Archive of Our Own

Jill Valentine’s landlord was a Grade-A, primo scumbag.

He was the kind of bottom-feeding slumlord who nickeled and dimed his tenants into oblivion and had a nasty habit of "dropping by" unannounced. He had inherited the complex from his family, never worked an honest day in his miserable life, and routinely spiked the rent to fund what Jill strongly suspected was a crippling gambling addiction.

Naturally, Jill wasn't fond of the guy. Being Jill, she had explicitly called him out on his bullshit. Being a scumbag, he didn't take kindly to a S.T.A.R.S. officer telling him how to run his business. His petty revenge? Slapping her with a non-renewal notice the second her lease was up.

It wasn't like she actually liked the crumbling apartment. It sat firmly in one of Raccoon City's rougher, undeniably sketchy districts. Some of her coworkers might have called her cheap for living there; Jill preferred the term resourceful. A S.T.A.R.S. salary was nothing to sneeze at—they made a damn decent living compared to the standard beat  cops—but Jill held her money in a vice grip. She stashed it away in the name of self-preservation. In the name of if everything goes straight to hell, I need an out.

But getting kicked out was less than ideal. Trying to apartment hunt while juggling S.T.A.R.S. paperwork, grueling training exercises, and the general chaos of the city was soul-draining. She was completely spent, and unfortunately, it showed.

Chris knew something was fundamentally wrong the second he watched Jill shuffle over to the breakroom for another mug of black coffee. Her third mug. And it was barely 11:00 AM. Jill liked her caffeine, sure, but she didn't usually mainline it like a college student during finals. Her signature bob wasn’t its usual immaculate self, and the dark, bruised bags under her eyes were practically casting their own shadows on her cheekbones. She was barely keeping her eyes open despite the copious amounts of caffeine currently rewiring her nervous system.

Something was definitely up. And Chris, being the exceptionally observant partner he was, decided to poke the bear.

"Jill... I really don’t mean to be rude," Chris started, leaning over his desk, "but you look like shit."

"Gee. Thanks, Christopher. I hadn't noticed," Jill deadpanned. She blinked slowly at her glowing computer monitor, her bloodshot eyes straining to read the incident report on the screen.

"I'm serious. That's your third cup. I know you run on spite and coffee, but something tells me you’re compensating for a lack of sleep."

Jill let out a long, defeated sigh, her forehead making a slow, dramatic descent until it thudded softly against her keyboard. "Sleep has been... elusive."

"Any particular reason why?" He questioned.

"My landlord is a petty dick."

"What else is new?" Chris huffed, tossing a file onto his tray. He was well aware of Jill’s slumlord and the less-than-stellar reviews she frequently gave him.

"He’s not renewing my lease. And apartment hunting is a colossal pain in my ass." She reluctantly peeled her face off the keys, squinting back at the monitor and struggling to find her place in the document.

Again, Chris Redfield was a good—no, a great friend. That was the understatement of the century. Still, Jill was completely caught off guard when he casually dropped a bomb into the conversation.

"You could always move in with me?"

Jill whipped her head around, fixing him with a flat are-you-out-of-your-mind stare. He just shrugged incredulously.

"What? I have a spare room."

"You have Claire's room," Jill corrected, spelling it out like he was five. Yes, Claire was off at college doing whatever the hell college girls did, but summer was fast approaching. She'd want her bedroom back, and Jill refused to be the squatter creating a massive headache in the Redfield household.

Chris furrowed his brow, shaking his head. "Didn’t I tell you? She’s getting an apartment off-campus with her dorm roommate." He grabbed a remarkably crisp apple from his desk and took a loud bite, speaking around a mouthful. "The stuff from her room is already sitting in boxes. I’m hauling it all to a storage unit this weekend so she can grab it whenever she signs her lease." He lazily flipped a page in his report, chewing with his mouth wide open, completely ignoring the countless times Jill had told him he ate like a feral animal.

Oh. Claire was moving out. "She’s still probably going to want her room back at some point, Chris..."

Chris shrugged his broad shoulders, his eyes glued to his paperwork. "Probably not until she’s graduated, which is a couple years out." He stopped chewing for a second, leaning in with a conspiratorial smirk. "And anyway... half the office still thinks we’re secretly dating. Isn’t moving in together the logical next step?"

Jill smirked knowingly, leaning back in her chair. "Right. Because you would know so much about the logical steps of dating."

Chris immediately chucked a yellow No. 2 pencil at her head—which Jill flawlessly snatched out of the air without blinking. Even while sleep deprived, her instincts were impeccable.

"Low blow, Valentine," Chris groaned, pointing an accusatory finger at her. "Dating is fucking hard. You, of all people, should know that."

He was right. Dating as a gay man and a lesbian in the Midwest in the 90s was an absolute nightmare. Poor Chris had precisely zero romantic experience, barring the disastrously successful "fake date" he had orchestrated with Jill just to get Forest and the other S.T.A.R.S. members off their backs. It certainly didn't help that both of their schedules were jammed with enough bullshit to make any social life virtually impossible.

Jill turned sheepishly in her chair, her voice dropping a fraction softer. "Chris, I really don’t want to intrude..."

Chris leaned forward, the teasing completely gone from his face, replaced by a soft, genuine smile. "Jill, if I wasn’t serious, I wouldn't have offered."

Jill debated. She had been fiercely independent her entire life. With both parents largely absent—her dad, in particular, making a career out of being in and out of jail—she had learned early on to rely on exactly one person: herself. She wasn't the type to ask for a handout, let alone accept someone else's charity. She didn't need pity. She would figure it out. She always did.

But maybe... just this once? It would solve a massive headache. And Claire was moving out, right?

"Alright. I’ll accept your kindness," Jill finally conceded after a long moment of deliberation. "But you need to ask Claire first. I'm not crossing that line until she gives the okay."

"Deal!" Chris beamed, leaning back comfortably in his desk chair. "I’ll call her tonight."

And so he did. And Claire—who undeniably possessed the same bleeding-heart Redfield gene as her brother—said of course. Anything for a friend.

Jill dropped her face into her hands when Chris relayed the news the next morning. These damn Redfields were going to be the death of her.

—

And so, the inevitable moving day arrived. Jill had spent the better part of the month drowning in a sea of cardboard, packing tape, and bubble wrap. The second her lease officially expired, Chris showed up—driven by that incurable, bleeding-heart Redfield gene—ready to haul heavy boxes up a flight of stairs until his back gave out.

Against all odds, life was actually looking up. Splitting the rent was a godsend, and sharing a roof meant they could carpool to the precinct. That alone saved a small fortune in gas money, not to mention it gave them a guaranteed twenty minutes to mercilessly complain about Wesker's weird habits before even clocking in.

Given how seamlessly they operated as partners in the field, transitioning into roommates was surprisingly effortless. They knew each other's quirks, respected each other's space, and operated on the exact same chaotic S.T.A.R.S. sleep schedule.

The only real learning curve was Chris. For the first two weeks, his sleep-addled brain routinely forgot he no longer lived alone. This culminated in him wandering out of his bedroom in nothing but a pair of too-tight boxer briefs, stumbling into the kitchen, and nearly inhaling his freshly brewed coffee through his nose when he spotted Jill casually reading a book at the table. His panicked sputtering was easily the highlight of her week.

Yes, things were finally stabilizing for Jill Valentine. That is, until Chris lobbed a massive curveball across the kitchen island one Saturday morning, right over a plate of bacon and scrambled eggs.

“Oh, by the way, Claire is coming to stay over for a couple of weeks.”

Jill froze, her fork halfway to her mouth. She slowly lowered the book she had only been half-reading—the other half of her brain having been reluctantly tuned into Chris’s morning yammering. She blinked at him. “I… thought you said she got a new apartment?”

Chris paused mid-chew, “Oh. Right! Yes, she did. It's just that her new lease doesn’t start until the second week of June, and the university is kicking everyone out of the dorms right before the end of May. So…” He offered a sheepish, lopsided shrug. “She’s going to be in between housing for a bit.”

