Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

PART I: THE FIRST SHIFT 

The night air in Manhattan throbbed with the glamour only a movie premiere could create. Outside the historic Beacon Theatre, the streets sparkled with barricaded flashes of cameras, velvet ropes, and the hum of anticipation. Not for a head of state or a protest but for the arrival of silver-screen royalty, current, aspiring, and somewhere in between Broadway traffic had been stopped. Under the spotlight tonight, it was Caitlyn Kiramman's turn.

A black Escalade pulled up to the curb as though it knew it was under observation. Caitlyn stepped out from the backseat with the sort of calm grace that suggested she had done this a hundred times, letting out a slow, practiced breath. Really, it was just her third red carpet. You would not ever know that. Not with a British accent that could make celebrity gossip sound like Shakespeare and cheekbones like those.

She wore the kind of dress that didn’t just fit, it understood her. Midnight blue, tailored with intention but soft in all the ways that made her seem more real than distant. The fabric rested gently across her collarbone, like a pause in a conversation, then fell in thoughtful folds that felt more like memory than fashion. There was something timeless in it, sure, a flicker of old Hollywood, but it moved with her, not behind her.

Her hair, that unmistakable cobalt blue, wasn’t trying to make a statement anymore. It just was, gathered into a low, simple bun, held by gold pins that caught the light like tiny, private stars. She wore no necklace. She didn’t need one. Just a pair of earrings, sculpted like something celestial and strange, and a look in her eyes that said she’d learned to be still in the noise. Not cold. Not guarded. Just… settled. Like someone who finally knows she doesn’t have to prove anything.

Mel, her publicist, stepped out right after her, sharp as ever in a black suit that fit like it was stitched straight onto her. The heels said she meant business, and that she’d be walking faster than anyone dared to follow. One hand held her ever-glowing iPad like it was an extension of her body, the other was already juggling texts from PR reps, producers, and at least one frantic journalist

“Alright, starlet,” she murmured as they approached the carpet. “You’ve got Access Hollywood at the top, Vogue next, and, God help us, BuzzFeed. Try not to tell them you read Russian literature for fun again.”

“I’ll just make something up,” Caitlyn muttered under her breath as the cameras closed in. “Tell them I like... crosswords. Or puppies. Something harmless.”

“Perfect. Make America love you.”

Across the street, another SUV slid to a halt.

Violet emerged like a lightning strike.

Worn over a sheer lace top that challenged paparazzi to zoom in, her Saint Laurent blazer was cropped and cut like sin, black leather and sharp shoulders. Her trousers were perilous, flared, high-waisted. Of course, the shoes were Louboutin: spiked and unrepentant. Under the streetlights, her red hair seemed like fire made real; around her neck was a thin silver chain.

Ekko followed behind her, dressed more like a skater than a PR rep, but with a laminated pass and an attitude that said she’s not answering that, move on. He caught up to her with practiced ease.

“I swear to god, Vi, if you light a cigarette on this carpet, I will personally strangle you with that necklace.”

“Relax,” Violet said, her voice a low rasp, amused. “It’s not even real lace.”

“That’s not even—nevermind. Just don’t flirt with anyone from Rolling Stone. Last time you promised an exclusive and gave them ‘vibes.’”

Violet smirked, eyes sweeping the crowd. “Worked, didn’t it?”

When Violet stepped onto the carpet, there was a small shift, nothing huge, just that subtle kind of attention people give when someone unexpected shows up. A few heads turned. Some stylists paused. One reporter nudged another.

She didn’t look like she was trying to impress anyone, which probably made her stand out even more. There was a confidence to her, relaxed, a little messy in the way only someone who really didn’t care could pull off.

She was there because of the song, Dead Stars, the one that played during the final scene of the film. The director had said something dramatic about her voice sounding like “grief in boots.” Violet had rolled her eyes and laughed about it later. Still, the song worked. And the paycheck didn’t hurt.

Up ahead, Caitlyn was halfway through a Vogue interview.

“Yes, the role was intense,” she was saying, her tone gracious but crisp. “But I loved getting to play against type. Normally I’m cast as the elegant one. This time, I got to throw a punch and not apologize.”

The reporter laughed, captivated. “And how did that feel?”

Caitlyn tilted her head, letting a smile tug at her lips, barely. “Cathartic. Like breaking porcelain with a baseball bat.”

Mel winced behind her, whispering into her phone: “Tell the editor it’s a metaphor, for God’s sake.”

Further down the carpet, Violet had stopped at a mic. A young interviewer, clearly nervous, held a card with notes that Violet was already ignoring.

“Tell us about your process writing for the film,” the interviewer asked, wide-eyed.

“Well,” Violet began, tilting her head with exaggerated thoughtfulness. “I sat in a dark room. Listened to Nine Inch Nails. Cried a little. Drank a lot of whiskey. Then I wrote something sad and charged them triple.”

Ekko groaned audibly. The reporter laughed, delighted.

“Seriously though,” Violet added, smoothing a hand through her hair, “the film’s about grief, right? So I just... tapped into that. Made it hurt a little. That’s the job.”

Cameras caught her in profile, her jaw lit by flashes, her eyes just slightly distant. She didn’t know anyone at this premiere, at least not personally. She’d met the director once, nodded politely at the producer twice. But this wasn’t her crowd.

x-x-x

The lights never stopped. The carpet was more than just a walk to the theatre: it was a slow walk full of planned charm, answers said over and over, and now and then a real thing showed. Caitlyn was almost done with her line of press, stopping to smile at a camera from Entertainment Weekly with nice interest as the air changed.

She knew it was there before her eyes did. A touch of warmth at the edge of her mind.

Then she looked to the side, past a person fixing a dress, past a bright bunch of cameras, and saw a woman under the lights. Her pose wasn't meant to draw eyes, yet it did just that. Red hair glowing in the light. Black leather. Lace. Boots. A sureness that spoke for itself.

Maybe a singer, Caitlyn thought. Or a model. No one looks that way without trying.

Caitlyn blinked, her smile just stopping for a bit, not gone, just... on hold. Though she had never met this woman, she appeared to be someone with great guitar knowledge and little interest in games.. And that suit, sharp, with a strong style, made her look even more powerful. It showed off the slight bend at her waist and the strength in her legs. She stood in a way that made it clear she could lift someone up if she had to.

There are probably a lot of muscles under that blazer, Caitlyn thought, the realization arriving calm and clear. 

Not her type. At least, not the type she admitted to.

And then the woman looked up. Right at her.

Violet was scanning the crowd, half listening to Ekko tell her to stick to predetermined responses, and half searching for a good glass of wine, when she noticed a calm individual in blue amidst the untamed crowd.

She didn't immediately know her. But she saw her.

Blue dress. Neat, firm, like it was worn by a lady who did not have to rush. A face that seemed destined to remain unchanging. Filmmakers might have made covert agreements to show her face because her bones were so well-set. She was very nice to look at.

Sophisticated, Violet thought, with a slight tilt of her head. Definitely grew up around art galleries and weird British tea.

But she still looked. Cool but not cold. Her features were too well-defined and distinct to be accidental.

They looked at each other for three or four seconds. It was clear and light and long. No grins. No averting glances.

Then, it was over.

Mel signaled Caitlyn to the final set of cameras; she spun with a smooth heel turn. Laughing dryly at something Ekko said, Violet shifted her weight, flinging her hair as though she hadn't been staring at someone like a plot twist.

They were unaware of one another's names.

But both felt it. That quiet friction.

Not loud. Not urgent.

Just... noted.

x-x-x

Dark wood accents, low lighting, and a carefully selected jazz trio in the corner all contributed to the upper lounge of the theater's transformation into a stylish cocktail reception. Staff dressed in black carried delicate hors d'oeuvres like mini beef wellingtons, smoked salmon on blinis, and something dangerously green with caviar that no one could quite identify, as well as trays of champagne flutes.

With a glass of champagne in hand and the condensation slowly trickling down her fingers, Caitlyn stood close to one of the tall windows. Thank God, the press line was behind her now. Her cheeks hurt a little from smiling so much, but she had made it through.

“Not bad, yeah?” Mel asked, appearing beside her with a sparkling water in hand and an expression that said she’d already scoped out the exits, the power players, and the mediocre shrimp tartlets. “You didn’t offend anyone, didn’t flirt with any actresses, and you only quoted Nietzsche once. I’m calling it a win.”

“I wasn’t flirting,” Caitlyn said, distractedly. “I was being polite.”

Caitlyn sipped her drink, eyes still roaming the crowd, but slower now, unhurried. “Do you know who the redhead on the carpet was? The one in the suit?”

Mel raised an eyebrow. “Redhead in a suit...?”

“Mm,” Caitlyn said. “Leather. Lace. Looked like she’d crash a motorcycle into an awards show on principle.”

Mel narrowed her eyes, processing, and then, right on cue, the entrance at the top of the lounge stairs opened, and there she was.

Violet entered with a casual demeanor that people typically feigned. She curled one hand around a lowball glass and put the other in her pocket. Her blazer, which was just sufficiently structured to appear purposeful, gleamed in the light. People noticed her without knowing why, so she didn't need to be introduced. A few heads turned, and a Variety music desk employee whispered something enthusiastically.

“That one?” Mel said under her breath, tilting her glass toward the stairs.

Caitlyn did not respond immediately. For a brief moment, her gaze remained fixed on Violet, just long enough to follow the casual manner in which she scanned the room, chin up, as though she had already made decisions about who she would and would not speak to.

“Yeah,” Caitlyn murmured finally. “That one.”

Mel took a measured sip. “Violet. She’s on the soundtrack. Apparently writes songs that make grown men cry in traffic.”

“Of course she does,” Caitlyn muttered.

Mel watched her with a knowing smirk. “Should I go introduce you? Or would that threaten your deeply cultivated aura of mystery?”

Caitlyn gave her a sideways look. “God, no. Not now, at least.”

Mel grinned. “Fine. I’ll let you suffer in dignified silence.”

Violet, who seemed to belong there, leaned against a column and snatched a glass from a passing tray across the room. However, her gaze also shifted, sweeping the lounge and the crowd before momentarily focusing on Caitlyn.

Neither of them grinned.

In some way, though, the air between them felt sharper. As if someone had plucked a string.

This time, Caitlyn was the first to turn away. Mel noticed first, though.

x-x-x

Violet had skillfully placed herself at the edge of the lounge, just out of the way of eager conversation but close enough to pass cocktails. She sipped slowly from her expensive, smoky glass and looked around the crowd with languid curiosity.

Everyone in the room was trying not to look like they were trying. She was able to identify the directors who preferred discussing "vibe" rather than actual notes, the actors who were already vying for next roles, and the music supervisors who were acting unimpressed.

And then there was her. 

The tall one wearing the midnight-blue dress. Her hair, a striking, unachievable shade of blue, was pulled back as if it had more important things to do than fall romantically around her face. She was elegant without being cold, as if she had a keen sense of irony. She laughed softly, as if she couldn't help it and not for attention. Her drink was halfway to her lips as Violet watched her for too long.

“Hey,” she muttered, elbowing Ekko lightly. “Who’s the tall one with the cheekbones and the very serious gown? Blue hair.”

Ekko didn’t even look up. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“You’re doing the look,” he said flatly, picking a canapé off a tray as it passed. “The ‘I’m gonna find out her middle name by morning’ look.”

Violet rolled her eyes. “I’m literally just asking.”

Ekko glanced up then, clocked Caitlyn instantly. “That’s Caitlyn Kiramman. Actress. British. Does serious films with tragic titles. Probably grew up reading Virginia Woolf and fencing for fun.”

Violet raised a brow. “So... hot.”

Ekko groaned. “Do not try to sleep with someone at a premiere again. We talked about this.”

“That was one time.”

“That was three times. And one of them was a casting director who thought you were someone else.”

Violet took another sip of her drink, unconcerned. “Still counts.”

Ekko leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “Just—please. No flirting, no cryptic compliments, no disappearing into stairwells. You don’t even know her.”

“That’s kind of the point.”

“Jesus.”

“I’m just curious,” Violet said, deadpan. “Maybe she’s into moody women with guitars and commitment issues.”

Ekko gave her a long-suffering look. “She looks like she has a skincare routine and a therapist. You are not compatible.”

Violet grinned. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

A few seconds passed. 

"She looked at me again,” Violet said, quiet and smug.

“She did not,” Ekko replied, way too fast.

Violet looked at him, unimpressed. “You didn’t even look.”

“I didn’t have to,” he said. “I just refuse to encourage this delusion.”

Violet cocked her head, observing Caitlyn for a moment more. Her posture was like someone who used words like "dreadful" without irony, her gown was pressed as if she hadn't even sat down yet, and her mouth likely pronounced the word "schedule" with a soft sh. She looked even more put together.

However, there was also something beneath it. A flicker behind the polish. Something vigilant. Yes, controlled, but not frigid.

Violet suppressed a grin. She's so annoying, my God. Not in a bad way. In the sense that someone was too calm, too well-groomed, and too put together to be genuine. She probably had signature scents and went to dinner parties with wine pairings.

And yet.

Violet wanted to get close enough to slightly mess with her. Tug her hair loose from that smug little bun. See what noises she made when she wasn't in control by pressing her thumb into her perfect jaw.

She didn't want courteous remarks or any kind of practiced praise. Caitlyn most likely made offers to costume designers and producers. She wanted something real. Raw. 

Ekko, somehow sensing this entire train of thought, groaned. “Don’t do the thing.”

“I’m not doing the thing.”

“You’re definitely doing the thing.”

“I just want to talk to her.”

“That’s what you said before you ghosted that poor pianist in Berlin.”

“That was mutual ghosting,” Violet said, shrugging. “Very mature, actually.”

Ekko pinched the bridge of his nose. “I swear, if you leave this party with someone who uses the word ‘theatre’ with an r-e at the end, I am no longer professionally liable.”

Violet smirked and turned back to her drink, but her eyes flicked once more to the woman across the room.

Caitlyn was still there.

Still beautiful.

Still watching.

And Violet was already thinking about what that mouth might taste like when she wasn’t smiling for cameras.

x-x-x

The lounge had filled out as the minutes ticked toward showtime. The lighting, which was intentionally dim, had taken on that honeyed hue that made everyone appear a bit more expensive, voices rose, and the clinking of glasses increased. Jazz had given way to something low and rhythmic, a subtle beat beneath the buzz of schmoozing and soft laughter.

Caitlyn had migrated toward a quieter corner, close to a marble-topped bar where a bartender in all black was artfully torching something citrus. Mel, phone pressed to her ear, had given her a parting nod before slipping into the hallway to handle some last-minute press detail, muttering something about an editor wh

For the first time that night, Caitlyn was alone. Not entirely, of course, there were always eyes, always background noise,but for a brief stretch of seconds, she wasn’t being spoken to or asked to perform polite brilliance.

She allowed herself a breath. Let her shoulders loosen slightly, the glass of champagne resting cool against her palm.

Across the room, Violet clocked it immediately. The space. The opportunity. That moment of stillness before the next wave of industry chatter swept in.

Ekko noticed too.

“Don’t,” he warned, already stepping in front of her like a human PR barricade.

Violet gave him a flat look. “I’m literally going to say hello.”

Ekko narrowed his eyes. “You never ‘literally’ do anything.”

But she was already moving past him, weaving through clusters of guests with the kind of easy grace that came from years of stages, afterparties, and knowing exactly when to enter a room. She didn’t rush. Didn’t linger too long on Caitlyn as she approached. Just enough to be seen.

Caitlyn noticed her before she spoke. Of course she did.

The flame-red hair. The boots. The quiet confidence that moved like smoke. She hadn’t expected her to come over, not really, but something in her stomach tightened, anticipation flickering sharp and electric.

Violet stopped beside her, keeping a comfortable distance, one hand still around her glass.

“Didn’t think I’d see anyone else under thirty with decent posture at this thing,” she said, voice low, casual. The edges of a smile ghosted her lips.

Caitlyn turned her head slowly, taking her in, this close, Violet smelled like leather and something darker. Not sweet. Something nocturnal. Her voice was lower than expected. Rough velvet.

“Is that your idea of a greeting?” Caitlyn asked lightly, one brow lifting, accent crisp. “You insult everyone you meet, or am I special?”

Violet gave a faint shrug. “It’s worked well enough so far.”

A pause. Just a breath. Just long enough to feel like a choice.

“Violet,” she offered, her voice softening. “I did the closing song for the film.”

She extended a hand, delicate fingers cool and dry. “Caitlyn Kiramman.”

Their hands met. Brief, firm. Charged.

“I know,” Violet said, letting go after a second too long. “You don’t really blend in.”

Caitlyn gave a short laugh, low in her throat. “Neither do you.”

Neither smiled fully, but something shimmered in the space between them, an understanding, unspoken but obvious. No bold declarations, no flirtatious clichés. Just tone, gaze, timing.

Violet leaned her hip slightly against the edge of the bar, angling her body toward Caitlyn without pushing.

“Enjoying your night?” she asked, her voice quieter now.

Caitlyn’s eyes lingered on her for a heartbeat longer than necessary. “It just got more interesting.”

And Violet, ever so subtly, bit the inside of her cheek to keep the smirk from growing.

Ekko, across the room, stared into his drink and muttered, “Unbelievable.”

Violet’s gaze slid sideways toward Caitlyn, not sharp, not heavy, just enough to register every elegant line of her profile. She liked how still Caitlyn was. Composed, precise. Like she didn’t need to fill the silence to prove she was interesting.

Caitlyn, for her part, met the moment with her usual calm, a curated sort of stillness, honed by press junkets and polite society. But underneath it, she was acutely aware of the way Violet was watching her. Like she was trying to read her, not perform for her. Caitlyn didn't mind that it was a little unsettling.

“So,” Violet said after a beat, swirling the last of her drink, “do you always look like you’ve just stepped out of an art history textbook, or is that a premiere-exclusive thing?”

Caitlyn let out a quiet breath of amusement, eyes flicking over Violet’s outfit in return, black lace under leather, unapologetic tailoring that made a statement even in a room full of carefully styled people. “And do you always dress like a Bond villain’s favorite mistake, or am I just very lucky tonight?”

Violet grinned, a slow, sideways pull at her mouth. “Depends. You feeling lucky?”

Caitlyn didn’t flinch, didn’t blush, just held her gaze with that maddening British poise.

“Moderately,” she said coolly. “Though I am beginning to question your taste in metaphors.”

Violet tilted her head. “You know, for someone who clearly terrifies publicists, you’re oddly charming.”

“That’s the accent,” Caitlyn replied, sipping her champagne. “I can get away with saying the most appalling things. No one suspects a thing.”

“Terrifying and dangerous,” Violet mused. “I like that.”

Caitlyn’s eyes narrowed, but there was a glint of play in it. “And you? What’s your reputation when you’re not making grown men cry in music reviews?”

Violet chuckled. “Misunderstood. Occasionally difficult. Talented enough to get away with it.”

“Modest, too.”

“The most.”

There was a pause again, but not uncomfortable. Just weighted. Like a held breath. The jazz in the background shifted to something slower, something with space between the notes. The rest of the room faded, if only a little.

“I liked your song,” Caitlyn said eventually, softer now. “The one in the final scene. It caught me off guard.”

Violet looked at her, and there was something steadier in her gaze this time. Less teasing. “That’s the goal.”

“It felt like it meant something.”

“It did.”

Somewhere behind them, Mel had re-entered the room, already scanning for Caitlyn. Ekko, still posted near a wall, looked like he was preparing a diplomatic intervention.

Neither woman noticed.

Or if they did, they didn’t care.

Violet glanced briefly toward the main doors, where someone in a headset was starting to usher people toward the screening room. The energy in the lounge shifted subtly—less mingling, more movement, the night ticking forward on its well-rehearsed schedule.

She sighed, just loud enough for Caitlyn to catch it. 

“Well,” she said, tilting her glass before setting it on the bar, “I imagine we’re both about to get dragged into separate corners of this very glamorous evening for various work-related nonsense.”

Caitlyn arched a brow. “Tragic, truly.”

“But,” Violet continued, and her voice dropped just a little, low and steady, “I’d like to get to know you a bit better. Off the red carpet. Off the record.”

Caitlyn didn’t respond right away. Her gaze stayed level, curious, and just a touch amused.

Violet’s face was casual, but inside, her thoughts had taken a far less polite direction. I’d like to know how you sound when you stop speaking so properly. I’d like to see how much of that elegance stays intact when you’re beneath me, breathless and ruined and not thinking in full sentences.

She didn’t say any of that, of course. She just looked at Caitlyn like she could already see all the ways she wanted her, and was patient enough to wait.

Caitlyn, for her part, felt her pulse lift just slightly. She was no stranger to attention, to interest dressed in charm and double meanings. But there was something more dangerous about how Violet did it, like she didn’t need to impress her. Like the attraction was fact, not negotiation.

And maybe, Caitlyn thought, maybe she could allow herself one night of chaos. Of temptation. She’d been so good lately. Such a good girl. So composed. What was one evening wrapped in something a little more... unpolished?

Still, she wasn’t about to throw herself at her. She had pride. Timing. Standards.

“A few days from now might suit,” Caitlyn said finally, cool and controlled. “Tomorrow’s rather full, and the next evening I’m trapped at a dinner with three producers and a dangerously undercooked script.”

Violet smirked. “You say that like it’s not a perfectly good excuse to sneak out early.”

“I might,” Caitlyn said, tilting her head, “if I had somewhere more appealing to be.”

“Working on it,” Violet murmured, already reaching into her blazer. From an interior pocket, she pulled her phone, a matte-black thing, worn at the edges and covered in faint scratches like it’d been dropped on every continent.

She held it out to Caitlyn, open to a blank contact screen.

“Here,” she said, tone easy. “You seem like the type who’d put her number in with proper punctuation.”

Caitlyn took the phone with a faint smile, her fingers brushing Violet’s, warm, brief, deliberate.

She typed:

Caitlyn Kiramman

and added her number.

Then, for good measure, she handed the phone back and said, “No unsolicited photos.”

Violet looked positively scandalized. “What kind of monster do you take me for?”

“I’ve been on the internet.”

“I’ll send you a playlist instead,” Violet said, tucking the phone back into her jacket. “Nothing too intense. Just a few songs that’ll make you think about me.”

Caitlyn rolled her eyes, smiling despite herself. “How considerate of you.”

“You’re welcome.”

And then the doors opened wider, the murmur of someone announcing the screening growing louder.

Violet straightened, but didn’t step away just yet.

“I’ll text you,” she said, voice low again.

Caitlyn nodded, sipping what was left of her champagne.

“I’ll pretend not to check immediately.”

And just like that, they turned toward the rest of the evening, separate, for now.

But the spark had been lit.

And neither of them had any real intention of putting it out.

Chapter Text

The next morning arrived in Manhattan the way it always did, soft and gray, like the city itself hadn’t had its coffee yet. Caitlyn stood barefoot in her apartment’s kitchen, silk robe tied neatly, tea steeping beside her in a bone-white mug she’d gotten in Notting Hill and refused to part with.Beyond the broad windows, all glass and ambition, the skyline sparkled in the early light.

Against the marble worktop, her phone vibrated.

She didn’t look right away. She never did. Routine was sacred: water, Earl Grey, one perfect slice of sourdough toast. But after the first sip of tea and a bite of toast that was slightly too crunchy on the edges, she gave in and checked.

[Unknown Number]

hope you don’t regret this yet

if you do, lie. I’m very sensitive 

it's vi btw 

Caitlyn’s brow arched slightly.

So she hadn’t been bluffing.

Another message followed a second later.

[Violet]

also, I made you a playlist. Songs to Think About Me To.

Attached was a Spotify link.

She clicked it.

First track: "Only Shallow" by My Bloody Valentine.

Second: "The Bad Thing", by Arctic Monkeys.

Third: "PARANOIA", by HEARTSTEEL. 

Fourth: A cover of something obscure and haunting in French.

And a lot of Violet's songs. 

“Oh good,” Caitlyn murmured, sipping her tea. “She’s dramatic.”

Her fingers hovered above the keyboard. She wasn’t about to start her day appearing too eager. That was a rookie mistake. So she waited exactly five minutes, just long enough to make it seem like she had better things to do,and then replied.

[Caitlyn]

Regret isn’t the word I’d use.

Alarmed, perhaps. Your music taste has weaponized longing.

A moment passed. Two. Then:

[Violet]

you sound like you’re writing me a gothic love letter from 1894

keep going

Caitlyn shook her head, fighting a smile. She moved through the rest of her morning with practiced efficiency, shower, skincare, wardrobe (wide-leg trousers, crisp white blouse, just shy of intimidating). She had a meeting downtown and a coffee with her agent after. But all morning, somehow, Violet lingered. In the playlist she was listening to, in the wording of her texts, in the mental picture of that smirk and the damn leather suit.

x-x-x 

Violet, on the other hand, sat in her loft on a broken leather armchair with a coffee cup in one hand and a guitar propped against her leg across the river in Brooklyn. Her apartment was warm and lived-in: exposed brick walls, shelves overflowing with records and books, a cat she hadn't named yet dozing in the sun near the fire escape.

She stared at her phone, Caitlyn’s message still glowing on the screen.

Alarmed, perhaps.

She loved that.

Violet had dated her fair share of chaotic women, but Caitlyn? Caitlyn was order in expensive heels. Violet wasn’t sure yet if she wanted to undo that or worship it.

Probably both.

She fired off another message:

[Violet]

so when do I get to witness this British alarm in person again?

Caitlyn was on her way out of her building when the text hit. She paused on the sidewalk, the doorman politely pretending not to notice her pause. A breeze picked up, spring still figuring itself out.

[Caitlyn]

My calendar is mildly unhinged, but I could manage Thursday evening.

Provided you don’t plan to lure me into a warehouse with subpar wine and a philosophical lecture.

[Violet]

so… I need to cancel my warehouse reservation

[Caitlyn]

Please do. I’m only tempted by existentialism if there’s decent cheese involved.

Violet laughed, typing one-handed as her cat climbed over her keyboard.

[Violet]

thursday works. I’ll find us something low-pressure

somewhere between a dive bar and a gallery opening where everyone pretends to like sculpture

[Caitlyn]

Splendid. I’ll bring my best expression of cultivated ambivalence.

x-x-x

By evening, the sun dipped behind the Manhattan skyline, throwing long gold shadows across Caitlyn’s apartment. She leaned on the windowsill, wine glass in hand, gazing toward the river. Her phone buzzed again, and she knew it was Violet before she even picked it up.

[Violet]

what are you doing right now?

[Caitlyn]

Looking out a window, drinking wine, and wondering if I’ve made a poor life decision by agreeing to meet a woman who probably owns more combat boots than cutlery.

[Violet]

I own exactly two knives and neither of them match

you’re in good hands

Caitlyn stared at the screen, smirk curving at the corners of her mouth. She was already planning her Thursday outfit. Something effortlessly attractive, nothing too obvious. Maybe the blouse with the open back. Just in case.

Just enough to match the playlist.

x-x-x

The days between the premiere and Thursday moved with an annoying sort of slowness. Not that either woman would admit to counting them.

Tuesday: 

Caitlyn spent most of the day at a production office in Chelsea, seated across from a director who used the word “gritty” with such conviction she considered faking a medical emergency. By noon, she had a headache, two pages of notes, and an invitation to a table read she didn’t particularly want to attend.

She stepped out into the city with her coat open, scarf looped once around her neck, the April air cool but not unfriendly. As she waited for her driver, she checked her phone out of habit and found a message waiting.

[Violet]

did your alarm subside, or are you still reeling from my playlist of emotionally-charged chaos?

Caitlyn replied quickly, fingers nimble despite the wind.

[Caitlyn]

Still recovering from your music.

Track Crashed into Myself Again had me lying flat on the floor contemplating mortality and missed connections.

[Violet]

perfect

that’s the one I wrote in a bathroom stall during a blackout in Prague

[Caitlyn]

You’re so romantic.

[Violet]

only on Tuesdays

Caitlyn smiled despite herself. She tucked the phone away and told herself she was simply humoring the singer. Just indulging the game.

But later that evening, when she returned to her apartment and settled in with a book she fully intended to ignore, she caught herself hovering over Violet’s name in her messages again. And again. And again.

Wednesday:

Violet spent the afternoon in a Brooklyn studio completing vocals for a song meant to evoke summer heartbreak. From the night before, her voice was a little hoarse, too much whiskey, not enough water, but her producer appreciated the grit in it, so she leaned in.

Between shots, phone resting on her stomach, one boot resting on the edge of the coffee table, she lay on a beat-up velvet couch. She hadn’t texted Caitlyn yet, which was admirable, considering she’d nearly done so three times before noon.

Instead, she took a different route.

She opened Caitlyn’s Instagram.

It was clean, curated. Film stills, behind-the-scenes moments, subtle outfit shots that suggested someone else had taken them, but Caitlyn had definitely approved them. The most recent post was from the night of the premiere: a shot of her standing in soft light, gown perfectly sculpted, a single hand at her hip. Effortless.

Violet tapped the heart.

Didn’t follow her. Just liked it.

She tossed the phone aside and grinned to herself.

Across the river, Caitlyn was preparing dinner, well, selecting cheese and crackers while pretending it was dinner, when her phone buzzed. She glanced over lazily and saw the Instagram notification. She only had notifications on for verified accounts. 

Violet liked your photo.

She blinked. Checked again.

Violet still didn’t follow her.

Caitlyn narrowed her eyes at the screen, letting out a quiet, amused scoff.

“Oh, she’s that kind of trouble.”

She didn’t respond. Not directly. But she did update her story an hour later with a candid black-and-white shot of the Manhattan skyline from her balcony, captioned simply: “Quiet nights.”

It wasn’t bait, exactly. But she knew where the line was. And how to stand next to it with elegance.

By the time Thursday rolled around, both Caitlyn and Violet had successfully pretended not to care at least fifteen times each.

But the clock was ticking.

x-x-x

Thursday came cloaked in that sort of early-evening hush that made the city seem briefly tame. Faded blue-gray, the sky over Manhattan; the air sharp with only a touch of warmth sneaking in from the tail end of spring. Standing in front of her mirror, Caitlyn changed the collar of a dark silk blouse: navy, barely open in the back, understated but intentional. Her pants were tailored, high-waisted, and somewhat menacing.Lip color: muted rose. Earrings: gold, minimalist, just enough to catch light without screaming for it.

Her phone vibrated on the dresser.

[Violet]

change of plans, I’m picking you up

don’t argue. it’s romantic

Caitlyn smirked.

[Caitlyn]

That’s wildly unnecessary.

I’m capable of arranging transport, you know.

There’s a thing called the subway.

[Violet]

absolutely not. I’m not letting you descend into the underworld in heels

I ’ll be outside your building at 7:15

bring your good side, I assume you have one 

Caitlyn stared at the screen, one brow raised, then typed:

[Caitlyn]

I’m British. They’re all good sides.

Some are just less judgmental than others.

[Violet]

perfect

I’ll drive slowly so I can admire all of them 

At 7:12 sharp, Caitlyn stepped out of her building into the cool Manhattan dusk, where Violet was already parked at the curb in a black ‘67 Mustang Fastback, because of course she was.

It purred low and smug beneath the street lamps, gleaming like an oil-slicked promise. Violet leaned one arm out the window, hair slightly tousled, leather jacket thrown over a buttoned shirt that had seen both trouble and expensive detergent. She wore minimal makeup, just smudged eyeliner and confidence.

Caitlyn descended the steps like a goddamn scene.

Violet watched her approach, and for a second forgot how to be glib. She'd known Caitlyn was stunning, obviously, but up close again, with the way she moved, calm and clean like a polished blade, it hit different. It hit hard.

Caitlyn paused at the window. “You’re early.”

“You’re welcome,” Violet said, lips curving lazily. “Get in before someone else tries to.”

The passenger door creaked open with satisfying weight, and Caitlyn slid inside, smoothing her blouse as she settled in. The interior smelled like leather and Violet’s cologne, something smoky and warm, not at all subtle.

“This is wildly dramatic,” Caitlyn said, glancing at the dashboard.

“You say that like it’s a problem.”

“Merely an observation.”

Violet looked over at her as the engine hummed low beneath them.

“You clean up dangerously well, Kiramman.”

“I could say the same,” Caitlyn replied, gaze flicking over her. “You’ve made an effort. I’m touched.”

“Don't get used to it. I usually reserve buttoned shirts for funerals and first dates.”

Caitlyn gave her a sideways glance.

With the windows half-down and music playing low, something bluesy and slow, carefully selected, they drove across the bridge. For a few blocks neither spoke; the silence was not uncomfortable but rather charged, the sort of quiet that stretches thin and warm between two people who know something is approaching.

Caitlyn observed the city lights passing by, Brooklyn getting closer, the structures more textured and rough, less self-conscious than Manhattan.

“I chose somewhere in Williamsburg,” Violet said eventually, one hand on the wheel. “Tiny place. No press, no curious people. Just good food and terrible lighting. Very anti-Hollywood.”

Caitlyn turned toward her, brow lifted. “Sounds like the kind of place that doesn’t split checks.”

“Exactly. You’ll owe me your soul, probably.”

Caitlyn smiled slowly. “That seems... steep.”

Violet shrugged. “You’re expensive.”

Caitlyn looked back at the road. The engine hummed low, traffic thinning as they wove through the narrower streets of Brooklyn.

She didn’t say it out loud, but she liked being picked up.

She liked the car, the smell of the leather, the playlist, the confidence.

She liked that Violet had decided to take the lead, but hadn’t tried to overpower her.

She liked where this was going.

And she had every intention of making the destination worth the drive.

Violet drove with one hand draped over the steering wheel, posture relaxed but mind not even close. Every few seconds, her eyes darted to the woman in her passenger seat, composed, back straight, one leg crossed gently, fingers resting against her thigh as though she had stepped out of a Vogue editorial on self-restraint.

Violet liked confidence. She liked control. She liked women who didn’t melt just because she smiled at them a certain way. But this, this was starting to feel like something else entirely.

I like this too much, she thought, jaw tightening subtly. The silence. The way she talks. The way she doesn’t try so hard, but still owns the whole goddamn space when she walks into it.

She’d picked Caitlyn up half for the gesture and half because she wanted that moment, her behind the wheel, Caitlyn gliding into the passenger seat like she’d always belonged there. Violet had expected to feel in charge. Instead, she felt slightly off-balance, like Caitlyn was meeting her stare for stare, thought for thought.

And the worst part?

She didn’t hate it.

She might’ve even craved it.

x-x-x

She turned onto a quieter street in Williamsburg, lined with dim façades, brick buildings, and too many plants spilling off tiny balconies. A warm amber glow leaked from one storefront with a matte-black sign above the door, hand-painted with gold lettering that had long since faded:

BASALT

It was narrow and easy to miss, tucked between a vintage bookstore and a florist that only opened after dark.

Violet eased the car into a tight spot just ahead, cut the engine, and exhaled once.

She climbed out first and moved around the car. She almost didn’t, wasn’t the type to fuss, but something about the night, about Caitlyn, made her want to indulge the ritual. So she opened the passenger door and stepped back just slightly, the corners of her mouth twitching up.

Caitlyn looked up at her, a glint of surprise well-hidden behind a calm expression.

“Well then,” she murmured, stepping out with practiced grace. “Chivalry lives.”

“Only on Thursdays,” Violet said, voice low, half a smile tugging at her lips. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

Inside, the restaurant was dark and rich with atmosphere: low ceilings, dark wood, wrought-iron light fixtures strung with dim Edison bulbs. One wall was occupied by a long marble bar; the other was piled with broken plaster, unread books, and plants that seemed to have grown there before Brooklyn became Brooklyn.

The scent of warm bread and something buttery lingered in the air. Jazz played softly, vinyl, not digital. It sounded like Miles Davis.

Only twelve tables existed. No host stand. Dressed in black, a man acknowledged Violet once and pointed to a corner table mostly obscured by a wall of ferns and amber glass near the window.

As they strolled, Caitlyn scanned the area, her gaze drawn to the uneven chairs, the gentle candlelight, and the reality that no one here was gazing at them as if they were fascinating. No camcorders. No business faces.

“Unexpected,” she said softly, slipping into the seat. “In a good way.”

Violet slid in across from her, draping her jacket over the back of the chair.

“I like places that don’t care who you are,” she said. “Makes it easier to be someone else. Or just... quieter.”

Caitlyn studied her for a beat.

“Are you always this thoughtful when you’re not writing songs that emotionally dismantle strangers?”

Violet smirked. “Depends on the company.”

Caitlyn took the menu from the table, opened it, and smiled when she saw there were no prices listed. Of course. One of those places.

She glanced up, amused. “And here I thought I was the dangerous one.”

Violet raised her glass of water and clinked it gently against Caitlyn’s.

