. Too late.
“Oh no,” she started to tease, mouth already curling into a grin. “Did I break the prim and proper programming? You glitchin’, cupcake?”
But Caitlyn didn’t short-circuit. She blinked once, lips parting… and then smiled — slowly, purposefully — before leaning forward just enough that her voice dropped into something velvet-soft.
“Not at all, darling.”
Vi choked.
The dumpling slipped off her chopsticks and bounced off her tray, forgotten.
She sputtered once. “You— You did that on purpose!”
Caitlyn sipped her tea with infuriating grace. “Whatever do you mean?”
“Darling? In that accent?” Vi dragged a hand down her face, trying not to laugh. “You trying to kill me?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it. I only maim when provoked.”
Vi laughed then — full-bodied, loud enough that a few heads turned.
Which was when they both realized:
The room had gone suspiciously quiet.
Not completely — not a record-scratch moment — but enough to notice. Enough to see the sideways glances, the way people pretended not to eavesdrop while shifting awkwardly in their chairs.
It wasn’t hostile. Not teasing. Just… surprised.
A few of the younger enforcers were openly gawking, trying to reconcile this flirty, relaxed version of Caitlyn with the one who had publicly eviscerated them just days ago for daring to suggest she and Vi were romantically involved.
Vi gave them a sideways glance. “What?” she called out, voice casual but loud enough to carry. “Never seen two incredibly attractive officers flirt over dumplings before?”
Caitlyn sighed, setting down her tea.
“I’m not apologizing again if someone chokes.”
“Babe,” Vi said, grinning. “You’re the one who called me darling. You’re the real hazard here.”
One of the rookies — the same one who’d been banished by Vi months ago — leaned toward his tablemate and whispered, a little too loudly, “Do you think they were already dating when she yelled at us?”
The junior officer from earlier looked up. “No,” she answered flatly, without shame. “But I would ask again if that was meant to be their final straw.”
Laughter rippled through the room — awkward at first, then genuine.
Vi beamed. Caitlyn rolled her eyes but didn’t hide her smile.
The rest of the lunch went on with more warmth than before. Jokes passed between tables. Someone offered them a piece of chocolate from a stash they’d been hiding in the bottom drawer of a filing cabinet. Vi leaned back with her boots on a second chair again — and this time, Caitlyn didn’t knock them off.
Instead, she rested her hand gently on Vi’s thigh under the table. A quiet touch. Intentional. Unapologetic.
Vi blinked down at her, surprise flickering — and Caitlyn, always composed, only raised one brow in silent challenge.
Vi grinned and said nothing.
—
After lunch, they stood together by the door, empty tray in Vi’s hand, Caitlyn smoothing the cuffs of her coat.
Before Vi could open the door, Caitlyn tilted her head slightly, voice low.
“By the way… that ‘babe’ thing.”
Vi braced herself. “Yeah?”
“I like it,” Caitlyn said, lips brushing near her ear. “But only if I get to call you darling in return.”
Vi looked like she might combust.
“Not fair,” she murmured, voice wrecked and fond and a little breathless.
Caitlyn only smirked. “Everything is, in love and war, darling.”
And then she walked out, heels clicking with cool finality, as Vi scrambled to catch up — muttering a prayer that she survive the rest of the day without blurting something embarrassing in front of the rest of the precinct.
—
Piltover was louder than usual.
Even from the roof of the 13th Precinct — high above the tram rails, sirens, and steam vents — the city’s clamor clawed its way up into the sky. Somewhere below, gears screeched in protest. Someone shouted about a missing shipment. A courier bot whizzed past, trailing sparks. And inside the building beneath them, the precinct buzzed with the kind of activity that only came with a full-blown, city-wide crisis that somehow didn’t qualify as an emergency.
They hadn’t had a proper lunch together in four days.
Between split deployments, constant meetings, and the rotating headache of training new officers, Caitlyn and Vi had barely managed a handful of passing glances and one exhausted hand-squeeze in the hallway after a long shift. There had been no 12:45 lunches. No break room banter. No chance to steal a moment that was just theirs.
Until now.
Caitlyn stepped through the rooftop access door and stopped in her tracks.
There, spread out in front of her on a clean canvas blanket, was a small, admittedly lopsided picnic setup: a basket (borrowed, clearly, from the precinct’s supply room), two mismatched thermos cups, and three food containers that smelled faintly of roasted meat, grilled vegetables, and something unmistakably spicy. A metal teapot steamed gently beside it all, and a single napkin flapped dramatically in the breeze, pinned in place with a stun round casing.
Vi stood next to it all, grinning sheepishly, hands in her pockets. “Took me forever to find a spot without bird crap. You’d think the Sheriff of Piltover could pull rooftop cleaning into the city budget.”