Jill grimaced, a heavy weight of guilt suddenly settling in her stomach. “Chris, I just took over her bedroom.”

Chris dropped his fork down, shaking his head vehemently. “No! Don't even start. She knows the situation, and she’s going to crash on the couch for a little bit. It’s completely cool with her.”

Jill wasn’t buying it. It felt fundamentally wrong to accept the Redfields’ overwhelming kindness, only to turn around and banish the youngest Redfield from her own bedroom to a lumpy living room sofa. Jill had never even met Claire in person, having only heard Chris talk about the kid endlessly. The absolute last thing she wanted to do was make a terrible first impression by playing the role of the wicked squatter.

Chris leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Jill.” He used his authoritative, look-at-me tone. “Seriously, it’s fine. She knows, and she is one hundred percent okay with it.” He leaned back, a goofy, punchable smile spreading across his face, and did a horrific shimmy from side to side. “It’ll be great! Like a giant slumber party. Or whatever it is you girls do.”

If Jill had a blunt projectile within arm's reach, she would have absolutely chucked it at his head. Unfortunately, her only available weapons were a fork and a butter knife, and both were a bit too sharp to hurl at her roommate. She settled for a profound, inward cringe and a loud groan. “God, you’re awful.”

Chris flashed a sickeningly cutesy grin. “But you love me!”

Jill couldn’t stop the fond smirk from curling the edges of her lips.  “Unfortunately. I really do.”

—

The illusion of a peaceful weekend was violently shattered the very next Saturday morning.

Both Jill and Chris were ritualistically enjoying the rare quiet of their apartment, nursing their respective mugs of coffee. The only sounds filtering through the cracked window were the distant, occasional honks of passing cars and the soft chirping of early morning birds.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

Something—or rather, someone—was marching up the exterior wooden steps to the second floor. The footfalls were staggeringly heavy, echoing through the walls with the grace of a stampeding elephant.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

The elephant had reached the second-floor landing. Both Chris and Jill paused mid-sip, lowering their mugs in unison as the quiet they had been so fiercely guarding evaporated.

Fast, remarkably heavy footsteps bolted down the carpeted hallway, stopping dead right outside their apartment.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

A fist battered against their front door in a rapid-fire, demanding rhythm. Jill and Chris shot each other a wide-eyed look across the kitchen island.

Setting his mug down, Chris padded over to the entryway. He slid the chain free and slowly, cautiously, turned the deadbolt, pulling the door open just a crack. A freckled face framed by a cheeky, megawatt grin instantly peeked through the gap.

Chris let out a massive sigh of relief, throwing the door open the rest of the way. "'Sup, big dog!"

Claire Redfield had officially arrived.

She was practically swallowed by the luggage she was hauling—a massive red duffel bag slung over one shoulder and an equally bright red backpack strapped to her front. The girl clearly had a favorite color. Her dark auburn hair was pulled back into a high, messy ponytail, and her face was flushed and slightly sunburnt. Her eyes were a brilliant, sparkling blue—lighter and far more mischievous than Chris’s dark gaze. She wore a generous coat of mascara and a thick layer of clear lip gloss that perfectly framed a blindingly white, triumphant smile.

Her outfit consisted of frayed, aggressively ripped jean shorts, a pair of high-top Chuck Taylors (one of which was dangerously untied), a black crop top that hugged her frame just a bit too perfectly, and a signature red leather jacket layered over it all.

When Chris talked about Claire, he always painted the picture of a menace. A snot-nosed kid. The same snot-nosed kid who had accidentally ramped a dirtbike through their neighbor's glass greenhouse at age twelve. The kid who had tipped over a heavy vending machine accidentally just to liberate a stuck bag of peanut M&Ms. A kid with a heart of gold who habitually dove headfirst into danger, single-handedly responsible for the premature gray hairs currently sprouting at Chris's temples.

What Chris had conveniently forgotten to mention—and what Jill had completely failed to prepare for—was that Claire Redfield was no longer a snot-nosed kid.

She was a beautifully, aggressively stunning young woman.

And oh, fucking lord, did Jill’s stomach immediately tie itself into a series of complicated nautical knots.

Claire unceremoniously dropped her heavy bags onto the hardwood floor with a deafening thud and threw herself at her brother, wrapping him in a massive bear hug. Chris squeezed her back, lifting her right off her feet, which earned a strained, wheezing groan from Claire. She rapidly slapped his shoulder blade, a universal signal that she would very much like to be returned to the floor. Once released, she sighed happily, wiping a bead of sweat from her brow.

It was in that exact moment that Claire’s bright blue eyes locked onto Jill.

Instantly, Jill became hyper-aware of her current state of dress. She was wearing a ratty, faded gray tank top with a questionable hole near the hem, and a pair of baggy sleep shorts covered in a pattern of cartoon dogs (a joke Christmas gift from Chris, who knew she had a soft spot for them). Next to the vibrant, effortlessly cool college girl, Jill felt distinctly like a swamp creature. She crossed her arms, suddenly very self-conscious.

If Claire noticed the ratty sleepwear, she certainly didn't care. She bounded past her brother and made a beeline straight for the kitchen. "You must be Jill!"

Before Jill could even offer a handshake, Claire wrapped her arms around her in a warm, fiercely tight hug that smelled of vanilla and leather. Over Claire’s shoulder, Jill locked eyes with Chris, shooting him a wide, panicked look that practically screamed, Help me.

Claire pulled back, keeping her hands firmly on Jill's shoulders as she looked her up and down with an approving smile. "So, you’re Chris’s special lady friend he literally never stops talking about."

Jill’s face burned, a furious blush creeping up her neck. Oh, god. This girl is too much. Her highly trained, tactical brain completely short-circuited, leaving her to eloquently sputter, "Uh..."

"Partner, Claire," Chris interjected quickly, stepping forward to save his roommate from a total meltdown. "She’s my partner at work. And my roommate. That's it."

Claire ignored him, keeping her beaming smile fixed on Jill. "Well, partner. We’re going to have so much fun! It’ll be like a girls' vacation or something."

Chris crossed his arms, leaning against the kitchen island. "I’m literally standing right here."

Claire finally rolled her eyes, turning to pat her brother condescendingly on the cheek. "I guess you can be the exception and join us, Christopher. As long as you promise not to be a total buzzkill."

Jill let out a sudden, sharp laugh, the tension finally breaking. "Good luck with that," she quipped, her voice returning as she easily fell into the rhythm of humoring the younger Redfield.

Chris stood up straighter, looking highly offended. "Hey! I can be fun. I’m a lot of fun!" Both women slowly turned their heads, giving him identical looks of profound skepticism. He floundered under their shared gaze. "I am... so fun."

Claire leaned toward him, an entirely wicked gleam in her eye. "So... that means I can raid your liquor cabinet tonight, right?"

Chris’s protective older-brother instincts instantly overrode his desire to be cool. His face hardened into a strict scowl. "Absolutely not."

Claire and Jill didn't even need to look at each other. They spoke in perfect, devastating unison.

"Buzzkill."

They both burst out laughing as Chris let out an exasperated groan, throwing his hands in the air and launching into a defensive rant about responsibility and how he would not condone or enable underage drinking. Claire’s bright, melodic laugh rang through the small apartment, and her smile was practically blinding.

Jill watched the two siblings bicker, a fond smile pulling at her lips while her heart hammered an entirely new, terrifying rhythm in her chest.

Yep, Jill thought, taking a slow sip of her coffee. These Redfields are absolutely going to be the death of me.

—

Jill and Chris’s grand plans of loafing around the apartment in gym shorts and soaking up the profound mundanity of a quiet weekend were completely unhinged by the arrival of the younger Redfield.

Claire was back in Raccoon City and determined to hit the town. She wanted to grab a bite, raid a local bookstore she’d missed while away at college, and soak up the summer sun now that classes were finally out.

Naturally, Jill and Chris indulged her. Truthfully, Jill secretly enjoyed the change of pace. They wandered the downtown grid together, idly window shopping and looking for nothing in particular as the midday heat baked the pavement. When they finally ducked into the air-conditioned relief of the bookstore, Claire became a girl on a mission. She darted straight to a back corner, navigating the aisles by muscle memory to find her prize: a massive, glossy motorcycle almanac.