“Not yet, Kiramman. But the night is young.”

Young, courteous, and dressed in a black button-up with sleeves rolled just enough to reveal a discreet tattoo on his forearm, the waiter came with the kind of timing that implied he had been watching from a shadow.

The menus were short. No categories. Just a list of dishes described in a language that made Caitlyn want to both praise and mock whoever wrote them. She squinted slightly at one line.

“Charred carrots with fermented shallot butter and torn dill. That’s quite a commitment to a root vegetable.”

Violet grinned. “It’s Brooklyn. We’re legally required to be overly emotional about produce.”

“I should’ve brought a solicitor,” Caitlyn muttered, scanning the wine list. “Or a translator.”

x-x-x

They ended up ordering a shared spread: crisp duck over lentils, grilled leeks in something smoky and sharp, a soft cheese with fig jam and black bread that Caitlyn insisted on purely for the “decadent nihilism” of it.

The wine was red, bold, something with impossible notes that neither of them took seriously. Caitlyn pretended to guess flavor profiles; Violet pretended not to be impressed.

Conversation stretched easily between them. There was a rhythm now. A slow unraveling. They didn’t rush it.

“So,” Violet said, spearing a piece of duck with an elegance that surprised even her, “were you always like this?”

Caitlyn glanced up, amused. “Like what?”

“All... polished. Poised. Dangerously British.”

Caitlyn took a slow sip of wine, eyes steady. “That’s quite an accusation.”

“I’m not judging,” Violet said, voice low. “It suits you. I just can’t picture you ever being messy.”

Caitlyn considered that, one finger tapping lightly against her glass. “I was a menace in sixth form. Argued with a teacher about gender bias in the assigned reading list. Staged a silent protest with a friend. Got detention for two weeks.”

Violet smiled. “That’s... adorable rebellion.”

“I also dated a drummer for six months and almost dropped out of university to follow her to Thailand.”

“Now that’s what I wanted to hear.”

Caitlyn shrugged, a faint flush rising on her cheeks. “It ended in chaos, naturally. She had a man bun and no passport.”

Violet laughed, actually laughed, and Caitlyn felt something shift, like the air between them had warmed.

“And you?” Caitlyn asked, leaning forward slightly. “Were you always this... provocative?”

Violet tilted her head. “You mean loud? Or charming?”

“Dangerous.”

Violet’s smile returned, slower this time. “Maybe. I was the kid with too much eyeliner and a stolen lighter in every pocket. I used to write songs on the back of detention slips. My guidance counselor told me I was ‘unfocused with potential.’”

“And now?”

“Still unfocused. But people pay me for it.”

Caitlyn tilted her head, lips curving. “Quite the capitalist arc.”

“It’s rock and roll. We romanticize chaos, then sell it back to people in limited edition vinyl.”

Caitlyn smiled around her wine glass, eyes still locked on hers. “You’re better read than you let on.”

“You’re better reckless than you let on.”

A beat passed. Their plates were nearly empty, wine glasses catching candlelight between them.

The music shifted, something sultry and slow, notes stretching like silk through the quiet restaurant. The kind of background melody that made every glance feel longer, every pause more deliberate.

Caitlyn didn’t break eye contact. “You’re trying to unravel me, aren’t you?”

Violet leaned back, one arm draped lazily across the back of the booth. “Not trying. Just... curious what’s underneath all that calm.”

“And what do you think you’ll find?”

Violet’s gaze dipped, then rose again, deliberate, slow.

“I don't know, maybe... Maybe something worth writing about.”

Caitlyn, against her better judgment, restraint, and carefully cultivated silence, felt a flicker of excitement curl low in her belly.
It would be a really long, really fascinating evening.

Caitlyn watched the last sip of wine in her glass swirl up the curve before settling once more, deep and dark. Her eyes, however, were set on Violet, who had the audacity to look totally at ease, as though she hadn't just said something that made Caitlyn feel somewhat like a matchbook being held too near a flame.

She slowly put down her glass.

“And if you did write about me,” Caitlyn said, her voice low and composed but laced with unmistakable curiosity, “what would it sound like?”

Violet didn’t answer right away. She didn’t have to. Her smile shifted, less amused, more deliberate. That kind of smile that wasn’t really about humor at all. It was a promise, or a warning. Maybe both.

“You want the truth?” Violet asked, voice a little rougher now, just on the edge of a growl.

“I insist,” Caitlyn replied, almost too calmly. But there was a pulse just below her jaw that gave her away.

Violet glanced down at the candle between them, watched the flame flicker, then looked back at Caitlyn with the kind of focus that should come with a warning label.

“I think it’d start quiet,” she said. “Minimal. Sparse chords, open space. Something cool and sharp, like the sound of heels on stone floors.”

Caitlyn tilted her head slightly, intrigued.

“Then?” she prompted.

“Then it builds,” Violet went on, fingers trailing the edge of her glass. “Because beneath all that restraint, there’s pressure. Control. Want. So I’d add dissonance. Something under the surface you don’t hear right away, but you feel it. In your chest. In your teeth.”

Caitlyn was still, expression unreadable, but her lips parted, just barely.

“It wouldn’t be loud,” Violet added. “Not at first. Just... persistent. Like breath against the back of your neck when you’re trying to concentrate.”

Caitlyn exhaled softly, too quietly for anyone else to notice. But Violet noticed. She watched every flicker of her, every calculated breath.

“And the lyrics?” Caitlyn asked, voice a little lower now, like velvet turned inside out.

Violet leaned forward a touch, elbows on the table, gaze steady.

“They’d be about a woman I can’t quite figure out,” she said. “The kind that makes you behave just long enough to convince yourself you’re not in trouble. Until it’s too late.”

Caitlyn let out a breath of a laugh, but there was heat behind it.

“Sounds like a very niche market.”

“Oh, it is,” Violet said, her voice a whisper now, “but the people who get it… really get it.”

They stared at each other in that suspended hush, music low, lights dim, the scent of wine and burnt sugar clinging to the air. The world felt narrowed down to the space between them. A breath, a glance, a dare.

And Caitlyn, still composed but undeniably affected, leaned back with a faint smirk that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Well then,” she murmured, “I suppose I ought to be flattered. Or nervous.”

Violet smiled slowly, dragging her gaze down Caitlyn’s blouse and back up again, unhurried.

“Why not both?”

x-x-x

They shared the dessert without discussing it, just a silent agreement over warm chocolate tart and sea salt, paired with two spoons and a shared glance that carried the kind of familiarity that shouldn’t have existed yet.

Caitlyn had taken the first bite, nodded with an exaggerated air of approval, and said, “I suppose I can forgive the fermented shallot butter now.”
Violet had nearly choked laughing.

By the time the check arrived, Caitlyn was reaching for her bag with well-practiced grace, but Violet stopped her with a light touch to the wrist, just fingers, not force.

“Don’t even try it,” she said, already reaching for her card.

Caitlyn raised a brow. “Is this another one of your deeply traditional Thursday rituals?”

“Only when I’m the one asking someone out,” Violet replied, handing off the card to the waiter without breaking eye contact. “Besides, I picked the restaurant. It’s part of the experience. Like getting lost in my music or watching me reverse parallel park perfectly the first time.”

Caitlyn huffed a soft laugh and leaned back. “Well, I do appreciate consistency.”

x-x-x

Outside, the air had cooled slightly, that specific New York quiet settling in once the worst of the traffic had thinned and most of the noise belonged to heels on pavement, distant sirens, and the clink of dishes from still-open restaurants.

Violet hit a few keys on her phone and then slipped it into her jacket. Caitlyn, already walking toward the curb, paused when she realized Violet wasn’t following.

“Not getting the car?”

“Nope,” Violet said, stepping beside her. “I had someone from my team come grab it.”

Caitlyn blinked. “You had someone retrieve your car. Like a getaway vehicle.”

“I prefer ‘mobile strategy.’”

Caitlyn narrowed her eyes, amused. “And the strategy now?”

Violet looked sideways at her, hands in her pockets. “Walk with me a bit. I needed air. And you’re good company.”

Caitlyn didn’t answer immediately. She just fell into step beside her. “You’re dangerously persuasive, you know that?”

Violet grinned. “I do.”

They walked without urgency, boots and heels tapping in alternating rhythm as they wound down side streets bathed in amber streetlight and shopfront glow. They passed closed cafés and shuttered bookstores, the city softened around the edges.

Violet kept stealing glances, trying to be subtle. She failed.

She’s ridiculous, she thought. Actually ridiculous.

Because Caitlyn wasn’t just beautiful. She was that quiet kind of beautiful. The kind that snuck up on you mid-sentence, when she tilted her head or arched one perfect brow. The kind that made everything she said sound intelligent and a little bit cutting, like she’d mastered the art of charming you while dismantling you at the same time.

And God, she was funny. Not loud or showy, but dry and sharp, and always one breath ahead. Violet couldn’t decide if she wanted to kiss her or high-five her.

They walked in easy silence for a few blocks until Caitlyn looked around and asked, “Are we headed somewhere, or are we just wandering until one of us admits we’re cold?”

Violet smirked. “My place isn’t far.”

Caitlyn’s expression didn’t shift, but Violet could feel the glance she gave her.

“I’m not trying anything,” Violet added, eyes forward, almost too casual. “I just... like walking with you. Talking with you. You’re better than most people I meet at these things.”

Caitlyn gave her a sidelong glance. “That’s either deeply flattering or deeply tragic.”

Violet smiled, slower now. “Bit of both, probably.”

They crossed a quiet intersection, the city humming low around them, and neither said what they were both starting to realize, this felt good. Surprisingly good. The kind of good that made Violet slow her pace just to stretch the moment.

And in the distance, warm light waited behind tall Brooklyn windows.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Morning crept in as if to avoid waking them.

Through the windows, pale, soft light filtered in around half-drawn curtains and landed on skin not yet ready to be awake. Apart from the slight refrigerator hum and the odd stretch of the city yawning outside, the flat was quiet.

Caitlyn stirred first.

Her eyes blinked open slowly, vision adjusting to the muted gold wash of morning. For a second, her body registered before her brain did, and God, her back was furious. The couch had been fine for whispering and kissing and falling asleep in warmth, but now her shoulder blades were letting her know this furniture wasn’t designed for tenderness.

She shifted slightly, trying not to wake the woman still wrapped around her.

Violet.

Violet’s leg was draped over her hip, an arm curled under Caitlyn’s ribs, and her face, relaxed now, soft, less shielded than Caitlyn had ever seen,was pressed near the side of Caitlyn’s neck, breath slow and warm against her skin.

And Caitlyn… didn’t want to move. Not really.

But her spine disagreed.

She let out a quiet groan as she shifted again, trying to uncurl one leg without disturbing too much of their precarious arrangement.

Violet stirred, barely.

Then, sleep-thick and mumbled against Caitlyn’s collarbone: “Don’t you dare say good morning yet.”

Caitlyn smiled into the ceiling. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

A pause. Then Violet grumbled, “We should’ve gone to bed.”

“Your couch is lovely,” Caitlyn said, with diplomatic sarcasm.

“Liar,” Violet murmured. “You’re broken, aren’t you?”

“My entire back is questioning every decision I made last night.”

Violet finally opened one eye, squinting up at her. Her hair was a mess and there was a red mark on her cheek from the seam of a pillow. She looked unfairly good like that—undone, real, closer than anyone had been in a long time.

Caitlyn shifted just enough to look at her properly. “Next time, we relocate.”

Violet smirked, but didn’t comment on the next time part. Just pressed her face back into Caitlyn’s shoulder with a sleepy sound that was half surrender, half affection.

Caitlyn closed her eyes again for a moment.

This wasn't supposed to feel like this.

Not like ease. Not like belonging. Not like... something she’d want again.

And yet.

Violet, half-asleep and half-wrapped around her, was quiet. But her thoughts were loud.

She hadn’t meant to sleep like this. Hadn’t meant to wake up still touching someone who wasn’t supposed to matter past midnight.

But Caitlyn’s warmth was real. She breathed steadily. She had no expectations and had not tried to hurry anything. She had simply remained. Now she was in Violet's arms, in her space, and it didn't seem wrong.

It felt like something Violet didn't realize she missed until it appeared in the form of a woman with a voice too quiet, a grin too knowing, and an accent that made everything sound a bit safer than it actually was.

Violet exhaled.

“I hate how nice this feels,” she murmured.

Caitlyn’s voice was soft. “Me too.”

Neither moved again for a while.

The morning didn’t demand anything of them. And for now, they gave it exactly that in return.

x-x-x

The sound of gentle paws hitting the floor followed by a brief, impatient meow finally shattered the stillness.

Though she didn't open her eyes, Caitlyn sensed Violet's body change. A low, hesitant groan resonated against her.

“Of course,” Violet muttered. “The prince awakens.”

Another meow. This one louder. More direct.

Caitlyn smiled, still half-asleep. “He has excellent timing.”

“He has no respect for intimacy,” Violet grumbled, lifting her head from Caitlyn’s shoulder.

Caitlyn blinked her eyes open fully, stretching just enough to regret it immediately. “My back might sue you.”

The cat padded up beside them, hopping onto the couch armrest with practiced entitlement. He stared directly at Violet, tail flicking once.

“Yeah, yeah,” she muttered to him. “I know. You’re starving and abused.”

He meowed again.

Caitlyn sat up, pressing a hand to her lower back and wincing with a quiet laugh. “I admire his commitment.”

Violet rubbed her face and stood slowly, stretching her arms overhead. Caitlyn’s eyes followed the movement, lingering.

They both hesitated, suddenly upright, suddenly in daylight.

And for a beat, they just looked at each other.

No pretense. No leftover fog. Just… each other.

Violet’s voice broke the silence first, soft, almost shy. “Morning.”

Caitlyn tilted her head slightly, a faint smile playing on her lips. “Good morning.”

There was something suspended between them, not heavy, not loaded. Just present.

Violet stepped forward again, just close enough to lean in, and kissed her gently.

Not long.

Not urgent.

Just enough.

When they pulled apart, Violet rested her forehead briefly against Caitlyn’s, breathing in slow.

“I’ll make breakfast,” she murmured.

Caitlyn straightened, eyes warm. “I can help.”

“Nope.” Violet was already moving, dragging herself toward the kitchen like a woman accepting her fate. “My domain. You stay.”

Caitlyn observed her departure, noting the length of her buttoned shirt, the drowsy stumble of bare feet, and the cat following her like a shadow with judgments.

Smiling to herself, she let her gaze roam around the flat and reclined back into the couch.

Now, in daylight, it seemed even more like Violet.

Guitars leaned against the wall beside a weathered amp. A framed gig poster from five years ago, probably before the first record. Books stacked horizontally, records stacked vertically, a few half-melted candles, a chipped mug with a broken handle repurposed as a pen holder.

Lived-in. Not curated. Honest.

Caitlyn crossed one leg over the other, fingers laced over her knee, watching the room as if it might say something.

And maybe it already was.

Because this wasn’t some night she was trying to forget.

This was her, still here, in Violet’s space.

And Violet hadn’t asked her to leave.

Caitlyn was still absorbing the space when her phone buzzed from somewhere beneath the bag she'd thrown on the floor. Buried under the low hum of the coffee machine in the kitchen and the gentle patter of cat feet over the hardwood, the sound was understated.

She paused for a moment before bending down to get it, slowly and without haste. The screen lit up.

[Mel]

Are you alive? Did she kill you or adopt you? Please advise.

Caitlyn smirked. Classic.

She typed lazily, one-handed, fingers still not fully awake.

[Caitlyn]

Still alive. Intact. Slightly hungover.

I survived the couch, in case you were worried.

Mel replied immediately.

[Mel]

You slept on the couch?

Caitlyn, what kind of lesbian are you

Caitlyn rolled her eyes, biting back a laugh.

[Caitlyn]

The respectful kind.

And nothing happened, not quite. 

Also, her cat was watching.

[Mel]

Tell me everything later. Jayce says hi and “called it.

Of course he did.

Violet just then stepped back into the living room with a mug in one hand and the other resting on the counter behind her. She appeared more awake now but still had the just-got-up look, hair somewhat wild, shirt hanging loose, voice still low and somewhat raspy when she spoke.

“You texting your handler?”

Caitlyn raised an eyebrow. “Mel. She’s making sure you didn’t fold me into a guitar case during the night.”

Violet snorted, crossing the room and handing her a mug. “Would’ve needed a much bigger case.”

Their eyes met, brief, amused. Something warm settled in Caitlyn’s chest.

She took a sip of the coffee. It was too strong. It was perfect.

“You make a solid first morning coffee.”

“I’ve had practice,” Violet said. Then, over her shoulder, “Mel approved?”

“She’s pleased I’m still breathing.”

“For now.”

Caitlyn narrowed her eyes with a smile.

Violet just winked and disappeared into the kitchen again, the sound of the cat trailing close behind her.

x-x-x

Violet operated in the kitchen on autopilot. The aroma of coffee was already thick in the air; now, sharp and warm, bacon was sizzling to join it. Cracking eggs into a bowl and whisking lazily, she tossed two slices of bread into the toaster using her hip.

The flat was silent behind her save for the odd clink of Caitlyn's cup against ceramic and the gentle couch creak as she moved.

“I know you’re probably used to something more... refined,” Violet called out over her shoulder, pouring the eggs into the skillet. “But I promise you, American breakfast wins.”

Caitlyn’s voice came easily, amused and dry. “You mean wins in the sense of volume and cholesterol?”

“Exactly,” Violet said, smiling as she flipped the bacon. “What’s the point of a slow morning if you’re not full and slightly ashamed by the end of it?”

“Can’t argue with that.”

As she moved through the kitchen, Violet found herself glancing back at Caitlyn more than she needed to.

She was curled up now, still holding her coffee, one leg tucked under the other. Hair a little messy from sleep, eyeliner mostly gone, wearing last night’s clothes like they didn’t matter anymore. She looked soft. Not fragile, Caitlyn never looked fragile, but real.

And for Violet, that was new.

The Caitlyn from the red carpet, from magazine spreads and public appearances, always looked like she came out of a dream, polished, graceful, slightly untouchable. But this version, barefoot in her apartment, in the quiet, this Caitlyn was something else.

Something Violet couldn’t quite stop looking at.

Her chest ached in that stupid way it did when things felt too good too early. Like her body was trying to warn her not to get used to the shape of someone beside her. Not to like the sound of a second coffee mug being used.

She turned back to the pan, flipped the eggs.

But her thoughts wouldn’t let her go.

It wasn’t supposed to feel this easy.

Not to let someone sleep over. Not to wake up tangled. Not to cook breakfast while someone just… existed in her space like they belonged.

And it wasn’t just the sex, or lack of it. It was the way Caitlyn looked at her. The way she didn’t look away. The way she didn’t fill silence with fluff or ask Violet to be anything other than exactly how she was.

Violet grabbed two plates, dropped the toast, scooped the eggs, bacon. Her hand hesitated on the counter for a second before she called out:

“You’re a lot prettier when you’re not trying.”

From the living room, a pause.

Then Caitlyn’s voice, softer this time. “That sounded dangerously close to a compliment.”

“It was,” Violet said, bringing the plates over. “Don’t get used to it.”

But when she handed Caitlyn her plate, their fingers brushed. And neither of them pulled away.

They sat on the couch, plates balanced on their laps, legs crossed toward each other like the whole apartment had quietly agreed this morning was just for them.

The meal was basic, ideal, salty, warm, grounding. Violet was already halfway through her toast, chewing with the laid-back energy of someone who hadn't eaten since the night before.

Caitlyn bit gently into her bacon and then stopped to stare at her plate, her eyes narrowing.

“This is suspiciously good,” she said, looking up at Violet.

Violet smirked. “Wow. That almost sounded like gratitude.”

“I’m British. That was gratitude.”

Violet raised her mug. “Cheers, then.”

While the cat scuttled back and forth around their feet like a disapproving chaperone, they ate in friendly silence for a short while, the occasional creak of the old floorboards and the soft crackle of the bacon grease still barely audible in the background.

After placing her plate on the coffee table, Caitlyn leaned back and sighed quietly as she stretched her arms overhead.

“I should’ve said this earlier,” she murmured, “but this was my favorite kind of morning.”

Violet looked at her, slightly suspicious, slightly vulnerable. “Because of the coffee?”

“No.” Caitlyn smiled, slow and small. “Because it reminded me of something. This feelings of peace.”

She hesitated, then added, “When I was little, there was this bakery near my grandmother’s place in Surrey. The kind that looked like it came out of a storybook. Wooden beams, gold lettering on the glass, the whole thing.”

Violet blinked at her, quiet now, the shift in tone pulling her in.

“Every Sunday,” Caitlyn continued, “my gran would let me pick one cupcake. Any flavor I wanted. I’d always pretend to deliberate for way too long, just so I could stand there and smell everything.”

She smiled at the memory, distant but vivid.

“I used to think the whole point of Sundays was that cupcake. I’d sit on her porch with it in both hands, like I was holding something sacred.”

Violet watched her for a moment, fork halfway to her mouth, then slowly lowered it to the plate.

“That’s dangerously cute,” she said, voice soft.

Caitlyn raised an eyebrow. “You’re not allowed to weaponize that word against me.”

“You said your favorite food was a cupcake.”

“And I stand by it.”

Violet smiled, something quieter behind it. “You still eat them?”

“Not often.” Caitlyn paused. “But every now and then, when the week’s been especially shit, I’ll find a place. Get one. Just for myself.”

Violet leaned back, one arm over the back of the couch, her gaze lingering on Caitlyn in a new way. Like something had opened up between them without warning. Then, she set her empty plate down on the coffee table, leaned back with a stretch, and eyed Caitlyn over the rim of her mug.

“So…” she said slowly, a smirk curling at her mouth, “your favorite food is cupcakes. You cherish them. You romanticize them. You still eat them when you’re sad.”

Caitlyn narrowed her eyes. “That’s an oversimplification.”

“It’s a confession,” Violet said, already too pleased with herself. “And now, unfortunately, it’s canon.”

Caitlyn sighed, setting her own plate aside. “Please don’t.”

Violet tilted her head. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“What?” Violet blinked, innocently. “Cupcake?”

Caitlyn’s face went completely still. British composure activated. “Violet.”

“Oh no, no. You walked straight into that one.” Violet was grinning now, fully committed. “You know I’m not letting this go.”

Caitlyn gave her the flattest look she could muster. “That is not an appropriate nickname for anyone over the age of six.”

“Exactly why it’s perfect for you.”

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”

“Sure you are,” Violet said, sipping the last of her coffee. “But deep down? I think you love it.”

Caitlyn didn’t reply immediately. She reached for her mug again, carefully hiding the corner of her mouth that had just twitched into the beginning of a smile.

Violet caught it anyway.

She didn’t say anything. Just leaned her head against the back of the couch, content, watching Caitlyn try very hard to remain unaffected.

And Caitlyn, sipping her coffee slowly, eyes fixed on the street outside the window, told herself she didn’t like the name. That it was silly. Ridiculous.

But her chest felt warmer than it should. Her lips still wanted to smile.

And, yeah.

Maybe she did like it.

Maybe she liked the way Violet said it, like she was already hers, just a little.

x-x-x

They finished eating and Caitlyn glanced down at her phone again, squinting at the time, and let out a quiet sigh through her nose.

Violet didn’t need to ask. She already knew what that sigh meant.

“You running off to save the world?” she asked, still barefoot, one hip resting against the arm of the couch, mug in hand.

“Something like that,” Caitlyn muttered, turning the screen off. “More like a PR meeting and three hours of pretending I care about someone’s screenplay.”

Violet smirked. “Sexy.”

“Oh, wildly,” Caitlyn said, reaching for her heels by the door. “This is what people dream of when they imagine the glamour of acting. Blisters and conference calls.”

Violet watched her slip one shoe on, then the other, eyes unapologetically trailing up Caitlyn’s legs. “I don’t know... I think you’re pulling off the hungover-professional look way too well.”

Caitlyn straightened and gave her a dry look. “It’s a talent.”

Violet set her mug down and crossed the room slowly, closing the distance. Her voice dipped, just slightly, teasing.

“You know, you were way cuter almost angled in my arms talking about cupcakes.”

Caitlyn narrowed her eyes. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what, Cupcake?”

“You said it again.”

Violet leaned in a little, grinning. “Yeah. I like how it sounds when you get annoyed about it.”

“I’m not annoyed.”

“Oh, I know.” She traced a slow circle on Caitlyn’s waist with one finger. “You love it.”

Caitlyn exhaled through a smile, trying not to give in, but failing. “You’re infuriating.”

“And you’re still standing here instead of walking out the door.”

They stood like that for a moment. Close. Still smiling. Breathing the same warm space between them.

Caitlyn then leaned in, her lips first brushing Violet's cheek to tease before kissing her mouth slowly and deeply but briefly. A promise, not a request.

When she pulled back, she brushed her fingers along Violet’s jaw. “I’ll text you.”

“You better. Or I’ll start showing up at your place with actual cupcakes and call it revenge.”

Caitlyn gave her a look. “Darling, that is not the threat you think it is.”

Caitlyn opened the door and stepped back with one last look and a dangerously near to fond curve of her lips.

“I’m serious,” Violet called after her. “Chocolate with vanilla frosting. I will do it.”

“Looking forward to it,” Caitlyn said, disappearing into the hallway.

The door closed.

And Violet stood there, smiling to herself, bare feet on the hardwood, her heart beating a little too fast for a woman who insisted she wasn’t looking for anything serious.

x-x-x

The apartment felt quieter than it should’ve once the door clicked shut behind Caitlyn.

Not empty, exactly, just… less full. Less tilted toward someone else’s presence.

Violet stood there for a moment, still in the space where Caitlyn had been just seconds ago. The faint smell of her perfume lingered,  warm and expensive and completely out of place in Violet’s half-lived-in apartment. Her lips still tingled from the kiss. Her neck, where Caitlyn’s breath had ghosted hours earlier, felt too aware now.

She sighed and walked barefoot toward the kitchen, mug in hand, like movement might keep her brain from catching up too fast.

But it was already catching up.

And unfortunately, so was the cat.

He appeared silently beside her, tail high, expression judgmental as always. He sat right in the middle of the kitchen like he had a right to answers.

Violet looked down at him.

“What?”

He blinked slowly.

“You liked her,” she accused, pouring herself a second round of coffee. “You never like anyone.”

He blinked again.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that. I saw that you let her pet you.”

A soft, short meow. Almost offended.

“Exactly,” Violet muttered. “Disloyal little traitor.”

She sipped her coffee and leaned against the counter, staring at nothing in particular.

“She’s barely gone,” she said out loud, mostly to herself. “And you already look like you’re waiting for her to come back.”

The cat flicked his tail, unimpressed. Violet exhaled hard through her nose and looked away.

She hadn’t wanted it to feel like this.

Hadn’t expected to feel her absence like a shape in the apartment. Like the imprint of her body still lived in the couch cushions, in the air, in the damn mug she’d used and placed on the table like she belonged here.

And maybe that was what was messing with her the most.

Caitlyn hadn’t felt like a guest. She didn’t fill space like someone new. She’d moved through Violet’s home like she wasn’t trying to impress or pretend. She just was.

And that kiss, that kiss in the doorway, it had been too short, but too sure. Like Caitlyn already knew exactly what she wanted and had no intention of pretending otherwise.

Violet set her mug down and let herself remember, properly now.

The way Caitlyn had looked straddling her on the couch, hair falling a little out of place, flushed and warm and so close Violet could feel every exhale. The weight of her body pressing down in the best way. The softness of her mouth. The way she had pulled back just enough to look her in the eye before leaning in again.

That part had ruined her.

Violet ran a hand through her hair, frustrated, amused, overwhelmed.

“This is so stupid,” she muttered. “It’s been one night. One. Night.”

She looked at the cat again.

“She slept here once. You’re not allowed to miss her yet.”

But the thing was, she kind of did.

Not in a dramatic way. Not in a “planning a future” kind of way.

But in that quiet, awful, wonderful way where the idea of seeing someone again makes everything in you feel a little more awake.

What the hell am I doing?

Violet allowed herself to sit at the table with her elbows on the surface and her hands around her coffee as though she were bracing for something. The cat leaped onto the other chair and stared at her as though he were quietly judging her whole emotional arc.

And maybe he was right to.

Because Caitlyn hadn’t asked for anything.

Hadn’t demanded, hadn’t defined, hadn’t promised.

She’d just shown up, and somehow… stayed.

And now Violet couldn’t stop thinking about her.

About her voice. Her mouth. The way her hands had moved without hesitation. The laugh she let slip when she thought Violet wasn’t paying attention.

And Violet sat there, a little ruined, a little thrilled, and not nearly as detached as she’d sworn she would be.

Violet was still sitting at the kitchen table, nursing what was left of her coffee, when her phone buzzed once on the wood beside her.

Her pulse jumped, just slightly.

She didn’t even try to hide it.

She grabbed the phone, unlocked the screen.

Not Caitlyn.

The name made her pause.

Sarah.

A memory, bright and sharp, slid forward. Laughter in loud bars. Hands against walls. Lips that tasted like gin and cigarettes and decisions made too fast. Sarah had been fun — uncomplicated, a walking distraction with sharp heels and bright orange hair and no real weight to her.

The message read:

[Sarah]

Hey, I’m in the city for a couple days. You around tonight?

Short. Direct. Familiar.

It was the kind of message that used to get a smirk out of Violet. The kind that came with a guarantee of tequila and someone pressed against her at 1:00 a.m. The kind that didn’t ask for anything beyond the moment.

And tonight?

She was free.

Technically.

She stared at the message longer than she should have.

Then… she locked the screen.

Didn’t respond.

Her thumb hovered over it for a beat, just long enough to think about what she might say.

But she didn’t want to say anything.

Not because of guilt.

Not even out of obligation.

Just… because the idea of it, of Sarah, didn’t sit right anymore.

Not after the way Caitlyn had touched her.

Not after the way Caitlyn had looked at her like she was worth not rushing through.

Violet unlocked the screen again, tapped into the thread, and without letting herself think about it twice, deleted the message.

Just like that. Gone.

More gently than before, she put the phone back down. Now on the windowsill, the cat's tail lazily flicking behind him, sunlight striping over his coat.

Violet exhaled and reclined in the chair.

She wasn’t sure what this meant. Or what she was doing. Or where the hell this was going.

But she knew one thing for sure:

She didn’t want Caitlyn to be just another night.

And for the first time in a long time, she wasn’t interested in proving she could go without.

x-x-x

By late morning, Violet had changed into exercise attire and gathered her hair into a loose bun. She had to move not for her body but for her mind. Something inside her was still buzzing, as though her system hadn't caught up to the reality that Caitlyn was no longer wrapped around her in the quiet of her apartment.

Heading to the gym across town, she put on a hoodie and walked outside into the sun.

Sett was already there when she arrived, gloves on, pads ready, grin wide. He was loud as always, loud in the way someone could only be when they’d earned the right. One of the guys from Heartsteel, full of swagger and gold chains and zero pretense. They’d trained together for a while now. It worked. He hit hard and didn’t ask questions.

They spent an hour trading punches, running footwork drills, cursing between rounds. Violet threw herself into it, sweat pouring, breath short, adrenaline chasing out the restless hum in her chest. But when they finished, after the gloves were off, water bottles drained, she still didn’t feel any closer to calm.

Sett fist-bumped her with a grin. “Whatever you’re burning off, Vi, it’s working.”

She smiled, but didn’t explain. She never did.

She paused at a corner deli for a sandwich and an iced coffee: something basic, grounding after the gym. Like they always did, the city buzzed around her, people rushing in all directions. Violet, phone buzzing quietly in her pocket, sunglasses on and earbuds in, moved with them.

Letting the water run hot against her skin until her muscles gave in, she peeled off her clothes and stepped into the shower when she got home. But even then, even under the stream of water, she couldn't shake the way Caitlyn had looked that morning, her smirk, her stupid soft voice, the way her mouth had moved close to her.

Violet leaned both palms against the tile and let the heat steam her thoughts, but it wasn’t enough.

Nothing was.

By the time she was dressed again, just a worn tank top and boxers, her hair still damp and her sandwich half-finished on the counter, Violet had given up trying to pretend the feeling would pass.

She walked straight into the back room, picked up her guitar, and plugged it into the amp without hesitation. No notebook. No plan.

Just her, the strings, and whatever the hell this ache was.

She strummed hard. Once. Twice. Then again, heavier, letting the distortion ring.

A melody came fast. Riff-first. Minor key. Sharp edges. Something urgent and unfinished. She leaned into it, jaw clenched, eyes closed. Her fingers knew what to do before she told them.

And slowly, like it always did, the music caught what her body couldn’t hold.

Her phone buzzed again, this time on the windowsill.

She stopped playing long enough to check it, still breathless.

[Caitlyn]

Got through the first meeting without glaring at anyone.

That has to count as growth, right?

Violet smiled, unable to stop it.

[Violet]

were you sitting there all composed and British while planning my murder in your head?

[Caitlyn]

Naturally. I was imagining the crime scene and everything.

You’d look great in a “Most Wanted” poster, by the way.

[Violet]

I’m flattered

still thinking about that goodbye kiss, Cupcake

There was a long pause.

Then:

[Caitlyn]

I’m in trouble with you, aren’t I?

Violet didn’t reply right away.

She turned back to her guitar, letting the words buzz in her chest like an aftershock.

Then she picked up the pick again, pressed her fingers to the frets, and played like she already knew what the answer was.

Violet stared at Caitlyn’s last message on the screen:

I’m in trouble with you, aren’t I?

She bit her lip, grinning without meaning to. Then typed, slow and deliberate:

Violet leaned back into the couch, staring at the screen, thumbs hovering.

Then:

[Violet]

you make it really hard to keep pretending this is casual

Caitlyn was quiet for longer this time.

When her response came, it was shorter. Simpler. But Violet felt it.

[Caitlyn]

Maybe it’s not.

Violet’s heart did that annoying thing again, that too-quick skip, like she’d just stepped off a ledge and didn’t know where the ground was.

She stared at the blinking cursor.

Then replied:

[Violet]

cool

casual sounds exhausting anyway

The typing dots returned.

[Caitlyn]

When are you free?

[Violet]

why, you miss me already?

Caitlyn

Terribly.

I haven’t been called Cupcake in over six hours.

My ego’s collapsing.

Violet smiled, the kind that reached her eyes this time.

x-x-x

Violet barely noticed the sun slipping past the windows.

Her lunch plate was still on the counter, her hair still damp from earlier, a half-full bottle of water sitting forgotten near the amp. She’d been sitting on the floor for at least an hour now, legs crossed, guitar resting against her body like a second skin.

She was in that place, the one where focus becomes instinct. Where she wasn’t trying to write, she just couldn’t not.

The chords came first. Clean. A little gritty around the edges. Mid-tempo. With a pulse like something waiting to break free.

And everything, everything, was about Caitlyn.

About the way she kissed like she was memorizing.

About the look she gave Violet right before leaving, like she wanted to stay and knew she shouldn’t.

About the moment on the couch when Violet almost pulled her closer, all the way, but didn’t.

The almost of it burned more than anything they actually did.

She kept playing the same chord progression over and over, testing different ways to land it. A few words slipped out, half-hummed under her breath, not fully formed. She wasn't ready for lyrics yet, not until she could stand to say Caitlyn's name without feeling like her ribs were too small for her lungs.

Her phone buzzed somewhere across the room, but she didn’t check it right away.

She was too far inside the music. Inside her.

She adjusted the capo, let her fingers slide back into place.

Strum.

Pause.

Strum again.

Then finally, under her breath, the first line came.

"She's got a book for every situation

Gets into parties without invitations

How could you ever turn her down?"

It wasn’t perfect. But it was right.

Violet dropped her head, resting her chin against the top of the guitar. She closed her eyes.

The room was quiet. Her hands were warm. Her chest was full.

Everything in her was moving, and she hadn’t even touched her.

Not really.

Not yet.

And that was the part that scared her, and thrilled her.

The almost of it all.

The buzz came again.

This time, Violet finally set the guitar down, gently, like it was holding a secret she wasn’t ready to let go of yet, and stretched her legs out in front of her with a groan. Her fingers were cramping, and her back was stiff from sitting on the floor for so long, but her mind was still lit, humming like an overcharged amp.

She stood, slow and lazy, brushing hair out of her face as she padded barefoot toward the phone on the kitchen counter.

She didn’t even need to check the name.

She knew.

[Caitlyn]

Still thinking about that look you gave me when I said I had to go.

Dangerous.

Violet blinked. Smiled. Bit her bottom lip, just a little.

Her thumbs hovered over the screen for a second before replying.

[Violet]

I was thinking about pulling you back in.

you got lucky

Three dots. Typing.