Caitlyn blinked. Then narrowed her eyes.
“Vi,” she said slowly, stepping forward, “are you seriously proposing we have a picnic—on duty—on the roof—in full view of half the patrol routes?”
Vi held up her hands. “First of all, no one looks up. Second, I checked the angles—no clear view unless someone’s got a drone. And third…” She opened the top of the food container with a flourish, letting the warm scent of buttery piltover-style potatoes waft out. “Come on. You’ve had worse lunch dates.”
“This isn’t a date,” Caitlyn said, but her voice had lost its edge.
Vi tilted her head. “We’re alone. Off the clock. You look gorgeous as ever in your uniform and I brought your favorite tea. Feels like a date.”
Caitlyn sighed, smiling despite herself.
“This is wildly unprofessional.”
Vi grinned. “So are you when you get tipsy on that white wine tea.”
“That happened once.”
“And you gave a speech about cross-jurisdictional synergy to a vending machine.”
Caitlyn stepped forward at last, dropping gracefully onto the blanket beside her. “One more word and you’ll be writing training reports for a month.”
“See? That’s the voice. I knew I missed something.”
They sat close, knees bumping as they unpacked the food. The thermos held Caitlyn’s favorite blend — steeped just right, with a twist of honey. The roast smelled perfect. And Vi, as always, had absolutely overpacked the containers.
Caitlyn glanced at her sideways as she poured the tea. “You know this is going to become a precinct rumor in hours.”
Vi shrugged, stuffing a bite of dumpling into her mouth. “Let them talk. At least now they’ll have something accurate.”
Caitlyn huffed a soft laugh. “We are never living down that day in the breakroom.”
“I like that day,” Vi said around her mouthful. “It’s when you called me darling and nearly melted my brain. Good old days. Recently everything's been ‘Vi don't cause property damage’ this ‘Vi complete your mission reports' that. I miss the perks of being the Sheriff's girlfriend”
Caitlyn sipped her tea, eyes half-lidded. “Good. Then you can relive it in fond memory when you’re doing solo desk duty as penance for this little stunt.”
“Oh no,” Vi said, mock-gasping. “Anything but paperwork.”
They ate in rare, easy silence for a few minutes. The kind of silence that came not from tension, but from comfort — the quiet that settles between two people who know each other deeply. Who don’t need to fill the air to be present. The sun warmed the rooftop gently, filtered by high clouds, and a breeze rolled off the liftrails below with just enough chill to make Caitlyn lean a little closer.
Vi didn’t mind. She shifted to the side, letting their shoulders touch.
“I missed this,” she said, voice softer now. “I missed us.”
Caitlyn turned her head, looking at her. “Me too.”
Vi looked back, smiling just a little.
The world around them felt far away — just for a moment.
And then Caitlyn’s communicator buzzed.
They both froze.
A message scrolled across her screen:
Unit Alpha, respond. Alert at the Academy District. Possible chemtech theft in progress. Requesting immediate backup.
Vi groaned, head falling back against the rooftop’s vent pipe. “Ten minutes,” she said dramatically. “That’s all I wanted. Ten dumb, peaceful, food-filled minutes with my girlfriend.”
Caitlyn was already tucking the communicator into her coat. “At least we got eight. That’s a record this week.”
Vi grumbled, but she was already gathering the containers, snapping the lids shut one by one with military speed. “Fine, fine. But I swear if this is another false alarm from those twitchy lab interns—”
“—you’ll let me do the talking this time,” Caitlyn finished, standing with smooth precision.
Vi pointed a chopstick at her. “You gave that one a lecture about wiring safety so long he started crying.”
“I was being informative.”
“You were being terrifying.”
Caitlyn smirked, brushing her coat down and slinging the blanket over her arm.
They moved fast now, food still warm in their mouths, cups half-full and swaying with each step as they clattered down the stairs together. Caitlyn moved with practiced grace; Vi took them two at a time, grinning as she caught Caitlyn’s sleeve to keep pace.
“I swear,” Vi said between bites, “one of these days, I’m gonna finish a damn meal with you.”
“I look forward to it.”
“But until then…” Vi paused, stuffing the last bite of dumpling into her mouth mid-run, cheeks puffed comically. “Gotta fuel the fight, babe.”
Caitlyn glanced sideways at her, dry amusement curling in her voice. “Charming as ever, darling.”
Vi nearly tripped over the next step.
But she caught herself, food container tucked under one arm, heart racing with adrenaline and something warmer. She shot Caitlyn a look — somewhere between awe and indignation — and laughed.
Together, they burst out onto the street, weapons holstered, uniforms impeccable (mostly), and the remains of a rooftop picnic still clinging to their coats in the form of sesame seeds and windblown napkin corners.