Jill should've known better than to think the girl would be hunting for the latest fiction bestseller. She’d seen the souped-up Harley Claire had ridden into town; the girl treated that bike better than most people treated their firstborns.

Leaning against a nearby shelf, Jill stole a long look at the younger Redfield as she flipped enthusiastically through a stack of magazines. The oppressive summer humidity had frizzed her hair, giving her a wild, untamed halo, but Claire didn’t seem to care in the slightest. Her face was flushed from the heat, her bright eyes scanning the pages with laser focus.

Jill was violently pulled from her staring contest when Claire suddenly looked up, making direct eye contact.

“You know, you don't have to shadow me around the store,” Claire teased, a playful lilt in her voice. “You can go find something for yourself. I promise not to run off.”

She had a point. Chris had already vanished to some far-flung corner of the shop to hunt down a survival guide of some kind. Jill could have easily browsed the mystery section.

Instead, Jill just shrugged, crossing her arms to anchor herself. “They don't have what I'm looking for.”

Claire lowered the magazine. A single eyebrow arched upward, and a slow, wicked smile curled one side of her mouth. “Oh? And what exactly are you looking for, Officer Valentine?”

Dear God. Jill didn't think she had a thing for titles. She was called 'Officer Valentine' on a near-daily basis by half the precinct. But something about the way the syllables rolled off this girl’s tongue made her heart vault right into her throat.

“Found it!”

The tension snapped like a rubber band as Chris came bounding over, triumphantly waving a new edition of a camper's survival guide. “I knew they'd have the updated version, but they were hiding it behind the maps.”

Claire dropped her gaze back to her magazines, but Jill could've sworn the younger girl's flushed cheeks had just bloomed a shade or two darker.

“I already found my prize. I'm just browsing now,” Claire said, instantly slipping back into her usual joking demeanor as she sidled up to her brother. She held up the motorcycle almanac, jutting out her lower lip in an exaggerated, pleading pout. “Spot a broke college girl some cash for this?”

Chris rolled his eyes and swiped the book out of her grip. “Save the pout. I was already buying.” He turned toward the register.

Behind his back, Claire caught Jill’s eye and stuck out her tongue in a cheeky, victorious gesture. God. Any more of this, and Jill’s heart was going to give out before she hit thirty.

They paid and headed back out into the sweltering afternoon. Claire navigated them to a sandwich shop she’d been craving, and with their subs in hand, they bypassed the crowded picnic benches in a nearby park, opting instead to sprawl out on the grass under the sweeping shade of a willow tree.

Claire ate exactly like her brother: like a starved, feral animal. She hummed happily, savoring every massive bite. Yet, unlike Jill's usual mild disgust at Chris’s aggressively messy eating habits, watching Claire do it was undeniably endearing.

Once again, Jill found herself caught staring. The sunlight filtered through the willow’s canopy, casting shifting, dappled shadows across Claire's freckled face.

Suddenly, Claire paused mid-chew and pointed at her own face. “You got a little something... right there.”

Jill jumped, mortified at being caught staring again. She hastily licked her lips, her face burning. “Did I get it?”

“A little higher. Like… here, lemme just—”

Before Jill could process the movement, Claire shifted over. She was entirely too close. The scent of her—sunscreen, leather, and vanilla—flooded Jill’s senses. Claire reached out, brushing her thumb right above the corner of Jill’s lip, swiping away a stray glob of mayonnaise.

“There!” Claire declared triumphantly. And then, without breaking eye contact, she popped her thumb into her mouth, sucking the mayo off with a satisfied little pop.

Oh my fucking God. Lord in heaven above. Jill's little homo heart practically flatlined in her chest. If she hadn't been red as a tomato before, she was definitely radioactive red now. She felt like she was going to spontaneously combust right there on the grass.

Desperate to escape, Jill abruptly scrambled backward, hastily wrapping up the remainder of her sandwich. “I'm—I'm gonna go throw this away.”

“Hey!” Claire called out, utterly unfazed. “Can you take my wrapper while you're at it?” She held out her balled-up trash, tilting her head adorably.

“Sure,” Jill choked out. She grabbed the wrapper, definitely not thinking about the way her fingers brushed against Claire’s palm. Definitely not savoring the fleeting, electric contact.

Jesus Christ. This girl had her acting like a hormonal teenager with a middle-school crush. She was a highly trained, adult S.T.A.R.S. operative. What the hell was wrong with her?

She marched over to the nearby trashcan and chucked the wrappers inside with a little more force than strictly necessary.

Chris strolled by a moment later, tossing his own trash into the bin. He paused, squinting at her. “You alright?”

Jill kept her eyes fixed on the metal rim of the garbage can, only allowing her gaze to flicker briefly to his face. “Just tired… and the sun is really getting to me. I'm running hot,” she lied smoothly. It wasn't even particularly hot in the shade, and she was so wired with adrenaline she could probably flip a police cruiser.

“You can head back to the apartment, you know?” Chris offered, his tone softening with brotherly concern. “I'll entertain Claire for a bit, and we’ll head back when she's ready.”

Home was close. It was barely a fifteen-minute walk back to Chris's place, though hauling herself up to the second floor suddenly sounded like climbing Mount Everest in her current state of mind.

Jill swallowed hard, taking a deep, shuddering breath to steady her swimming thoughts. “Yeah. I think I'm going to do that.” She stared hard at the toes of her boots. “I'm sorry, Chris, I just—”

Chris clapped a heavy, reassuring hand on her shoulder, cutting her off. “Don't apologize, Jill. Go rest, okay?” He ducked his head, forcing her to meet his gaze. “We’ll be back soon.”

With a final, solid pat, he turned and jogged back toward the willow tree, shouting something at Claire that Jill was entirely too distracted to hear.

She had to get a grip. Seriously. Claire was going to be staying with them for two entire weeks. It was only day one, and Jill already felt like a dead woman walking.

As she began the trek back to the apartment, she ruthlessly chastised herself with every step. This wasn't just some cute girl. This was Claire. Chris’s sister. Chris, who was her best friend, her tactical partner, and her roommate.

This was strictly off-limits territory. A massive, neon-lit no-go zone. A tactical minefield where one single, stupid misstep could blow her entire life to pieces.

She needed to chill out. And she needed to do it fast.

—

Sunday was an agonizing exercise in self-containment. Jill spent the entire day barricaded in her room, refusing to trust herself around the younger Redfield. When Chris and Claire headed out for a movie and dinner, Jill stayed behind, staring at an open paperback on her bed. She read the same paragraph twenty times, her eyes scanning the words without a single ounce of comprehension. It was the longest Sunday of her life.

Monday brought the sweet, structured relief of work. With Claire left to her own devices for the day, Jill wouldn't have to navigate any casual contact. To be absolutely safe, she decided to drive to the precinct separately from Chris, waking up before dawn to ensure a clean, solitary escape.

This master plan required creeping through the living room. There, bathed in the pale morning light, was Claire. She was dead to the world on the couch, swimming in an oversized, faded t-shirt with YELLOWSTONE NATIONAL PARK printed in chunky letters across the front. A hand-crocheted blanket—definitely a Redfield family heirloom—was tangled around her legs. Her signature ponytail was gone, leaving her hair loose and messy across the pillow. She slept with her mouth slightly open, soft, even breaths escaping her, with a faint, glimmering line of drool on her cheek.

An aggressive, intrusive urge seized Jill: Walk over, wipe her cheek, and brush that hair out of her face.

Jill ruthlessly swatted the thought down and tiptoed to the front door. As she turned the deadbolt, the lock clicked with a sharp clack that sounded like a gunshot in the quiet apartment. Claire’s breathing hitched. Jill froze, peering over her shoulder.

Claire shifted, mumbled something incoherent, and settled back into a deep sleep. Thank God.

Ten minutes later, Jill was sitting in her idling car, her knuckles white as she gripped the steering wheel at ten and two. She dropped her forehead against the leather with a groan, aggressively questioning every life decision that had brought her to this point.