[Caitlyn]

I didn’t feel very lucky walking away.

Violet leaned against the counter, phone in one hand, free fingers tapping idly against her thigh.

[Violet]

You coming over?

[Caitlyn]

As much as I’d love to fall asleep on your couch again,

I think I might actually be dead on my feet tonight.

Long day. You too?

Violet exhaled slowly, rolling her shoulders back as she looked around the apartment, guitar still on the floor, empty coffee mug abandoned on the table, and her own body starting to crash now that the adrenaline of the day had started to fade.

[Violet]

yeah

I sparred with Sett this morning.

my ribs hate me

night sleep for twelve years

[Caitlyn]

Twelve seems excessive.

But understandable.

Violet smiled, typing slower now.

[Violet]

so we’re rescheduling our intense not-date?

[Caitlyn]

We are.

I was thinking… tomorrow, early evening?

[Violet]

that’s dangerous

sunset lighting makes me look very kissable

[Caitlyn]

I’ll bring sunglasses.

Any ideas for what we do?

Violet stared at the screen, lips twitching upward.

She wasn’t used to being asked. Not like this. Not softly, not with genuine curiosity.

No games. No pressure. Just: what do you feel like doing?

She sat down at the edge of the couch, stretching her legs out in front of her, still sore from earlier.

[Violet]

what about something stupid and simple?

like a walk?

or a bodega run for snacks neither of us need?

[Caitlyn]

I’m extremely qualified for snack selection.

And walking.

[Violet]

alright, cupcake

tomorrow. early evening

you, me, and the thrill of overpriced chips

[Caitlyn]

I’ll dress for the occasion.

[Violet]

please don’t.

There was a pause.

Then:

[Caitlyn]

You’re the worst.

I’ll see you tomorrow.

And just like that, Violet set her phone down.

Smiling.

A little too much.

But not even trying to stop.

x-x-x

The apartment had gone still again, the city outside fading into that soft, humming hour where everything slows down.

Violet sat on the floor, guitar back in her lap, barefoot, hair undone, the same loose tank top clinging to her shoulder.

She strummed once.

Then again.

The melody she’d started earlier was still there, hanging around the edges of her thoughts like it had nowhere else to go. But something about it had shifted. Calmed. The chords were softer now. More open. Not the jagged lines she usually wrote. No grit or bark or storm. Not this time.

This time, it felt… light.

Not shallow.

Not safe.

Just lighter.

She played it again, humming under her breath, testing a new chord at the bridge. It worked. Not perfect, but close enough to make her pause.

Violet stared at the wall for a second, lips parted, hands hovering over the strings.

This wasn’t her usual sound. It didn’t punch. It didn’t scratch.

It glowed.

She adjusted the tuning. Played again. The rhythm had something to it, not a beat exactly, but the suggestion of one. Something subtle, pulsing underneath. She’d need help building that part out later, maybe something with a little synth, something tactile and not overthought.

But the core was there.

The bones.

The spark.

And it surprised her.

Because it didn’t sound like frustration.

Didn’t sound like bitterness or lust or bruised pride.

It sounded like the first night of something.

Eyes still wide, brows pulled in as if she couldn't quite believe what she had just written, she slowly put the guitar down and ran a hand through her hair.

Unimpressed, the cat blinked at her from the windowsill.

Violet looked back at the guitar, then at her phone.

Then smiled.

x-x-x

It was almost midnight when Violet gave in.

She'd tried distracting herself, finished her sandwich, watched half an episode of some crime doc she didn't care about, even responded to two emails that had been sitting in her inbox for days.

None of it worked.

Now the flat was too quiet. The city had finally stopped humming outside; the only sound was the cat's tail occasionally flicking as he stretched across the arm of the couch, obviously irritated that someone hadn't returned.

Violet looked at her phone.

Then at the cat.

Then at the phone again.

"Don't look at me like that," she muttered.

He blinked, unimpressed.

Violet sighed and tapped Caitlyn's name. She hovered over the call button for a second, then hit it, casually. Like it meant nothing. Like her thumb didn’t hesitate at all.

The phone rang once.

Twice.

Then—

"Violet?"

Caitlyn's voice was soft, just a little hoarse from the late hour. Familiar in a way that made Violet's shoulders relax immediately.

She flopped back onto the couch, phone pressed to her ear. “Wow. You answered fast.”

“I saw your name and assumed it was either a booty call or an emergency,” Caitlyn said, dry and sleepy. “Which is it?”

Violet smirked. “Neither. Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

She sighed. “I don’t know. I was just… bored. Awake. And the cat’s acting like a diva.”

Caitlyn laughed softly. “Is he still mad at me for leaving?”

“I think he’s more disappointed. Like he thought we were finally keeping someone.”

There was a pause, just enough to make Violet regret the softness of what she'd said.

“I mean,” she added quickly, “He likes you, so clearly something’s broken in him.”

“Clearly,” Caitlyn echoed, warm.

Violet allowed the quiet to linger for a moment; it wasn't uncomfortable. It felt like a shared breath, the weight of the day finally melting between them.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she admitted quietly.

“Me neither.”

Another pause.

Then Caitlyn added, “I was hoping you’d call.”

Violet closed her eyes, exhaling through a quiet smile.

“Well,” she said, voice lower now, more honest, “here I am.”

“Yeah,” Caitlyn said. “You are.”

“Are you in bed already?” Violet asked, moving on the couch until she was stretched out, one arm behind her head, the phone loosely resting against her ear.

“Mmhm,” Caitlyn hummed. “Lights off. One blanket. Zero regrets.”

Violet grinned. “Sounds dramatic.”

“I’m British. Even sleep is a formal event.”

Violet laughed under her breath, then went quiet again, letting the weight of Caitlyn’s voice linger in the quiet apartment. She could hear it, faint, but real, the sound of sheets rustling, maybe the gentle tap of Caitlyn adjusting her pillow.

It made her chest ache a little, in a stupid, slow kind of way.

“So,” Caitlyn said eventually, her voice a little lower now, almost lazy, “why couldn’t you sleep?”

Violet looked up at the ceiling, blinking into the darkness.

“I kept thinking,” she said. “About the song I'm writing. About last night."

Caitlyn was quiet.

“Not in a bad way,” Violet added quickly. “Just... it stuck.”

“It stuck for me too,” Caitlyn murmured. “Everything about it. Even the bits that didn’t happen.”

Violet’s heart kicked.

“Yeah,” she said, softer now. “Those too.”

Another moment of silence stretched between them, but it was thick with something comforting, something warm.

Then Caitlyn spoke again. “What’s the song like?”

Violet hesitated.

“It’s… different,” she said. “Not loud. Not angry. Not like the stuff I usually write when my head’s a mess.”

“So what is it?”

“I think it’s...” She exhaled. “Kind of happy, if you can believe that. Quietly happy. Like it doesn’t know how to be loud about it yet.”

Caitlyn smiled on the other end. Violet could hear it in her voice when she replied.

“Sounds familiar.”

“You’re full of yourself.”

“And you miss me.”

Violet smirked, rolling to her side. “I’m not saying I don’t.”

They stayed like that for a while, the call still going, neither in a rush to end it. Just soft conversation, shared breath, long pauses that didn’t need filling.

Eventually, Violet let her eyes close.

“If I fall asleep on this call,” she murmured, “don’t use it against me.”

“I would never.”

“You absolutely would.”

Caitlyn chuckled. “Okay, maybe just a little.”

Before sleep began to tug at her, Violet last heard Caitlyn's voice, soft and near, like a hand resting on her back.

“Goodnight, Violet.”

“‘Night, Cupcake.”

Click.

Chapter Text

Violet woke later than usual — the kind of slow awakening where light filters in through the curtains and touches your skin before your thoughts remember where you are. Her sheets were tangled. Her mouth tasted like sleep and coffee residue. And the cat had claimed her legs sometime in the night, tail thumping with judgment every time she shifted.

She lay there for a moment, unmoving.

And then reached for her phone, blinking at the screen as it lit up.

There it was.

[Caitlyn]

Morning.

Tell your cat I forgive him for replacing me.

Barely.

Violet grinned, rubbing her eyes before typing back.

[Violet]

he’s inconsolable

keeps glaring at the door like he expects you to walk back in and bring him caviar

[Caitlyn]

I would, honestly. He has taste.

How are you?

Violet sat up, messy-haired and half-conscious.

[Violet]

sore

hungry

still thinking about that voice of yours at midnight 

you?

The typing bubble appeared almost instantly.

[Caitlyn]

Unreasonably fond of your ridiculous voice when you said “Cupcake” last night.

I might never recover.

Violet laughed softly, already feeling her chest loosen. The kind of easy comfort that didn’t come around often. She took a photo of the cat, sprawled like a tiny lion on her thigh, and sent it without comment.

She got up slowly, joints popping, muscles still tight from training and too much floor-sitting with the guitar yesterday. She padded barefoot into the kitchen, hair a mess, hoodie hanging off one shoulder, and fed the cat before making herself coffee: strong, black, the same way Caitlyn liked it.

She didn’t even realize what she was doing until the second mug was halfway filled.

“Not here, dumbass,” she muttered under her breath.

But she didn’t pour it out.

She took both mugs to the couch, sat down, and stared at the steam curling up from them. The apartment was quiet. The guitar was still on the floor. She thought about picking it up again. Thought about adding to the song, but the words didn’t come this morning.

She was waiting.

And not just for inspiration.

x-x-x

Caitlyn’s morning was chaos, alarm blaring, Mel’s text threats coming in before she’d even opened her eyes, and her script lying across the floor like it had fought her in the night and won.

But despite the usual noise, she moved through the apartment slower than usual. Thoughtful.

She brewed tea while rereading Violet’s messages. Still smiling like an idiot. Still hearing her laugh, low and dry and warm in her ear.

As she left the apartment, her phone buzzed again.

[Violet]

I hope your character dies dramatically

and leaves behind a sexy ex with tattoos and a guitar

Caitlyn laughed out loud on the sidewalk, tucking her scarf tighter around her neck.

[Caitlyn]

that’s already my backup plan

x-x-x

After all the torturous work meetings that sometimes consumed Cailtyn's mind, she stood in front of her mirror in the late afternoon with a frown on her face and two shirts hanging over her arm as if she were selecting her armor for war,which was ridiculous given she was going to a bodega.

In Brooklyn.

With Violet. 

She reminded herself, again, that it wasn’t a date. They weren’t dressing up. It was casual. A walk, some snacks, maybe a drink if they felt like it.

But still.

She picked the charcoal-gray T-shirt, the soft one, slightly worn at the collar, fitted just right. Paired it with dark jeans, ankle boots, and a sweater that wasn’t trying too hard but still made her shoulders look good. Hair pulled back loosely, lipstick subtle. Just enough to say: yes, I care, but I’m pretending not to.

She caught her reflection again and paused.

Her phone buzzed.

[Mel]

Going out again?

Tell your girlfriend I expect an RSVP next time she steals you. 

Caitlyn rolled her eyes and typed back:

[Caitlyn]

Not a girlfriend. Just a…

You know what, never mind.

She slipped the phone into her pocket and grabbed her keys, heart thudding a little louder than necessary.

x-x-x

Violet stared at her closet like it had personally offended her.

Too many black shirts. Too many graphic tees from old shows. Everything either looked like she was on her way to a dive bar or just came back from one.

And tonight, she didn’t want to look like she didn’t care.

Not that she wanted to look like she did.

She ended up in a white tank top, worn leather jacket, dark jeans cuffed at the ankle, and her oldest pair of boots, scuffed just enough to look cool without trying. Hair half-up, loose strands falling like they always did, and a bit of liner just because. She looked… good.

She looked like herself, with just a hint of softness, something that had been showing up more than usual lately.

As she grabbed her phone and shoved it in her pocket, the cat jumped up on the couch, blinking at her slowly.

“What?” she asked. “You’ll survive, little man.”

He meowed. Loudly.

Violet rolled her eyes. “Jesus. You’re worse than me.”

Turning up her jacket collar, she stepped out into the cooling evening, heart racing somewhat too loudly for what should have been casual, and looked at her phone, no new messages.

By the time they both arrived into Greenpoint from opposite directions, the city was already glowing: soft lights, slower-moving people, half-lit stores in that simple New York manner. A gentle but not chilly breeze swept across the street.

Somewhere between racks of pricey gum, neon soda, and fluorescent lighting that gave everything a touch nostalgic, they would discover one another.

Because tonight wasn’t a dinner reservation or a plan.

It was just them.

And neither of them wanted to pretend that wasn’t enough.

x-x-x

The bodega sat on a quiet corner, squeezed between a vintage bookstore and a boutique that only sold neutral-colored sweaters for far too much money. Its neon OPEN sign flickered in the front window like it hadn’t decided how committed it was to staying on.

Violet pushed open the glass door with the same hip-swinging confidence she brought to most stages, but her chest was buzzing.

She wasn’t nervous.

Just... aware.

The fluorescent lighting inside was soft enough not to ruin the mood, and the air carried the familiar scent of incense, freezer section, and overripe bananas. She knew the guy behind the counter by face but not name. He nodded once, and she nodded back.

Casual.

Effortless.

She wandered past the shelves, not really looking at anything. There were bags of chips she’d had during tours, weird imported sodas in glass bottles, and a wall of overpriced protein bars pretending to be edgy.

She grabbed a can of lemon tea, no real reason, and drifted toward the back, near the fridge section, where the humming sound was loud enough to give her an excuse not to think too hard.

She checked her phone. No message yet.

But that didn’t stop her from looking at the screen twice in one minute.

She’s not late.

She knew Caitlyn wasn’t the type to show up late without saying something. But still, Violet felt it, that slight ache in her ribs, like her body was preparing for something before her mind had agreed to.

She caught her reflection in the mirrored freezer door. Tilted her head.

A little too much eyeliner. Hair falling the right way for once. Jacket slung off one shoulder.

She looked like someone who was trying to look effortless.

“Damn it,” she muttered under her breath.

And then, the bell above the door rang.

The kind of sound that didn’t mean anything to anyone else in the store, but Violet turned immediately.

Because she already knew it was her.

x-x-x

With her hands buried in her jeans pockets and her heart racing unreasonably for someone entering a bodega, Caitlyn rounded the corner onto the block.

Ahead, she saw the familiar glow of the neon sign and slightly quickened her pace. Not because she was stalling, of course not, but rather because her mind required a few more seconds to complete untangling.

Just a casual meet-up, she reminded herself. No pressure. No drama.

Except, she already felt something sharp and electric buzzing in her bloodstream. Like this wasn’t just a casual anything.

She hadn’t seen Violet since the morning after. Since that kiss at the door. Since that voice on the phone whispering goodnight like it belonged there.

And now she was about to see her again, under harsh convenience store lighting, surrounded by overpriced kombucha and novelty lighters.

Somehow, it still felt intimate.

She pulled the door open and stepped inside.

The familiar jingle of the bell broke the quiet hum of the store, and her eyes immediately scanned the space, past the front counter, past the shelves of candy bars and boxed cereal, until they landed on her.

Violet.

Near the fridge, leaning casually, like she hadn’t been checking her phone three times a minute. One shoulder of her jacket slipped just enough to look deliberate, hair tousled, a can of lemon tea in hand that she clearly had no intention of drinking.

Caitlyn's heart did something absolutely undignified.

She took a slow step forward, letting the door close behind her, the cold air fading.

And when Violet looked up, just slightly, just enough, their eyes met.

And Caitlyn forgot what casual was supposed to feel like.

x-x-x

Violet didn’t move at first.

She just watched Caitlyn approach, her face unreadable except for the slight curve at the corner of her mouth, that I knew you’d show up kind of smile that managed to be smug and warm at the same time.

“You clean up well for a bodega run,” she said, holding up the can of lemon tea. “Didn’t want to embarrass yourself next to this level of glamour?”

Caitlyn let out a soft breath that was almost a laugh. “I debated heels.”

“God, I would’ve paid to see that.”

Caitlyn stopped just a few steps away, one hand still tucked into the pocket of her jeans, the other brushing her hair back behind her ear. “You look exactly like someone who pretended not to spend twenty minutes deciding what boots to wear.”

Violet’s smirk deepened. “Excuse me, twenty-five.”

Their eyes held for a moment.

The bodega noise faded, soft hum of the fridge, muted chatter near the counter, a bell jingling faintly as someone left. But neither of them looked away.

“Lemon tea?” Caitlyn asked, nodding toward the can.

“I’m not drinking it. I just needed something to do with my hands while pretending to be chill.”

“Convincing.”

“You’d be amazed.”

Caitlyn tilted her head slightly. “You nervous?”

Violet raised an eyebrow. “You are a little intimidating. All that tailored posture. The accent. The jawline.”

Caitlyn smiled, full this time, the kind that softened her face and made Violet's stomach twist just enough to be annoying.

“Well,” Caitlyn said quietly, “I was nervous.”

“You?”

“I’m very composed about it.”

“Mm. British anxiety. Comes in designer packaging.”

Caitlyn stepped closer. “And yours comes in boots, sarcasm, and obscure tea choices?”

Violet shrugged, casually. “You’ve got me figured out.”

That hung in the air for a second, a little heavier, a little warmer.

Then Caitlyn looked toward the fridge. “So what’s the plan? We loiter here under unflattering lighting for another ten minutes? Or do we actually buy something?”

“I was hoping you’d ask me to commit to a brand of potato chips,” Violet said, moving past her, brushing Caitlyn’s arm gently as she did. “I’m not ready for that kind of intimacy.”

Caitlyn turned slowly, watching her move.

“I can be patient,” she said.

Violet didn’t turn around, just smiled, walking down the aisle.

But her heart was thudding in her chest.

Because damn, she’d missed this.

They wandered the narrow aisle together, too close to be casual, too far to be obvious. A kind of gravitational pull working in slow motion, every movement intentional but dressed as effortless.

Caitlyn stopped in front of the snack wall, squinting at the options like they were fine wines instead of foil bags and sodium.

Violet leaned beside her, arms crossed, mouth twitching with amusement.

“This is a very serious moment,” Caitlyn murmured.

“High stakes,” Violet replied. “People have lost friendships over sour cream and onion.”

Caitlyn reached for a bag of kettle chips, paused, and raised an eyebrow. “What’s your red flag chip?”

“Salt and vinegar,” Violet said instantly. “Anyone who likes those can’t be trusted.”

“I like salt and vinegar.”

“Exactly.”

Caitlyn laughed, a real one, open and sudden. Violet didn’t say anything, but the sound hit her somewhere low and warm. She turned her head slightly, just enough to catch Caitlyn watching her out of the corner of her eye.

The moment stretched.

Neither of them moved.

And then, casually, Caitlyn asked, “Did you finish the song?”

Violet blinked, caught off guard for the first time that night.

“Not yet,” she said, softer now. “It’s still... rough.”

“Still about me?”

Violet tilted her head. “Who said it was about you?”

Caitlyn smiled like she already knew the answer. “I’m flattered.”

“You should be. I don’t write songs about just anyone.”

“Oh?”

“Most people don’t get past riffs and regrettable texts.”

Caitlyn stepped a little closer, now only a breath away, voice dropping just enough to make Violet’s spine straighten.

“And I did?”

Violet didn’t move.

Just smiled, slow, crooked, dangerous.

“You, Cupcake,” she murmured, “are practically a whole album.”

Caitlyn’s gaze flicked to her mouth, lingered, then returned to her eyes.

“Good,” she said, barely audible. “Because I’d really like to be on repeat.”

They stood there a second longer, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, the ridiculous bodega romance scene hitting them both harder than it should’ve.

Then Violet cleared her throat, grabbing a random bag of chips off the shelf.

x-x-x

As they left the bodega, the door jingled behind them.

The night air was crisp, just cool enough to be refreshing without biting.  Greenpoint was shining; store windows shone like carefully selected exhibits, people walked in slow waves, some chuckling, others silent. The city's buzz was quieter here, as if it had lowered its voice in respect for them.

Caitlyn moved the little paper bag in her hand, a thoughtfully selected combination of snacks and hasty decisions. Violet had also taken a sour candy "for the aesthetic," and Caitlyn hadn't even protested.

“This was, hands down, the most glamorous night I’ve had in weeks,” Violet said, pushing the door closed behind her with her shoulder.

“Obviously,” Caitlyn replied, her voice dry and perfect. “Michelin-starred bodegas are all the rage.”

Violet grinned, tugging her jacket collar higher as they fell into step.

“I’d say this rivals the fancy dinner we had.”

They walked without any real direction. Just moving side by side, slow, meandering, like the city had decided to open itself just for them.

Their hands brushed once. Then again. Neither of them pulled away.

Somewhere nearby, a jazz track floated from the open window of a third-floor apartment. Lazy drums, warm horns, the kind of music that seemed to know exactly how to stay in the background without disappearing.

More steps. More silence. The good kind.

“Your song,” Caitlyn said, after a minute. “Still evolving?”

Violet nodded, her voice quieter now. “Yeah. I thought it’d sound one way, but… it keeps softening. I keep softening.”

Caitlyn looked at her then, really looked. “Does that scare you?”

Violet didn’t answer right away.

“It terrifies me.”

Caitlyn didn’t tease. Didn’t smirk. Just gave her a small smile, warm and certain.

“Good,” she said. “Means it’s real.”

Violet stopped walking.

Just for a second.

Like the sentence had caught her off guard in a way she hadn’t expected.

She looked over at Caitlyn.

The street kept moving around them, people passing, lights changing, but none of it touched the space between them.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t bold.

But it was real.

And Violet felt it.

They’d only walked a couple of blocks when Violet glanced at Caitlyn, then at the bag of snacks in her hand, and stopped mid-step.

“You know what?” she said, a little breathless from the cold and whatever was building in her chest. “Let’s not wander around acting like we don’t both just want to sit down and eat chips.”

Caitlyn arched an eyebrow, amused. “Oh? You admitting to low stamina?”

“Absolutely not,” Violet said. “I’m admitting to good taste and the fact that I have a perfectly acceptable couch that we know very well, about five minutes from here.”

They kept walking a few blocks, the city quieter now, Brooklyn at its best. Less polished than Manhattan, more real. Corner stores closing up, neighbors on stoops with drinks in hand, distant music leaking out of some second-floor window.

Caitlyn looked over at Violet. “So, how many times have you brought someone back from a bodega run?”

Violet raised an eyebrow. “Bold of you to assume I share my snacks.”

“Oh, you’re territorial.”

“Only when it comes to kettle chips and emotional intimacy.”

Caitlyn smirked. “Good to know. I’ll tread carefully.”

Violet glanced down at the bag of snacks swinging from Caitlyn’s hand, then back at her face, a little flushed from the cold, hair slightly windblown. Still absurdly good-looking in a very casual, I woke up like this kind of way.

"So what do you have in mind?", Caitlyn asked, breaking the small silence. 

“I have an idea,” she said, slowing her pace.

Caitlyn tilted her head, curious.

“How about we crack open half of what we impulsively bought, and pretend we care about whatever movie we put on?”

“Pretend?”

“Okay, maybe I’ll care if it’s bad enough.”

Caitlyn’s eyes sparkled. “I’d be honored.”

x-x-x

Ten minutes later, the keys clicked in the lock of Violet’s apartment.

As soon as the door creaked open, the cat appeared like he’d been waiting behind it all night, his judgmental little face already locked on Caitlyn.

“Well, well,” Violet muttered, tossing her keys in the bowl near the door. “Look who’s back to assess your character.”

Caitlyn crouched slightly, holding the bag of snacks out like a peace offering. “Evening, sir. Lovely to see you again.”

The cat blinked once. Then, to Violet’s complete betrayal, he trotted over and brushed against Caitlyn’s leg.

“You traitor,” Violet hissed.

Caitlyn grinned, straightening up. “We have an understanding.”

“Yeah, and I think you just took my place in his will.”

They moved into the living room. Caitlyn slid her boots off near the couch. Violet tossed her jacket over a chair and disappeared briefly into the kitchen to grab drinks.

“What are we watching?” Caitlyn asked, already settling in, scanning the screen.

“No rom-coms,” Violet called out. “Unless there’s emotional devastation or a knife fight.”

“Noted.”

Violet returned with two bottles and handed Caitlyn one beer, claiming one for herself as well.

“I’ll allow one sentimental subplot,” she said, curling into the couch beside her. “But only if it ends badly.”

“I’m sensing a theme with you.”

Violet didn’t respond immediately, just looked at her, eyes flicking to her lips for the briefest second.

Then: “Pick something before I end the night with nature documentaries.”

Caitlyn smirked and grabbed the remote. “I like a challenge.”

And while the opening credits started to roll, neither of them moved away.

Their knees stayed pressed together. Their hands brushed when they reached for the same bag of chips. And beneath the movie dialogue and the sound of the cat dramatically cleaning himself nearby, there was a tension neither of them was ready to name, but neither of them tried to fight.

Chapter Text

The movie played on, mostly ignored.

Some dramatic monologue unfolded on screen, full of slow music and meaningful stares, but Violet couldn’t have repeated a single line if someone paid her.

Caitlyn was too close now, not in a dramatic, scripted way, but real close. Their thighs pressed together on the couch, arms brushing every time one of them reached for the snacks, breaths syncing up without planning to.

Violet leaned back slightly, head tilted toward Caitlyn, her voice low and almost lazy.

“You know,” she said, fingers tapping absently against her bottle, “you still haven’t kissed me tonight.”

Caitlyn blinked, caught off guard, but only for a moment.

“I kissed you yesterday,” she said, calm and even. “Quite thoroughly, if I recall.”

Violet’s eyes flicked to her lips. “I didn’t say you owed me.”

Caitlyn smiled, just a little. “I wasn’t sure it’d be appropriate. We were walking, in public. I didn’t want to make it… more than you wanted it to be.”

Violet turned toward her, body shifting so their knees bumped fully this time.

“I invited you to my apartment,” she said. “Fed you snacks. Let you charm my cat. I’m practically proposing.”

Caitlyn laughed softly, eyes dropping to Violet’s mouth. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, still kissable.”

A beat passed between them, charged, soft, immediate.

Then Caitlyn leaned in, her voice barely a whisper against Violet’s cheek.

“I didn’t want to kiss you in public,” she murmured. “But here—”

She didn’t finish the sentence.

She didn’t need to.

Her lips met Violet’s gently, like the conversation was continuing in a different language, one built on timing and weight and the quiet thrill of permission.

Violet kissed her back immediately, hand finding the side of Caitlyn’s neck, thumb brushing her jaw. The kiss deepened, slow, steady, no rush, no show. Just them.

Just this.

When they finally broke apart, breath shared and eyes still locked, Violet smiled, voice rougher now.

“See?” she whispered. “Told you it was kissable.”

Caitlyn leaned her forehead against Violet’s for a second, then laughed softly. “God, you’re dangerous.”

“You have no idea.”

They didn’t kiss again.

Not right away, at least.

After a beat, Caitlyn settled back into the couch, her arm brushing Violet’s as if she was still holding on without needing to. The movie kept playing, casting flickering light across their faces, but now there was a different kind of quiet between them, softer, closer, certain.

The cat, who had been perched nearby on the armrest like a sleepy gargoyle, chose that exact moment to leap into Caitlyn’s lap with surprising grace.

Caitlyn blinked. “Oh. Hello.”

He circled once, judged the structural integrity of her thighs, then curled up decisively and began to purr, loudly.

Violet sat up straight. “Are you kidding me?”

Caitlyn looked down at the cat, then up at her, smug. “He has taste.”

“He’s never done that.”

“He knows a fellow elite when he sees one.”

Violet groaned and dropped her head back against the couch. “I leave you alone with him for a few moments…”

Caitlyn stroked the cat lazily, the soft rumble of his purring filling the room. “You’re just jealous.”

“I am,” Violet said, glaring at the scene. “He’s never even let me hold him for more than ten seconds.”

The cat shifted slightly, more comfortable now, and Caitlyn grinned as she kept petting him with one hand and reached for the snack bag with the other.

They kept eating, slowly, without urgency, tearing into the chips until only crumbs were left. Violet reached for the chocolate bar next and broke off a square, tossing it in Caitlyn’s direction.

Caitlyn caught it in her mouth with surprising accuracy.

Violet blinked. “Show-off.”

“You started it.”

They passed the bar back and forth, teasing, not keeping track. Just sharing. Fingers brushed. Knees bumped again. The kind of closeness that didn’t demand anything, because it had already been given.

Their drinks stayed within reach, Violet nursing her beer, Caitlyn sipping hers like it had a secret she hadn’t told yet.

The movie ended eventually, the credits rolling over some melancholy song that neither of them heard.

But neither of them reached for the remote.

And neither of them moved the cat.

Instead, they just sat there. Warm. Fed. Touched. Close.

And without saying it, they both knew:

This was already something.

x-x-x

The credits still rolled, but neither of them was watching.

The cat had fully surrendered to sleep on Caitlyn’s lap, his rhythmic purring now just background noise. Caitlyn had one hand resting lightly on his back, the other around the neck of her beer bottle, now half-warm. Violet was curled into the corner of the couch, legs tucked up under her, staring at the darkened TV screen without really seeing it.

The kind of stillness between them wasn’t empty, it was safe. That rare, heavy quiet that didn’t press for conversation, but invited it anyway.

Violet broke the silence first, her voice soft, almost thoughtful.

“I didn’t think I’d… like this.”

Caitlyn turned to look at her. “This, as in… movie night with snacks and a judgmental cat?”

Violet smiled, then shook her head slowly. “No. I mean… this kind of quiet. It usually makes me feel trapped. Like something’s going to go wrong if I sit still too long.”

Caitlyn nodded, not pushing. Just listening.

Violet looked down at the bottle in her hand, rolling it slightly between her palms.

“I’ve spent a long fucking time being loud about not needing anyone,” she said, voice low now, like a confession she wasn’t sure she wanted to admit. “It kind of became a performance. A good one, too.”

Caitlyn tilted her head. “And now?”

Violet glanced at her, eyes softer than before. “Now… I don’t know. I’m sitting here, and I’m not thinking about how to leave. Or how to break it before it breaks me.”

Caitlyn didn’t say anything right away. She reached over, gently touched Violet’s knee, nothing heavy, just contact. Reassurance.

“I like that you told me that,” she said. “You don’t have to. But you did.”

Violet breathed in deep through her nose, eyes fixed on Caitlyn’s hand.

“What about you?” she asked. “You’re the calm one, right? All composed and collected and… intimidatingly elegant. Are you always like that?”

Caitlyn smirked, but it didn’t last.

“No,” she said. “Not always. I’ve just learned how to keep things together in public. But underneath it…” She paused. “I think I’m scared of wanting too much. Because if I do, and it goes wrong, I don’t get to fall apart. Not really. People don’t expect me to.”

Violet nodded, slow and quiet. “That’s exhausting.”

“It is.”

Another moment passed. Caitlyn stroked the cat’s back absently, fingers slow and methodical.

“You’re not what I expected,” she said finally. “Not from the outside. You’re… funny, and smart, and sharp in all the right ways. But there’s softness in you, too.”

“That’s a dangerous thing to say to me.”

“I know. I meant every word.”

Violet smiled, a small, private thing.

“I like this,” she said, almost a whisper.

Caitlyn turned toward her.

“Me too.”

Caitlyn’s hand was still on Violet’s knee.

It wasn’t heavy. Just resting there, like a promise she wasn’t trying to make too loudly.

Violet looked down at it for a second, then shifted, slow, intentional, until she leaned in, head gently resting against Caitlyn’s shoulder.

Caitlyn stilled for just a heartbeat, then relaxed into the weight of her. Her hand slid from Violet’s knee to her thigh, fingers resting lightly over denim. She didn’t move them. She just stayed.

The cat, sensing the shift, gave one sleepy grunt, repositioned with mild offense, then promptly passed out again between them.

Violet closed her eyes for a moment. The feel of Caitlyn’s sweater under her cheek, the soft scent of her skin, clean and warm with a trace of whatever perfume Violet hadn’t been able to identify yet, made something in her chest unclench.

“This is dangerously nice,” she murmured.

Caitlyn turned her head slightly, lips brushing Violet’s hair. “I won’t apologize.”

“You better not.”

They sat like that for a while. The kind of quiet that asked for nothing. Caitlyn’s hand started to move gently, thumb brushing circles just above Violet’s knee.

Violet shifted again, this time curling her legs up, turning slightly until she was half draped over Caitlyn, head now resting against her chest. One of Caitlyn’s arms wrapped around her automatically, holding her close, fingertips stroking the bare skin at the edge of her tank top.

It was such a simple gesture.
But Violet melted into it like she’d been waiting.

Caitlyn rested her chin lightly on top of Violet’s head.

“You’re warm,” she whispered.

Violet’s voice was muffled. “I’m always warm. Actually, I'm always hot."

Caitlyn laughed, a real, soft, shaken laugh that rumbled through her chest. “Modest.”

“Truthful.”

Caitlyn kissed the top of her head, barely there. “I’m noticing.”

Violet didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to.

She just let herself stay there, in the circle of Caitlyn’s arms, eyes fluttering closed, heart finally quiet.

And for once, she didn’t feel like she had to brace for the next morning.

x-x-x

Caitlyn’s fingers were still brushing gently over Violet’s side when her gaze drifted toward the guitar, resting in the corner of the room like it had been waiting.

She nodded toward it, her voice barely above a murmur.

“When do I get to hear it?”

Violet shifted slightly on her chest to glance in the same direction.

“The song?”

Caitlyn gave a soft, steady smile. “Yeah.”

Violet sat up, stretching her arms once before swinging her legs off the couch. “You really want to hear it?”

Caitlyn leaned back into the cushions, one arm draped along the top of the couch. “I really do.”

Violet stood, padded over to the corner, and gently picked up the guitar. The amp was already plugged in, but she adjusted the settings, low volume, almost no distortion. Just enough to warm the sound, not overwhelm the space.

She sat on the arm of a nearby chair, tuning quickly by ear, her fingers moving with quiet purpose. Then, without announcing it, without even looking up, she began to play.

The chords were simple, clean, rhythmic, but with just enough of a hook to make your chest catch on the second progression. She strummed with control, like she was still holding part of herself back.

Caitlyn’s breath caught as the first chords filled the room.

It wasn’t just the music, though that alone would’ve undone her, it was the way Violet held the guitar like it was part of her body. Like the melody wasn’t something she had to find, but something that had already lived in her fingers, waiting to be released.

Caitlyn had seen performers. Had spent hours around artists and actors and musicians. But this wasn’t a performance.

This was personal.

And she was the only audience.

And then, Violet sang.

Low. Unpolished. Honest.

"She's got a book for every situation
Gets into parties without invitations
How could you ever turn her down?"

The words landed softer than they should have, but they hit like a stone dropped in still water. Caitlyn could feel her chest tightening, not painfully, but like something inside her was slowly, beautifully coming undone.

She wrote that about me, Caitlyn thought. That’s how she sees me.

Not as polished. Not as composed. But as someone she watched, studied. Someone who stayed in her head long enough to become a melody.

Caitlyn didn’t dare move. Didn’t blink.

And Violet kept going.

"There's not a drink that I think could sink her
How would I tell her that she's all I think about?
Well I guess she just found out."

As the final note faded into the quiet, Violet stared at her guitar. Her heart was hammering in her chest. She could feel it in her wrists, in her throat. Everything about her felt too open.

What did I just do?

She hadn’t planned on playing the song, not tonight, not this early. She wasn’t the kind of person who shared lyrics before they were done. Before she was done.

But when Caitlyn asked…

Of course I said yes. Of course I did.

She finally lifted her eyes, unsure of what she’d see, and found Caitlyn looking at her like she was something she couldn’t quite believe was real.

“That's about me,” Caitlyn said, voice soft.

Violet swallowed. “Yeah.”

Please don’t make this weird, she thought. Please don’t laugh or look away or say something too nice too quickly.

But Caitlyn didn’t.

She just sat there, soaking in the silence, and for a moment, Violet thought maybe this was what it felt like to be seen, not onstage, not through noise, but like this. In the dim light of her living room, barefoot, vulnerable, and a little scared.

“I’ve never had anyone write about me before,” Caitlyn said. Her voice cracked slightly, not enough to embarrass her, but just enough for Violet to hear the weight beneath it.

Violet let out a slow breath. “I haven’t written something like this in a long time.”

Then Caitlyn said, quieter still: “Sing it again?”

Violet blinked.

“You just heard it.”

“I know,” Caitlyn said. “But now I know for a fact it’s about me.”

Violet’s fingers curled over the guitar’s neck again.

And as she started to play, slower this time, more delicate, Caitlyn leaned forward, resting her forearms on her knees, eyes locked on Violet like she was trying to capture every single detail before the moment ended.

And Violet?