Officers nearby stared for half a second, confused by the sight of Piltover’s most famously unflappable sheriff and her reckless partner running toward danger, laughing between bites of lunch.
It wasn’t by the book. But it was them. And it worked.
—
The precinct breakroom was noisier than usual — chairs scraping, boots clunking, a burst of laughter from across the room as a group of rookies passed around some poorly drawn caricature of one of the lieutenants.
But at the table near the back — the table — Vi and Caitlyn sat in silence.
They hadn’t spoken since morning.
Not since the fight.
It wasn’t the kind of argument that shattered things. No yelling. No slammed doors. Just a slow-building pressure that finally cracked open over coffee and mismatched expectations. Something about Vi taking another field assignment without checking in first. Something about Caitlyn pushing too hard, too fast, expecting too much control. It hadn’t even been about the assignment, not really. Just a pile of unresolved things — tiredness, late nights, a few too many “I’m fine”s — catching up all at once.
They’d left their apartment that morning at separate times. Different trains. Different routes. Caitlyn had taken the west side patrol team. Vi had been pulled into a last-minute riot control meeting. Their shifts hadn’t crossed. Their gazes hadn’t met.
But now it was 12:45.
And somehow, despite the weight between them, they still sat at the same table.
Old habits die hard.
There was no shared tray today. No forks passed back and forth. Vi had grabbed something from a vendor two blocks down — a greasy sandwich and some fried root slices. Caitlyn had brought a box from her office fridge — leftover quinoa and salmon, cold and plain.
They picked at their food.
Neither looked up.
Vi’s boot tapped an uneven rhythm under the table. Caitlyn’s fork scraped quietly against the plastic container. The city roared somewhere outside, and still, between them, the silence stretched.
Vi finally glanced up.
Caitlyn was beautiful even when she was upset — maybe especially then. Her expression was cool, composed, but the faint crease between her brows betrayed her. She wasn’t angry. Not really. Just distant in that way she got when she was hurt but didn’t want to talk about it. Controlled. Guarded.
Vi hated it.
“Hey,” she said, voice low.
Caitlyn didn’t look up.
Vi reached across the table. Her fingers hovered for a moment before settling gently on Caitlyn’s hand — just a brush of contact. Careful. Tentative.
“Are you still mad?” she asked, barely louder than a whisper.
For a long second, Caitlyn didn’t answer.
Then, slowly, she set down her fork.
Her fingers turned beneath Vi’s hand, not pulling away — instead curling around Vi’s knuckles in a quiet, steady squeeze.
She nodded. Just once.
“Yes,” she said softly. “But I still love you, too.”
Vi’s breath caught.
The break room noise faded for a moment. The scrape of chairs, the low buzz of distant conversations — all of it dulled under the quiet weight of those words.
“But it’s nothing,” Caitlyn added, voice a little unsteady now. “Just… a bad morning. Not a bad us.”
Vi looked down at their joined hands.
Her thumb brushed the side of Caitlyn’s index finger — a small, wordless apology.
“I should’ve told you,” she murmured.
“And I should’ve asked why before jumping to confrontation,” Caitlyn replied, gaze finally meeting hers.
There was no heat in it now. Just tiredness. And affection. And something fragile that held.
They sat like that for a while. Not talking. Not eating. Just holding hands across the table while their untouched lunches cooled.
It wasn’t fixed. Not yet. But it was safe.
Vi let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. “I hate fighting with you.”
“I hate that you’re so easy to fight with,” Caitlyn replied, dry, but with a faint smile at the edge.
Vi gave a short laugh — the kind that sounded like it might turn into something broken if she let it — but she didn’t.
Instead, she rubbed her thumb over Caitlyn’s knuckles again, firmer this time.
“I’ll try better.”
“You already are,” Caitlyn said.
A pause. Then, after a beat too long to be casual:
“Do you still want to eat lunch together?”
Vi glanced at her own tray. “Not if it means no more soggy root fries.”
Caitlyn hesitated. “There’s a Noxian place that just opened three blocks from here.”
Vi perked up. “You asking me on a date, Sheriff?”
Caitlyn rolled her eyes. “I’m asking you to stop trying to win me back while being a prisoner of grease and regret.”
Vi stood up, still holding her hand. “Too late. The regret is part of my charm.”
They gathered their things — Caitlyn smoothing down her jacket, Vi juggling the tray with one hand while gently tugging Caitlyn’s gloved hand with the other.
As they moved past the other tables, a few heads turned — nothing too obvious. Just the kind of glances people gave when they noticed something delicate had shifted, but didn’t want to speak it aloud.
Back at their usual table, the empty containers sat like reminders of the distance they hadn’t crossed this morning.
But now, fingers still entwined, steps falling in sync, Caitlyn and Vi walked out of the breakroom together.
Still a little bruised. Still figuring it out.
But together.
Always together.