The rest of the week followed the same grueling pattern. At every possible opportunity, Jill slipped out of the precinct early, hauled herself up the stairs to their apartment, and vanished into her bedroom. Chris wasn't stupid; he noticed. Jill was naturally private, but this level of withdrawal was setting off alarm bells in his head. She had barely spoken a word to him outside of tactical briefings and shift schedules, and it was gnawing at him.

"You doing okay, Jill?" he finally asked on Thursday. They were on their lunch break at the local diner near the R.P.D., sitting in their usual booth.

"I'm fine. Why?" Jill mumbled, picking at her fries without actually taking a bite.

"You seem… off." Chris leaned across the table, lowering his voice. "Is it Claire?"

Jill’s spine snapped ramrod straight.

Chris took her silence as confirmation and sighed. "Look, I know she can be a lot. I can talk to her, ask her to settle down—"

"No!" The word erupted out of Jill significantly louder than necessary. Several heads at the counter turned their way. She cleared her throat, lowering her voice to a frantic whisper. "It's not—she’s fine. She's great. She’s…"

Jill was entirely at a loss. She was not, under any circumstances, going to admit that she was having a catastrophic gay panic over his little sister.

"It's nothing, really," Jill scrambled, her brain working in overdrive. "I've just been trying to give you space to catch up with her. I don't want to intrude on your family time."

Good save. It wasn't even a total lie; she did want them to have time together. She just also desperately wanted to avoid being in the splash zone of Claire's overwhelming existence.

Chris’s expression softened instantly. He reached over and gave Jill’s shoulder an affectionate, grounding squeeze. "Jill, if I wanted one-on-one time with Claire, I’d just ask for it. Besides, I wanted you two to hang out. You're a part of the family now, whether you like it or not."

The guilt hit Jill like a freight train. She was a horrible, treacherous friend. How was she ever going to look Chris in the eye if she let this slip?

She wouldn't. That was the answer. She would take this ridiculous, fluttering crush, lock it in a lead-lined box in the deepest recesses of her psyche, and throw away the key. Just like she always did. It wouldn't be a problem. She would make absolutely sure of it.

By Friday evening, Jill’s ironclad resolve to keep her distance was tested by the undeniable allure of pizza and a movie night. They had ordered two large pepperonis from the place down the street and camped out in the living room, settling in to watch The Princess Bride.

Chris, who had spent the entire day running grueling, high-intensity tactical drills at the precinct, hadn't even made it to the Fire Swamp scene. He was out cold in the armchair, his head tipped back, snoring with the rhythmic, rumbling intensity of a chainsaw.

That left Jill and Claire sitting on opposite ends of the sofa, bathed in the flickering light of the television. Jill was rigidly focused on the screen, hyper-aware of the space between them and the agonizingly slow ticking of the clock.

The movie played quietly, but the silence in the room felt incredibly heavy. Claire shifted, tucking her legs beneath her, and looked away from the TV. Her gaze landed squarely on the side of Jill's face.

"Hey," Claire whispered, her voice low enough not to wake her brother, but carrying a sudden, piercing weight that made Jill's breath catch. "Can I ask you something?"

Jill startled, her eyes violently locked onto the television screen. She was doing everything in her power to appear completely absorbed in the movie, anything to keep her mind off the girl sitting on the opposite end of the sofa. When that failed, she shifted her gaze down, staring with immense, unblinking intensity at the half-eaten slice of pepperoni pizza resting on the paper plate in her lap.

“Depends, I guess,” Jill said, her voice a little tighter than she intended. “What is it?”

“Why did my brother lie to me about dating you?”

Jill’s neck practically snapped as her head whipped around to face Claire. A cold spike of absolute panic shot through her chest. “W-what?”

“Earlier this week, he told me you guys were together,” Claire said evenly. It wasn't a question anymore. It was a flat, calm statement. She’d clearly been weighing it all evening, and Jill’s explosive, wide-eyed reaction had just handed her the confirmation on a silver platter.

Jill’s mind raced, searching for an escape hatch. She couldn't lie—Claire was too smart, and something in those piercing blue eyes told Jill she wouldn't settle for anything less than the absolute truth. Instead, Jill tried to deflect. “What… exactly makes you think he’s lying?”

Claire rolled her eyes, a small, knowing smirk playing on her lips. “Come on. I know he doesn't like you like that. I mean, he loves you to death as a partner, but… he doesn’t really swing that way.”

Jill’s breath caught in her throat. She knew? Chris had explicitly told Jill that he’d never officially come out to his sister. How on earth had she already figured it out? A fresh wave of anxiety crashed over Jill, sending her internal alarm system into overdrive. If Claire was this terrifyingly perceptive, how long would it take for her to realize that Jill was harboring a massive, debilitating gay crush on her? Did she already know? Was Jill that transparent?

Claire let out a soft, melodic laugh, instantly breaking Jill out of her spiraling panic. “Plus, it’s just really obvious,” Claire added, taking another casual bite of her pizza. “Usually, when two people are in love and move into an apartment together, they at least share a bedroom.”

Ah. That.

Jill closed her eyes for a brief second. That was an incredibly solid point. They hadn’t even attempted to keep up the facade within the privacy of their own walls. Chris had probably only panicked and spun the lie in the first place because Claire had made an impromptu surprise visit to the S.T.A.R.S. office earlier in the work week, catching both of them off guard. Chris loathed lying, especially to his sister, but Jill understood his fear. He was terrified. He wanted to come out on his own terms, and the hyper-masculine, traditional environment of the R.P.D. was a total minefield. He wasn't ready to face the potential judgment or rejection of his fellow officers just because of who he loved, so he was trying to bury it deep—even if it meant concocting a fake relationship.

Jill let out a slow exhale, her shoulders dropping as she chose her words with extreme tactical precision. “We’re not dating. No.”

Claire leaned in a fraction of an inch, her expression turning curious. “Why did he lie about it, then? Chris doesn’t lie unless he thinks he has a really good reason.”

Jill’s brain flipped through a dozen possible explanations. She wanted to give Claire peace of mind, but ultimately, Chris’s reasons weren't hers to give away. Protecting her partner came before anything else. “That’s really not for me to share, Claire. You’re right, Chris has his reasons. Very good ones. You can ask him yourself when he's ready, but… it’s not my secret to tell.”

Claire looked down at her lap, a faint, disappointed frown dipping the corners of her mouth. Jill’s chest tightened; she realized with a sudden, painful jolt that she absolutely hated seeing Claire look unhappy.

Before Jill could dwell on that thought, Claire shifted closer. Suddenly, a warm, gentle hand settled right on Jill’s knee.

“You’re right. I’m sorry for prying,” Claire murmured. She looked back up, a soft, incredibly tender smile gracing her face—the exact kind of affectionate, protective smile Jill often saw on Chris during their toughest moments. “You’re a really good friend, Jill. He’s lucky to have you.”

Jill’s heart did a violent, agonizing flip. Except I’m a terrible friend, she thought desperately, because I am currently losing my mind over his little sister. She needed to shut this down, move away, breathe—anything to stop the electric heat radiating from Claire's palm through the fabric of her jeans.

Right on cue, Chris—in an act of divine, accidental intervention—startled himself awake with an aggressively loud, chainsaw-like snore. He smacked his lips, blinking blearily at the television screen, and mumbled something incoherent that sounded suspiciously like 'Westley.' He rubbed his face, looking around the dim living room in total confusion. “Where are we? What’d I miss?”

Claire let out a genuine chuckle, “Go to bed, Chris. The movie’s basically over.”

Chris groaned, a deeply theatrical sound, before heavily hauling his massive frame out of the armchair. He stood there for a second, swaying slightly, before his eyes locked onto the leftover pizza box on the coffee table. Making a swift, executive tactical decision, he snatched up a cold slice to take with him.

"Night, you two," Chris mumbled around a mouthful of crust, his heavy footsteps retreating down the short hallway. His bedroom door clicked shut a moment later, leaving a profound, suffocating silence in his wake.