She felt it again, that strange, terrifying joy of letting someone in.

And for the first time in longer than she could remember, it didn’t feel like a risk.

It felt like relief.

x-x-x

As the final notes faded again, Caitlyn didn’t speak.

Violet let her fingers hover over the strings for a moment longer, unsure of what to do next, let the moment hang? Make a joke to cut the tension? Say something to bring them back down to earth?

But Caitlyn moved first.

She stood up, leaned forward, slow, deliberate, and gently reached for the guitar.

Violet hesitated, confused for a beat. “What—”

Caitlyn’s fingers brushed hers as she took the guitar, quiet and careful, setting it down softly on the floor beside them.

“I just…” Caitlyn began, barely above a whisper. “I can’t sit here and pretend that didn’t undo me.”

Violet blinked and stood up as well. “What are you—”

But she didn’t get to finish.

Because Caitlyn leaned in, and kissed her.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t intense. It was the kind of kiss that starts like a question and ends like a promise. Her lips were soft, warm, and sure. There was no performance, no act. Just pressure and breath and closeness. A thank you in the form of a kiss. A you ruined me and I don’t even mind.

Violet froze for half a second, heart catching up to her body.

Then she relaxed into it, instinct overriding thought. Her hands found Caitlyn’s waist, gripping her sweater gently, grounding herself. She kissed her back, slow, deepening it by a fraction. Letting herself fall.

Because what else was there to do?

The music had already said it. Her hands had already written it.

And now Caitlyn was answering in the only language that made sense.

The kiss deepened, slowly.

Caitlyn’s hand moved to the back of Violet’s neck, fingers threading through her hair, pulling her just enough closer to make it clear this wasn’t just gratitude. It was want, focused, deliberate, unhurried.

Violet exhaled against her mouth, her hands sliding under Caitlyn’s sweater at her waist, fingertips brushing skin that was warm and smooth and somehow exactly what she’d imagined.

When they finally broke apart, just barely, Caitlyn stayed close, lips still hovering, eyes half-lidded.

Violet smirked.

“So that’s how posh girls say thank you?”

Caitlyn raised an eyebrow, her voice husky but amused. “I was under the impression that actions spoke louder than words.”

“Oh, they did,” Violet murmured, leaning in again to kiss the corner of Caitlyn’s mouth, then her jaw. “Loud and clear.”

Caitlyn let out a small sound, a half-laugh, half-sigh, as Violet kissed down the curve of her neck, slow and playful.

“Violet—”

“Shh,” Violet said, pressing her lips right below Caitlyn’s ear. “You started this.”

“True.” Caitlyn’s voice was breathless now, hands sliding over Violet’s back. “But I wasn’t expecting to lose control of it so quickly.”

Violet bit back a grin. “I’m full of surprises.”

“Understatement of the year.”

They found each other again in another kiss, messier this time, less careful, more urgent in the way they leaned, tugged, shifted. Then, Caitlyn pushed Violet gently back onto the couch cushions, body pressing down with slow certainty.

And Violet didn’t resist.

Because for all her sharp words and teasing, she’d wanted this, wanted her, from the second that door opened back in the bodega. Actually, wanted this from the second she saw her in the red carpet. 

Now, Caitlyn was above her, lips tracing her collarbone, hand skimming her thigh, and everything Violet had kept just under the surface was suddenly, fully real.

“God,” Caitlyn whispered, voice rough against her skin, “you make it very hard to stay composed.”

Violet arched into her slightly, biting her lip. “You’re not supposed to stay composed, Cupcake.”

And Caitlyn lost the rest of her control with a laugh and a groan.

Caitlyn’s mouth returned to Violet’s skin with purpose now, no more hesitation, no more second-guessing. Her lips found the hollow of Violet’s throat, then lower, grazing the edge of her collarbone with a kind of reverence that made Violet inhale sharply.

“Careful,” Violet murmured, voice thick. “I might start thinking you like me.”

Caitlyn lifted her head just enough to meet her eyes, her expression both amused and devastating. “I’m afraid the evidence is stacking up against me.”

Violet was already breathless, not from movement, but from the way Caitlyn was looking at her. Focused. Steady. As if undressing her wasn’t about skin, but about access.

And then Caitlyn leaned in again, this time kissing her fully, deep, slow, commanding. Violet’s hand moved instinctively to Caitlyn’s lower back, tugging her closer until there was no space left between them. Their bodies fit in a way that made Violet curse softly against her mouth.

Caitlyn’s fingers slipped under the hem of Violet’s tank top, pushing it higher as she kissed along her ribs, teeth grazing skin now. Violet arched beneath her, one hand tangling in Caitlyn’s hair, the other still gripping the curve of her hip.

Every sound Caitlyn made, soft breaths, quiet hums of pleasure, sank into Violet like warmth under her skin. Her control slipped a little more with each kiss, each slow roll of Caitlyn’s hips against hers.

And then Caitlyn paused, just for a beat, to look at her again.

Hair tousled. Lips kiss-bruised. Eyes wild.

“I want to take my time with you,” she murmured. “You deserve more than rushed.”

Violet blinked, caught off guard by how much she wanted to cry at that, and also maybe laugh, because it was so Caitlyn to sound like a damn novel character while undressing someone.

“I swear to God,” she whispered, pulling her back down by the collar of her sweater, “if you don’t kiss me again in the next three seconds, I think I'll actually die."

Caitlyn’s smile turned wicked as she kissed her again, rougher this time, laughing into it, but still completely in control.

And that was the moment everything stopped being about waiting.

And became about having.

x-x-x

Caitlyn was still straddling Violet’s lap when she sat up just enough to reach for the hem of her sweater.

Her movements were slow, deliberate, like she was letting Violet feel every second of the decision.

Violet’s hands instinctively went to her waist, fingertips grazing skin as Caitlyn pulled the sweater over her head in one smooth motion and tossed it aside.

And underneath—

Black lingerie.

Simple. Elegant. Dangerous.

The kind of thing that wasn’t just picked, it was chosen, with Violet in mind.

It framed her perfectly, lace and soft curves and sharp lines. Understated, but precise. A calculated softness.

Cailtyn's breasts were metrically calculated to be someone's obsession. The perfect size to fill someone's hands and still have a little more left for imagination. Violet noticed that Cailtyn's nipples were already hard, even though they were still covered by the lingerie, practically inviting Violet's mouth.

Violet couldn’t breathe for a second.

And Caitlyn knew.

She tilted her head, dark hair falling slightly over one shoulder, watching Violet’s reaction with quiet satisfaction.

“Your move,” she said, voice low.

Violet blinked, still staring, her hands now sliding up Caitlyn’s sides, slow, reverent. Her palms met warm skin and soft lace, and her breath caught audibly.

“Jesus Christ,” she muttered. “You’re killing me.”

Caitlyn smirked. “Too much?”

“Are you kidding?”

Violet’s fingers curved over Caitlyn’s ribs, thumbs brushing under the line of the bra.

“You’ve got the most perfect tits I’ve ever seen,” she whispered, like it was a confession she hadn’t meant to say out loud.

Caitlyn laughed, soft, throaty, proud.

“Is that your professional opinion?”

Violet leaned forward, brushing her lips over Caitlyn’s chest, right along the edge of the fabric.

“It’s my very personal one,” she murmured against her skin. “And I stand by it.”

Caitlyn’s hands slid back into Violet’s hair, her breath hitching at the touch of lips and tongue and the quiet reverence in Violet’s voice, like this was worship, not just desire.

And it was.

Because Violet had seen beauty before.

But this?

This was Caitlyn.

And Caitlyn had chosen to be here.

Violet’s hands moved with purpose, slow, deliberate, reverent.

She cupped Caitlyn’s breasts through the black lace, her thumbs brushing over the peaks in soft, circling motions. Her palms were warm, confident, and the way she touched made it impossible to separate control from devotion.

Caitlyn’s breath hitched, sharp, audible, as Violet leaned in and kissed her again. This time, deeper. Open-mouthed, with tongue and heat and tension that had been simmering since they saw each other. 

Their mouths moved together in a rhythm that felt practiced, though it wasn’t. Like they’d always known how to kiss each other, how to breathe each other in. Caitlyn moaned into Violet’s mouth, soft and unguarded, and Violet swallowed the sound like it belonged to her.

The friction between them grew, Caitlyn’s thighs tightening around Violet’s hips, Violet’s grip firm on Caitlyn’s body, their chests pressed close enough for heat to pass between them in waves.

And lower—

Even without touch, they felt it.

The ache building.

The damp heat pressed against fabric.

Lace and cotton growing wetter by the minute.

Caitlyn rolled her hips forward, just slightly, just once, testing, and the low groan Violet let out against her mouth was enough to make Caitlyn exhale something close to a curse.

“Violet,” she whispered, breathless.

Violet opened her eyes just enough to look up at her, pupils blown, lips flushed, hands still holding her like she might disappear.

“You’re not going anywhere,” she murmured, answering a question Caitlyn hadn’t asked aloud.

Then her thumbs dragged over Caitlyn’s nipples again, slower now, firmer.

Caitlyn gasped, head tipping back, and Violet took the opportunity to kiss along her throat, down to her collarbone, tasting skin that was hot and taut and trembling.

“I want you,” Caitlyn murmured, voice raw, eyes falling closed as she rocked forward again.

Violet held her tighter, lips brushing the edge of lace.

“You have me.”

Caitlyn sat up slightly in Violet’s lap, their chests still pressed together, her breath coming faster now, shallow and warm against Violet’s mouth.

Without a word, Caitlyn slid her hands beneath the hem of Violet’s tank top. Her fingers moved slow, tracing skin as she lifted the fabric inch by inch, watching the way Violet’s abs shifted under the light.

Violet didn’t stop her.

Didn’t say a word.

She just raised her arms, gaze locked on Caitlyn’s face, and let her pull the shirt over her head and toss it aside.

What was revealed made Caitlyn still completely for a second.

The black sports bra clung to Violet’s frame like it had been sewn in place, simple, utilitarian, but unfairly hot on her. Her shoulders were sculpted, tattoos rippling over defined arms and stretching across her chest like a map Caitlyn suddenly needed to memorize. Her waist tapered into a stomach that made Caitlyn forget how to speak for a full beat, flat, firm, lines of muscle visible even in the low light.

Caitlyn exhaled slowly.

Then bit her lower lip.

“Well,” she murmured, dragging her eyes over every inch of Violet’s torso. “You didn’t warn me about all this.”

Violet smirked, hands sliding back to Caitlyn’s thighs. “You gonna be okay?”

Caitlyn leaned in, mouth ghosting against Violet’s jaw. “I’m going to be very entertained,” she whispered. “Starting now.”

And with that, Caitlyn kissed her again, deeper, needier. She rocked forward, grinding slightly into Violet’s lap, feeling the solid pressure of her beneath her, the heat of her thighs, the flex of her hands.

Violet responded with a groan low in her throat, her fingers digging into Caitlyn’s hips as if anchoring herself. Her mouth moved hungrily now, trailing along Caitlyn’s neck, nipping just enough to make her gasp.

Caitlyn’s hands slid up Violet’s arms, palms flattening over her biceps, then her back, exploring muscle and warmth and ink, like she was mapping every inch.

They kissed harder now.

Less teasing, more hunger. Hands roaming freely, mouths open, breaths tangled between gasps and murmured names.

Caitlyn pressed herself into Violet, her hips moving in slow circles against her lap. Violet groaned into her mouth, her hands gripping tighter, one at Caitlyn’s waist, the other sliding lower.

Much lower.

Her fingers curled around the curve of Caitlyn’s ass, squeezing deliberately through the jeans. Caitlyn gasped into the kiss, her breath hitching as Violet held her there, firm, possessive, intentional.

“Fuck,” Violet muttered, eyes hooded, lips brushing along Caitlyn’s jaw. “You’re so goddamn hot.”

And then, in one swift movement, Violet tightened her grip and stood, stood, lifting Caitlyn like it cost her nothing.

Caitlyn let out an involuntary noise, half gasp, half startled laugh, her arms flying up to wrap around Violet’s neck.

“What the hell—” she started, breath catching as Violet adjusted her hold, hands still gripping her ass, holding her up like she weighed nothing.

“You’re not light,” Violet said, grinning like it was a game. “I’m just strong.”

Caitlyn looked down at her, flushed and panting and completely at her mercy.

“You lifted me like I’m a goddamn pillow.”

Violet smirked. “A very sexy, expensive, slightly bossy pillow.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Thank you.”

Caitlyn tightened her grip around Violet’s shoulders, burying her face briefly against her neck as she laughed again, but it wasn’t just amusement. It was desire. Growing. Surging. Anchored in the way Violet held her like it was easy.

Like she wanted to.

Violet didn’t give Caitlyn time to recover from the surprise.

She shifted Caitlyn’s weight slightly, gripping her tighter, adjusting her hold with maddening ease. Her strength wasn’t loud, it didn’t show off, but Caitlyn felt every inch of it in the way Violet moved. Confident. Grounded. In control.

“You okay up there?” Violet asked, looking up at her with a smirk.

Caitlyn’s legs were wrapped firmly around Violet’s waist, her arms looped around her shoulders, hair falling into her eyes. She blinked, still slightly stunned.

“I... Yeah,” she breathed. “Apparently, you’re also a forklift.”

“You’re lucky I like you,” Violet said, passing the doorway with a kiss to Caitlyn’s shoulder. “I don’t usually offer premium delivery service.”

Caitlyn laughed, but it was swallowed quickly by a moan as Violet pressed her against the hallway wall just for a second, hips pinning her, mouth hot against her collarbone.

Then Violet pulled back, eyes flicking to the bedroom door just ahead.

“Let’s make this a little more horizontal,” she murmured.

The door creaked open with a nudge of her foot. Caitlyn barely had time to take in the dim, moody lighting and soft sheets before Violet carried her across the threshold and lowered her gently onto the bed, not with carelessness, but with deliberate ease.

Caitlyn’s back hit the mattress, her hair fanned out across the pillow, lips parted as she looked up at Violet towering above her, strong, flushed, pupils blown wide with want.

And in that moment, Caitlyn thought: This isn’t just fun anymore. This is serious trouble.

The best kind.

Violet leaned over her, one knee pressing between Caitlyn’s legs as she lowered herself down, mouth hovering just above hers.

“You still having fun, Cupcake?” she whispered.

Caitlyn smirked, pulling her down into another kiss, breathless and aching and desperate to feel all of her again.

“You have no idea.”

Chapter Text

Violet kissed her again, slower now, deeper, like she was savoring every second. Caitlyn’s hands roamed over Violet’s back, pulling her closer, anchoring her there like she didn’t plan on letting go anytime soon.

Their legs tangled as Violet shifted fully on top of her, pressing Caitlyn gently into the mattress, letting their bodies align, chest to chest, hips to hips, breath to breath.

Neither of them was in a rush.

But neither of them wanted to stop.

Violet’s hands moved down Caitlyn’s sides, fingertips skimming over the lace of her bra, the smooth curve of her waist, until they found the waistband of her pants. She pulled back just enough to meet Caitlyn’s eyes, not asking for permission exactly, but giving her the moment to say no.

Caitlyn didn’t.

Instead, she arched her hips slightly, silent invitation clear.

Violet sat up, straddling her thighs, and hooked her fingers through the waistband. The pants slid down slowly, inch by inch, revealing more warm skin, more of the matching black lace that had been teasing Violet all night.

Caitlyn shifted to help her, watching the way Violet’s gaze darkened with each inch revealed.

Once they were off, Violet’s hands lingered on her thighs, thumbs brushing over smooth skin.

“Christ,” Violet muttered. “You’re... unreal.”

Caitlyn’s voice was low, breathless. “Your turn.”

Violet smirked and leaned back just enough to tug her own jeans down, shimmying out of them without grace, just heat and hunger now. She tossed them to the floor and crawled back over Caitlyn, their bodies meeting again, skin on skin.

Now they were both in nothing but underwear, Violet’s black sports bra hugging her frame, Caitlyn’s dark lace set practically made to be ruined. Their legs tangled again as Violet lowered herself back down, her mouth finding Caitlyn’s without hesitation.

Their kisses grew hungrier, deeper. Hands exploring, hips grinding slowly, rhythmically. The pressure between them rising with every breath.

Caitlyn’s hands gripped Violet’s back, nails dragging lightly across muscle and tattooed skin.

Violet moaned into her mouth, the sound low and raw.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” Caitlyn whispered against her lips.

Violet smiled, a little wild, a little breathless.

“Good,” she murmured, kissing her again, slow and hard. “That’s the plan.”

Caitlyn lay back against the pillows, hair splayed across Violet’s sheets like spilled ink, chest rising and falling beneath the dark lace of her bra. Her skin was flushed — from kisses, from want, from the way Violet was still hovering above her like she wasn’t sure where to begin.

But she knew exactly what she wanted.

Violet leaned in, mouth brushing over Caitlyn’s collarbone, tongue teasing along the edge of the bra’s fabric. Her hands came up slowly, fingers grazing along the straps, then slipping them off Caitlyn’s shoulders, first one, then the other, watching the way Caitlyn’s skin prickled under her touch.

Caitlyn exhaled, long and low.

Violet backed up just enough to look her in the eyes, her hands sliding behind her to undo the clasp, slow, certain, no rush.

The bra came loose, and Violet pulled it away, finally revealing her what was beneath the fabric. 

Caitlyn didn’t flinch. She didn’t cover herself.

She just watched Violet watching her.

And Violet?

She froze.

Not out of hesitation. Out of awe.

She ran her hands over Caitlyn’s now bare chest, gentle, cupping her, thumbs brushing over soft skin and sensitive peaks. The sound Caitlyn made, that small, involuntary sigh, went straight to Violet’s core.

“You’re...” Violet murmured, eyes locked on her hands as they moved, “even more gorgeous than I thought.”

Violet leaned down, kissed along her sternum, the swell of one breast, then the other.

“I’m serious,” she whispered. “You’re... everything.”

And Caitlyn reached for her, pulling her back into a kiss that said I know, but also, I need to feel you too.

But Violet broke the kiss and deliberately appreciated Caitlyn's naked torso, her heart fluttering slightly. She cupped one of Caitlyn's breasts, feeling how her nipple felt in Violet's hand, how it would react when she massaged it, stimulated it a bit.

And then, she took Caitlyn's other breast in her mouth, tasting her, feeling the soft skin on her tongue. Violet sucked and kissed Caitlyn’s nipple with fierce hunger, her tongue exploring every inch, tracing slow, deliberate circles that made time blur.

Caitlyn held Violet's hair with one hand, while the other was gripping the sheets, and she wondered if Violet’s mouth and tongue might just be what heaven feels like.

"F-fuck, Violet", she moaned softly, trying to control herself without success. And even though violet was in heaven, feeling in her own mouth how Caitlyn's breast felt, she couldn't help but notice and feel beneath her just how soaked Caitlyn's panties were.

She pulled back just slightly, enough to look down at Caitlyn beneath her. Flushed. Breathing fast. Eyes dark with anticipation and something else, something softer.

Violet brushed a hand along her side, then down, slow, teasing, fingers skimming the edge of black lace.

Caitlyn’s breath caught.

Violet leaned down, kissed her again, murmuring against her lips.

“Let me see you.”

There was no hesitation. No dramatics.

Just Caitlyn, watching her with quiet certainty, lifting her hips gently in invitation.

Violet sat back on her knees, hands finding the waistband of Caitlyn’s panties. She slid them down with reverence, letting her fingers trail along skin, over hips and thighs, until the lace slipped past her knees and was gone, dropped somewhere onto the hardwood floor without ceremony.

And there she was.

Caitlyn.

Completely naked in Violet’s bed.

All skin and softness and strength, stretched out like a secret Violet had just been trusted to keep.

Violet didn’t move for a second.

She just looked.

And Caitlyn let her.

No words. No modesty. Just the stillness of being seen, fully, completely, by someone who wanted to memorize her.

Violet swallowed, her voice low and reverent.

“Fuck, Caitlyn…”

Caitlyn’s hands were still roaming across Violet’s body, slow and possessive, but her voice came soft, a little breathless, a little wicked.

“You know,” she murmured, fingertips trailing along Violet’s waistband, “this doesn’t feel fair.”

Violet raised an eyebrow. “No?”

“You’re still dressed.” Caitlyn’s gaze dropped deliberately, then rose again. “And I’m starting to think that’s a crime.”

Violet smirked, leaning down just enough for their noses to brush. “You wanna file a complaint, Cupcake?”

Caitlyn didn’t blink. “I want you naked.”

The words were quiet, but they landed like a challenge.

And Violet didn’t hesitate.

She held Caitlyn’s gaze, her eyes locked, unblinking, even as her hands moved to the hem of her sports bra. She pulled it over her head in one smooth motion, letting it drop to the floor without ceremony. Then, still watching Caitlyn, she hooked her thumbs under the waistband of her black boxer briefs and slid them down her hips, slow, teasing, deliberate.

Now it was Caitlyn who was quiet.

No smug retort. No playful quip.

Just wide eyes, parted lips, and a stare that made Violet feel like she was being devoured whole.

Caitlyn’s hands slid up over Violet’s stomach, fingers tracing the lines of muscle there, the curve of her waist, the tension in her arms, the ink that stretched across her torso.

“Jesus,” Caitlyn breathed. “You’re... insane.”

Violet tilted her head, teasing. “You just now figuring that out?”

“No,” Caitlyn whispered, almost reverent. “You’re so fucking hot. And strong. And those muscles—”

She let out a quiet laugh, trailing her hands down Violet’s back, gripping her hips. “You’re like someone designed you in a fever dream.”

Violet smirked, lowering herself until their skin met again, bare and burning.

“Well,” she murmured against Caitlyn’s mouth, “you get to keep dreaming.”

And then she kissed her again, harder this time, with nothing left between them.

And Caitlyn arched into her, sighing against her mouth.

A few seconds passed when Violet broke the kiss and began trailing a path of soft, lingering kisses down Caitlyn’s body, her jawline, her neck, her breasts, her toned stomach, the delicate skin of her inner thighs, each one slower than the last, until she reached her final destination.

Violet watched Caitlyn beneath her—restless, breathless, completely under her control. Every subtle shift of Caitlyn’s hips, every sharp inhale, was a silent plea for Violet to finally touch her where she needed it most.

Before making a move, Violet took a moment to admire the view in front of her, Caitlyn’s pussy glistening with arousal, her folds parted just enough to silently beg for Violet’s mouth, her tongue, her everything.

"Fuck, Cait" Violet whispered, swallowing dryly. "You're so beautiful and so wet for me."

“Don’t just stare, Violet” she whispered back, her voice with pure want. “Do something about it.”

She didn’t need to hear another word, her body already knew what to do. Violet nestled her head between Caitlyn’s thighs, lifting and spreading them with care but purpose. Her hands gripped the softness of Caitlyn’s thighs like anchors, holding her steady as she lowered her mouth. With her lips brushing against sensitive skin and her tongue poised with intent, Violet began her work, slow, deliberate, worshipful, like she had all the time in the world to explore every reaction, every sigh."

Caitlyn arched off the bed, a soft, strangled sound escaping her lips. Her hand flew to Violet’s hair, not to stop her, but to anchor herself.

And Violet didn't rush.

The moment her tongue touched Caitlyn, she let out a soft hum against her skin, savoring the taste that was uniquely her, sweet, warm, slightly salty, intoxicating in a way that made Violet feel dizzy with need. She'd fantasized about this before, sure, but nothing could’ve prepared her for the reality of it. Caitlyn tasted like sex and heat and something more, something intimate, something hers.

God, how is it possible to crave someone this much?

She tastes like she was made for me.

Her tongue explored every inch of Caitlyn’s slick folds, savoring the taste of the woman spread out in her bed. She sucked Caitlyn’s clit with the perfect balance of precision and pressure, watching intently for every shift, every gasp, reading Caitlyn’s body like a language only she could understand. Violet alternated the rhythm of her tongue and the pressure of her lips, noting which motions made Caitlyn tremble the most, which ones made her hips rise to meet her mouth.

Violet couldn’t get enough of her.

Every time her tongue slid between Caitlyn’s folds, every flick against her clit, Violet moaned softly, not just to tease but because she was genuinely overwhelmed. It wasn’t just desire anymore. It was worship. Her mouth moved with purpose, not just to please Caitlyn, but to indulge in her, to drink her in like the most addictive thing she’d ever known.

Violet pressed a kiss just below her clit and whispered against her skin:

“You taste so fucking good, Cait. I could stay here all night.”

And she meant it, every word.

After a while, she brought her fingers into the mix, sliding them down to join the dance. With slow, deliberate circles, she teased Caitlyn’s clit just the way she liked, firm, steady, focused, driving her higher with each motion, until all that existed was the heat between them

x-x-x

Caitlyn’s thoughts were a blur, no coherent words, just sensation. Violet’s mouth on her felt like fire and silk all at once, a maddening rhythm that had her mind unraveling thread by thread. Her breath hitched as Violet sucked her clit just right, and her hips lifted involuntarily, chasing more.

God… how does she know exactly what I need?

I can’t— I’m not going to last if she keeps doing that…

“Violet… oh—fuck,” she gasped, her voice breaking around the edges of a moan.

Every flick of Violet’s tongue sent sparks through her, and when the fingers came, firm, steady, circling exactly how she needed, Caitlyn let out a deeper moan, one that came from the pit of her stomach.

“Don’t stop… please,” she breathed, her hands tangling in Violet’s hair as if anchoring herself to reality. Her thighs trembled around Violet’s head, muscles tightening, pleasure mounting in waves that built and built.

“I—I’m so close,” she whimpered, her voice shaking, almost desperate.

She’s going to break me.

Caitlyn couldn’t breathe properly anymore. Every nerve in her body was centered between her legs, on Violet’s mouth, her fingers, her relentless devotion. The pleasure wasn’t just physical, it was emotional, intimate, overwhelming in a way that made Caitlyn feel like she was being completely undone.

Her hips bucked as the pressure built fast and sharp, each circle of Violet’s fingers timed perfectly with a flick of her tongue. Caitlyn’s thighs trembled around her head, her hands gripping the sheets so tightly her knuckles were white.

“Oh my God, Vi—don’t stop, don’t stop,” she cried out, her voice cracking with the intensity.

She could feel it, right there, just beyond reach, and then Violet sucked her clit again with just the right amount of pressure, and that was it.

Caitlyn shattered.

Her whole body arched off the bed, a raw moan ripping from her throat as pleasure washed over her in relentless waves. Her vision went white at the edges, muscles tensing and releasing in rhythm with the throbbing pulse between her legs.

x-x-x

Violet had never seen anything more beautiful than Caitlyn falling apart under her touch. Every gasp, every whispered plea was like a secret meant only for her.

She felt Caitlyn’s thighs quiver against her cheeks, her fingers gripping Violet’s hair, body arching with growing desperation. Violet didn’t let up, she couldn’t. Not when Caitlyn was so close, so deliciously vulnerable.

That sound, God, that sound she makes when I suck just right…

She adjusted the pressure of her lips, adding the swirl of her fingers in perfect rhythm, watching how Caitlyn’s breathing hitched and her hips pressed down, begging for more. She glanced up once, just a quick look, and saw Caitlyn’s eyes fluttering, her mouth parted, completely gone.

And then it hit.

Caitlyn’s whole body tensed, her back lifting off the mattress, a loud, broken moan tearing through her as she came hard, raw, and perfect. Violet slowed her movements just enough to guide her through it, her fingers steady, her mouth tender, kissing her softly now, worshipful.

She’s never looked more divine, Violet thought, lips brushing against Caitlyn’s inner thigh. And she’s mine. 

x-x-x

Violet slowly made her way up Caitlyn’s body, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses along the trail of flushed skin, her stomach, her chest, her collarbone, until their faces were finally aligned. Caitlyn was still breathless, her cheeks flushed, her lips parted as if she were trying to remember how to speak.

Violet hovered just above her, eyes searching hers with a satisfied, teasing glint. She leaned in and kissed her, slow and deep, letting Caitlyn taste herself on her lips. The kiss was hungry, lingering, laced with something that felt dangerously close to devotion.

When they finally broke apart, Violet’s voice was low and rough, still tinted with heat.

“So,” she murmured, brushing her nose against Caitlyn’s, “how was it?”

Caitlyn blinked, still dazed, a small smile tugging at her lips, but before she could answer, Violet smirked and whispered against her mouth:

“You ready for round two, Cupcake? ‘Cause I’m not done with you yet.”

Caitlyn let out a soft, breathless laugh, her fingers curling into Violet’s hair as her pulse struggled to slow down. Her body was still trembling from the aftershocks, her skin hypersensitive to every brush, every whisper.

She met Violet’s gaze, eyes dark with heat, and leaned in to kiss her again, slower this time, tasting herself on Violet’s lips, the intimacy of it making her shiver.

When she pulled back, she looked into Violet’s eyes with a spark of challenge.

“If that was just the beginning,” she murmured, voice low and sultry, “then you better be ready to finish what you started.”

Her legs slid open again, inviting, her hips rising just enough to press into Violet.

Violet leaned down and captured Caitlyn’s lips again, slow and deep, savoring the taste of her moans, the heat between them simmering back to a boil. Caitlyn lay beneath her, flushed and pliant, but her eyes burned with anticipation, matching Violet’s hunger beat for beat.

Eventually, when they broke the kiss, Violet didn’t look away, not for a second. Her gaze stayed locked on Caitlyn’s, intense, devouring, as if every flicker of emotion in those blue eyes guided her next move.

Her right hand began its journey, gliding over Caitlyn’s body with deliberate reverence, tracing the soft curve of her waist, the dip of her stomach, until finally settling between her thighs. Her fingers moved gently at first, teasing, grazing over the slick heat waiting for her.

Caitlyn gasped, her back arching slightly, and Violet smiled against her mouth.

Meanwhile, her left hand held Caitlyn firmly by the waist, fingers pressing into her skin like an anchor, controlling, grounding, making sure she stayed right where Violet wanted her.

She whispered between kisses, her voice low and thick with desire:

“Still ready for me?”

And with the way Caitlyn trembled beneath her, Violet already knew the answer.

Violet let her fingers drift lower, teasing the soft, soaked skin between Caitlyn’s thighs until she reached the entrance of her pussy. She didn’t rush. Instead, she hovered there with intention, her fingertip just barely pressing against Caitlyn’s core, asking without words.

Caitlyn’s answer came in the form of a breathy, uncontrollable moan, her hips instinctively tilting forward, inviting her in.

That was all the permission Violet needed.

x-x-x

She slowly slid her index finger in, inch by inch, and felt Caitlyn’s walls tighten around her, hot, wet, welcoming. A deep groan escaped from both of them, the shared sensation electric.

“Fuck…” Violet whispered, mesmerized by the way Caitlyn’s body responded to her. “You’re so wet for me.”

Her movements were slow at first, deliberate. She pulled her finger out almost completely before pushing it back in, watching Caitlyn’s expression shift with every stroke. Her pussy clung to Violet’s finger, slick and warm, pulsing around her in desperate rhythm.

Violet’s mouth hovered near Caitlyn’s ear now, her voice low and ragged as her finger began to thrust with more purpose.

“You feel that?” she murmured. “That’s me… fucking you. Just one finger and you're already shaking.”

Caitlyn whimpered, her hands gripping the sheets, her body rolling with every thrust as Violet continued, building the pressure with precision and care, completely in control, completely addicted.

Violet didn’t slow down, she deepened. Her eyes never left Caitlyn’s face as she slid her middle finger alongside the first, stretching her gently. Caitlyn gasped, her back arching, hips twitching at the new fullness.

“That’s it,” Violet whispered, her voice rich and low. “Take it for me.”

Caitlyn’s pussy clenched around both fingers, so wet, so warm, and Violet could feel every twitch, every pulse. She started to move, slow, deep thrusts, her wrist adjusting to press just right against Caitlyn’s sweet spot with every push. The sounds between them were wet and desperate, echoing softly off the walls.

And then Violet’s thumb found Caitlyn’s clit, slippery, swollen, begging for attention.

She circled it gently, slowly, contrasting the deep rhythm of her fingers with a light, focused touch. Caitlyn cried out, her voice cracking with pleasure, and Violet kissed her, capturing the moan on her tongue, swallowing the sound like it fed her.

She pulled back just slightly, lips brushing Caitlyn’s as she spoke, her words a low hum of praise and heat:

“You’re such a good girl for me, Cait. Taking everything so well.”

Her fingers didn’t stop. Neither did the delicious circles on Caitlyn’s clit. And Caitlyn, caught somewhere between a whimper and a sob, could only nod, lost in the overwhelming rhythm of Violet’s hands, her voice.

Violet kissed her again, slower this time, and murmured against her lips:

“You’re perfect like this. Fuck, you’re perfect.”

Caitlyn was unraveling.

The stretch of Violet’s two fingers, the slow, relentless rhythm, the precise circles on her clit, it was too much and not enough all at once. Her body was trembling, her thighs tightening around Violet’s hand, every muscle pulled taut like a bowstring ready to snap.

Each thrust hit deeper, every movement soaked in heat and intention, and Violet’s voice, low, coaxing, laced with praise, was the spark that pushed her closer to the edge.

“That’s it, baby,” Violet murmured between kisses, her lips brushing against Caitlyn’s cheek, her jaw, her mouth. “You’re doing so fucking good for me.”

Caitlyn whimpered, barely able to form words, her fingers digging into Violet’s shoulders as if she were holding onto the last shred of control.

I can’t… I can’t hold back…

“You’re so damn tight around me,” she whispered. “So wet. I could stay inside you all night.”

Caitlyn moaned again, louder this time, and Violet’s grip tightened.

“Those sounds you make,” she went on, her lips grazing Caitlyn’s cheek as she spoke, “they’re gonna haunt me. I’m gonna be lying in bed, not touching you, and still hearing you like this.”

“You’re driving me crazy,” she said, breaking the silence again. “The way you sound, the way you move—God, Caitlyn. I need to feel you come for me again.”

Violet’s fingers curled inside her just right, and her thumb pressed with a firmer rhythm against Caitlyn’s clit, and that was it.

Caitlyn shattered.

Her whole body arched off the bed, a cry ripped from her throat as pleasure ripped through her like a wave crashing down with no mercy. Her walls clenched around Violet’s fingers, soaking them, trembling with aftershocks that made her hips buck uncontrollably.

She held onto Violet as if her world was shaking, and maybe it was.

Violet didn’t stop right away. She kept moving, slower now, coaxing every last pulse from her, every last twitch, her mouth pressing gentle kisses to Caitlyn’s lips, her cheek, her neck.

“That’s my girl,” Violet whispered, smiling against her skin. “So fucking beautiful when you come.”

Caitlyn, breathless and spent, could only let out a soft laugh as her body melted into the mattress.

“You’re evil,” she murmured, still panting.

x-x-x

For a few long moments, all they did was breathe.

Caitlyn lay on her back, her chest rising and falling, body still pulsing with aftershocks, while Violet curled beside her, propped up on one elbow, brushing strands of damp hair from Caitlyn’s forehead. There was a lazy smile on Violet’s lips, equal parts smug and adoring.

“So,” Violet said, voice playful, “scale of one to completely ruined?”

Caitlyn let out a soft laugh, still catching her breath.

“Somewhere between ‘ruined’ and ‘reborn.’”

Violet chuckled, nuzzling her nose against Caitlyn’s cheek.

“You’re welcome.”

Caitlyn turned to her, eyes narrowing in mock offense.

“So full of yourself.”

She rolled to her side, facing Violet, one hand sliding down her back, then lower, fingers lightly teasing the curve of her ass.

“You really think you’re the only one who knows how to take control, hmm?” she whispered, lips brushing Violet’s ear.

Violet arched an eyebrow, clearly amused.

“Oh? Planning a little revenge?”

Caitlyn didn’t answer. She kissed her instead, slow, sultry, filled with the kind of promise that made Violet’s stomach tighten. Then, with fluid grace, she shifted, climbing on top of her, straddling her hips.

Violet exhaled sharply, eyes widening just a touch as Caitlyn leaned down, her hair falling like silk around their faces.

“Not revenge,” Caitlyn murmured, her tone dark and delicious. “Just my turn.”

She kissed down Violet’s neck, slow and purposeful, and her hands weren’t idle, one trailed down Violet’s stomach, fingers splaying wide, possessive, while the other pinned Violet’s wrist gently to the bed.

“Let me show you how good you’ve been to me,” she said, her voice velvet-soft and dangerous, “and how badly I want you right now.”

And with that, Caitlyn slid lower, her mouth already mapping a path across Violet’s skin, her fingers parting her thighs with reverent ease.

Now it was Violet’s turn to gasp, to squirm, to lose herself.

Caitlyn moved with slow purpose, kissing her way down Violet’s body, trailing soft, lingering kisses along her sternum and over the ridges of her toned abdomen. She paused there, letting her lips graze the defined lines of Violet’s stomach, tongue flicking teasingly over the warm skin.

“You’re absolutely divine,” she murmured against Violet’s skin. 

Her hands roamed lower, fingers sliding along the firm lines of Violet’s muscular thighs, gripping them as though they belonged to her. She admired the strength beneath her touch, the way Violet’s legs tensed and relaxed as Caitlyn’s mouth continued its descent.

Caitlyn gently nudged Violet’s legs open, slow and commanding, until she settled between them. Her hands guided Violet’s thighs up and over her shoulders, the weight and warmth of them grounding her in place.

She looked up briefly, catching Violet’s gaze, then lowered her eyes and took in the sight before her.

Violet’s pussy was glistening, soaked, framed by soft red curls that matched the wild waves of hair above. It was beautiful. Raw. Real. And Caitlyn felt her breath catch in her throat.

“Look at you… you’re absolutely soaked for me.”

Her hands caressed Violet’s thighs, thumbs brushing along sensitive skin, spreading her gently open for a better view. Caitlyn leaned in slowly, lips just inches away, her breath hot against Violet’s dripping heat.

And then, without breaking eye contact, Caitlyn lowered her mouth and began to taste her.

Caitlyn took her time.

She leaned in slowly, letting her lips ghost over Violet’s soaked folds without touching, just letting her breath tease the sensitive skin. Violet’s thighs flexed around Caitlyn’s shoulders in anticipation, her hands fisting in the sheets above.

Caitlyn smiled against her, and then finally, finally, let her tongue slide between the slick heat. She moaned softly at the taste, sweet, earthy, intoxicating, like something forbidden she was never supposed to have, and yet here she was, indulging shamelessly.

She licked a slow, deliberate stripe from bottom to top, savouring the way Violet’s hips jolted in response.

“Oh, darling…” Caitlyn murmured, her voice low, thick with her accent and arousal. “You taste exquisite.”

She licked again, this time with more pressure, then flattened her tongue and dragged it in slow, controlled motions. Her hands held Violet’s thighs firmly, fingertips digging in just enough to keep her grounded.

And then she found it, Violet’s clit, swollen, needy, begging for attention.

Without hesitation, Caitlyn wrapped her lips around it and sucked.

The sound that left Violet’s throat was somewhere between a gasp and a broken moan, and Caitlyn felt it like lightning.

She sucked gently at first, letting her tongue flick just beneath the hood, then increased the pressure, drawing Violet in deeper with every pass of her mouth. She alternated between slow pulls and quick flicks, watching for every reaction, every twitch of Violet’s stomach, every breathless curse that fell from her lips.

“That’s it.” she purred between strokes, her voice vibrating against Violet’s clit. “Let me have you.”

Violet was already trembling, her thighs tightening around Caitlyn’s head as her body arched into the sensation, chasing every pulse of pleasure Caitlyn gave her.

Caitlyn didn’t let up, her mouth was relentless, focused, absolutely devoted, as if making Violet fall apart was the most sacred thing she’d ever done.

Caitlyn was laser-focused now, her entire world had narrowed to the sounds Violet made, the way her body moved, the heat radiating from between her thighs. Her tongue moved with precision, circling Violet’s clit in slow, deliberate patterns. She alternated between soft flicks and firm, drawn-out strokes, savoring the way Violet’s hips stuttered beneath her mouth.

She sucked the bundle of nerves again, just enough to make Violet’s back arch and a ragged moan tear from her throat.

Caitlyn was completely immersed, her mouth and fingers working in perfect harmony, drawing soft, desperate sounds from Violet with every stroke. Her tongue circled Violet’s clit in slow, teasing motions, then flattened against it with firm, controlled pressure. Every flick, every drag was intentional.

Violet was soaking, her pussy clenching around Caitlyn’s fingers the moment she slipped one inside, slow and deep. A moan tore from Violet’s throat, and Caitlyn felt it vibrate through her.

She pulled back just enough to speak, her voice low and breathless, lips brushing against sensitive skin:

“You’re so warm… so fucking wet.

She slid in a second finger, curling just right, and watched as Violet’s back arched off the bed. Caitlyn’s tongue returned to her clit without pause, steady, focused, relentless.

Her eyes flicked up, catching the way Violet’s face twisted with pleasure, the way she gripped the sheets, the way her breath broke apart in fragments.

“Don’t hold back,” she said. “I want to hear what I do to you.”

Then she dipped her head and tasted her, slow, deliberate.

Violet gasped, her hand flying to Caitlyn’s hair.

“God—Caitlyn—”

Caitlyn’s fingers moved faster now, her thumb brushing the clit in tight circles between strokes of her tongue. She felt Violet starting to shake.

She leaned in again, her voice like a whisper meant only for Violet’s skin:

“You don’t have to say anything. I can feel exactly what you need.”

And she gave it to her, over and over again, until Violet was nothing but sound and heat and tension ready to snap.

x-x-x

Violet couldn’t think anymore. Her mind was dissolving, every coherent thought drowned beneath the overwhelming pulse of pleasure Caitlyn was drawing from her body.

Caitlyn’s mouth was devastating, slow, focused, knowing, her tongue flicking and circling Violet’s clit with practiced ease, while her fingers moved deeper inside her, curling just right, hitting that one spot that made her legs shake uncontrollably.

She tried to form words, to say something, anything, but all that came out were soft, broken moans, getting louder with each thrust, each swirl, each delicious suck of Caitlyn’s mouth.

Her thighs trembled around Caitlyn’s head, her hips arching off the bed, chasing every bit of contact, greedy for more.

Oh my god, she knows my body better than I do.

Caitlyn’s fingers didn’t falter. Her thumb pressed gently into Violet’s clit, joining her tongue in perfect sync, and that did it.

It hit her fast, too fast.

Violet gasped, her back arching, eyes squeezing shut as the orgasm ripped through her. Her whole body tensed, then convulsed, wave after wave rolling through her, intense and hot and endless. She let out a raw, guttural sound, her voice cracking in the middle of it, trembling beneath Caitlyn’s steady, grounding hands.

She came hard, her body clenching tight around Caitlyn’s fingers, dripping down her palm as her breaths turned into shallow, panting whimpers.

Caitlyn slowed, easing her down gently, her tongue pressing one last kiss to Violet’s inner thigh as her fingers slipped out, careful and reverent.

Violet collapsed back onto the mattress, completely undone, limbs heavy, heart pounding, skin burning.

And when Caitlyn finally slid up beside her, brushing hair from her flushed face and pressing a soft kiss to her lips, Violet managed to whisper between breaths:

“Holy shit…”

Her voice was hoarse, but her smile was lazy, satisfied, completely wrecked.

x-x-x

The room was quiet now, except for the sound of their breathing.

Heavy. Uneven. Alive.

Violet lay sprawled on the bed, completely spent, one arm draped over her eyes, the other loosely curled around Caitlyn’s waist.

Caitlyn was resting on her side, propped up on an elbow, her fingers tracing lazy circles across Violet’s stomach, still admiring, still claiming.

“I stand by my earlier statement,” Violet murmured, her voice hoarse but steady. “You’re dangerous.”

Caitlyn grinned. “And you make excellent sound effects. Honestly, I’m considering sampling you.”

Violet let out a lazy laugh, turning her head just enough to look at her.

“I didn’t know British girls talked that much during sex.”

“I didn’t know tattooed singers begged quite so prettily.”

Violet narrowed her eyes, lips twitching. “That was not begging. That was... expressive vocalization.”

Caitlyn kissed her shoulder, slowly, letting her lips linger.

“You were moaning my name.”

Violet groaned and dragged the pillow over her face. “God, please stop being so smug.”

“You love it,” Caitlyn teased.

“Unfortunately... yeah. I kind of do.”

They both laughed, quiet and low, like they were the only two people left in the world.

Caitlyn rested her head against Violet’s shoulder then, her hand still gently running over her skin, tracing the edge of a tattoo like it might disappear.

“You feel amazing,” she whispered, almost to herself.

Violet softened beneath her. “So do you.”

Another pause. Another breath.

“I’m not gonna want to sleep alone after this, you know,” Caitlyn murmured.

“Good,” Violet replied without hesitation. “You’re not leaving.”

Caitlyn smiled against her skin.

“Dangerous girl.”

“You knew that when I lifted you like a backpack.”

Caitlyn laughed again, and this time, Violet reached for her, pulling her close, wrapping her arms around her waist.

Their bodies tangled again, but not with urgency now.

Just closeness. Just them.

And neither of them had any intention of pulling away.

x-x-x

The hours had slipped past them unnoticed.

The night was silent, deep and quiet and still, but neither of them made a move to sleep.

They lay tangled together beneath the sheets, legs overlapping, Caitlyn’s head resting against Violet’s shoulder, their breaths syncing again, this time slow, steady, content.

The cat had reappeared at some point, hopping up onto the foot of the bed like he owned it, because of course he did, and curled up into a loaf with one eye half-open, like he was monitoring the emotional intimacy in the room for sport.

Violet shifted a little, pressing a soft kiss to the top of Caitlyn’s head.

“You still awake?”

Caitlyn made a small, sleepy noise. “Barely.”

Violet smiled against her hair. “Good. That means your defenses are down.”

“Oh no,” Caitlyn mumbled. “Here comes something emotionally compromising.”

“I just want to ask you something.”

Caitlyn hummed, still not lifting her head. “Go on.”

Violet took a breath, her voice lower now, not shy, just careful. “Do you always do this?”

Caitlyn blinked against her skin. “This?”

“Yeah. Stay after. Talk. Let someone see the real stuff.”

There was a pause.

Caitlyn pulled back slightly to meet her eyes, brushing a strand of hair away from Violet’s face. “No. I don’t.”

Violet didn’t smile. She just nodded. “Me neither.”

Caitlyn searched her expression for a second, then leaned in and kissed her, slow, without heat this time, but full of something heavier. Something quietly terrifying.

When she pulled back, she rested her forehead against Violet’s.

“I think that’s what scares me,” she whispered. “That I don’t want this to be casual anymore.

Violet stared at her.

And then, softly: “Yeah. Me too.”

Silence settled again, not awkward, not heavy. Just there.

Real.

Then Caitlyn sighed and buried her face in Violet’s neck.

“Damn it.”

Violet smiled, closing her eyes.

“Yeah. Damn it.”

Caitlyn was still nestled against Violet’s shoulder, her breath warming the skin just beneath her collarbone, when she spoke again, softer this time.

“You’re not what I expected.”

Violet huffed a quiet laugh. “You mean I’m not just a walking jawline and emotional detachment?”

Caitlyn smiled against her. “I mean, those things are definitely true. But there’s more. You’re... thoughtful. Gentle. And kind of annoyingly observant.”

“Careful,” Violet murmured. “That almost sounded like a compliment.”

“It was,” Caitlyn admitted. “But don’t get cocky.”

“I can’t help it. I have muscles and tattoos. It’s basically required.”

Caitlyn tilted her head up, eyes warm but serious now. “I meant it, though. I didn’t think this would feel so... easy.”

Violet looked at her for a long moment, then brushed her knuckles along Caitlyn’s cheek. “It scares me how easy it is.”

Caitlyn nodded. “Me too.”

They went quiet for a beat, not heavy, not tense. Just letting it sit there between them.

Then Violet smirked. “So what do we do now, Cupcake? Run for the hills? Or admit we might actually like each other?”

Then Caitlyn whispered, “Let’s just take it one night at a time.”

Violet nodded. “Yeah.”

A pause.

“But if you do want to stay tomorrow night too... I make a mean omelet.”

Caitlyn laughed, low and lovely, and curled back into her, letting her hand settle over Violet’s chest.

“I’m not going anywhere. Not yet.”

Violet exhaled, slow, quiet,  and rested her cheek against Caitlyn’s hair.

“Good.”

Even after their bodies had calmed, the heat between them lingered, soft, magnetic.

They made love again, this time slower, more tender, exploring each other with quiet reverence, kisses deep and unhurried, touches full of meaning. It was less about urgency and more about closeness, about feeling everything. 

They whispered each other’s names like secrets, like prayers. Each kiss, each caress was a promise, of want, of care, of something they didn’t dare name yet but both felt.

Eventually, their bodies slowed. Their breaths synced. Caitlyn tucked Violet close, her arm draped over her waist, fingers drawing lazy circles on her skin.

And somewhere between the warmth of the sheets and the weight of each other’s presence, sleep found them, quietly, gently, with a sense of peace neither of them had expected, but both needed.

Chapter Text

The sun poured in through the blinds, filtered and warm across the messy bed. The sheets were tangled around Violet’s legs, the scent of sleep, sex and skin still clinging to the room like the afterglow of a dream.

She stretched with a soft groan, blinking against the light,  and immediately noticed it.

The space beside her was empty.

Still warm, but empty.

Violet’s body tensed before her brain could catch up. She sat up too fast, the sheet slipping down her chest, heart picking up speed with that low, creeping thought:

Did she leave?

Her eyes scanned the room.

No clothes. No purse. No Caitlyn.

A beat passed.

Then she spotted it, a piece of paper on the pillow beside her, folded once, clean and neat. Violet reached for it with fingers she didn’t realize were trembling a little.

The handwriting was unmistakable. Slightly slanted, elegant. 

You sleep like someone who hasn't in weeks.
Went to grab breakfast. Don’t panic. Unless you snore like that in public — then panic a little.
—C

Violet exhaled a laugh, pressing the paper to her chest for a moment.

“Cupcake,” she muttered, a slow grin forming.

The relief bloomed before she could stop it, of course Caitlyn hadn’t run. That wasn’t her. Still, the fear had crept in fast and cruel, the way it always did when Violet cared more than she meant to.

She fell back into the pillows, eyes on the ceiling, letting the adrenaline dissolve into something softer.

“Damn it,” she whispered. “I’m getting used to this.”

The cat jumped onto the bed with a disapproving grunt, curled into the warm spot Caitlyn had left, and settled like a judge.

Violet reached out and scratched behind his ears.

“I know. I'm getting soft.”

The cat purred.

x-x-x

Violet heard the apartment door open with a soft click, the kind of confident sound that said whoever was coming in had done it before, and wasn’t second-guessing it.

She pushed herself up slightly, the sheets still tangled around her, hair a mess, sleep still clinging to her bones. But her heart kicked up in a way that had nothing to do with nerves now, just something simpler. Anticipation.

Caitlyn appeared a moment later, framed in the bedroom doorway.

She looked ridiculously good for someone who had clearly walked a few blocks, sweater, hair slightly tousled from the wind, two coffees in hand and a paper bag tucked under her arm. She also had a very pleased look on her face, which was somehow more dangerous than anything she’d worn last night.

“Good morning, sleeping beauty,” Caitlyn said, walking in like she belonged there.

Violet narrowed her eyes playfully. “If you say I snore, I’ll throw this pillow at you.”

Caitlyn grinned, sitting on the edge of the bed and offering one of the cups. “You don’t snore. You purr. Fiercely. Like a small jungle cat.”

Violet took the coffee with a grunt. “I am a jungle cat. And you’re lucky I’m not awake enough to argue.”

Caitlyn leaned in and kissed her, slow, easy, like they did this every morning. Like this was normal. Like there hadn’t been a night of skin and chaos and whispered confessions between them.

“Morning,” Caitlyn said against her lips.

Violet smirked. “You taste like espresso and criminal intent.”

“I do what I can.”

Caitlyn set the bag between them, pulling out warm breakfast sandwiches wrapped in brown paper, two napkins, and, with the smug flair of someone who knew exactly what she was doing, a single cupcake in a plastic box.

“And for dessert,” Caitlyn added, “I figured I’d go thematic.”

Violet raised an eyebrow. “Seriously? You brought a cupcake?”

“I thought it was on brand.”

Violet glanced down as Caitlyn reached into the bag once more and tossed something small onto the foot of the bed, a crunchy little treat, very obviously not for humans.

“For him too,” she said, nodding at the cat, who had wandered in and was now sniffing suspiciously from the doorway.

Violet let out a laugh. “You’re trying to bribe him now?”

“I’m trying to survive. Even though he let me pet him, he still stares at me like I’m trespassing.”

“He stares at everyone like that,” Violet said. “You’re doing fine.”

Caitlyn took a sip of her coffee, then looked over at her. “So... can we eat breakfast in bed, or is that one of your sacred rules?”

Violet smirked, pulling the sheet tighter around her. “You already broke most of my rules last night.”

Caitlyn smiled, slow, knowing. “Then I guess I’m staying for breakfast.”

They arranged everything haphazardly on the bed, paper-wrapped sandwiches, the cupcake off to the side like a dessert too fancy to eat first, and their coffees balanced precariously on Violet’s nightstand.

The cat walked in like he’d been invited, eyeing Caitlyn with mild suspicion and the treat with cold calculation.

“You know he’s going to accept that like a bribe and still judge you tomorrow, right?” Violet said around a bite of egg and cheese.

“I’m not trying to win,” Caitlyn replied, sipping her coffee. “I’m trying to neutralize the threat.”

Violet snorted. “You say that like he’s a bomb.”

“He is. A furry, unpredictable landmine with no regard for personal space.”

The cat, insulted but intrigued, sniffed the treat once and promptly settled at Caitlyn’s feet like he’d been bought, which he had.

Violet raised a brow. “Wow. That was fast. I had to earn his trust over a year.”

Caitlyn smiled, unwrapping her sandwich. “I’m charming when it counts.”

Violet gave her a look. “When it counts, huh?”

Caitlyn didn’t respond right away. She glanced over at Violet, and for a second, her expression softened.

“Yeah,” she said. “Exactly then.”

The words landed heavier than expected. Violet looked away, pretending to be fascinated by her coffee.

“Cupcake,” she muttered. “You keep saying shit like that and I’m gonna fall for you or something.”

“God forbid,” Caitlyn said, dry, reaching for the napkins.

They ate quietly for a few minutes, comfortable in the silence, the kind that felt like Sunday morning music without needing to be turned on. Outside, New York buzzed faintly through the windows. Inside, everything slowed.

“Hey,” Violet said eventually, her voice casual, “you, uh... do this often?”

Caitlyn looked up. “Eat in bed with dangerously attractive musicians?”

“No,” Caitlyn said, shaking her head. “But I think I’m doing it pretty well.”

Violet grinned. “Not bad for a first-timer.”

When they finished, Caitlyn reached for the little box with the cupcake.

She cracked it open, broke it in half with careful fingers, and held a piece out to Violet.

“For dessert,” she said.

Violet narrowed her eyes. “Is this symbolic? Like, ‘here, have a piece of me’?”

Caitlyn licked a bit of frosting from her finger and shrugged. “Maybe.”

Violet took the piece, biting into it slowly, watching Caitlyn the whole time.

“Dangerous,” she muttered.

“You say that like it’s a warning.”

“I say it like it’s already too late.”

Caitlyn just smiled, and kissed the corner of Violet’s frosting-smudged mouth.

x-x-x

Violet wiped her fingers on a napkin, leaning back against the headboard, her smirk already forming like she couldn’t help it.

Caitlyn was still delicately licking frosting off her thumb, completely unaware of the verbal ambush about to hit.

“You know,” Violet said casually, “this isn’t even the first cupcake I’ve had in the last twenty-four hours.”

Caitlyn paused. Slowly looked over. “Oh?”

Violet bit into her piece again, mischievous glint in her eye. “Yeah. The one I had last night was a lot messier. Definitely didn’t come with a wrapper.”

Caitlyn blinked, almost dropped her coffee.

Violet grinned, eyes sharp now. “Made a lot more noise too. Kept moaning my name.”

There was a long, beat of silence.

Then Caitlyn made a face, half horrified, half flustered. “You did not just call me a cupcake mid-breakfast.”

“Oh, I absolutely did.” Violet leaned in, eyes bright. “You nicknamed yourself. I just made it literal.”

Caitlyn groaned, dragging a pillow over her face. “I regret everything.”

Violet laughed, full and unfiltered, pulling the pillow back just enough to see Caitlyn’s flushed cheeks.

“Don’t act like you weren’t proud of your performance.”

Caitlyn lifted the pillow enough to peek at her. “I will neither confirm nor deny.”

“Mmhm. That cupcake was sweet, warm, and screamed for me.” Violet popped the last bite in her mouth, smug as hell.

Caitlyn threw the pillow at her, it bounced harmlessly off Violet’s shoulder.

“I’m never bringing dessert again.”

Violet caught it mid-laugh. “Too late. You are the dessert.”

Caitlyn rolled her eyes, but she was smiling, the kind of smile that crept in at the corners, no matter how hard she tried to fight it.

“God help me, I like you.”

“I know,” Violet said, casually stealing the last sip of Caitlyn’s coffee. “I like you, too.”

They were still laughing when Violet set the empty coffee cup on the nightstand and leaned over Caitlyn again, her hair falling forward, eyes glinting with mischief.

“You know,” she murmured, brushing her nose lightly against Caitlyn’s, “I think you’re starting to like being objectified.”

Caitlyn gave her a warning look, but it didn’t quite stick, not with the way her breath hitched when Violet’s hand found her waist again.

“Stop it,” Caitlyn said, voice low. “We just ate.”

“Perfect timing, then,” Violet replied, kissing her jaw. “Energy restored.”

Caitlyn opened her mouth to argue, but the words got lost the second Violet kissed her, slow, deliberate, all over again. She melted into it instantly, her arms wrapping around Violet’s shoulders, pulling her closer.

The bed creaked faintly under them as Violet shifted, pushing Caitlyn gently down against the pillows, never breaking the kiss. Hands wandered. Skin sparked. The air warmed with that familiar tension, humming under the surface.

“God,” Caitlyn whispered, lips brushing Violet’s ear, “you’re insatiable.”

Violet grinned against her neck. “And you love it.”

Caitlyn didn’t argue.

Just then, the cat, previously curled on the floor at the foot of the bed, flicked his tail, and let out a judgmental mrrrow.

Both women froze.

Violet turned her head just in time to watch him walking away in an irritated huff and trot toward the door like someone had just offended his moral code.

Caitlyn, still half breathless, blinked. “Did he just leave?”

“He absolutely did,” Violet said, trying not to laugh. “He can’t handle the tension. Or the disrespect.”

“He judged us.”

“Harshly.”

They looked at each other, grinning, bodies already tangled again.

And then Caitlyn whispered, “Lock the door.”

Violet did.

And this time, no one interrupted.

x-x-x

The room had settled into a comfortable silence, just the low hum of the city outside and the occasional creak of the bed when either of them shifted.

The sheets were a disaster. One of Caitlyn’s socks was MIA. The cupcake wrapper had ended up on the floor, half crumpled next to a pillow that had been aggressively thrown hours ago.

They lay on their backs, side by side, skin warm and sticky with leftover heat, limbs still tangled under the covers. Violet’s arm was draped lazily over Caitlyn’s stomach, her fingers twitching now and then. Caitlyn’s hand moved gently over a tattoo on Violet’s arm, tracing the shape like it meant something.

Neither of them said anything for a while.

Just... breathing. Resting.

Floating.

Then Caitlyn let out a long, satisfied sigh. “I think your cat hates me now.”

Violet laughed against her shoulder. “He hates everyone. But yeah, you’re probably at the top of the list today.”

“He looked personally offended.”

“We interrupted his deeply judgmental nap schedule.”

“He left the room.”

“Fully. With attitude.”

They both started laughing again, soft, tired, full.

“He’ll get over it,” Caitlyn said.

Violet smirked, brushing her nose against Caitlyn’s jaw. “He might, but I won’t.”

Caitlyn turned her head, brow raised. “Oh?”

“You’ve got that look that could ruin me, Cupcake.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“I’m saying,” Violet said, propping herself up slightly, “you should come with a warning label.”

Caitlyn smiled, that slow, wrecked, post-orgasm kind of smile. “You’d ignore it anyway.”

“Completely.”

They lay there again, quiet. Not asleep. Not ready to move.

Just here.

Caitlyn’s fingers slid back down Violet’s stomach, resting over her hand. 

Outside, the traffic picked up. Somewhere, a horn honked. But in the apartment, it felt like time had paused for a while.

And neither of them was ready to press play again.

x-x-x

Caitlyn was the first to stretch, the slow, reluctant kind that hinted at motion but didn’t quite commit. She sat up just a little, glancing at her clothes still scattered around the room, hair a bit wild, lips still swollen from too many kisses.

“I should probably head out soon,” she said softly, brushing a hand through her hair. “Let you have your Sunday. Sleep. Write. Be alone with your guitar and your angry cat.”

Violet, still half-curled under the sheets, blinked at her. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Caitlyn raised an eyebrow. “I mean… I don’t want to overstay.”

Violet sat up slowly, the sheet slipping off her shoulder. “No. Nope. Absolutely not.”

Caitlyn’s smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Wow. Okay. Confident response.”

“Sundays,” Violet said, as if it were a sacred word, “are not meant to be spent alone.”

Caitlyn blinked. “Is that a personal belief or a national law?”

“Universal truth,” Violet replied. “Written in the stars. Or carved on a diner napkin somewhere. Doesn’t matter. The point is: you’re not leaving.”

Caitlyn laughed. “So we’re making rules now?”

“Only the important ones.”

“And what, exactly,” Caitlyn said, turning fully toward her, “are the other rules in this... whatever this is?”

Violet leaned forward, resting her chin on Caitlyn’s shoulder. “Rule number one: you bring coffee. Always.”

“Reasonable.”

“Rule two: no sneaking out without a goodbye kiss. That’s criminal.”

“I would never.”

“And rule three...” Violet paused dramatically, then smiled. “You stay on Sundays.”

Caitlyn looked at her, really looked, eyes warm, skin still flushed, heart just a little too full.

“You’re dangerous when you’re soft.”

“Only on Sundays.”

Caitlyn shook her head, grinning. “Fine. I’ll stay. But only because the cat hasn’t forgiven me yet and I think he’ll stab me if I leave.”

Violet laughed, pulling her back down into the bed. “See? Look at us. Thriving.”

Caitlyn melted into her side, resting her head on Violet’s shoulder with a quiet sigh.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “Kinda scary, isn’t it?”

Violet didn’t answer right away.

She just held her tighter.

x-x-x

The decision to take a shower hadn’t started with anything more than logic.

They were both sticky and warm, the bedsheets a little too lived-in, the air thick with sleep and sex and the scent of one another. Caitlyn had mumbled something about needing to feel human again, and Violet had smirked and agreed.

“Just a shower,” Caitlyn had said, tugging Violet toward the bathroom, hair a mess, lips still red from earlier.

It was not just a shower.

At least not for long.

Steam filled the space like a veil as Caitlyn pressed Violet against the cool tile, water cascading down their shoulders, mouths finding each other again, slower this time, but no less hungry. It wasn’t frenzied like the night before; it was more dangerous than that. It was intentional.

Caitlyn’s laugh was breathless against Violet’s mouth as she whispered, “We’re never getting clean at this rate.”

Violet groaned. “You started it.”

“You pulled me in with you.”

“You’re irresistible when wet.”

“You’re always irresistible.”

And then words stopped mattering.

What followed was slow and heady, tangled bodies moving under water, hands slipping across skin, steam clinging to every surface. They kissed like they had time. Like they had all morning. Like maybe this wasn’t just something temporary.

And afterward, when Caitlyn was boneless and flushed and leaning against Violet’s chest under the still-running stream, they finally remembered what the shower was for.

They washed.

Laughed.

Kissed again.

Eventually, they emerged, toweling off with lazy movements, hair dripping, bodies sore in a way that felt indulgent rather than inconvenient.

Caitlyn stood by Violet’s dresser, scanning the options.

“I don’t suppose you keep a drawer of perfectly tailored clothes for your overnight guests?”

“Just you,” Violet said, tossing her a faded band tee and a pair of joggers. “Try not to drown in them.”

Caitlyn raised an eyebrow, but didn’t argue. She slipped the shirt on, it hit mid-thigh, then tugged the joggers up, cinching the drawstring tight.

The waistband still sat low on her hips. The cuffs puddled around her calves.

“Christ,” she muttered, looking at herself. “You’re a walking gym ad.”

Violet leaned against the doorframe, towel slung around her neck, watching her.

Watching her in her clothes.

Something about it hit harder than she expected.

The way Caitlyn swam in the soft cotton. The way her collarbones peeked out from the wide neck of the shirt. The way she looked so comfortable, so unguarded, so here.

Violet blinked once, then again, like maybe she could shake it off.

But the thought settled anyway: I’m in trouble.

This wasn’t casual anymore. Not after last night. Not after this. 

Not when Caitlyn looked like that in her old t-shirt.

Not when her cat was curled at Caitlyn’s feet. 

Not when Violet felt her chest tighten just from watching her sip water from her own glass like she belonged here.

Shit, Violet thought. I think I like her. Like, really like her. 

Caitlyn caught her staring.

“What?”

Violet shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “You’re stealing my clothes. It’s rude, really.”

Caitlyn smirked, walking over and standing close to kiss her.

“You like it.”

Violet didn’t deny it.

Because yeah. She really did.

x-x-x

They didn’t leave the apartment.

Not once.

The city kept pulsing just outside the windows, horns, voices, distant music carried on the wind, but none of it made it past the walls of Violet’s place. Inside, the day stretched long and slow, full of warmth, quiet teasing, sex, and the kind of domestic rhythm neither of them was used to.

Caitlyn made tea at some point. Violet lit a candle she claimed she didn’t even like but said it “smelled like Sundays.” The cat alternated between passive judgment and curling up in the sliver of space between them on the couch, as if determined to claim both laps as his own.

They watched a movie, something they half paid attention to, with Violet’s arm around Caitlyn and Caitlyn’s legs pulled over Violet’s. Somewhere around the second act, Violet fell asleep for fifteen minutes, head tilted back, lips parted, breathing soft.

Caitlyn didn’t move.

She just watched her.

And thought, I could get used to this.

Later, they made grilled cheese in the kitchen. Caitlyn danced barefoot to a playlist Violet swore she made “ironically.” Violet flipped the sandwiches like a pro while pretending she wasn’t grinning at Caitlyn the whole time.

And when the sun began to sink into the buildings outside, washing the apartment in gold, they were back on the couch, tangled again, Caitlyn in Violet’s hoodie now, oversized and swallowing her whole.

“I should go,” Caitlyn whispered eventually, her voice reluctant.

Violet didn’t respond right away. Just pulled her closer.

But the moment hung there. Heavy. Lingering.

The bubble. The clock ticking beneath it.

Caitlyn’s phone buzzed on the table.

Once. Then again.

She glanced at the screen and sighed.

“Mel,” she muttered. “Twice. That’s her version of polite before she loses it.”

Violet nodded, her fingers still absently tracing circles over Caitlyn’s knee. “What’s she freaking out about?”

“Meeting tomorrow. Fittings. You know. Real life.”

Caitlyn didn’t move though.

Not yet.

Violet swallowed the lump rising in her throat. “Yeah. I forgot you have, like... a whole world outside of this couch.”

“You do too.”

Violet gave her a small, tired smile. “Mine just doesn’t wear heels or call five times in a row.”

Another buzz.

Then a message pinged on Violet’s phone too.

Ekko.

Both women looked at their respective screens.

Reality. Tapping harder now.

“I don’t want to move,” Caitlyn said softly.

“Then don’t.”

“I have to.”

“I know.”

Violet reached over and brushed Caitlyn’s hair back behind her ear, fingers lingering.

“Just... don’t forget this,” she said, quieter now. “Okay?”

Caitlyn leaned in, their foreheads touching.

“Impossible.”

Chapter Text

Wrapped in glass and filtered sunlight, the conference room sat high above the noise of the city. Below, Manhattan moved as it always did: taxis honking, people yelling into phones, someone somewhere always in a hurry. But here, all was quiet. Neat lines. Silent strength. Everything fits perfectly.

Dressed in a navy blazer and ivory blouse, Caitlyn sat near the centre of the long table. Tied back hair, excellent posture. Her bag held a silenced phone. In front of her lay an open notebook with blank pages.

Sitting opposite her were two producers, a casting director, and a screenwriter nervously gripping a thick draft.

It wasn’t a done deal.

Not yet.

But it was the kind of meeting that didn’t happen by accident. Her name had come up. The role, a co-lead in a major studio project, was still in early development, but the team had a clear tone in mind. And Caitlyn’s name had stayed on their shortlist through several rounds of quiet discussions.

Mel had called her the night before and said, “They’re circling you. They want to see what you can do with it. Don’t play it small.”

Her agent had confirmed it too: “They like your work. They’re just not saying it out loud yet.”

It was the kind of project people talked about months before release. A prestige drama with a sharp, character-driven script. A director who’d already taken home two awards in the last five years. A cast that felt bulletproof, Diana had signed on last week, Viego was in final talks, and Jhin was attached since the start. A striking ensemble, and Caitlyn could be part of it.

If the tests went well. If the chemistry clicked.

If she proved herself.

And she was ready to.

She listened as the screenwriter walked them through the protagonist's journey, quiet grief, internal tension, magnetic presence. She nodded when the producers brought up aesthetic references, tone, pacing. Took notes when the casting director mentioned the schedule, the demands, the tone of the dynamic they were aiming for.

She was here for this. Sharp. Engaged. Completely professional.

But even with all her focus, a part of her mind drifted, quietly, gently, to Violet.

To Saturday night, the press of Violet’s leg against hers on the couch. The heat that lingered. The half-watched movie.
To Sunday morning, lazy and warm, Violet barefoot in her boxers and a worn tee, making grilled cheese while humming some half-made melody.

It wasn’t just the memory. It was the way it had felt to be there. Unrushed. Undemanded. Real.

One of the producers leaned forward, meeting Caitlyn’s gaze. “It’s early, of course, but we’d love your instinct. Is this someone you’d want to explore?”

Caitlyn gave a small nod, thoughtful. “Absolutely. There’s something honest about her. I’d like the chance to find it.”

The screenwriter smiled in quiet relief. The casting director took notes. The air shifted, like something had settled into place, not confirmed, but seen.

They moved on. Forward. Schedules, possible test dates, call sheets.

Caitlyn stayed with them, fully present.

But beneath the surface, just under the page, the memory of Violet still hummed softly through her, not pulling her away, but waiting at the edge of the day, like a light she'd want to walk back to when it was done.

x-x-x

When the meeting finally wrapped, Caitlyn exited with polite goodbyes and a promise to read the next script draft by the weekend. The hallway outside was quiet. She pulled her phone from her bag the second she turned the corner.

A message was waiting.

From Violet.

Attached was a photo: Violet standing barefoot in her kitchen, holding two coffee mugs, her cat perched on the counter staring directly into the camera like he paid the rent there.

Caption: made two coffees by accident, guess I’m still in sunday mode

Caitlyn stared at the image for longer than she meant to.

Violet looked effortlessly beautiful. Hair messy, sweatshirt off one shoulder. The second cup in her hand said more than Violet probably realized.

Caitlyn typed, paused, erased, then retyped.

[Caitlyn]

I’ll take the second cup next time.

Tell the cat to clear my seat.

Three dots appeared immediately. Then stopped.

Then appeared again.

[Violet]

he says it depends on what you bring him

[Caitlyn]

Peace offerings can be arranged. I’m very persuasive.

[Violet]

you really are

Caitlyn smiled and slipped her phone back into her coat pocket, heart just a little lighter.

x-x-x

The second cup of coffee was still hot when Violet realized what she'd done.

She didn’t even drink that much coffee. One was her limit on a normal day.

But there it was, two matching mugs, both steaming on the counter, and her cat already giving her a you’re losing it look from his usual perch.

“Don’t start,” she told him, taking a sip from one mug and sliding the other slightly away. “I didn’t do it on purpose.”

But maybe she had.

Maybe some part of her had woken up thinking Caitlyn would still be there, hair tousled, feet bare on her kitchen tiles, smirking into her coffee like she didn’t know she had Violet in some kind of emotional chokehold.

Violet snapped a quick picture of the scene, herself, the mugs, the cat, and sent it without overthinking.

Because if she did think too hard, she’d spiral.

And she didn’t have time to spiral today.

She had music to finish.

x-x-x

Caitlyn had gone, but the little home studio was still warm from yesterday's unsuccessful efforts: cables scattered over the rug, her favorite guitar half-tuned on the stand, and the recording microphone flashing as though it were bored.

Violet’s favorite guitar isn’t the most expensive in her collection. It’s not vintage, not rare, not even especially flashy. It’s a Squier Classic Vibe Telecaster in a rich, midnight blue — the kind of blue that changes under different lights, sometimes cooler, sometimes warmer, sometimes almost purple.