The movie had reached its climax, the sweeping orchestral score swelling from the TV speakers, but Jill wasn't hearing any of it. Every nerve ending in her body was hyper-focused on the exact spot where Claire's hand was still resting gently on her knee.

The younger Redfield didn't move it away immediately. Instead, she let her thumb brush lightly against the denim of Jill's jeans—a casual, unconscious movement—before slowly pulling her hand back to her own lap. The ghost of the touch burned hotter than a magnesium flare.

"I should probably let you get some sleep, too," Claire said softly, her eyes reflecting the scrolling credits on the television. She stretched her arms over her head, her oversized t-shirt riding up just enough to expose a sliver of her waist.

Jill immediately looked away, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. Tactical retreat. Execute tactical retreat right now.

"Yeah," Jill managed to say, her voice miraculously steady. She sprang up from the couch with a little too much urgency, instantly grabbing the greasy pizza box and their discarded paper plates. "Long week. You know how it is."

"I do," Claire smiled, standing up and brushing a stray crumb off her sweatpants. She stepped into Jill’s personal space for just a second—close enough that Jill could smell that intoxicating blend of cheap pizza, vanilla, and leather—and reached out to lightly tug the empty paper plate from Jill's rigid grip. "I can throw this away, Jill. You don't have to wait on me."

"It's fine, I'm already up," Jill insisted, practically clutching the cardboard box to her chest like Kevlar body armor.

Claire let out a soft, breathy laugh, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "Suit yourself, Officer Valentine."

There it was again. That stupid, teasing title that made Jill’s knees feel like they were made of jelly.

"Goodnight, Claire," Jill breathed out, turning on her heel before she could embarrass herself further.

"Night, Jill."

Jill practically speed-walked into the kitchen, shoved the box into the trash, and retreated to the sanctuary of her bedroom. The moment her door clicked shut, she leaned her back against the cool wood and slowly slid down until she was sitting on the floor. She buried her face in her hands, letting out a long, shuddering exhale.

Claire knew Chris was gay. She knew the relationship was fake. And somehow, that made the absolute peril Jill was in so much worse.

She thinks you're a good friend, Jill's brain supplied unhelpfully in the dark. She thinks you're a great fake-girlfriend to her brother.

Jill squeezed her eyes shut, resting her forehead against her knees. It was only Friday. She had a whole more week of this. A whole week of casual touches, teasing smiles, and sharing a small apartment with the most effortlessly magnetic girl she had ever met.

She wasn't just screwed. She was a casualty waiting to happen.

—

The weekend faded into a blur of frantic, baseline adrenaline that Jill couldn't quite shake. Saturday and Sunday were spent in a state of hyper-vigilance, with Claire dragging them to a local diner, an arcade, and a crowded street fair. Everywhere they went, Jill tried to play the role of the detached, cool roommate, but her eyes kept tracking Claire like a radar lock.

By Monday and Tuesday, the return to the R.P.D. offered a temporary tactical shield. Jill threw herself into case files, gratefully drowning in paperwork if it meant escaping the suffocating awareness of Claire lounging on their couch. But the evenings were inescapable. Coming home meant encountering the scent of Claire’s perfume, the sound of her laugh, and the agonizing geometry of trying not to sit too close to her at dinner.

By Wednesday night, the fragile peace came crashing down over a brutally competitive game of Monopoly.

"You can't just bypass Income Tax because you 'know a guy,' Claire," Chris grumbled, aggressively organizing his stack of hundred-dollar bills. "That's a federal offense. We’re literally cops."

"It's called localized bartering, Chris," Claire shot back, leaning over the board with a wicked grin as she rattled the dice in her palm. "Besides, you have no grounds to arrest me for fictional real estate fraud.”

Jill carefully kept her eyes fixed on her tiny silver dog token. "I'm off the clock, Claire. But you’re pushing it.”

Before Claire could roll, the sharp, demanding ring of Chris’s work phone shattered the room's casual dynamic. Chris blinked, pulling the cell phone from his pocket. His posture instantly went rigid, his easygoing brotherly smirk vanishing.

"Redfield," he barked. He listened for three seconds, his jaw tightening. "Understood. Sir. I'm on my way."

He hung up, already moving. He practically vaulted over the coffee table, scrambling toward the front closet to grab his tactical boots and jacket.

"What is it?" Jill asked, instantly on her feet, the game forgotten as her instincts kicked in. "Should I report in too?"

"No, stay put," Chris said frantically, shoving his arms through the sleeves of his jacket. "It's Captain Wesker. He said it's an operational issue down at the precinct. Something about a breach of security. He said him and I can handle it, no need to wake the whole Alpha team."

"Are you sure?" Jill pressed, stepping toward him.

"Positive. Keep your radio on just in case, but you're fine for now." Chris grabbed his keys, threw the door open, and paused on the threshold. He turned back, casting a stern, laser-focused look across the room, pointing a strict finger directly at his sister. "And watch this one. No funny business while I'm gone."

"Love you too!" Claire called out cheerfully.

The door slammed shut, the deadbolt clicking into place.

For a second, the apartment was completely still. Then, Claire slowly turned her head to look at Jill. The innocent, sweet sister act evaporated in a heartbeat, replaced by a look of pure, unadulterated mischief.

"Well," Claire purred, sliding off the couch. "The warden is out. Time to see what kind of terrible, depressing alcohol my brother keeps in this place."

Jill watched, half-amused and entirely panicked, as Claire marched straight into the kitchen and began ruthlessly raiding the liquor cabinet. She clinked bottles together, pulling out a dusty bottle of cheap whiskey and a warm six-pack of the generic beer Chris bought in bulk.

Claire made a dramatic face of absolute disgust, holding the whiskey bottle by the neck like it was a biohazard. "Ugh. Unbelievable. His taste in booze is dreadful.”

She sighed heavily, slamming the cabinet shut. "Fine. Plan B. I guess I’ll just have to rely on the emergency reserves."

Jill leaned against the kitchen doorframe, arching an eyebrow. "Emergency reserves?"

Claire sauntered back into the living room, unzipped her canvas duffel bag, and proudly fished out a bright, sticky-sweet bottle of peach schnapps. She held it up like a trophy, a triumphant grin spreading across her face.

Jill’s cop brain finally overrode her stunned silence. She crossed her arms, trying desperately to look authoritative despite her heart hammering against her ribs. "Claire. I know you're underage. Did you happen to forget that we literally just mentioned being a police officer?”

Claire didn't flinch. In fact, her grin only widened. She set the bottle down on the coffee table and took three slow, deliberate steps toward Jill. The casual space between them vanished, bringing that familiar, dizzying scent of her shampoo right back into Jill’s personal bubble.

Claire stopped a mere breath away, looking up through her lashes. Slowly, she brought her wrists together, crossing them neatly in front of Jill’s chest in a mock pair of handcuffs.

"Oh, no," Claire whispered, her voice dropping to a low, playful tease that vibrated straight down Jill's spine. "Are you gonna arrest me, officer?"

Internally, sirens were blaring at a deafening volume, but training miraculously kicked in. Jill managed to keep her face a mask of cool, detached amusement.

She looked down at Claire’s crossed wrists, then back up into her bright, challenging eyes. “I’ll let you off this time with a warning,” Jill murmured, her voice steady despite the tremor in her chest. “On one condition: we don’t mention a single word of this to your brother.”

Claire aggressively punched the air, a triumphant grin breaking across her face. “Yes! I knew you’d be the good cop.”

“Oh, trust me, I’m usually not,” Jill retorted, the words slipping out before her brain’s defense mechanisms could stop them. “You might just be an exception.”

Jill, what the hell are we doing? The realization hit her like a flashbang. This wasn't just playful banter anymore; it was walking the razor's edge of actual, undeniable flirting. Jill felt like Icarus soaring entirely too close to the sun, the wax on her wings rapidly softening under the heat. She wasn't thinking straight, and that was precisely the problem.

Claire’s eyes darkened with a sudden, localized spike of mischief. She slowly unscrewed the plastic cap of the schnapps, her lips curling into a thoroughly teasing—and possibly flirtatious—smile. “Well. Lucky me, then.”