She picked it up on impulse two years ago, walking past a tiny music shop after a fight with a friend she doesn’t talk to anymore. The color had caught her eye through the glass. She bought it without testing it properly, half out of spite, half chasing a feeling she couldn’t name.

She named it "Blue", simple, but it meant more than she let on.

Now, whenever she writes something she’s not ready to show anyone, she reaches for Blue. And when her fingers slip into a riff without thinking, it’s usually one that ends in a memory she thought she’d buried, late-night laughter, a coffee cup passed across a table, the way Caitlyn said her name when she was half-asleep.

Violet sat in front of the console and opened the project file titled:

"C."

She hadn’t been able to give it a full name yet.

A low guitar track faded in through her headphones, something she’d recorded the night after Caitlyn left her apartment. It was simple. A bit groovy. Not polished. But there was something in the tone that she hadn’t managed to capture in anything else she’d made this year.

She tapped out a new beat on the pad. Muted drums. A soft, steady rhythm, nothing heavy. Not this time.

This song didn’t want to be loud.

She leaned back in the chair, staring at the waveform, heart beating a little faster than it should’ve.

“This is stupid,” she muttered.

The cat blinked slowly from across the room.

She pressed record anyway.

Started humming.

Then: 

"She keeps her records in a flat in Camden
So far away, but she says I remind her of home
Feeling, oh, so far from home"

She stopped.

Let the silence hang.

Then, half-smiling, she whispered into the mic, “You better be worth it, Cupcake.”

x-x-x

After a few minutes, Violet leaned back in the desk chair, headphones still half-on, fingers drumming lightly over her knees.

The studio was too quiet now.

The music, her music, sat half-recorded on the screen in front of her, the kind of unfinished that felt more like fear than laziness. She stared at it for another ten seconds before she reached for her phone and hit Jinx.

Two rings. Then a click.

“Tell me you’re not locked in the cave again,” Jinx said, no greeting needed.

“I’m not locked,” Violet muttered. “I’m… contained.”

“That’s what every emotionally avoidant creative says before writing a surprise love album.”

Violet groaned. “Can you not psychoanalyze me in the first ten seconds?”

“Fine. Minute three. What’s going on?”

A pause.

Then Violet said, quieter, “I started producing a song.”

There was no need to say which one.

Jinx whistled. “So the Caitlyn Spiral begins.”

“I’m not spiraling.”

“You sent me a voice note at 1 a.m. that was just the words ‘I’m so screwed’ and a guitar loop.”

“That wasn’t spiral,” Violet said. “That was creative processing.”

“Mhm.”

Violet leaned forward, elbows on her knees, rubbing at the back of her neck. “It’s not even just about the song. It’s like… I can’t stop thinking about her. And the worst part?”

Jinx waited.

“I think the song’s actually good. Like, really good. And I know what happens when I write something good about something real.”

“You get famous.”

“I get destroyed.”

There was a beat of silence on the line.

Then Jinx said, a little softer, “She hasn’t done anything to hurt you.”

“I know.”

“And maybe this time,” she added, “the real thing survives the track.”

Violet didn’t answer. Just stared at the blinking cursor on her screen.

Then:

“She brought me coffee yesterday.”

“She brought you coffee?” Jinx’s voice pitched up. “Okay, that's the sappiest thing you’ve ever said and you once rewrote a Nirvana song into a breakup ballad.”

“I didn’t ask for the coffee. She just did it.”

“She likes you.”

Violet closed her eyes.

“Yeah,” she whispered. “That’s the problem.”

Violet didn’t say anything for a few seconds.

The silence on the line stretched just long enough for Jinx to get annoyed.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Vi. You do realize liking someone isn’t a terminal illness, right?”

Violet let out a breath. “You’re not helping.”

“I’m not trying to help, dumbass. I’m trying to snap you out of this ridiculous ‘feelings are dangerous’ performance art you’ve been doing since you were, like, nineteen.”

“It’s not a performance—”

“It is,” Jinx cut in. “You act like being into someone is a setup. Like the second it feels good, you’re already bracing for the explosion.”

Violet frowned. “Because usually that’s exactly what happens.”

“Not always.”

There was a pause.

Then Jinx added, quieter, “I mean, look at me and Ekko.”

Violet blinked. “You and Ekko were a literal disaster in the beginning.”

“Exactly,” Jinx said. “But I stopped running the second I realized I wasn’t scared of him hurting me. I was scared of not letting it happen.”

Violet went quiet again. That kind of quiet where she couldn’t argue, because the truth had already landed.

“You think I don’t get it?” Jinx continued. “You write songs about the stuff you don’t want to talk about. You throw your soul into a bridge and then act shocked when someone hears it.”

“That’s poetic,” Violet muttered.

“I’m allowed to be poetic when you’re being dumb.”

Violet smiled faintly, despite herself. “Thanks.”

“Just don’t mess this up,” Jinx said, more gently now. “She seems… good for you.”

“She is.”

“Then stop trying to sabotage it with fake tough girl routines. You’re not afraid of writing the song. You’re afraid she’ll hear it and not run.”

Violet stared at the waveform on her screen again.

And for the first time, the fear wasn’t quite as loud.

The call had ended five minutes ago.

The studio was quiet again. Just the faint hum of equipment and the cat snoring faintly from his usual spot near the window. A line of sunlight crept along the floor, warm and slow. The track still blinked on the screen, frozen at the moment she stopped recording.

Violet sat there, elbows on her knees, staring at her feet like they held some kind of answer.

She hated that Jinx was right.

Worse, she hated that it wasn’t even a new fear, just the same one wearing a different face. And this time, that face had impossibly blue eyes, a British accent, and a habit of sending texts that made her feel like someone was holding her heart with two careful hands.

She had written songs about love before.

But this wasn’t that.

This wasn’t just a hook and a clever chorus. This was something that lived in the in-between. In the silences. In the second coffee mug she hadn’t meant to pour. In the way Caitlyn looked at her like she saw something Violet didn’t even know she was showing.

Shit.

She was falling.

And not the fun kind of falling, not the chaotic, fast, crash-and-burn kind she was used to. This was slow. Intentional. The kind where you noticed every inch of the descent.

Caitlyn wasn’t loud. She wasn’t messy. She didn’t come in like a storm.

She was steady.

And maybe that was the most dangerous thing of all.

Because Violet had built an entire identity around unpredictability, around being too much, too fast. And Caitlyn didn’t try to change that, she just… stayed. Answered back. Matched her in silence as much as in sound.

Violet leaned back in her chair, staring up at the ceiling.

Maybe this song would be different. Maybe it wouldn’t need to be rewritten into something more guarded. Maybe she wouldn’t need to bury the truth under distortion and metaphor.

Maybe she could just say it.

And let Caitlyn hear it.

A few moments went by and Violet sat on the floor of her studio, back against the wall, phone resting on her knee.

She wasn’t even pretending to work anymore.

She stared at the message she was writing for too long, deleted half of it, kept the rest.

Let it breathe.

Then she sent it.

[Violet]

I hate how much I’ve been thinking about you today

i t’s annoying

you should feel bad.

She hit send and immediately rolled her eyes at herself. But her heart still kicked in her chest like she’d just confessed something huge.

x-x-x

Caitlyn was sitting on the patio of a quiet, very aesthetic little bistro with Mel and Jayce, the kind of place with minimalist menus and plants that were obviously watered more than most people. Though she had mostly been nodding along to Jayce's most recent tirade on the failure of pacing in contemporary biopics, her salad sat half-eaten in front of her.

Then her phone buzzed beside her wine glass.

She glanced.

Saw the name.

The world got a little quieter.

Mel noticed immediately. “That her?”

Caitlyn didn’t answer, but the slight softening of her expression said everything.

She picked up the phone, read the message. Her heart skipped, quietly and efficiently.

Jayce leaned over Mel’s shoulder. “Oh, wow. Is that a real text? Like, not just her mocking your tea habits?”

“Shut up,” Caitlyn murmured, already typing back.

[Caitlyn]

I ’d say I feel bad, but that would be a lie.

Also, I hate how much I like reading that.

So we’re even.

She didn’t overthink it.

She just sent it.

And when she looked up, Jayce was giving her a you’re gone kind of smirk.

She ignored it.

Mostly.

Caitlyn set her phone down carefully, like the message from Violet was something fragile. Her thumb lingered on the glass for a second before she reached for her water instead, pretending everything was absolutely normal.

Mel raised a perfectly groomed eyebrow. “You’re doing that thing.”

“What thing?” Caitlyn said, much too quickly.

Jayce leaned in conspiratorially. “The thing where your face says I’m composed but your soul is singing Taylor Swift.”

Caitlyn gave them both a look. “That’s offensive. I don’t sing. And don’t you dare take Taylor Swift’s name in vain.”

“Terrifying,” Jayce muttered. “Next thing you know she’ll be wearing leather jackets and texting emojis.”

Caitlyn sipped her water calmly. “It was one emoji. And it was a punctuation mark.”

Jayce clutched his chest. “She used a semicolon once. I think she’s in love.”

Mel smiled into her wine. “You like her.”

“I never said I didn’t.”

“You also haven’t stopped smiling for fifteen minutes,” Mel pointed out.

“It’s called being in a good mood,” Caitlyn said, knowing exactly how weak that sounded.

Jayce grinned. “You do realize you’re completely doomed, right?”

Caitlyn tilted her head. “Possibly.”

Mel leaned forward, voice dropping into something softer. “You okay with that?”

Caitlyn didn’t answer right away.

She thought about Violet’s message. The way it felt, like something real wearing a hoodie and sarcasm. Like someone choosing to be honest with you, even if it terrified them.

Then she nodded.

“I think so,” she said. “Yeah.”

Jayce smiled, leaning back. “God help her. She’s gone full rom-com.”

Mel raised her glass. “To Caitlyn. May she continue to spiral gracefully.”

Caitlyn rolled her eyes, but her smile didn’t go anywhere.

Because for the first time in a long time, spiraling didn’t feel like falling apart.

It felt like falling into something.

And maybe, just maybe, she was okay with that.

x-x-x

Caitlyn closed the apartment door behind her with a quiet click. The city hummed outside, faint through the windows, like it always did, familiar, distant, manageable.

She toed off her shoes in the hallway, slipped off her blazer, and set her bag down with a practiced ease. Everything had its place in her home. The books, the vinyls, the minimalist kitchen she actually used. A candle she didn’t remember lighting still flickered on the table, bergamot and cedarwood, calm and clean.

She stood there for a moment in silence, just letting the apartment wrap around her like a familiar coat.

And yet, something felt different.

Lighter.

She crossed the room and opened the curtains a little wider, letting more of the fading daylight in. A breeze filtered through the cracked window. She could hear a dog barking somewhere below, and someone laughing. But all she could think about was the message Violet had sent.

I hate how much I’ve been thinking about you today.

It hadn’t been dramatic. It hadn’t even been that revealing.

And yet... it was everything.

Caitlyn walked to the bookshelf and ran her fingers along the spines of a few titles, poetry, mostly. She paused at one slim volume, then pulled it down, flipping it open until she found the underlined page.

She read it softly to herself.

“It was not into my ear you whispered, but into my heart.
It was not my lips you kissed, but my soul.”

She smiled at her own absurdity.

She was quoting love poems now. In her living room. Alone.

She set the book down gently and crossed to the kitchen. Filled the kettle. Her movements were quiet, graceful, practiced, but inside her, everything was humming.

The kind of hum that comes before something begins.

Maybe it wasn’t love yet.

Maybe they were both still circling the edges of it, pretending it wasn’t happening.

But it was.

Slow. Warm. Unstoppable in the quietest way.

And Caitlyn, normally so careful, so slow to admit anything she hadn’t charted, let herself feel it.

x-x-x

Caitlyn and Violet had been messaging back and forth all through the afternoon and into the night, like neither of them wanted to let go of whatever was happening between them. The conversation wandered, silly jokes, little truths, casual updates that somehow felt intimate.

[Violet]

still at my studio

I think I broke the same bridge three times today.

also I might’ve written the chorus in lowercase just to annoy myself.

how was your Very Fancy Actress Day?

[Caitlyn]

Equal parts exhausting and flattering.

Had a meeting about a film today. Don’t want to say too much, scared I’ll mess it up.

Also, I quoted poetry to myself like a Victorian ghost. So that’s where I’m at emotionally.

[Violet]

hot

[Caitlyn]

Objectively or just because you like Victorian ghosts?

[Violet]

yes.

x-x-x

Violet:

[link: TikTok]

A girl trying to record a song, cat keeps hitting every key on her MIDI controller.

Caption: “me vs my creative process.”

[Caitlyn]

Is this the bridge you broke three times?

[Violet]

first of all: rude

second of all: yes

x-x-x

Caitlyn:

[link: meme]

A graph titled: “How often I think about her.” The Y-axis is just “Yes.”

[Violet]

bold of you to admit that before our third date

[Caitlyn]

It’s not a graph if it’s not scientific.

I’m just presenting data.

[Violet]

you’re such a nerd

I mean that as a compliment

mostly

[Caitlyn]

You’ve been texting me non-stop for more than a week.

That’s nerd behavior too.

[Violet]

...shut up

x-x-x

[Violet]

tell me this doesn’t feel like us

[link: TikTok][chaotic lesbian couple trying to assemble IKEA furniture]

Caitlyn smirked.

[Caitlyn]

We’d need one hex key and a licensed therapist.

x-x-x

[Caitlyn] 

When’s your next break from the studio?

I want to see you.

That last message hung on the screen for a second longer.

Then came Violet’s reply:

[Violet]

wednesday

and I want to see you too

A pause. Just long enough to feel like a heartbeat.

Then another message from Violet.

[Violet]

also, I just made toast at 9 PM

I feel like that says everything about my life right now

[Caitlyn]

I t says you need supervision.

Good thing I’m available soon.

[Violet]

you gonna take my toaster away?

[Caitlyn]

No. But I might read poetry at it.

[Violet]

I’d pay to see that

like genuinely

And neither of them said goodnight.

Because the conversation never really ended.

x-x-x

Violet stared at the screen for a beat, thumb hovering above the keyboard.

She’d been texting Caitlyn non-stop for over an hour, and the glow of her phone was now the only light in the room besides the faint studio LEDs still humming behind her.

Her fingers ached, a mix of fatigue from guitar strings and an embarrassing amount of typing.

She typed one last message:

[Violet]

gonna call you.

I wanna hear that insufferably accent of yours

Then, without waiting for permission, because when did she ever, she hit Call.

x-x-x

Caitlyn was curled on the couch, glasses slipping slightly down her nose when her phone started vibrating.

She saw Violet’s name. Smirked.

Then answered.

“Hello?”

Violet’s voice came through, lazy and amused. “God, you sound worse on the phone.”

Caitlyn chuckled. “Worse?”

“Yeah. More British. Unfair.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Caitlyn murmured.

“You should.”

They sat in the space between words for a moment, comfortable already. Violet was lying on the studio couch now, one arm behind her head, eyes on the ceiling.

“You’ve been very demanding today.”

“You sent me a meme every fifteen minutes.”

“You’re welcome.”

Caitlyn laughed softly. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m charming.”

There was a pause. Not awkward, just real.

Then Caitlyn’s voice came back, quiet but clear. “I like hearing you.”

Violet blinked at the ceiling.

“…Same.”

“Even when you’re being a menace.”

“Especially then.”

Another pause.

Then Caitlyn added, “I’ve missed this all day. Talking to you.”

Violet swallowed once before answering. “Yeah. Me too.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty, it was full of all the things they hadn’t said yet, but were getting closer to.

“Do you ever think about quitting?” Violet asked, her voice quieter now, the kind of late-night softness that comes without trying.

Caitlyn shifted slightly on the couch, tucking her feet under her. “Quitting what?”

“Everything,” Violet said. “The industry. The pressure. The fake smiles and the photos where you have to tilt your head like it’s not weird people are screaming your name.”

Caitlyn paused. “All the time.”

Violet let out a breath. “Thank God.”

“But then,” Caitlyn added, “something small happens. I get a good line in a script, or someone tells me a scene moved them. Or I meet someone who makes it feel less lonely.”

Violet was quiet for a beat.

Then, “That last part was about me, right?”

Caitlyn laughed. “Wouldn’t dream of being subtle about it.”

Violet grinned, even though Caitlyn couldn’t see it. “You’re such a sap when you want to be.”

“And you pretend you’re not,” Caitlyn shot back. “But you write like someone who cares too much.”

That made Violet pause.

“You read me that easily?”

“Only because you want to be read.”

Violet didn’t reply right away. She was chewing on that one. On how terrifying and good it felt to be understood.

“So…” Caitlyn went on, voice lighter again. “What’s the worst gig you’ve ever played?”

“Oh God,” Violet groaned. “Okay, this one’s bad. One time I got booked to play a birthday party in a bar. Cool, whatever. Except no one told me it was for a toddler.”

Caitlyn choked on a laugh. “You played for a child?”

“A two-year-old, Caitlyn. They had clown decor. The kid cried the entire time. And I was there with eyeliner, leather, and a song called ‘Set Fire to My Regret’.”

Caitlyn was wheezing. “Please tell me you played it.”

“I opened with it.”

They were both laughing now, breathless in separate parts of the city, but completely in sync.

“Your turn,” Violet said, still smiling.

Caitlyn exhaled. “I once shot an ad for bottled water and had to pretend it was the most emotionally moving hydration experience of my life.”

Violet cracked up again. “Tell me you cried over it.”

“A single tear. Oscar-worthy.”

“I’m falling in love with you for that story alone,” Violet said casually.

The line went quiet.

Then Caitlyn said, softly, “Careful.”

Violet blinked at the ceiling. “Yeah. I know.”

They didn’t run from it.

They just sat with it.

“Right, then,” Violet said, suddenly, her voice exaggerated and wobbly. “Suppose I’ll just pour myself a spot of tea and cry over my bottled water, yeah?”

Caitlyn nearly choked. “What was that?”

“My impression of you. Do I sound posh enough?”

“You sound like you’ve watched one BBC crime drama and think you’ve mastered the Queen’s English.”

Violet kept going, awful on purpose now. "Tell me, does it drive you mad when I talk like this… or just a little bit feral?”

Caitlyn was laughing so hard she had to set her phone on speaker.

"You’re never allowed to speak again."

"Not even to say I adore you, your grace?"

They both settled again, breathless with laughter, and kept talking.

About movies. About dumb fans. About their weirdest interview questions, favorite pizza toppings, and who they’d be in a zombie apocalypse (Violet: machete-wielding chaos; Caitlyn: annoyingly resourceful strategist with a backup escape plan).

Violet’s voice came through a little slower now, words blending into the silence between them.

“What are you doing tomorrow?” she asked.

Caitlyn shifted under her blanket, glancing vaguely toward her planner on the table, which she absolutely wasn’t getting up to check.

“Morning meeting with my agent,” she said. “Then two video calls about a script that may or may not exist, and I promised Mel I’d finally watch that French indie thing she’s been raving about.”

“Sounds exhausting,” Violet murmured. “You should fake a power outage.”

“You say that like I haven’t done it before.”

Violet laughed, soft and low. “You’re so much sneakier than you look.”

“I’m full of surprises.”

“You are,” Violet said, and her voice lingered there, just long enough for Caitlyn to feel it in her chest.

“And you?” Caitlyn asked, a little too eager to keep her on the line.

Violet sighed, rubbing a hand across her forehead. “I’ll be in the studio for a while. Try to get this track out of my system.”

Then, after a beat:

“Gonna hit the gym after. Might spar with Sett if he’s around. Need to burn some shit off.”

Caitlyn smiled to herself. “Violently?”

“Is there any other way?”

She could hear the grin in Violet’s voice, even if she couldn’t see it.

“You know,” Caitlyn said gently, “you could just admit you’re restless because I won’t be there.”

“I could,” Violet replied. “But then you’d get smug. And I like keeping you humble.”

Caitlyn’s smile widened. “Your concern for my ego is touching.”

“It’s what I do.”

There was a pause again, comfortable, familiar. The kind that makes you forget how late it’s gotten.

Then Violet’s voice came again, softer this time. “I like hearing your voice at night.”

Caitlyn didn’t hesitate. “I like hearing yours any time.”

And neither of them said it, but both were already thinking about the next time they’d get to do this, not over the phone.

A comfortable silence stretched between them again, the kind that felt less like the end of a conversation and more like the beginning of something else. Violet was lying back on the studio couch, arm draped over her eyes, phone pressed to her ear.

Caitlyn was now curled under her blanket, her fingers lightly tracing the seam of the pillow, her voice quieter now, not out of fatigue, but out of closeness.

“You should get some sleep,” Violet murmured. “You’ve got fancy things to do tomorrow.”

“So do you.”

“Mine involve sweat and punching things.”

“Mine involve pretending I don’t want to be texting you the whole time.”

Violet smiled softly. “You’ll be fine.”

There was a pause.

Then Caitlyn asked, just above a whisper, “Will I hear from you tomorrow?”

“You already know the answer,” Violet replied.

Another quiet beat.

“Goodnight, Cupcake,” she added, almost teasing, but not quite.

Caitlyn let out a breath that sounded like a smile.

“Goodnight, Vi.”

And just like that, the call ended.

The screen went dark.

But neither of them moved for a while, staring into ceilings, letting the sound of the other linger a little longer.

Knowing that Wednesday couldn’t come fast enough.

x-x-x

The sunlight crept through the half-open curtains like it belonged there, pale and cold, but soft. It painted slow golden lines across Caitlyn’s duvet, tracing the edge of her shoulder, the dip of the pillow, the line of her jaw as she stirred awake.

Her eyes blinked open, slow and unfocused.

She didn’t move right away.

There was a heaviness in her limbs that wasn’t exhaustion, just that weight of waking up alone and wishing, quietly, that she wasn’t.

Her hand slid across the sheets to where the other side of the bed was still smooth. Unused. She frowned at that detail more than she meant to.

The silence in the apartment wasn’t unfamiliar. It was, in fact, something she’d always appreciated, the calm, the solitude, the order.

But now?

Now it felt… empty. Not sad. Not unbearable.

Just missing something.

Or someone.

She lay there for a moment longer, staring at the ceiling, already replaying Violet’s voice from the night before. The way she’d said “Goodnight, Cupcake” like it was a nickname and a dare in one.

The way Caitlyn hadn’t been able to stop smiling after the call ended.

You’re in it, she thought.

And there was no point in pretending otherwise.

She eventually sat up, pushed the blanket back, and padded barefoot to the kitchen, where the kettle was waiting like always. The routine grounded her: fill the water, set it to boil, take the French press from the shelf. She moved through it all with care, but slower than usual, distracted.

There were two mugs on the counter.

She didn’t remember leaving both out.

She stared at them.

Then picked the navy one, the one she’d probably give Violet, if she ever brought her here.

When, she corrected herself.

The kettle hissed. The scent of coffee began to fill the apartment. She leaned back against the counter and picked up her phone. No new messages yet.

She debated texting first.

Just a casual “good morning.”

But before she could type, her phone lit up:

Violet.

x-x-x

The first thing Violet felt was the cat walking across her back.

Then a paw, sharp and judgmental, pressed directly into her ribs.

She groaned.

“Uncalled for,” she mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

The cat meowed, loud and unbothered, then promptly knocked a phone charger off the nightstand.

She blinked one eye open, face still half-buried in the pillow, and reached blindly for her phone.

She sat up slowly, hair wild, the oversized tank she slept in slipping off one shoulder. The room was still dim, the curtains drawn, and her guitar leaned quietly in the corner like it was still watching her from the night before.

Violet rubbed at her face, yawned, and smiled.

Then typed.

[Violet]

good morning, cupcake

cat tried to kill me. pretty sure I deserved it

thinking of suing for emotional damages

The reply came fast.

[Caitlyn]

Good morning, trouble. 

I’ll represent you in court.

Pro bono.

But only if you bring me coffee during trial.

[Violet]

unethical. hot.

how’d you sleep?

[Caitlyn]

Better than I usually do

Your voice stuck around longer than I expected.

Violet stared at the message.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.

Then:

[Violet]

you’re way too good at saying things like that without sounding like a Hallmark card

seriously, who taught you that level of charm?

[Caitlyn]

Years of self-restraint.

And maybe the fact that it’s not hard to talk like that when I mean it.

That one hit hard.

Violet chewed the inside of her cheek, then got up to make coffee, the cat winding around her legs like he didn’t just commit emotional terrorism.

She stood in her small kitchen, staring at the steam rising from her mug.

One cup.

Not two.

But it didn’t feel lonely.

Just paused.

Like something waiting to be resumed.

Tomorrow, she thought.

Not soon enough.

x-x-x

Caitlyn had showered, dressed, and made it to her agent’s office by 8:50, exactly as planned. She wore a tailored cream blouse tucked into high-waisted navy trousers, polished flats, and the same silver ring she always fidgeted with when she was trying to look calm.

Her agent, LeBlanc, was already flipping through an annotated script when Caitlyn walked in.

“Morning,” LeBlanc said, not looking up. “You’re glowing. Who is she?”

Caitlyn blinked. “Excuse me?”

LeBlanc raised one eyebrow.

“You heard me.”

Caitlyn cleared her throat and sat down. “We’re not discussing that.”

“We just did. In one sentence. Don’t worry, it suits you.”

Caitlyn said nothing. But her phone buzzed in her lap.

[Violet]

hope your meeting’s not mind-numbingly boring

i f it is, blink twice. I’ll come rescue you in leather and eyeliner 

Caitlyn bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. Failed.

She replied quickly:

[Caitlyn]

You have no idea how tempting that sounds.

Blinking furiously over here.

Then she slipped the phone away, fighting off the blush already rising to her cheeks.

x-x-x

Violet had showered, thrown on a pair of black shorts and a loose faded tee, and made it to the studio by 10. She’d told herself she’d work on the track, tighten the drums, fix the second verse, but instead she was sitting on the couch eating a protein bar and staring at her own demo like it had personally wronged her.

Ekko, who also produced some of Violet's songs peeked, in from the control room. “You working or just brooding artistically?”

“Can’t I do both?”

He stepped inside, tossing her a water bottle. “You talked to Caitlyn yet today?”

Violet rolled her eyes. “You’re worse than Jinx.”

“She texted me, you know. Said she thinks you’re falling.”

“Did she also say she’s nosy and chaotic?”

“Yep. Right after she said ‘Vi’s voice goes all soft when she says Caitlyn’s name now.’”

Violet threw the protein bar wrapper at him.

Her phone buzzed again.

[Caitlyn]

A man just used the phrase “narrative femininity” unironically.

I want to set something on fire.

Violet snorted.

[Violet] 

want me to come do it for you?

I ’ve got a lighter and nothing to lose

They kept texting throughout the morning. Quiet, steady, inevitable.

Neither one said they missed each other.

They didn’t have to.

It was in the rhythm of the conversation, the ease, the way neither one let more than a few minutes pass without checking in again.

x-x-x

Caitlyn’s afternoon blurred into back-to-back meetings, script read-throughs, casting calls, and a branding call where someone tried, with a straight face, to explain how “edgy vulnerability” was trending. She kept nodding, contributing when necessary, but her focus slipped more than once.

She kept thinking about Violet’s messages. About how her laughter still echoed faintly in Caitlyn’s ear from the night before. About how, despite the chaos of the industry, one person could still make the day feel anchored.

Across the bridge, Violet spent most of her day sweating it out.

The studio hadn’t worked for her that morning, so she laced up her gloves and met Sett at the gym, a proper beating of a session. Sparring, drills, and a whole lot of grumbling. Sett teased her for being distracted. She told him to shut up and hit harder. He obliged.

Sett greeted her with a smirk and a warning: “You look like you’ve got something to punch out of your system.”

He wasn’t wrong.

They trained hard, combinations, footwork, heavy bag, sparring. Violet pushed herself past her usual limit, as if exhausting her body would calm the rest of her down.

It didn’t fully work. Not when her phone kept vibrating in the locker, and not when she kept wondering if Caitlyn had made it out of her last meeting yet.

x-x-x

[Caitlyn]

So. I’ve got a place in mind for tomorrow.

Not glamorous. Bit loud. Lighting’s terrible.

You’ll love it.

[Violet]

that sounds suspiciously like my type of place

you trying to impress me, cupcake?

[Caitlyn]

Wouldn’t dream of it.

But yes.

[Violet]

name and address, now

[Caitlyn]

[Link of a pub in Midtown West]

Just questionable beer and people who won’t care if we’re too close.

[Violet]

perfect

I’ll wear something morally questionable

[Caitlyn]

I wouldn’t expect anything less.

[Violet]

you keep surprising me, you know

grungy dive bars? bad lighting?

who knew you had a dark side, Kiramman 

[Caitlyn]

You’ve only scratched the surface.

There’s a part of me that owns a leather jacket and used to sneak out of ballet class to smoke behind the arts building.

[Violet]

now that’s hot 

but also slightly illegal depending on your age at the time 

[Caitlyn]

I plead the Fifth.

Also, you owe me a drink tomorrow.

[Violet]

do I?

[Caitlyn]

For emotional damages.

For sending me memes that made me snort-laugh in front of my agent today.

[Violet]

that was on purpose 

[Caitlyn]

I know. That’s the problem.

[Violet]

You like it.

Do you think people will talk?

[Caitlyn]

About us?

[Violet]

yeah

[Caitlyn]

Probably.

[Violet]

does that bother you?

There was a pause.

Then:

[Caitlyn]

Not if I get to kiss you anyway.

Violet stared at the screen. Exhaled once. Slowly.

[Violet]

you're dangerous

[Caitlyn]

You have no idea.

x-x-x

Violet hadn’t moved in at least ten minutes.

She was lying flat on her bed, one leg hanging off the edge, her phone resting on her chest like it was still radiating the warmth of Caitlyn’s last message.

“Not if I get to kiss you anyway.”

Those words kept looping through her mind, not because they were dramatic or slick. But because they weren’t. They were calm. Direct. Steady.

And that? That messed with her more than anything else.

She turned her head toward the window. The city outside was doing what it always did, glowing, buzzing, carrying on, but inside her apartment, everything felt still.

Not empty. Just... charged.

She picked up her phone again. Scrolled through the messages, rereading things she already knew by heart. Then smiled, not with her mouth, but somewhere deep behind her ribs.

No one had ever made her feel like this with just a few words.

She turned off the lamp and let the dark settle in.

And for the first time in forever, the ache in her chest wasn’t from panic or walls closing in.

It was from something quieter.

Softer.

Hope.

x-x-x

Caitlyn was still sitting upright in bed, a book open in her lap, but her eyes hadn’t moved past the same paragraph in nearly half an hour.

Her phone lay next to her, screen dim but unlocked, their thread of messages still glowing faintly.

“you’re dangerous”

“You have no idea.”

She hadn’t planned to say that.

But she hadn’t regretted it either.

There were photos on her nightstand, one from a film, another from a fashion campaign in Milan, all perfectly staged and frozen in glossy lighting.

But nothing in those photos had ever made her feel like Violet’s words did.

She switched off the lamp. Slid deeper into the covers.

In the dark, she let her mind drift to tomorrow.

To the dive bar.

To Violet sitting in a booth, backlit by neon, boots up on the bench like she owned the place.

To walking straight toward her.

To not hesitating.

She fell asleep with that image still in her head.

Still thinking of her.

Chapter Text

Wednesday moved fast.

Not on paper, on paper, it looked ordinary.

Caitlyn had a press call at noon, a fitting for an upcoming campaign, and a late afternoon call with her publicist that dragged longer than necessary. She answered questions, nodded in polished cadence, said all the right things. But her mind, in between the tasks and small talk, kept slipping.

She reread Violet’s last message twice between meetings. Smiled when she shouldn’t have. Caught herself staring at the clock more than once.

Across the city, Violet spent the first half of her day in the studio, headphones on, guitar in hand, but her fingers didn’t linger long on the strings.

The track was getting closer to something finished, real. So was she.

And that made her restless.

She took a long lunch with Jinx and Ekko, who made the mistake of asking if she was nervous. Violet rolled her eyes, insulted, then immediately knocked over her iced coffee trying to look casual.

“Super smooth, sis” Jinx had said, grinning.

x-x-x

At the start of the night, Violet stood in front of her open closet, one hand on her hip, the other dangling a shirt she’d already rejected three times.

She wasn’t trying too hard.

She just wasn’t trying not to try.

Eventually she landed on black ripped jeans, a fitted band tee with the sleeves rolled just enough to show off her tattoos, and a leather jacket that had seen enough mosh pits to qualify as emotionally worn-in.

She ran her fingers through her hair once, eyed herself in the mirror, then muttered, “Stop caring this much.”

Her cat blinked at her from the bed like he disagreed.

Caitlyn’s process was quieter, but no less deliberate.

She’d gone through three outfit changes, each a little more “effortless” than the last.

In the end, she settled on a simple black blouse tucked into dark high-rise jeans, ankle boots, and a soft gray coat she could toss aside easily. Her hair was loose tonight — not sleek, not styled, just real.

She slipped in a pair of small silver earrings. Then stood still.

One last look in the mirror.

Not too polished. Not too casual. Just... open.

And maybe a little excited.

She texted Violet before heading out:

[Caitlyn]

You ready, trouble?

x-x-x

Violet sat in the backseat of the Uber with the window cracked, city air drifting in just enough to keep her grounded. One boot was resting on her opposite knee, fingers bouncing on her thigh to the rhythm of whatever song was playing on the radio, something she wasn’t really listening to.

She wasn’t nervous.

She wasn’t.

She just kept adjusting her jacket for no reason and checking the time every thirty seconds.

The pub wasn’t far now.

She pulled out her phone and typed without thinking:

[Violet]

outside

I already judged the exterior

it’s awful

I love it

x-x-x

Caitlyn’s car pulled up a few blocks away. She’d asked the driver to drop her early, not out of dramatics, but because she wanted a minute to breathe. The walk helped. Gave her something to do with her hands. Let her feel the city under her heels instead of staring at her own nerves in the reflection of a backseat window.

She was calm.

Collected.

Mostly.

Her phone buzzed just as she rounded the corner.

[Violet]

outside

I already judged the exterior

it’s awful

I love it

Caitlyn smiled, thumb tapping back immediately:

[Caitlyn]

Wait until you see the inside. It’s worse.

x-x-x

The pub looked exactly like Caitlyn had described: tucked between a closed laundromat and a tattoo shop, the neon sign half-lit, the window foggy like it was trying to hide the chaos inside.

Violet stood leaning against the brick wall beside the door, sunglasses pushed up into her hair as the sun started setting, leather jacket open just enough to catch the wind. Her stance was casual, but the way she looked up when Caitlyn approached was anything but.

Their eyes met.

And for a few seconds, nothing else mattered.

Caitlyn stepped closer, her coat wrapped loosely around her, hair a little undone from the breeze. She looked calm. Composed. Ridiculously gorgeous in a way that made Violet’s mouth dry out for a second.

“Hey,” Violet said, voice low, amused, maybe a little too casual.

“Hi,” Caitlyn replied, smile not quite showing yet, but warming her whole face.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward.

It was charged.

Then Violet tilted her head. “You clean up alright, Cupcake.”

Caitlyn raised an eyebrow. “You’re lucky I like the name when you say it.”

“Guess I’ll have to keep saying it, then.”

“Guess you will.”

Caitlyn gestured to the door. “Shall we?”

Violet pushed it open. “Lead the way, my lady.”

Inside, the pub was everything Caitlyn had promised, noisy, dark, a little offbeat. The kind of place where no one cared what you were doing or who you were with.

Which was perfect.

They stepped in together, shoulders almost brushing.

Close.

Not touching.

Not yet.

But they would.

The inside of the pub was dim and lived-in, all battered wood, flickering string lights, and posters that hadn’t been changed in over a decade. A small stage sat unlit in the corner, a few guitars on the wall, one of them signed and dusty. The jukebox played something vaguely rock, vaguely off-key, which only added to the charm.

Caitlyn led them to a booth in the back, half-shadowed, the kind of spot where conversations stayed private and time got weird.

Violet slid in first, resting one arm along the back of the booth, legs stretched out like she owned the space. Caitlyn followed, sitting opposite her, one eyebrow raised slightly at how easily Violet made the place look like hers.

A server appeared, young and vaguely disinterested.

“Drink?” he asked.

Violet didn’t even look at the menu. “Whiskey. Neat.”

Caitlyn glanced at her, amused. “Make that two.”

The server nodded and left without a word.

“Look at you,” Violet said, grinning. “A rebel.”

Caitlyn took off her coat and draped it beside her. “You’re rubbing off on me.”

Violet’s eyes narrowed slightly, teasing. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Didn’t say that.”

A pause.

Then they both smiled.

Around them, the bar buzzed, low conversations, clinking glasses, a man somewhere near the jukebox ranting about vinyl vs. streaming.

But the noise faded just enough for the space between them to stay sharp.

Violet leaned forward slightly, forearms on the table, gaze steady. “You’ve got good taste.”

Caitlyn raised a brow. “The pub?”

“You, too. But yeah. The place. It’s… me.”

“I figured.” Caitlyn shrugged, trying not to look too pleased. “Something told me candlelight and fancy appetizers weren’t your thing.”

“I like candles,” Violet said. “I just like them better when they’re half-melted on a shelf next to an old amp.”

The drinks arrived, clinking gently against the table. Neither of them looked away from the other.

“To questionable lighting,” Violet said, raising her glass.

Caitlyn clinked hers against it. “And the people who shine in it.”

Violet grinned. “That was smooth.”

Caitlyn took a sip. “I have my moments.”

They both did.

And they were just getting started.

x-x-x

The drinks warmed them up quickly, not because of the alcohol, necessarily, but because it gave their hands something to do, something to hold, while the air between them filled with things that weren’t quite words yet.

“So,” Violet said, fingers curled loosely around her glass, “tell me something about you that isn’t in a magazine or on some PR-crafted bio.”

Caitlyn let out a quiet breath, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Straight to it, huh?”

“If I ever tried subtle, I’d probably pull something.” Violet said, smirking.

Caitlyn tilted her head, like she was considering what version of herself to give, the polished one, the mysterious one, or something closer to the truth.

“I used to write poetry,” she said finally, eyes flicking down to her glass.

Violet blinked. “Wait. Like, actual rhyming stanzas?”

“Some of it rhymed,” Caitlyn said with a wince. “Some of it was… dramatic teenage garbage. There were a lot of metaphors about winter and loneliness. You know, subtle.”

Violet laughed. “God, that’s even better than I expected. You still write?”

“Not really. But I read it. Obsessively.”

“Yeah,” Violet said, sitting back, pleased. “You’ve definitely got ‘keeps an annotated copy of Sylvia Plath next to her bed’ energy.”

“You’re not wrong.”

They both sipped, the space between them softening.

“What about you?” Caitlyn asked. “Give me something that wouldn’t make it into a Violet interview.”

Violet thought for a second. Then shrugged. “I can’t whistle.”

Caitlyn blinked. “Seriously?”

“Not even a little. I fake it on stage by doing this thing with my mouth and hoping the band covers for me.”

Caitlyn was grinning now. “That’s… somehow endearing.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Violet muttered, sipping again. “I have a reputation to uphold.”

“Of course,” Caitlyn said. “God forbid people find out you’re not just intimidating, but also tragically human.”

Violet rolled her eyes. “You’re mocking me.”

“I’m admiring you,” Caitlyn said, without missing a beat.

It wasn’t a line. And Violet felt it land.

Her fingers slowed around her glass, and something flickered behind her eyes, not quite vulnerability, but maybe a crack in the door.

“I like this,” she said after a moment. “You and me. Just... talking.”

“Me too,” Caitlyn replied, quieter now.

The jukebox changed tracks. The bar buzzed on.

But at that table, in the dim booth and the heavy shadows, the conversation kept going, little by little unraveling pieces of who they were, and who they might be, if they kept showing up like this.

x-x-x

By the time their second drinks landed on the table, they weren’t exactly leaning forward anymore.

The air between them had shifted, just enough.

And it was Violet who made the first move.

She slid out of the booth without warning, drink in hand, and before Caitlyn could ask why, she was slipping in beside her. Not too close. Just close enough that Caitlyn could feel the warmth of her leg along hers.

“Better angle,” Violet said casually. “I was getting tired of the table between us.”

Caitlyn didn’t say anything at first.

Just glanced sideways, half-smirk, half-surrender.

She didn’t move away. Not an inch.

Inside, her mind buzzed in that quiet, focused way it did when she was performing under pressure. But this wasn’t pressure. This was something else. Something looser. Unwritten. Unscripted.

She liked that Violet didn’t ask. That she just did it.

“What’s something that almost made you quit?” Violet asked after a while, eyes on the edge of her glass, voice softer than before.

Caitlyn took a slow breath.

“A director once told me I was too controlled. Said I didn’t ‘bleed enough for the camera.’”

Violet looked over, eyes narrowing. “What the hell does that even mean?”

“Exactly,” Caitlyn said, shrugging. “It messed with me for months. I started second-guessing everything. Every gesture. Every line.”

“Bet he wouldn’t last two minutes in front of a camera.”

Caitlyn smiled. “Probably not.”

There was silence for a beat, not heavy, but honest.

Then Violet added, “A producer once told me I’d be more marketable if I smiled while singing.”

Caitlyn turned to her. “You?”

Violet nodded, mock-serious. “Yeah. Because nothing says emotional rock ballad like baring teeth during a breakdown.”

Caitlyn laughed, really laughed, and Violet grinned, pleased with the sound.

She felt it, then.

The weight of Caitlyn’s thigh pressed lightly against hers. The shift of Caitlyn’s arm resting closer now, her body language open, relaxed, just… there.

Violet hadn’t meant to sit beside her for this long. But now that she was here, the idea of moving felt absurd.

Caitlyn, for her part, was trying not to think too much.

Not about the closeness.

Not about the way Violet’s shoulder brushed hers every time she leaned back to laugh.

Not about how easy it felt.

And how dangerous that ease was becoming.

x-x-x

“Do you ever wish you’d picked something easier?” Violet asked.

Caitlyn let out a breath. “Only every Monday. But I don’t know who I’d be without it.”

“Same,” Violet murmured.

They looked at each other.

And there was a shared understanding in that glance, something real and raw and unvarnished. Both of them had built so much on top of the cracks. But the cracks were still there.

Violet broke the moment, nudging Caitlyn with her elbow.

“Alright. That’s enough soul-baring for one drink. Tell me something stupid.”

Caitlyn smirked. “I once cried during a cereal commercial.”

Violet stared at her. “What?”

“It was an animated bear. He hugged his bear-dad. I was very tired.”

Violet laughed, full and unapologetic, head tilting back slightly. “God, I’m so into you.”

Caitlyn’s eyes flashed with something unreadable, surprise, warmth, the echo of wanting to say it back but holding it behind her teeth.

Instead, she just looked at Violet for a moment too long.

And Violet didn’t look away.

The booth felt different now.

They weren’t talking as much, not because there was nothing left to say, but because silence had stopped feeling like a gap. It was full now. Weighty, warm. Their bodies angled toward each other. Shoulders just brushing. Legs still touching. Neither of them pulling away.

Violet glanced at Caitlyn’s profile, her lips curved, barely, in that unreadable way. Her lashes dark against the soft light. The way she was sitting, composed, but not guarded, made something in Violet settle.

It wasn’t a question anymore.

She didn’t feel reckless. She didn’t feel nervous.

She felt sure.

She wanted to kiss her.

Not because it would be hot.

(Not that it wouldn’t be.)

But because something about Caitlyn’s presence, her steadiness, her clarity, the way she didn’t flinch from any part of Violet, made the idea of holding back feel… false.

So she didn’t.

Violet leaned in, unhurried, deliberate.

Caitlyn turned toward her just slightly, as if she’d felt the moment coming.

Their lips met in a kiss that was soft at first, the kind of kiss that knows it has time. Violet’s hand stayed resting on the seat between them. She didn’t need to grab, pull, take. She just wanted to feel it. Feel her.

Caitlyn responded instantly, her lips parting just enough, her body turning into the space like she’d been waiting for Violet to close it.

It deepened, slow, coaxing, a murmur in the shape of a kiss. And if anyone noticed them in that dim booth, no one cared. Or they pretended not to.

And Violet didn’t give a damn either way.

When they pulled back, their foreheads nearly touched.

Caitlyn blinked once, then smiled. “That was…”

She didn’t finish.

She didn’t need to.

Violet’s thumb brushed her knee, a casual, grounding gesture.

“I know,” she said, voice low. “Me too.”

They stayed like that for another moment, not kissing, not talking, just there.

Like maybe they’d finally landed in whatever this was.

The kiss didn’t end the moment. It cracked something open.

The space between them, once careful, then charged, was now light. And loose. Like something exhaled. Violet leaned back just enough to rest her arm behind Caitlyn’s shoulders, still close, still touching. Caitlyn sat there, flushed but smiling, her expression unreadable in the best way, like she was holding on to a secret only Violet could know.

x-x-x

The drinks kept coming. Slowly. Warmly.

One more whiskey. Then another. Then something they didn’t bother naming, just pointed at on the chalkboard menu and laughed when it burned on the way down.

At some point, the music got louder.

Or maybe they just started listening.

The pub wasn’t crowded, just a few scattered tables, dim lights, and the low hum of quiet conversations. But the moment “All Day and All of the Night” started playing through the old speakers, something shifted.

The riff hit, and Violet immediately perked up, her eyes flashing toward Caitlyn with a crooked grin.

“Oh, I love this one. I know how to play this one on guitar,” she said, already tapping the rhythm on her thigh. “Classic.”

Caitlyn raised an amused eyebrow. “Of course you do.”

"I'm not content to be with you in the daytime
Girl, I want to be with you all of the time
The only time I feel alright is by your side"

She stood without asking. Looked down at Caitlyn with a grin that had trouble written all over it.

“Come on,” she said, already offering her hand.

Caitlyn blinked. “You want me to dance. In here.”

“Yes.”

“This isn’t a club.”

“Exactly.”

Caitlyn paused, then took her hand, because she always did, even when she pretended she wouldn’t.

They danced.

Not well. Not with rhythm. But with joy.

Violet moved like she didn’t care who was watching, hair falling into her face, laughing with her whole body. Caitlyn followed, a little less wild, but just as committed. Her laugh came easier now, sharp and unfiltered, and it cracked something open in Violet every time she heard it.

They hit the chorus together, Violet somehow still nailing the notes even drunk, Caitlyn nowhere near them, but it didn’t matter. They were moving, laughing, singing like the lyrics belonged to them. Like it was their own ridiculous little stage in the middle of a pub.

"Girl, I want to be with you all of the time
All day and all of the night
All day and all of the night
All day and all of the night"

And as the guitar solo kicked in, Violet mimed along with her hands, air-guitaring with wild accuracy. Caitlyn doubled over laughing.

“I told you,” Violet said between verses. “I shred this one.”

Caitlyn didn’t doubt it for a second. Not with the way Violet lit up when she said it. Not with the way the song wrapped around them like they’d known it their whole lives.

They didn’t stop dancing

They bumped shoulders. Twirled badly. Spilled half a drink.

At one point, Caitlyn sang a lyric off-key into her hand like it was a mic, and Violet nearly collapsed from laughter.

It was chaotic. Stupid. And absolutely perfect.

x-x-x

Later, flushed and breathless, they ended up at the dartboard in the corner, egged on by a couple of regulars who clearly had nothing better to do than commentate the match like it was the Olympics.

Violet went first. Three shots. Two near bullseyes. One just off.

Caitlyn raised her brows. “Alright.”

“Don’t act like you’re not impressed.”

“Oh, I am. I’m also about to crush you.”

She wasn’t lying. Caitlyn was steady, methodical, even clearly drunk, her posture was annoyingly graceful. But her last dart landed just shy of the mark.

Violet whooped. “That’s it. I win. You lose. You owe me… something. We’ll figure it out.”

Caitlyn rolled her eyes. “It’s the lighting. The floor’s uneven. Your smug energy disrupted my aim.”

“You’re just mad I’m hot and skilled.”

“Unbelievably mad,” Caitlyn deadpanned. “Seething.”

They laughed again, too hard, clinging to each other a little too long. But neither of them let go right away.

The night blurred around them, in the golden haze of string lights and cheap liquor, in the scuffed floor and the rock music that never quite matched the beat.

And still, it felt like everything in the world had narrowed to this:

Her smile.

Her laugh.

This moment.

Violet leaned her head against Caitlyn’s shoulder as they returned to their booth.

“I haven’t had this much fun in a long time,” she admitted, her voice a little rough now, from drink or dancing or something else entirely.

Caitlyn glanced down at her.

“Me neither.”

And when Violet looked back up, the smile she gave wasn’t cocky or teasing.

It was real.

x-x-x

The pub had started to thin out. The crowd a little quieter, the lights no brighter, but their booth felt warmer than ever, filled with laughter that had gone soft at the edges.

Violet leaned in closer without thinking, a slow grin on her face from something Caitlyn had just muttered about the dartboard being “emotionally rigged.”

Caitlyn turned her head at the exact moment Violet did.

And just like that, they kissed again.

There was no build-up. No dramatic breath before.

Just lips meeting gently, like punctuation. Like of course.

Violet’s hand brushed Caitlyn’s jaw, fingers warm and clumsy from the drinks. Caitlyn tilted into it, smiling against her mouth before pulling back the tiniest bit.

Her eyes stayed on Violet’s.

“Still impressed?” Violet whispered.

Caitlyn hummed, her voice low. “I think I might be.”

x-x-x

They left with their arms brushing and their coats poorly buttoned. The air outside was cooler now, the city glowing in that quiet, mid-night way, not yet asleep, but winding down.

Two blocks later, Violet stopped dead in front of a deli with a flickering “OPEN” sign and a display case full of food that had definitely been sitting there for longer than was legally safe.

“We need something,” she declared.

Caitlyn had her head tilted back, eyes fixed on the sky like it held some great truth she was just about to uncover. She swayed slightly where she stood, the kind of gentle, unbothered unsteadiness that came from one glass too many and not enough dinner. Her balance was questionable, but her conviction? Unshakable.

"People don’t appreciate the moon enough, you know?" she said, not hearing Violet. "Criminally underrated as a nightly comfort, honestly, just look at that soft glow, it’s like visual chamomile..." 

She paused, squinting harder.

“…Although that might actually be a helicopter.”

“We need something,” Violet declared again.

Caitlyn, didn’t respond right away, still staring up, slightly off-balance, as if trying to philosophize her way through the sky, blinked. “What kind of something?”

“Something that could kill a hangover before it exists.”

Inside, the lights were blinding. Everything smelled like salt and meat and regret.

The guy behind the counter didn’t even blink when they stumbled in, giggling and wide-eyed, clearly not new to this situation.

Violet marched up and slapped both hands on the glass. “Sir,” she said solemnly. “What is the greasiest, most disrespectful food you have in this establishment?”

The guy didn’t answer. He just blinked once. 

Caitlyn leaned in. “Good evening, kind sir. She’s drunk. But so am I. And I want… fries. But, like, emotionally available fries.”

“Do you want cheese on it?” the guy asked, already defeated.

“Yes,” both said at the same time.

“And a sandwich,” Violet added. “No, two sandwiches. One for now, one for Future Violet who’s going to regret in the morning.”

Caitlyn poked her arm. “Can I name the sandwich?”

“Only if you promise not to judge me when I eat it in three bites.”

“I would never judge,” Caitlyn said, dead serious. “You’re like a goddess of chaos and carbs.”

The cashier sighed audibly.

Five minutes later, they stumbled out with a paper bag that smelled like salt, grease, and poor decisions.

Violet held it like a trophy. "We conquered. We claimed. We feasted.”

Caitlyn snorted. “You nearly cried because the guy forgot your extra cheese.”

“And yet,” Violet said, eyes glinting, “justice prevailed.”

x-x-x

The streets were quiet. A low hum of traffic somewhere nearby, a bike bell in the distance, the faint echo of a siren far off. They weren’t in a rush.

Violet walked a step ahead, swaying slightly, then slowed. Without turning, she reached behind and curled her pinky around Caitlyn’s.

Not her whole hand.

Just her pinky.

Like a secret.

Caitlyn looked down at the gesture, then smiled to herself, soft and bright.

“You’re melting,” she teased.

Violet side-eyed her. “Shut up.”

“You’re losing your edge. I think I saw a heart emoji in your aura.”

“I will push you into traffic.”

Caitlyn chuckled, and gently bumped her shoulder into Violet’s. “You’re still holding my finger, you know.”

“I know.”

Caitlyn didn’t pull away.

Neither did Violet.

They kept walking like that, quiet, together, warm with the kind of happiness that didn’t need to be explained.

And even if they didn’t say it out loud, they both knew:

This wasn’t just a night.

They kept walking, a little zigzagged, a little slow, the kind of pace that wasn’t about getting anywhere fast, just about being there.

Violet took another bite of something fried and possibly unidentifiable from the deli bag. She squinted up at the street signs around them, then at the quiet buildings towering above.

“Where the hell are we?” she mumbled through a mouthful.

Caitlyn, walking just ahead, turned slightly with a smug little smile. “Upper West.”

“Great. So if I get murdered, it’ll be classy.”

“No one’s murdering you,” Caitlyn chuckled. “We’re going to my place.”

Violet stopped mid-step, one hand still in the greasy paper bag. “Wait. Your place?”

Caitlyn glanced over her shoulder, that calm, amused tone still intact. “Well, someone has to make sure you don’t fall asleep with fries in your bra.”

Violet blinked. “You say that like it hasn’t happened before.”

“God help me, I believe it has.”

Violet jogged a few steps to catch up, the bag crinkling loudly between them as she took another bite of her sandwich. “Okay, but I swear to God if your building has one of those weird doormen who judge everyone with their eyes…”

“He already likes you,” Caitlyn said smoothly.

“You’re lying.”

“He saw your car when you picked me up on our first date." she explained. "And said you looked ‘dangerous.’ I took it as a compliment.”

Violet grinned. “He’s not wrong.”

The city hummed around them, quiet traffic, dim streetlights, a dog barking in the distance. Their footsteps echoed against the pavement, uneven and slightly tipsy.

Caitlyn reached into the bag for a fry. Violet slapped her hand away, then immediately offered one with exaggerated ceremony.

“For you, m’lady.”

Caitlyn bowed her head in mock gratitude. “Chivalry lives.”

“You’re lucky I’m drunk and charitable.”

“You’re drunk and cute,” Caitlyn corrected.

Violet gave her a side glance, cheeks flushed. “You gonna get all soft on me now?”

“Too late.”

And there was something in the way they looked at each other in that moment, not dramatic, not cinematic. Just full. Like this, whatever it was, had weight. Even in the dark. Even drunk. Even covered in salt.

They kept walking, the deli bag slowly emptying between them. Violet reached out again, not for a fry this time, but to bump her shoulder gently into Caitlyn’s.

“I like you, cupcake.”

x-x-x

The building was quiet when they entered, warm in that upscale, lived-in way, with polished wood floors and soft lighting that somehow didn’t feel cold. Violet was trying not to act impressed, and failing spectacularly.

“This is your lobby?” she whispered dramatically, squinting at the subtle gold accents and minimalist art. “This looks like a museum where rich people cry about their marriages.”

Caitlyn smirked, leading her toward the elevator. “You’re not allowed to roast my building while holding a sandwich.”

“That’s when I’m most powerful.”

In the elevator, Violet leaned back against the mirrored wall, still chewing, hair slightly windblown, eyes glassy with booze and happiness. Caitlyn stood beside her with her hands in her pockets, trying very hard not to stare, and failing.

“You’re staring,” Violet murmured, not looking at her.

“So are you.”

Violet smiled. “You’re cute when you’re smug.”

Caitlyn didn’t respond.

Not out loud, anyway.

Inside the apartment, everything smelled faintly like lavender and something clean, cotton, maybe. The lights were soft, the place tidy but lived-in. Bookshelves flanked the walls, half-stuffed with scripts, poetry, novels, a few worn paperbacks that looked reread to death. The couch was deep and inviting. A small framed photo of a much-younger Caitlyn with what looked like a theater cast sat quietly on the shelf.

Violet stepped in and made a low, impressed sound in her throat. “Okay. It’s elegant. But not scary-elegant. Like... cool lesbian professor elegant.”

Caitlyn raised an eyebrow. “That was oddly specific.”

Violet kicked off her boots near the door. “I’ve thought about it before.”

They dropped their coats, Violet somewhere near a chair, Caitlyn neatly over the back of the couch, and collapsed onto the cushions, paper bag of food like a sacred offering between them.

They dug into what was left: a handful of fries, half a sandwich, Caitlyn’s onion rings.

Violet leaned her head back with a full-body sigh. “God, I’m gonna hate myself tomorrow.”

“Worth it,” Caitlyn said, picking at a fry.

“Very.”

There was silence for a few seconds. But not awkward silence, the kind of silence that fills a space after laughter and music and movement. The kind that lets you breathe and still feel close.

Then Violet glanced over. “Do you always bring girls back here after winning dart tournaments?”

Caitlyn smiled without looking up. “Only the ones who cheat.”

“I didn’t cheat.”

“You’re full of lies.”

“I’m full of fries.”

Caitlyn laughed, soft and easy, and Violet leaned against her shoulder, not dramatically, just there. Like it was the obvious place to be.

“I like your place,” Violet said, voice a little sleepier now.

“I like you in it.”

The words slipped out before Caitlyn could second-guess them.

And Violet didn’t make a joke this time.

She just smiled.

And stayed exactly where she was.

And neither of them was in any rush to leave.

x-x-x

They were curled into the couch now, not quite horizontal, but not sitting upright either. The food bag lay crumpled between them, a few rogue fries sacrificed to the fabric cushions. Violet kicked her socks halfway off, and now had her legs stretched across Caitlyn’s lap like it was the most natural position in the world.

Which, by now, it sort of was.

“You’re so Type-A,” Violet said suddenly, grinning, her voice hoarse from laughing and whiskey. “Like. Perfect posture. Overachiever. Definitely organizes her emails by label.”

Caitlyn raised an eyebrow. “Do you not?”

Violet let out a delighted gasp. “You do.”

Caitlyn gave her a withering, mock-offended look. “Some of us enjoy order.”

“You probably have labeled containers in your fridge, don’t you?”

“…They’re color-coded.”

Violet burst into laughter, her head falling back against the couch arm. “You’re a dream. A terrifying, sexy spreadsheet of a dream.”

Caitlyn flushed and nudged Violet’s knee. “You're an absolute menace.”

“And you love it.”

Caitlyn didn’t deny it.

They sat like that for a few more minutes, riding the buzz of shared humor, heads a little fuzzy, the weight of the day finally beginning to creep in. The warmth of the apartment hummed around them.

Violet yawned, dramatic and unfiltered, and blinked a little too slowly. Her voice was softer now. “Hey…”

Caitlyn looked down at her.

“Can I sleep here?”

Caitlyn’s answer came easily. “That was the plan.”

Violet tilted her head. “You’re that confident, huh?”

“Not confident,” Caitlyn said. “Prepared.”

Violet smirked, her eyes half-lidded. “Type-A strikes again.”

Caitlyn chuckled and ran a hand gently down Violet’s leg, barely noticing she was doing it. “Come on. Let’s get you into something that doesn’t smell like bourbon and existential crisis.”

Violet stretched and groaned. “You are a dream.”

Caitlyn stood, offered her a hand.

And Violet took it.

Because of course she did.

Caitlyn led the way to her bedroom, flipping on the light to a soft, warm glow. The space felt lived-in but calm, all clean lines, muted tones, and the subtle scent of lavender lingering in the air.

She crossed to the dresser, pulled out a sleep shirt and a pair of loose shorts, and handed them to Violet. “Here. These should work.”

Violet took them with a grin, but instead of heading to the bathroom, she tossed the clothes on the bed and began stripping right there.

Caitlyn froze for half a second.

Violet tugged off her top slowly, lazily, not to tease, not exactly, but it was deliberate. The warm overhead light kissed the lines of her muscles, the curve of her shoulders, the tattoos down her ribs.

She pulled the sleep shirt over her head without breaking eye contact.

Caitlyn, seated at the edge of the bed, blinked once. Twice.

“Oh dear God,” she murmured under her breath, just loud enough for Violet to hear.

Violet smirked. “Careful,” she said, stepping into the shorts. “You’re gonna melt all over these nice sheets.”

Caitlyn was already grinning, half-dazed. “You’re a menace.”

“You’re obsessed.”

“I’m very drunk.”

“And yet somehow extremely coherent when I take my shirt off,” Violet added, brushing past her on the way to the bathroom.

As Violet stepped into the bathroom, Caitlyn called after her, voice still warm and amused, “There’s a toothbrush in the drawer. A spare. For guests.”

“Guests, huh?” Violet said through the door. “That what I am?”

“We’ll workshop the title.”

Caitlyn changed quietly while Violet was gone, slipping into a worn T-shirt and leggings, brushing her hair back with her fingers. The faint sound of Violet brushing her teeth came from the bathroom, along with a string of humming that had absolutely no melody.

Caitlyn smiled to herself.

When Violet came back out, her hair pulled back, cheeks flushed and clean, she immediately flopped sideways onto the bed with a groan. “I’m full of whiskey and bad decisions.”

Caitlyn slid in beside her. “Good ones, actually.”

They shifted until the covers were pulled up, their legs tangled beneath the sheets. The air was still, warm and full of everything they hadn’t needed to say tonight.

And just like that, it was quiet again. Not from lack of things to say, just because this felt like the part where the silence was supposed to do the talking.

Violet’s fingers found Caitlyn’s under the blanket. Loose, slow, natural.

The sheets rustled softly as they shifted under the covers, legs brushing, arms adjusting, that clumsy, cozy dance of two people not used to sleeping next to someone, but wanting to figure it out anyway.

Eventually, Violet pulled Caitlyn toward her.

Not roughly. Just enough.

Caitlyn blinked, surprised for half a second as she felt Violet curl around her from behind, one big arm gently slipping around her waist, chin nudging the back of her shoulder.

“You’re being the big spoon?” Caitlyn asked, amused, her voice still low and a little thick with sleep.

“Shut up,” Violet murmured, already settling in. “You’re cute and warm and I’m keeping you.”

Caitlyn laughed softly, one of those breathy, sleepy laughs that came from the chest.

Violet nuzzled just under Caitlyn’s ear, breathing in slowly. Her voice came out as more of a whisper, caught in the haze of alcohol and comfort.

“Your perfume’s becoming one of my favorite smells.”

Caitlyn didn’t answer right away. She just smiled.

“It’s the same one I wore when we first met.”

“Yeah,” Violet said quietly. “I remember.”

There was silence for a moment, the kind that wrapped around them like a blanket, thick and warm.

Then Caitlyn added, “You smell like shampoo, leather, and danger.”

“You love it.”

“Terrifyingly much.”

Violet pulled her in a little closer.

Caitlyn let herself be held.

Neither of them tried to explain it, how easy it felt. How natural. How it didn’t matter that the lights were off and their clothes were borrowed and they were both still a little drunk.

In Caitlyn’s head, there was a quiet, pulsing thought: I didn’t know I’d miss this until I had it.

The safety. The warmth. The feeling of being wanted like this, not for show, not for control, but just because.

In Violet’s mind, everything had slowed. The buzz of the night had given way to something steadier. Caitlyn in her arms, breathing softly, smelling like something expensive and calm, it was enough to make the rest of the world go dim.

This was the kind of night she hadn’t known she needed.

They both drifted off like that, limbs wrapped loosely, breath syncing, hearts quiet.

Because for once, it didn’t feel like either of them had to fight or prove anything.

They were just there.

And that was enough.

Chapter Text

PART II: THE QUIET DRIFT

Time had started slipping.

Not in a dramatic way, just in that easy, sneaky rhythm that happens when your days begin to orbit someone else’s. Not completely, not dangerously. Just enough to feel it. Enough to notice when hours pass quicker. When silence is filled without needing to speak.

In the weeks since that first chaotic night at the dive bar, Violet and Caitlyn had found their own rhythm.

Lunches between meetings, late-night calls, brushing fingers in public and not pulling away. Violet wasn’t afraid of being seen. Caitlyn wasn’t afraid of being known.

And the world was starting to pay attention.

x-x-x

It started as an excuse to eat outside.

A tiny sandwich shop with a few wobbly tables on the sidewalk. Violet in a band tee and sunglasses, Caitlyn in a linen blouse that somehow still looked ironed despite the wind.

They both ordered too much. Violet stole one of Caitlyn’s pickles. Caitlyn pretended to be annoyed.

At one point, Violet leaned forward, elbow on the table, and said, “You realize you eat like someone who was trained in etiquette by a duchess.”

Caitlyn raised an eyebrow. “And you eat like you’re fighting for your life.”

Violet grinned, a smear of mustard on her lip. “Sexy, right?”

Caitlyn bit her lip to keep from smiling.

And failed.

x-x-x

The venue was loud, sweaty, loud again, a dive space that smelled like spilled beer and good decisions made too fast.

Violet had dragged Caitlyn there under the pretense of “broadening her cultural horizons.”

Caitlyn had earplugs in her coat pocket and zero expectations.

But halfway through the second set, Violet was screaming lyrics at the stage, bouncing with the crowd, hair a mess, and Caitlyn couldn’t take her eyes off her.

She leaned in during the chorus, lips close to Violet’s ear.

“You’re ridiculous.”

Violet beamed. “You love it.”

Caitlyn didn’t answer.

But she did kiss her before the encore.

x-x-x

Candlelight. Real wine. Actual reservations.

Caitlyn wore a deep green dress. Violet wore black on black and didn’t stop staring.

They talked about family. Work. The weird dreams they’d been having. The fact that neither of them really knew how to relax, except maybe like this, wineglass in hand, foot nudging foot under the table, time slowing around dessert.

When the server came with the check, Caitlyn reached for it first.

Violet raised an eyebrow. “What are we, married?”

Caitlyn smiled. “Give it time.”

Violet blinked.

Laughed.

And then couldn’t stop smiling for the rest of the night.

x-x-x

Caitlyn’s idea.

They visited three indie bookstores in one afternoon, each buying one book for the other, no context allowed.

Violet gifted her a dog-eared poetry collection titled Wounds You Want to Keep.

Caitlyn gave her a memoir by a retired rock star that had the words “Not Safe for Work or Feelings” in the subtitle.

Violet cried-laughed in the middle of the café afterward.

Caitlyn wiped her cheek with her thumb.

x-x-x

They’d been at Caitlyn’s place, tipsy off homemade cocktails and a movie they never finished. At 12:17am, Violet announced they needed “midnight pasta and shame snacks.”

So they wandered into a 24-hour store in pajama pants and hoodies, arguing over brands of instant ramen, slow dancing in the frozen foods aisle to an old Prince song.

The cashier was deeply unimpressed.

Caitlyn stole a kiss while Violet loaded the bag.

Violet said, “If you keep doing that, we’ll have to make out next to the eggs.”

“Fine by me.”

x-x-x

The city was gray. The windows fogged. The rain didn’t stop for hours.

They stayed in sweatpants. Made pancakes for lunch. Played a vinyl record they both loved. Caitlyn read aloud from a book. Violet scribbled lyrics on a napkin.

No makeup. No shoes. No urgency.

Just the quiet sound of rain, and the warmth of two people learning how to just be.

x-x-x

They were dating, sure, in the sweet, real way.

There were walks through Central Park, shared desserts in overpriced restaurants, stolen kisses in the back of yellow cabs. They had inside jokes, soft playlists, lazy Sunday mornings wrapped in each other. They laughed a lot. They loved a lot.

But it wasn’t all soft lighting and hand-holding.

They were obsessed.

It was messy, and raw, and sometimes it felt like too much. There were nights where Violet pulled Caitlyn into bed without a word, her eyes dark with something dangerous. Mornings where Caitlyn climbed on top of Violet before either of them had even said good morning. Clothes barely made it past the front door. Bruises bloomed like confessions. They kissed like it hurt.

x-x-x

“Babe, have you seen my—”

She froze. Caitlyn was in nothing but black lace underwear and one of Violet’s flannels, halfway buttoned.

Violet blinked. “...Shit.”

Caitlyn turned slowly. “Looking for something?”

Violet nodded, eyes fixed. “Yeah. My self-control.”

They didn’t leave the apartment that night.

x-x-x

“Vi, I’m serious. I’m learning.”

“You’ve burned two pans, a spatula, and I’m pretty sure the concept of risotto.”

Caitlyn turned, flustered, and gorgeous, cheeks pink, apron tied haphazardly.

Violet stepped in close. “You know what you are good at?”

Caitlyn raised an eyebrow. “Don’t say—”

Violet whispered, lips brushing her ear: “Moaning my name.”

The risotto was completely forgotten.

x-x-x

The shower moment after a long day.

Water steaming. Caitlyn leaning back against her.

Violet murmured, “Tell me about your day.”

Caitlyn sighed, body relaxing. “Exhausting. Everyone wants something from me.”

“Not me,” Violet whispered, pressing soft kisses to her neck. “I just want you.”

They stayed under the water until it turned cold.

x-x-x

Violet blinked when she saw her.

“You're not allowed to do that.”

“Do what?” Caitlyn asked, innocent.

“Look like that in my jacket.”

Caitlyn raised an eyebrow. “Then take it off me.”

Violet nearly tripped over her own feet getting them to the bedroom.

x-x-x

After a dumb bet Violet lost.

“Okay,” Violet said, stripping off her shirt. “You win.”

Caitlyn smirked, folding her arms. “I don’t remember betting on nudity.”

Violet shrugged, already unbuttoning her jeans. “Consider it a bonus round.”

Caitlyn paused, then quietly:

“I’m not stopping you.

x-x-x

She was brushing her teeth, hoodie halfway on, bleary-eyed.

Violet came up behind her, kissed the back of her neck.

“Darling—” Caitlyn said, mouth full of toothpaste.

“I know,” Violet murmured, already tugging her back to bed. “But I’m selfish and I want you. Right now. One more time.”

Caitlyn didn’t argue.

She nearly missed her flight.

x-x-x

They saw each other constantly.

Coffee on Tuesdays, always from the same corner spot Violet claimed had the “only decent espresso this side of the river.” Caitlyn would roll her eyes and bring her own pastries, claiming Violet’s taste in food was “borderline criminal.” They sat by the window, knees brushing, trading sarcastic comments and quiet smiles while the city rushed past them.

Brunch on lazy Saturdays, the kind that stretched into the afternoon. Violet in a hoodie two sizes too big, Caitlyn in Caitlyn-mode even when she was relaxed, sipping tea like it was a formal affair. They’d argue over which playlist to put on, feed each other off each other’s plates, and kiss between bites. Sometimes they never left the apartment.

Sleepovers that weren’t supposed to be sleepovers.

They’d say just a drink or just dinner, and somehow end up tangled in Caitlyn’s sheets or curled up on Violet’s couch. Every time, Violet would end up awake at midnight, brushing Caitlyn's hair back, just to see her more clearly in the dark. She never said it out loud, but in those moments, she always thought the same thing:

I’m completely gone for her.

And still, somehow, it never felt like too much.

If anything, it never felt like enough.

x-x-x

By June, they were everywhere, on blurry TikToks, in grainy Instagram stories, and on every fan forum imaginable. Someone always had a new angle, a new close-up, a fresh theory. Every outfit was analyzed. Every glance dissected. Violet lighting Caitlyn’s cigarette at 2 a.m. became a two-minute video essay with 1.4 million views titled “Hands That Know Intimacy.”

“Caitlyn Kiramman and Violet Seen Leaving Brooklyn Theater Together — AGAIN”

“Is It Friendship… or Something More?”

“EXCLUSIVE: Caitlyn Kiramman Caught Wearing Violet’s Hoodie in NYC”

“ Slow Burn or PR Stunt? Why the Internet Can’t Let Go of This Possible Couple”

“Caught in the Act? Kiss or Just an Awkward Hug?”

Reaction videos exploded. Fan edits were made in real-time, dramatic music swelling as paparazzi footage slowed down to highlight how Caitlyn looked at her. Reddit threads speculated everything from “they’re already married and hiding it” to “Caitlyn doesn’t even like girls, you guys are delusional.”

No one could agree.

But everyone was watching.

And through it all, neither of them said a word.

No captions. No denials. No interviews.

Just soft looks.

No one knew how real it had become.

No one knew about the late-night confessions or the voice notes or the morning coffees with sleep still in their eyes.

No one knew the truth behind the art.

Except for them.

x-x-x

Mel sat across from her, tablet in hand, jaw tight. Her blazer was flawless, but the twitch in her eyebrow wasn’t.

Caitlyn sipped her coffee slowly, legs crossed like she hadn’t just set fire to half the internet.

Mel didn’t waste time. “You’re trending. Again.”

Caitlyn barely blinked. “That’s not exactly breaking news.”

Mel turned the tablet around. Four headlines. Photos. Circles drawn around hand touches and matching bracelets like some kind of crime scene.

“It’s not about your acting this time.”

Caitlyn arched an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“It’s about you and Violet. The indie theater. The afterparty. That ‘just friends’ moment where you literally fed her cake with your fork.”

Caitlyn gave a faint smile. “It was good cake.”

Mel was not smiling. “You’re not confirming. You’re not denying. You’re just… existing in this ambiguous middle ground where I get fifty emails an hour asking for statements I don’t have.”