She raised the bottle, tilting her head back to take a direct swig.

“Uh, absolutely not,” Jill interjected, stepping forward and deftly intercepting the bottle before it could hit Claire's lips. “Hold your horses, outlaw.”

Jill turned on her heel and marched into the kitchen, raiding the cabinet for a pair of heavy glass shot glasses. “I’m not letting you accidentally kill yourself via alcohol poisoning under my watch. If we are doing this, we drink like civilized adults. Properly.”

Claire rolled her eyes dramatically, leaning her hip against the kitchen counter as Jill poured the syrupy, unnaturally pink liquid into the glasses. “Fine, I’ll compromise. But if we’re doing proper shots… we should at least play a proper game.”

Jill handed her a glass, her internal alarms spiking again. Oh God. “A game?”

“Truth or drink,” Claire proposed smoothly, swirling the pink liquid in her glass. She looked up at Jill through her lashes, the challenge practically radiating off her. “Simple rules. You either answer the question honestly, or you knock back a shot. No dodging.”

Oh, hell no. Every survival instinct Jill possessed screamed at her to abort the mission, grab a glass of water, and run to the safety of her bedroom.

Instead, Jill heard her own mouth utter, “Sure. Sounds easy enough.”

Jill. Seriously. What are we doing?

They moved from the couch to the floor, reclaiming the space around the heavy oak coffee table. The television hummed in the background, painting their skin in a low, rhythmic blue glow that danced over the abandoned Monopoly pieces. The syrupy, artificial scent of peach schnapps hung heavy in the air as Claire carefully measured out two equal pools of neon-pink liquid.

Claire clinked the rim of her glass against Jill’s with a wicked sparkle in her eye. “To a clean game, Officer Valentine.”

“Something tells me those rules only apply to me and not you, Redfield,” Jill countered. Holding Claire's gaze, she knocked back the first shot. The liquid was thick and aggressively sweet, burning a warm, sugary path straight down her throat. She set her glass down with a soft clink. “You first. Ask away.”

Claire rested her chin in her hands, her eyes bright with mischief. “Alright. Easy one to start. What is the absolute most embarrassing thing Chris has ever done at the precinct?”

“Oh, god,” Jill laughed, rubbing her temples. Frankly, there were entirely too many options to choose from, but she settled on a core memory from when S.T.A.R.S. was newly formed. “Okay, so we were all getting our tactical uniforms fitted. Chris, being Chris, insisted on selecting a size too small to 'maintain range of motion.' He was standing in the middle of the main office, talking with Barry and demonstrating his flexibility. He dropped into a particularly deep squat and—rip.”

Claire gasped, her eyes widening.

“Right down the center seam,” Jill grinned, thoroughly enjoying the memory. “In front of everyone, his pants split wide open. He happened to be wearing a pair of bright green plaid boxers, and they were on full display to the entirety of Alpha team. Captain Wesker just stood there, staring at him before adjusting his sunglasses and saying, 'Perhaps choose a size up, Redfield,' in the most deadpan voice you've ever heard in your life.”

Just for the hell of it, Jill reached out, poured herself another shot, and downed it. She didn't strictly need to—she had told the absolute truth—but a frantic voice in her head told her she was going to need the liquid courage for whatever was coming next.

Claire threw her head back, her melodic laugh echoing in the quiet room. “Ah, Chris. Of course he’d make an absolute buffoon of himself in front of his brand-new boss.”

As the game progressed, the initial awkwardness began to dissolve under the influence of the sweet liquor. They traded a few more rounds, the questions bouncing between harmless childhood dirt and roommate drama. Jill learned that Chris had once accidentally melted Claire’s favorite Barbie doll on a camping trip, and Claire discovered that Jill’s first impression of Chris was that he was a "hyper-competent himbo."

By the fifth round, the bottle was looking noticeably emptier, and the space between them across the coffee table felt dangerously smaller. The alcohol was thinning Jill's ironclad defenses, making her bold enough to finally touch the elephant in the room.

Jill swirled the pink liquid in her glass, watching the way the television light caught the edges of Claire’s messy hair. She took a breath, letting her voice drop to a softer, more tentative register. “Hey, Claire? Can I ask you something a bit more… serious?”

“Shoot,” Claire said, leaning forward on her elbows.

“How did you know Chris was…” Jill hesitated, the word catching in her throat. She didn't want to overstep.

“…gay?” Claire finished the sentence for her, popping the syllable with an easy, completely unbothered shrug. “I just figured it out. He never really expressed any interest in women growing up, which was clue number one. But the real giveaway was when I was helping him pack his stuff for the Air Force. I found some… very interesting men's porno mags hidden under a stack of fitness journals.”

Jill balked in absolute surprise before howling with laughter, nearly spilling her fresh drink. “Christopher! Oh my god, at least find a better hiding spot.”

Claire laughed, swirling the schnapps in her glass. “Yeah…That really sealed the deal for me. For a while, I thought he might be bi, but the more I observed him over the years, the more of a total fruitcake he turned out to be.” She offered a soft, incredibly genuine smile. “Anyways, I’m not one to judge. He’s my brother and I love him. Plus… I’m kind of bi myself, so…”

Jill froze. Her brain completely short-circuited. The room suddenly felt ten degrees hotter, and she was acutely aware of the blood rushing straight to her face.

Claire noticed instantly. Her smile shifted from casual to dangerously amused as she watched the flush creep up Jill's neck. “The Redfields happen to be a couple of fruits in a basket, it would seem,” Claire purred, leaning a fraction closer across the table.

“What about you?” Claire asked softly, her eyes darting to the side as she curiously scanned the profile of Jill’s face from her periphery. 

Jill tried to look anywhere else, raising a hand to awkwardly shield her face from Claire’s laser-focused gaze. “Is… is that your next question?”

“Hmm, let me rephrase it,” Claire murmured, her voice dropping to a low, teasing tone that made Jill’s heart do a violent flip. “To be more precise… What is your actual 'type,' Jill? Because from what I’ve gathered this week, it’s definitely not my brother.”

Jill leaned back against the coffee table, desperately trying to command the heat to drain from her cheeks. “That’s a bit personal, don't you think?”

Claire’s confident smirk faltered just a fraction, softening into something a bit more tentative. “Come on, I just completely bared my soul to you. And you were the one who brought up the serious questions. It's only fair.”

Jill blanched. The last traces of her playful smile evaporated, her expression flattening into something entirely blank. For a split second, the room seemed to fade out around her. Her brain locked up, overanalyzing every single variable, completely dissociating from the game as she stared right through the younger girl.

Seeing the sudden, ironclad wall go up, Claire immediately panicked. Her eyes widened, and she began to backtrack at a frantic clip, terrified she had just blown right past a sensitive boundary. “Hey, wait—Jill, forget I asked. You don't actually have to answer that. Seriously. You don't even have to take a shot or anything, I was just—”

“I’m gay,” Jill said.

The words were quiet, but they cut right through Claire’s frantic apologies like a knife. Without breaking eye contact, Jill reached out, seized a freshly poured shot glass, and threw it back. She swallowed the syrupy burn, forcing her face to remain entirely neutral as she set the empty glass back down with a definitive clack.

Claire’s mouth remained slightly open, her body going completely rigid as the gears in her head turned at lightning speed. The separate bedrooms, Chris’s sudden, suffocating anxiety about her showing up for a surprise visit to the S.T.A.R.S. office… every single puzzle piece from the past week instantly snapped into place.

The tension in Claire’s shoulders melted away, replaced by a profound, quiet look of total realization. She nodded her head gently, her voice softening. “I see. So that’s why you and him…”

“Yup,” Jill said, popping the ‘p’ with an armor-plated nonchalance she didn't actually feel.

“To cover for each other,” Claire finished the thought, a wave of immense respect washing over her features.

A heavy, grounding warmth settled over the space between them. The sheer weight of the secret—the dangerous, exhausting reality of navigating a world that forced both Jill and her brother to wear masks—hung in the air, but the fear was gone. In its place was a fierce, protective understanding. Claire looked at her not with judgment, but with a deep, quiet reverence that made Jill’s chest ache.

Reaching across the table, Claire slid her hand over Jill’s. Her fingers brushed past first, a gentle, lingering touch, before her palm settled securely over Jill's hand.

"Thank you, Jill," Claire murmured, her voice laced with a raw, sudden emotion that caught Jill completely off guard. "For protecting my brother. For being his shield. I know how terrifying it must be for him at the R.P.D. It means a lot to me to know he has you."

Jill’s jaw clenched as a wave of emotions flowed over her. The genuine, unadulterated sweetness of the moment sent a sharp pang straight through her heart. The minefield she had been so terrified of walking through was exploding all around her, and for the first time all week, she didn't want to run back to her bedroom.

Her breath hitched, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm as she stared at the fingers tracing the skin of her hand. The television hummed in the background, but neither of them was listening. Claire’s eyes drifted down to Jill’s lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back up to meet her gaze, the purely grateful expression instantly melting into something intense, raw, and undeniably mutual.

Jill had to ask. She needed to hear it out loud before she lost her mind entirely.

“Claire,” Jill breathed, her voice barely a whisper, thick with a mix of fear and desperate longing. “Be honest... What exactly are you doing right now? What is this?”

Claire tilted her head, her eyes searching Jill’s face, her thumb tracing a slow, agonizing circle on the back of Jill's hand. “Hypothetically speaking… if I kissed you right now, would you actually arrest me and cite me for funny business? Or would I get another warning?”

“You can’t answer a question with another question…” Jill murmured, her gaze dropping deliberately down to Claire’s lips.

Claire’s breath hitched. Her eyes flickered in a dark, frantic rhythm between Jill’s slightly chapped lips and her intense blue eyes. “I guess I lose the game then…”

Jill's voice shook, a desperate attempt at mock confidence coating her words. “Lucky me.”

It wasn’t clear who crossed the final remaining inches first; the space simply ceased to exist as they leaned in at the same time. The first touch of their lips was tentative, excruciatingly careful, as if they both feared that a fraction too much pressure would shatter the fragile gravity of the moment. Claire was incredibly gentle, her hand sliding slowly up Jill’s thigh until it found a resting place at her hip, a single finger hooking loosely through Jill’s denim belt loop to anchor herself.

When they parted, it was only by a breath. They stared at each other in the dim, pulsing light, chests rising and falling.

“Is this okay?” Claire whispered, her voice laced with a rare, vulnerable tremor.

Jill didn't answer with words. She leaned back in, crashing her lips against Claire’s with a sudden, intense hunger. She tasted the sticky-sweet peach schnapps and the distinct flavor of cherry ChapStick, savoring the intoxicating mix. Taking the sudden burst of enthusiasm as a green light, Claire grew bolder. She nipped lightly at Jill’s lower lip, a sharp, teasing tug that elicited a low groan from the back of Jill's throat.

Jill’s tongue darted out, smoothing over the wet seam of Claire's mouth. A high-pitched, breathless sound of surprise and raw arousal escaped Claire’s lips—a sound that absolutely ignited a fire in Jill’s veins.

Discarding all tactical restraint, Jill reached up, her fingers tangling in Claire’s hair. She deftly pulled the hair tie free, letting the thick, dark strands tumble loose. One of Jill's hands buried itself deep in the unruly waves, while her other palm planted itself firmly against Claire’s flushed cheek, tilting her head to deepen the kiss.

The gravity of the coffee table was no longer enough. Driven by a mutual, desperate need to be closer, they shifted. Jill leaned forward, her weight shifting smoothly until she guided Claire down onto the floor, hovering over her as she pressed Claire's back into the plush living room carpet.

Jill settled between Claire’s thighs, her knees pinning her down to the floor as she looked down. Claire lay beneath her, her dark hair spreading out like an ink stain against the carpet fabric. The flashing blue and silver light from the television washed over her features, illuminating the sharp line of her collarbone and the soft curve of her jaw, making her look entirely ethereal—like a dream Jill was terrified of waking up from.

Claire looked up at her, eyes dark and heavy-lidded, her hands immediately coming up to grip the fabric of Jill’s shirt, pulling her back down.

The hesitation was entirely gone. Jill devoured her, her mouth sliding from Claire’s lips to trace a burning path down the sensitive skin of her jawline to the hollow of her throat, unbuttoning the first couple buttons of her flannel for access. Claire arched into the touch, a breathless gasp escaping her as her fingers tangled into the back of Jill's shirt, pulling her down, demanding more. Tied up in the quiet sanctuary of the living room, with the world locked outside, the apartment felt like the only place that mattered.

The sheer rush of it left them completely lost, an intoxicating haze of deep kisses, breathless nipping, and hands mapping out every line of skin they could reach. But the sanctuary shattered in a single, terrifying second.

The unmistakable, metallic shove of a key sliding into the front door lock, followed by the heavy clunk of the deadbolt turning, struck the room like a lightning bolt.

Jill and Claire froze, staring at each other in absolute, wide-eyed horror.

In an instant, Jill’s tactical instincts kicked into overdrive. She tumbled off Claire in a frantic, uncoordinated scramble, her hands blindly sweeping across the floor. She snatched up the sticky bottle of peach schnapps and the two shot glasses, shoving them beneath the low clearance of the oak coffee table just as the doorknob began to turn.

By the time the door swung open, the two women were sitting side-by-side with their backs pressed flush against the bottom of the couch. Jill sat cross-legged, staring straight ahead with rigid, military posture. Next to her, Claire had her knees drawn tightly up to her chin, fiercely hugging a throw pillow to her chest to conceal the fact that her shirt was mostly undone, her wild hair static-clung and completely unraveled.

Chris trudged into the apartment, looking thoroughly exhausted. He let out a heavy, bone-deep sigh, entirely none the wiser to the absolute panic radiating off the living room floor.

“Unbelievable,” Chris muttered, slipping off his jacket. “Apparently, a ‘security breach’ means some local drunkard was sprinting around the precinct stark naked after a patrol officer brought him in to get him off the streets. He managed to lock himself in the lower archives.” Chris sighed again, hanging his heavy S.T.A.R.S. jacket on the wall hook. “Total waste of time.”

Neither woman spoke. They sat completely paralyzed, their eyes glued to the television screen like their lives depended on it.

Chris turned around and looked down at them, instantly sensing the thick, bizarre tension hanging in the air. He blinked, looking at Jill’s flushed face, then at his sister buried behind a pillow. “Whatcha watching?”

Claire cleared her throat, her voice a little higher than usual. “Oh, you know…”

They both chose that exact moment to actually look at what was playing. Bright, colorful blocks and a giant spinning wheel filled the screen. Reruns of Wheel of Fortune were blaring quietly into the room.

“…Interesting stuff,” Claire squeaked out.

Chris narrowed his eyes, his brotherly suspicion flaring. He looked between his hyper-rigid partner and his tightly bundled sister, but the sheer exhaustion of the night finally won out. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Whatever. I’m too tired for this. I’m going to bed. Goodnight, you two.”

He turned and trudged down the short hallway toward his bedroom, though he didn't miss the chance to cast one final, deeply skeptical glance over his shoulder before disappearing.

A moment later, his bedroom door clicked shut. Then came the distinct, heavy thud of his massive frame collapsing onto the mattress.

For three agonizing seconds, Jill and Claire didn't move. They listened intently until the first faint, muffled snores began to filter through the drywall.

Then, the dam broke.

Claire buried her face directly into the throw pillow to muffle the sound, her shoulders shaking violently as she dissolved into hushed, hysterical laughter. Jill collapsed sideways against the couch, a hand clamped firmly over her own mouth as tears of pure, adrenaline-fueled amusement pricked the corners of her eyes. They leaned into each other, shaking with silent, breathless giggles, the sheer absurdity of the near-catastrophe crashing over them in the dark.

When the laughter finally died down into quiet, lingering smiles, the air between them felt different. Charged. Lingering.

Jill let out a soft exhale, running a hand through her hair as she glanced toward the dark hallway. "Yeah... I think that's our cue to go to bed."

Claire slowly lowered the pillow, her eyes shining in the blue glow of Vanna White turning letters on the screen. She reached out, her pinky finger gently hooking around Jill’s.

“Goodnight, Officer Valentine,” Claire whispered, her lips curling into a soft, private smile.

Jill squeezed her finger back, her heart swelling with a warmth that had absolutely nothing to do with the peach schnapps. “Goodnight, Claire.”

They quietly picked up the evidence, slipped away to their respective rooms, and Jill closed her door—both of them acutely aware that when the sun came up the next morning, absolutely nothing in the apartment would ever be the same again.

—

Jill awoke to a pounding headache that throbbed in perfect, agonizing synchronization with every buzz of her alarm clock. Wincing, she slapped blindly around on her nightstand until the blaring finally stopped. She lay back down for a brief second, staring at the ceiling and deeply regretting her tactical decision to drink so heavily on a weekday. There was no way she could clock in to work today; her brain felt like it had been run over by an armored vehicle. Dammit, Claire.

She groaned as she sat up, pulling a bottle of aspirin from her nightstand drawer. She rattled out two tablets, tossed them into her mouth, and swallowed them dry, barely flinching at the bitter taste. Padding to the door, she opened it cautiously, trying to sneak her way to the kitchen without drawing attention.

Her stealth mission failed immediately. Chris was already commanding the kitchen, expertly scrambling eggs in a pan while sausage links sizzled beside them. Just as the toast sprung out of the toaster, Chris turned and noticed her.

“Hey, grab a plate. The toast is ready, and the eggs and sausage will be finished in a minute.”

Jill followed his instructions, grabbing a plate and sliding the toast onto it. As she did, she peered into the living room, her eyes landing on Claire’s sleeping form.

“She's out like a light,” Chris remarked, glancing over his shoulder with a faint smirk. “I don't think revving her Harley in the middle of the living room would wake her right now.”

She indeed was completely out. Claire was  tangled in blankets, her dark hair an absolute, static-ridden mess. The imprint of a heavy, deep sleep lined her face and arms, and a tiny, steady stream of drool pooled on the edge of the throw pillow. Jill smiled fondly, her chest tightening with a warmth that completely ignored her headache. Cute.

“Going through a bottle of peach schnapps in a night will do that to you…”

Jill froze. She slowly turned around, the butter knife hovering precariously over her toast. Uh oh.

Chris gave Jill a heavily pointed look, slowly shaking his head. “Rookie mistake, Valentine. Today's the day for recycling, and I just happened to find it shoved all the way at the bottom of the bin.”

Jill instantly put her hands up in absolute surrender. “Let me just clarify right now: I did not purchase it. She whipped it out of her bag. She supplied the contraband.”

Chris let out a booming laugh, turning down the heat on the stove. “I know. Claire has a knack for smuggling alcohol into places she shouldn't. If this was Prohibition, she'd be an excellent bootlegger. And honestly, I only knew she acquired it because it was some nasty, syrupy, fruit-flavored liquor—and we both know that is definitely not your style.”

He was right. Jill steered entirely clear of cheap, hard liquor; she would much rather savor a proper glass of wine after a brutal shift.

“Also, I figured you must be having a hell of a hangover,” Chris added, leaning against the counter and wiping his hands on a dishtowel. “So I called out sick for you. Told the captain you caught a stomach bug.”

God bless Chris Redfield. Jill let out a sigh of pure relief. She finished buttering her toast and picked up a spatula, scooping a generous portion of scrambled eggs onto her plate.

Then, Chris dropped the bomb (this was becoming a habit at this rate).

“So, when were you going to tell me you had a thing for my sister?”

The spatula slipped from Jill’s fingers, clattering loudly against the linoleum floor. The kitchen went dead silent. Jill stood paralyzed for a second, her heart hammering against her ribs even harder than her headache. Slowly, carefully, she forced her head up to gauge Chris’s reaction, fully preparing to face the protective, terrifying wrath of her Alpha Team partner.

Instead, Chris was just leaning against the counter. He had a mischievous, almost fond, knowing smile on his face.

“I… don't know what you're talking about?” Jill stammered, trying to summon her best undercover poker face.

Chris rolled his eyes, letting out a soft scoff. “You can’t bullshit me, Valentine.”

He stepped closer, his smile fading into something much more earnest. “I see right through you.”

Jill’s shoulders slumped, her armor completely cracking. She looked up at him, her eyes wide with a rare, genuine vulnerability. “Please don't kill me.”

Seeing how genuinely petrified she was, Chris didn't hesitate. He reached out and wrapped Jill up in a massive, heavy bear hug, burying her face against his shoulder. He snapped his arms tight around her, letting her feel the absolute lack of tension in his frame. “It's okay, I promise.”

Jill pulled back just enough to look at him, still utterly bewildered. “How did you even know?”

“Well, you two were absolutely not subtle last night,” Chris said, though the teasing glint in his eyes quickly gave way to a look of mild psychological damage. “When I walked back in, Claire’s pink lip gloss was smeared all over your mouth. And you don't exactly wear lip gloss, Jill.”

Jill’s face burned a brilliant crimson. “It was ChapStick,” she stammered, scrambling for any excuse. “...Cherry.”

Chris’s expression went completely flat, his brow furrowing as the mental image hit him. “You know what? Forget I mentioned anything. I'd rather not talk about you swapping spit with my sister.” 

He paused, the teasing light in his eyes fading into something a bit more quiet and protective. He looked at Jill seriously, folding his arms across his chest. “But jokes aside, Jill... are you serious about her? Was this just the alcohol talking, or do you actually want to pursue a relationship with my sister?”

The question caught Jill completely off guard, her hangover momentarily vanishing behind a wave of intense focus. She looked over at the living room, where Claire was still snoring softly under the blankets, before turning back to meet Chris’s steady gaze.

“I’m serious, Chris,” Jill said softly, her voice completely devoid of hesitation. “I’ve been trying to fight it because she's your sister and it felt messy, but... yeah. It wasn't just the alcohol. I really like her.”

Chris studied her face for a long moment, searching for any sign of doubt, before letting out a soft, relieved breath.

“Good,” Chris said, his expression turning serious but incredibly warm. “Look, all I ask is that if something goes wrong between you two, don't ask me to get involved. I don't know whose side I’d pick, or who I’d have to yell at. It’s a logistical nightmare. But honestly… I'm glad it's you, Jill. I know you'll take good care of her. I'd take you over some random frat-bro from her college any day of the week.”

Before Jill could process the sheer weight of his blessing, a raspy, gravelly voice cut through the kitchen doorway.

“Food… I smell food.”

Claire stumbled into the kitchen, looking like a zombie from a low-budget horror flick. Her hair was completely wild, her oversized t-shirt hanging off one shoulder. But the second her eyes locked onto Jill—and then noticed Chris standing right next to her—the sluggish sleepiness completely vanished. Claire went instantly, starkly sober at the sight of them. A deep blush crept up her neck, and she quickly diverted her gaze, helping herself to a cup of coffee to keep her hands busy.

Jill cleared her throat, casting a nervous glance toward the younger girl. “He knows.”

Claire froze, the coffee pot hovering in mid-air. She swallowed hard, her voice squeaking slightly. “I'm…sorry, Chris.”

Chris looked between the two of them, thoroughly enjoying their mutual panic. “For what?”

Claire set the pot down, squaring her shoulders as she tried to face her big brother head-on. “For making out with your co-worker and best friend on your living room floor.”

Chris barked a singular laugh and shrugged, picking up his own plate and heading toward the small dining table. “As long as you don't make a habit of doing it with any of my other co-workers.”

Claire’s nervous tension instantly broke. A wicked, familiar spark returned to her eyes, and she shot a highly deliberate, flirtatious look directly at Jill over the rim of her coffee mug.

“Oh, I don't know,” Claire murmured, her lips curling into a soft smile. “I think I can settle for this one.”

Jill took a bite of her toast, her face burning hot as she looked at the two siblings currently dominating the apartment. These Redfields are going to be the absolute death of me.