Caitlyn set her mug down, voice even. “I’m not hiding my life. I’m just not putting it on stage.”

Mel took a breath. “I get that. And I respect it. But from a PR perspective, this is chaos. The fans love it. The press is foaming. The studio wants clarity. I need to know,are we ignoring this, controlling this, or preparing for it to explode?”

Caitlyn leaned back, fingers drumming lightly on the arm of her chair. “It already is exploding.”

Mel muttered something about wine and migraines under her breath.

x-x-x

Ekko paced like the floor had personally offended him, phone buzzing every few seconds with notifications he didn’t have time to check.

Jinx was sprawled sideways on the couch, one sock on, one off, scrolling through an endless stream of posts on her laptop.

“Someone just made a timeline thread with every time Caitlyn and Violet have been photographed within ten feet of each other,” she said, squinting at the screen. “It has sources. Citations, even.”

“Cool.” Violet said. 

Ekko stopped pacing. “No. Not cool. Not cool, Violet.”

Violet blinked at him. “You okay, man?”

Ekko groaned. “I told you this was gonna spiral.”

Violet was leaning against the kitchen counter, sunglasses on despite the dim lighting, eating cereal straight from the box like it was just another Tuesday.

“What’s the big deal, dude?” she asked between bites.

Ekko turned to her, exasperated. “The big deal, "dude", is that the internet has decided you’re officially dating a rising actress almost in a major film, and you are just… chilling? Like you’re not trending every five minutes?”

“She is dating her,” Jinx muttered, eyes still on the screen. “Reddit figured it out like… two weeks ago.”

“I’m not saying it’s a problem,” Ekko said quickly. “I’m saying if it becomes official, if you confirm anything, you need to be ready for interviews, questions, thinkpieces, label pressure. The works. And if you don’t confirm, then we need a strategy to not confirm. A consistent one.”

“I’m not hiding anything,” Violet said, shrugging. “I just don’t think we need to explain ourselves to anyone.”

Ekko ran a hand through his hair. “Okay. Cool. Great. Then at least let us manage the narrative a little so it doesn’t run off on its own.”

Jinx looked up. “Too late. It’s sprinting.”

Violet popped another spoonful of cereal into her mouth. “Then let it run.”

Ekko looked like he aged three years in ten seconds.

x-x-x

Brooklyn. Violet’s apartment. The cat asleep in a sunken chair, and the weight of unspoken feelings between them.

It had rained earlier.

Now the windows were streaked and glowing with the reflections of distant streetlights, the air inside Violet’s apartment still carrying the faint, metallic scent of a wet city. A record played softly in the background, something warm and wordless, letting the music speak where they couldn’t.

They were curled up on the couch.

Caitlyn wore Violet’s hoodie, sleeves pushed up, bare legs tucked underneath her. Violet sat beside her, feet up, head leaning against the back of the couch, a mug of tea going cold in her hands.

The TV was on but muted, something old and comforting flickering across the screen. Neither of them was really watching.

It had been almost two months. Eight weeks of orbiting, colliding, soft kisses at stoplights and wild laughter in diners and stolen mornings. Eight weeks of touch and heat and sleep and safety.

And yet, they hadn’t named it.

Not really.

Not out loud.

Caitlyn watched the way Violet’s hair fell in uneven waves against her collarbone. She’d memorized it already, the dip of her neck, the soft line of her jaw when she was relaxed like this. But tonight, something about Violet felt farther away. Not distant.

Just... unguarded. And that, somehow, made Caitlyn feel more vulnerable than ever.

She wanted to say it.

Wanted to name what this had become. To ask. To know.

But there was a weight in her chest that made it hard to speak, the same weight that always came when she cared too deeply too quickly. When she started to feel like maybe she wanted everything.

What if Violet didn’t want that yet?

What if this was still casual for her?

What if the quiet, steady rhythm of their nights together was exactly how Violet liked it, untethered, undefined?

She glanced sideways at Violet, catching the curve of her mouth in profile, the crease in her brow like she was deep in thought.

Caitlyn looked back at the screen, swallowed, and said nothing.

Violet had felt the shift days ago.

It wasn’t something Caitlyn said, Caitlyn was careful, always elegant, always composed. It was in her presence. The way she left things behind when she visited now. A book on the nightstand. A toothbrush. A half-worn sweater folded on a chair like it belonged there.

And it did.

Violet had never let someone stay this long in her space. Not just physically, emotionally. And it scared her.

She’d written a song about Caitlyn. That alone made her want to scream into a pillow.

She felt it bubbling under her skin tonight, a low, persistent thrum of say something. Ask her. Admit it. Break the seal.

But what if Caitlyn backed away?

What if she didn’t want to be called someone’s girlfriend?

What if the spell only worked because it hadn’t been named?

Violet exhaled slowly, sipped her cold tea, and leaned her head slightly toward Caitlyn.

Close. Just not close enough.

The space between them buzzed.

They laughed a little. Murmured about the weather. Violet made a joke about the record scratching. Caitlyn smirked and fixed it. The cat rolled over and sighed dramatically from the chair, like he was sick of waiting for one of them to just say it already.

And still, neither of them moved.

Because they were afraid of breaking something.

Afraid of opening their mouths and letting the truth fall out too fast.

Afraid of hearing the wrong answer.

But under the fear, under the silence, the feelings were there.

Steady. Bright. Unavoidable.

If one of them had spoken, the other would’ve said yes.

That was the part they didn’t know yet.

x-x-x

At night, the apartment smelled like garlic and olive oil, steam rising lazily from a pot on the stove. Violet stood barefoot at the counter, chopping cherry tomatoes with a dull knife she refused to replace. Caitlyn was stirring pasta, watching her with quiet amusement, and occasional concern for her fingers.

“Do you want me to sharpen that before you lose a thumb?” Caitlyn offered, eyebrow lifted.

Violet glanced up, smirking. “I like living on the edge.”

“You live on the edge of tetanus,” Caitlyn muttered.

“Hot.”

Caitlyn laughed, setting down the spoon and wiping her hands on a dishtowel. “Seriously. This whole kitchen is a lawsuit waiting to happen.”

“Maybe I’m trying to trap you into fixing it,” Violet said, tossing a tomato into the pan. “Maybe this is all just an elaborate honey trap.”

“I knew it,” Caitlyn said, moving to stand beside her. “You only want me for my knife skills and British accent.”

“Don’t forget the face.”

“Never.”

They laughed, the kind of laugh that came from knowing each other’s rhythms by now. The music in the background played something low and jazzy. Outside, the city had gone still.

Then Caitlyn’s voice softened.

“They’re still talking about us.”

Violet didn’t look up right away. “Yeah. I figured.”

“They think we’re... a thing.”

Violet made a vague gesture with her tomato-covered knife. “A mysterious, indie soft-launch thing.”

Caitlyn gave her a look. A quiet look.

And that’s when Violet finally stopped moving.

She placed the knife down on the cutting board. Let the silence stretch a little. Her heart was kicking behind her ribs, louder than the simmering on the stove.

She exhaled, long and slow.

“I think...” she started, then stopped.

Caitlyn waited, patient.

“I think I’ve been acting like if I don’t say it out loud, it won’t become something I can lose.”

That made Caitlyn blink.

“But it already is,” Violet went on, voice lower now, rougher at the edges. “It’s already something. I know it is.”

Caitlyn’s features softened, and she took a slow step forward. “Then say it. Just to me. You don’t have to post about it or tweet it or sing it into a mic. Just... say it here.”

Violet looked at her. Looked at her hoodie on Caitlyn’s body, her bare legs, her mouth still pink from a glass of wine. The little domestic chaos around them.

And she let herself speak.

“I’m with you,” she said. “I don’t know what it’s supposed to look like. But I know I’m with you.”

Caitlyn’s breath caught, not dramatically, just visibly.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “Me too.”

They didn’t kiss right away.

They just stood there for a moment, Violet’s words still hanging in the air like something sacred and fragile. Then Caitlyn stepped close and rested her forehead gently against Violet’s.

“You’re allowed to be scared,” she whispered.

“I am,” Violet said. “But I’m still here.”

And then the kiss, quiet, certain, and deeply earned.

In the background, the pasta boiled over again.

They both ignored it.

The steam from the forgotten pasta was fogging up the nearby window, the scent of garlic clinging to everything. The knife lay still on the counter. The moment had stretched and held, quiet, heavy, honest, like something breakable between them that neither wanted to risk dropping.

Caitlyn hadn’t stepped away.

And Violet hadn’t looked away.

Not this time.

There was still something in her chest, tight and electric, but it wasn’t fear anymore.

It was hope.

Heavy, inconvenient, aching hope.

Violet reached forward, slow and deliberate, and slipped her fingers into the front of Caitlyn’s hoodie, her hoodie, technically, tugging Caitlyn gently closer until their bodies brushed, until she could feel the steadiness of Caitlyn’s breath grounding her.

And then she looked at her, really looked at her.

Eyes clear. Mouth slightly parted like she didn’t quite trust what she was about to say, but she had to say it anyway.

“I’m not easy,” Violet murmured. “I don’t come with… softness. I’ve got opinions, moods, bad habits. My brain doesn’t shut up. I talk too loud, sometimes drink too much and shut down too fast, and I’ve got a very dramatic cat with attachment issues.”

Caitlyn’s lips curved, but she didn’t interrupt.

“I’ve got a past,” Violet added, voice quieter now. “Fans who think they own me. Labels who treat feelings like content. And... I don’t always know how to do the right thing when it comes to letting people in.”

A beat. Her fingers curled tighter in the fabric between them.

“But I want to try. With you.”

She swallowed.

“I want to know if you’ll take this on with me. All of it. Not just the good days and backstage passes, but the mess too. The weird. The real. Because if you say yes...” Her voice cracked just slightly. “Then I think that makes you my—”

Caitlyn didn’t let her finish.

She stepped in, hands rising gently to frame Violet’s face, and kissed her like it was the easiest answer in the world.

When they parted, Caitlyn kept her forehead resting against Violet’s and whispered, breath warm between them, “Of course I’m in.”

A pause.

“You think I came all this way for just the good parts?”

Violet laughed softly, not because it was funny, but because it was too much in the best possible way. She felt it surge in her chest like something unlocking, something releasing.

“I’m yours, Violet,” Caitlyn said. “Cat, baggage, mood swings, the whole playlist. I want all of it. All of you.”

Violet blinked fast, then smiled, teeth and dimples and relief.

“You’re really my girlfriend,” she said, half in disbelief, half claiming it.

“I’ve been your girlfriend,” Caitlyn said, smiling.

They kissed again, deeper now, the kind of kiss that said yes, that said finally, that said I’m not going anywhere.

And somewhere behind them, the cat padded into the kitchen and let out a disapproving yowl, like he was annoyed by the noise or the emotional vulnerability, or both.

Violet didn’t even turn around.

“He’ll get used to you,” she murmured.

Caitlyn smirked. “He already has.”

They stood there, holding onto each other in the hum of the kitchen, two hands finally unclenched, two hearts no longer pretending this wasn’t real.

It was.

It was.

And neither of them wanted to take it back.

x-x-x

Dinner was a little cold by the time they remembered to eat it.

Neither of them cared.

They sat cross-legged on the couch, still close, still leaning into the kind of contact that now felt like permission granted. Caitlyn fed Violet a forkful of pasta at one point, and Violet pretended to gag dramatically, saying it tasted like “emotional progress.”

Caitlyn rolled her eyes and kissed her temple in retaliation.

The cat, clearly over the theatrics, kept glancing at Caitlyn as if trying to make sure she hadn’t multiplied or moved in permanently.

Music played low in the background again, but now there was laughter between songs. Shoulder nudges. Leg draped over leg.

And a phone on the coffee table buzzing with messages they both ignored.

Until Violet stretched, cracked her neck, and casually reached for it.

She snapped a picture of the cat curled up on Caitlyn’s lap, unbothered, half asleep, the edge of Caitlyn’s thigh visible in the frame.

“Permission to cause mild chaos?” she asked, already smirking.

Caitlyn gave her a long look. “What are you posting?”

Violet showed her the screen. The photo had been cropped just right, cozy, quiet, ambiguous. The caption? A single paw print emoji.

Caitlyn raised an eyebrow, amused. “That’s subtle.”

“Too subtle?”

“No. Just enough to drive the internet insane.”

Violet tapped ‘post.’

A moment later, Caitlyn unlocked her own phone and pulled up her camera. She took a photo of the mug Violet had been drinking from, still half full, sitting beside her guitar, with Violet’s legs barely in frame, tangled in a blanket. The glow of the record player lit the corner of the image.

She didn’t caption it. Just hit ‘post.’

They both stared at their screens for a second.

Then Caitlyn opened Violet’s profile.

Paused.

And hit “Follow.”

Violet’s phone buzzed. She glanced down. Smiled.

“Oh, it’s like that?” she said, scrolling to Caitlyn’s page.

She hit “Follow back” and turned the screen toward her.

“We’re so softcore,” she joked. “Like, aesthetically gay.”

Caitlyn laughed, low and warm, leaning into her side. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It’s terrifying.”

“It’s perfect.”

x-x-x

Somewhere online, within minutes…

"Did Violet just soft-launch Caitlyn through her cat?"

"Caitlyn just followed Violet. Violet followed back. I’m not saying anything, but I’m SCREAMING."

"This isn’t even a soft launch. It’s a soft scream. Like “here’s my cat, but also here’s the love of my life in the background pretending to not exist.”"

#CaitVi trending. Again.

x-x-x

Ekko was mid-bite, spicy rice still in his mouth, when his phone buzzed. He glanced down. Froze. Blinked again.

“What the hell,” he muttered, lowering the spoon and grabbing his phone like it was about to explode.

Jinx was draped upside down on the couch, knees hooked over the back, casually scrolling TikTok with the sound off.

She didn’t even look up. “That sounded dramatic. You okay?”

“She just posted the cat,” Ekko said, barely screamed.

“…And?”

“The cat, Jinx. Curled up on someone who is very clearly not her.”

Now she flipped over and sat up. “Show me.”

He turned the screen.

Jinx squinted. “Yup. That’s a person. And I’m pretty sure we both know which person.”

Ekko swiped again. “And Caitlyn just followed her. Violet followed back, like, thirty seconds later. Are they serious right now?”

Jinx raised an eyebrow. “You think it’s a coincidence?”

“Oh no. I think it’s a tactic. A chaotic, deeply unsupervised tactic that no one warned me about!”

He started pacing. “Do they think this is subtle? Is this subtle now? Posting the cat like a decoy and syncing follows like it’s a military op—”

“She didn’t post Caitlyn,” Jinx said, almost helpfully. “Technically.”

Ekko stopped, deadpan. “Right. And I’m technically not losing my mind.”

He slammed his phone on the counter and opened the group chat with exasperated purpose.

[Ekko]

[Image of a screenshot]

not to be dramatic but when were y’all gonna tell me you were soft-launching your situationship like it was an indie film trailer

I would’ve made a press kit

honestly I’m gonna quit one day and vanish into the woods and no one will hear from me again

[Jinx]

the internet already knows, dude I’m literally watching a fan edit with sparkles and violin music go viral in real time

Ekko ran a hand down his face and collapsed into a chair. “I need a vacation. Or a sedative. Or a fake identity.”

Jinx smirked. “We could get you a burner account.”

He looked up, eyes hollow. “If they post matching tattoos and I’m not informed beforehand, I’m deleting myself from the grid.”

x-x-x

Jayce had just wrapped up a long press call and was scrolling mindlessly through Instagram, half-bored, half-exhausted, until his thumb froze mid-swipe.

“…Mel?”

Mel didn’t even look up from her tablet. “Please don’t.”

He turned his phone toward her like he was handling dangerous material. “Your client just posted a photo. Coffee mug. Guitar. Very intimate vibes.”

Mel kept typing. “Okay.”

Jayce cleared his throat. “And she followed Violet. Violet followed back. Publicly. Just now.”

Mel’s fingers stopped. The silence stretched.

Jayce added, more carefully, “And you didn’t… know this was happening?”

Mel slowly set her tablet down, folded her hands, and stared at him like he had caused this.

“I talked to her, Jayce. For fuck's sake, I specifically asked if she wanted to say something. If she wanted to stay private. If she wanted to build a rollout. She looked me in the eye and said, ‘I haven’t decided yet.’”

Jayce winced. “Oof. Classic ‘maybe.’”

“She didn’t say yes. She didn’t say no. She said nothing. And then she goes and posts the most obviously loaded photo in history like she’s starring in a slow-burn lesbian romcom that’s premiering on my inbox.”

Jayce tried to smile. “Maybe it’s just a—”

“If you say mug, I will throw mine.”

He shut up.

Mel stood abruptly, pacing with Jayce's phone still in hand. “She knows what she’s doing. She knows exactly what this looks like. Do you know how many calls I’m going to get in the next hour? How many headlines? How many—oh, great, now it’s trending. Again. #CaitVi, my old friend, back to ruin my night.”

Jayce cautiously checked his phone. “You good?”

“I am not good, Jayce. I’ve been running interference on this for weeks. Organizing narratives. Timing press. Drafting neutral answers so she could have space. And now? She soft-launches a relationship like it’s a Sunday morning aesthetic board?”

He tried to offer a smile. “They are kind of adorable though.”

“Oh, they’re stunning. Photogenic. Symmetrical. Infuriating.” She rubbed her temples. “And apparently incapable of texting the person managing their entire public presence before making it everyone’s business.”

Jayce stepped back slightly. “Not gonna lie, you’re scaring me a little.”

“Good.”

He sat down again, cautiously. “So what now?”

Mel picked up her own phone like it was a weapon. “Now I prepare for the headlines I didn’t approve, the tweets I can’t control, and the inevitable moment someone asks me on live TV if Caitlyn Kiramman is in a relationship, to which I will smile and say, ‘I guess you’d have to ask her and her coffee mug.’”

Jayce blinked. “You’re spiraling.”

Mel pointed at her screen. “That emotionally repressed theatre kid in a trench coat and designer boots owes me everything. I’m sending her my therapy bill. I'm invoicing her for my peace of mind.”

Jayce raised both brows. “You want me to text her?”

“No. I want you to text her, and then run.”

x-x-x

Meanwhile, Caitlyn was lying on her stomach, half-covered by the sheets, her hair a complete mess and her phone glowing dimly in one hand. The other hand was lazily trailing along Violet’s bare back.

“#CaitVi is trending again,” she said, voice muffled by the pillow but undeniably amused.

Violet, sprawled beside her with nothing but the corner of the blanket and a very smug expression, didn’t even open her eyes. “Wonder why,” she muttered, lips curving into a slow grin.

Caitlyn rolled over to face her, holding her phone up. “Apparently, your cat and my coffee mug just broke the internet.”

Violet cracked one eye open. “And Ekko’s will to live.”

They both laughed.

Caitlyn leaned in, pressing a lazy kiss to Violet’s shoulder. “You know Mel’s going to have an aneurysm.”

“She already sent me three texts,” Violet said, stretching like a cat herself. “One of them just said ‘Violet.’ With a period. That’s how I know she’s really mad.”

Caitlyn sighed dramatically. “I suppose we could’ve warned them.”

Violet turned to face her, smirking. “We did warn them. Spiritually.”

Caitlyn snorted. “We posted. Then had sex.”

“Exactly.” Violet grinned. “Feels honest.”

Their phones kept buzzing on the nightstand, vibrating against the wood like a tiny, exhausted orchestra. Neither of them moved.

Caitlyn peeked at a new notification. “Jayce just messaged me: ‘I’m not mad, I’m just scared of Mel.’”

Violet cackled. “Ekko told me he’s ‘considering a remote cabin and a new identity.’”

Caitlyn tilted her head. “Maybe we should send them a thank you basket. And a tranquilizer.”

Violet stretched again, reaching over to pluck Caitlyn’s phone from her hand. She tossed it onto the nightstand with her own and pulled Caitlyn back into the pillows.

“I think we’ve done enough damage for one night.”

Caitlyn grinned, brushing her nose against Violet’s. “We should do this more often.”

“Soft-launch our relationship via pet and crockery?”

“No,” Caitlyn murmured, kissing the corner of her mouth. “Wreck the internet after wrecking each other.”

Violet laughed softly. “Deal.”

x-x-x

And as their phones continued to buzz, full of panicked messages, headlines, and thousands of strangers screaming finally, they stayed exactly where they were, warm, tangled, and entirely unbothered.

Let the world catch up.

They had nothing left to prove.

And Caitlyn kissed her again, right there in the middle of the soft chaos they’d just unleashed on the world.

Violet and Caitlyn laid side by side. Not talking. Not scrolling.

Just existing, shoulder to shoulder, breathing in the same steady rhythm.

And yet…

The air felt different.

Not heavier. Not awkward.

Just realer.

Violet’s phone buzzed again, but she ignored it. She didn’t want to see more tweets, or DMs, or the infinite loop of hearts and fire emojis. Not right now.

She was still processing that she’d done it.

She had chosen Caitlyn.

Not just in the quiet. Not just behind closed doors. But where anyone, everyone, could see.

Violet, who had spent most of her adult life pushing people away the second things felt too tender, now had her mug and guitar on Caitlyn’s feed. 

And it didn’t scare her.

Okay, maybe it scared her a little.

But it also felt like a relief. Like putting something down after carrying it for too long.

She looked over at Caitlyn, head tilted toward the ceiling, eyes closed but not asleep. Just still.

Violet’s heart pulled in her chest.

She didn’t know how she’d ended up here, next to a woman who wore her hoodie like it belonged to her, who kissed her like she was a safe place, who made even pasta and silence feel like something important.

She reached for her hand. Laced their fingers.

“Hey,” Violet murmured. “Are you freaking out?”

Caitlyn turned to her with a small, warm smile, eyes soft, no mask, no filter.

“No,” she said. “I’m... actually not.”

And that surprised her, even as she said it.

Because Caitlyn, who had carefully curated her image for years, who had survived press junkets and backhanded compliments, who had managed to keep most of her heart offline, had just let it go.

Let Violet in. Let people see that Violet was in.

And somehow, it felt right.

There was something grounding about it. Something permanent. Like setting down a flag and saying, Yes, this is mine. This is real.

“Are you?” Caitlyn asked, giving Violet’s hand a small squeeze.

Violet hesitated. “I thought I would be.”

“But?”

“But I’m not.”

Caitlyn smiled. “Good.”

Then softer, more serious:

“I know what it means to do this, for you. I know what it costs.”

Violet swallowed hard.

“And I’m not gonna make it worse,” Caitlyn added. “I’m not gonna demand we define everything by what people think we are. I just want to be with you. Out loud. That’s all.”

Violet let her head fall against Caitlyn’s shoulder.

“I’ve never had this,” she said, voice quieter now. “Something that felt good and safe. Something I didn’t have to flinch about when people looked.”

Caitlyn brushed her lips against Violet’s hair.

“You deserve it,” she said. “All of it.”

But...

But they didn’t know.

They couldn’t.

That’s the part Violet would think about most, later.

That neither of them had any idea.

Not in that stillness, not in the warmth of limbs resting against each other like they belonged there. Not in the way their laughter had settled into the walls like it might never leave. Not when everything felt so beautifully, achingly simple.

They didn’t know that one day, their hearts would carry a kind of ache they’d have no words for.

They didn’t know how heavy their chests would feel.

How deep they’d fall.

How dark the bottom would get.

They didn’t know that one day, they’d look back on this and wonder how something so right could ever fall apart so quietly.

They didn't know how or when the quiet of the drift began. 

But that night, in that room, they only knew the warmth.

The comfort.

The terrifying, beautiful certainty of being wanted exactly as they were.

They didn’t know how much it would cost them.

And for a little while longer, they were safe in not knowing.

Chapter Text

There was something about late summer in New York that made everything feel like it was on the edge of changing.

The days still held warmth, thick and golden, but the nights had begun to cool, just enough to hint that autumn was coming. The air felt softer. The light came in at a sharper angle. And for a moment, the city didn’t feel so much like a machine, but a living thing breathing slower, stretching out its limbs before the next sprint.

It was the season of almosts.

Almost fall.

Almost new.

Almost something you could hold on to.

And in that strange, in-between hush, Caitlyn and Violet were happy.

Not loudly. Not perfectly. But really, truly happy.

There was laughter in the quiet moments. There was comfort in the ordinary. There were full mugs of coffee on Sunday mornings and texts that turned into voice notes that turned into late-night phone calls, even when they were across the river from each other. There were studio sessions and script revisions, and a rhythm that felt like a shared language neither of them had expected to learn so easily.

They hadn’t meant to tell the world.

They didn't have to explain themselves. Or their relationship. 

But the world, in its own obsessive way, had already started putting pieces together.

There had been photos. Blurry, grainy ones, of Violet and Caitlyn walking near the park. Of Caitlyn outside Violet’s studio at night. Of Violet leaving Caitlyn’s apartment in Caitlyn’s sweatshirt. Just enough to spark whispers. Speculation. Fan edits. Headlines with question marks at the end.

But it wasn’t official.

Not until the instagram posts.

That was all it took.

And the internet, predictably, imploded.

The tag #CaitVi trended within hours.

There were memes. Art. Playlists. Essays written in comment sections. Fans from wildly different corners of the internet suddenly speaking the same language. There were threads tracing their entire timeline, dissecting every public interaction, every outfit, every pause in an interview. Every glance.

Most of it was love.

Pure, excited, chaotic love.

But not all of it.

Some of it was cruel, quietly or loudly. Some questioned Violet’s character, her reputation, her worth. Others wondered if Caitlyn could “afford” to be seen with someone so outside the expected. A few blogs speculated it was for attention. Others accused Caitlyn of tarnishing her brand.

But neither of them responded. Not publicly.

And neither of them regretted it.

Because this wasn’t about a narrative they needed to control. It wasn’t a press move or a teaser for something else. It wasn’t for buzz or for spectacle.

It was a choice.

To be seen.

To be known.

To say, even without words, this is who I come home to.

And if anyone had asked, Would you still do it?

Even with the noise, the headlines, the eyes?

They would’ve said yes.

Because they weren’t hiding anymore. Not that they were. 

And in a city always looking forward, always forgetting itself to survive, Violet and Caitlyn were still choosing each other.

Quietly.

Loudly.

Again and again.

x-x-x

They had been together for almost four months. 

Most days, it felt like forever, in the best way. Like they’d somehow skipped the awkward parts and landed in that rare space where things just worked. But there were days when they stumbled. When they snapped without meaning to. When they went to bed a little too quiet.

Because they weren’t perfect.

And they never tried to be.

x-x-x

One morning, Violet burned the toast and tripped over the cat in the same five-minute window.

She was still rubbing her shin and cursing when Caitlyn came in wearing one of Violet’s old shirts and holding two mugs of coffee.

“You’re bleeding, love.”

“Only internally. From embarrassment.”

Caitlyn knelt, kissed her knee like it was sacred, and said, “I’d still keep you.”

x-x-x

Caitlyn once missed a studio visit.

Violet hadn’t asked for much, just “swing by if you can.”

Caitlyn hadn’t made it. Meetings ran late. Calls stacked up.

Violet didn’t bring it up. Didn’t pout. Didn’t guilt her.

But her voice over the phone that night was softer. Measured.

Caitlyn felt the space but didn’t rush to fill it.

The next day, she showed up with iced coffee and an old vinyl Violet had once mentioned offhand. She didn’t say anything about the day before.

Violet just looked at her for a long time. Then nodded. Then kissed her.

x-x-x

They cooked together often, badly.

Caitlyn followed recipes like they were laws. Violet, on the other hand, believed in chaos and “just feel it out.”

They burned the rice. Dropped the tofu. The cat howled when something sizzled too loudly.

In the end, they had cereal in mismatched bowls, and Violet raised hers with a grin. “To our Michelin-starred empire.”

Caitlyn tapped her spoon against the rim. “May it burn brightly.”

x-x-x

They had their rhythms.

Their stumbles.

Their unspoken truces.

They never went to sleep angry. Not once.

Even when they were off balance, they found each other in the dark.

Because the truth was this:

They were better together.

Not always easier.

Not always smooth.

But real.

And worth it.

Even when Violet was quiet.

Even when Caitlyn felt unsure.

They held on, not because they had to.

But because, somehow, neither of them wanted to let go.

Sometimes, Caitlyn would catch herself staring at Violet like she was trying to memorize her, the way her fingers tapped against her leg when she was restless, the way her laugh dropped an octave when she was tired, the way she always left a light on in the kitchen, even when they were the last to go to bed.

It made her heart ache, the quiet kind of ache that felt almost holy.

Because loving Violet wasn’t light. It was a full-bodied thing, dense and real and slightly terrifying. And it meant surrendering parts of herself she hadn’t even known were locked away.

And yet, she never doubted it.

Even when Violet pulled back a little after a fight.

Even when the distance wasn’t physical but emotional.

Even when Caitlyn felt like she was reaching through static to hold on.

She didn’t feel angry. Just… tender. Careful.

As if Violet’s heart was something she wanted to hold, but only if Violet offered it, on her own terms, in her own time.

x-x-x

For Violet, the fear came from another place.

It wasn’t Caitlyn’s success.

It wasn’t the attention.

It wasn’t the vulnerability.

It was how easily Caitlyn made it all feel possible.

Too possible.

And Violet, who had spent so many years building walls around herself with melody and sarcasm and sleepless nights in studios, didn’t always know what to do with softness.

She didn’t know how to stay open.

But she tried. Every day. In her way.

With coffee in the morning.

With songs she never sent to anyone else. Not even Caitlyn. 

With the way her fingers always found Caitlyn’s in the dark, even when she couldn’t say what she felt out loud.

This feels too good, she’d think sometimes, watching Caitlyn sleep.

And I’ve never been good at keeping good things.

But then Caitlyn would stir and murmur her name like it was a promise, and Violet would let the thought slip away.

Not everything had to be broken.

Some things, maybe this thing, could be worth the risk.

x-x-x

It had taken months to get here since the first meeting in late April.

Auditions. Rehearsals. Chemistry reads that left Caitlyn emotionally wrung out, then lit up all over again. Late-night calls with her agent. Long silences after callbacks where she tried not to hope too hard.

And then, finally, she got the call.

The role was hers.

A supporting character in a film that was already being whispered about in the industry. A sweeping, emotionally complex contemporary drama directed by a woman who hadn’t made a bad movie in over a decade. The cast alone was enough to stop conversations: Diana, enigmatic and sharp as glass. Viego, magnetic in that dangerous way that made critics melt. Jhin, strange and method and terrifyingly good.

And now… Caitlyn.

The girl who once told Violet she didn’t think people ever looked at her and saw the lead.

She cried when she found out. Violet held her, kissed the top of her head, and didn’t say anything at first, just let her shake and laugh and hold on.

“I think this could really change things,” Caitlyn said later that night, her voice soft, as if saying it too loudly might break it.

“It already has,” Violet murmured, brushing her thumb across Caitlyn’s cheek. “You’re finally seeing what the rest of us always did.”

The film would start shooting in six weeks. Enough time to prepare. Not enough to pretend it wasn’t going to change everything.

x-x-x

Violet tried to match Caitlyn’s energy. She really did.

She went to her gigs. Sat through press events. Signed contracts. Smiled when people asked about new music, even when she had none to give. She learned to laugh in interviews, to give just enough of herself to seem open without ever really opening up. Her answers were rehearsed now, her charm on autopilot.

The studio had become strange lately. Familiar and foreign at once. The walls were the same, lined with old photos, vintage gear, and the worn couch she used to crash on after all-nighters. But the air felt different, heavier, maybe. Stale, like a room no one had truly lived in for a while.

She'd sit with her guitar across her lap and wait for something to come through. A line. A chord. Anything. But most days, it was just static, the dull, restless hum of a mind too tired to create and too scared to stop.

She still made music. She had to. There were releases due, features promised, deadlines hanging over her head like a soft ache, the kind that’s easy to ignore until it's not. She got through them, professionally, efficiently, each take clean, each lyric technically sound. But when it came to her own voice, the stuff that came from whatever quiet fire used to live under her ribs?

She couldn’t find it.

She tried late-night sessions, coffee-fueled mornings, long walks with her headphones turned up to full volume. She listened to her old demos, trying to trace her way back to whatever spark had started it all. But everything sounded distant now, like echoes in a tunnel.

Even Caitlyn noticed. She’d glance at Violet across the room, not with pity, but with concern, with that quiet kind of love that doesn’t ask but still sees. Violet appreciated it, even if she didn’t know how to talk about the numbness creeping in.

It wasn’t burnout. Not exactly. It was something slower, deeper. Like the ground shifting beneath her without a sound. And she didn’t know how to tell anyone, not Caitlyn, not her manager, not even herself, that she was scared she might never get it back.

What’s wrong with me, she’d think, staring at the soundboard after hours, a coffee gone cold in her hand.

Why can’t I feel it the way I used to?

But then she’d go home.

And Caitlyn would be there, curled up in her hoodie, hair tied up in that messy half-bun she did when she was deep in a script, lines scribbled and highlighted in different colors, pages spread across the coffee table like puzzle pieces waiting to be solved. She’d be murmuring her lines to the cat, who blinked slowly like he understood every word, occasionally batting at a stray Post-it note.

The moment Violet stepped through the door, Caitlyn would look up with that lazy, soft smile, the kind that said I see you, and I’m glad you’re here. She’d reach for her, tug her close with chilled fingers, and kiss her like she never wanted to stop. Sometimes they’d talk. Sometimes they didn’t have to.

Even if the music’s silent right now, Violet would think, watching her from across the room, her heart catching a little in her throat,
at least this part of me still makes sense.

They were in love.

That much was certain.

It lived in the ordinary things, the way they shared a blanket without speaking, the coffee always made just how the other liked it, the way Caitlyn hummed Violet’s old songs without realizing, like they were still part of the air around them.

But love didn’t cancel pressure. Or fear. Or change.

Deadlines still loomed. Expectations still whispered. The future, once bright and wide and electric, now had a question mark hanging quietly in its corner. They didn’t talk about it much. Not yet. But the silence had a shape, and they both could feel it growing.

Still, every time one of them leaned away, tired, uncertain, scared of not being enough, the other leaned in.

With small gestures.

With patience.

With touch instead of answers.

And for now, that was enough.

Even if the quiet was starting to stretch, thin and taut like the pause before a bridge in a song.

Even if neither of them had the words for what might be coming next.

They were still trying. Still choosing each other.

And sometimes, sometimes, that choice was the loudest thing in the room.

x-x-x

Three weeks.

That’s how much time Caitlyn had left before filming began. And lately, she’d been vibrating with a kind of focused energy that made Violet both proud and slightly breathless just watching her.

Caitlyn was electric.

Rehearsing every spare minute.

Muttering lines under her breath in the shower, mouthing dialogue while stirring pasta, pacing the living room in socks with her hands curled into fists when a scene wasn’t clicking. Her eyes burned with it, that fierce, relentless light she got when something mattered. And this role mattered.

Reading through character notes at breakfast, she’d go quiet mid-bite, lost in some emotional beat. Violet learned not to interrupt, just reached out to gently touch her knee, grounding her. Sometimes Caitlyn would blink, smile softly, and return to her food like nothing had happened. Other times, she’d launch into a monologue, her voice shifting, posture changing, becoming someone else entirely, and it would stop Violet in her tracks.

She was also quietly terrified.

Of failing.

Of freezing on set.

Of not living up to what people had begun to expect of her, this bright, fearless up-and-comer who'd taken a small role in an indie darling and turned it into a star-making moment. Now the stakes were higher. So was the pressure.

Violet saw it in the way Caitlyn’s jaw tightened before Zoom calls. In the way her fingers tapped against her thigh when she thought no one was looking. The sleepless nights. The way she sometimes stared too long at her reflection like she was trying to find the character before the camera ever rolled.

So Violet stayed close.

She cracked dumb jokes. Left sticky notes with encouraging messages on Caitlyn’s scripts, sometimes with drawings of the cat in a director’s chair, yelling "Action!" She made sure there was always food in the fridge, ordered takeout when neither of them remembered to cook, and brewed chamomile tea when Caitlyn forgot how to slow down. At night, when the tension refused to loosen its grip, Violet would rub slow circles into her shoulders until she melted against her, breath soft and even.

The cat helped too, by being a persistent menace. He'd plop down directly on Caitlyn’s notes like it was his divine right, knock pens off the table with dramatic flair, and meow pointedly if she ignored him too long. His mission was clear: No one gets to spiral in this house without supervision.

They were, more or less, living together now.

There’d been no grand conversation. No official drawer-clearing or moving boxes. Caitlyn hadn’t packed a bag. She hadn’t needed to. One day, Violet said, “Leave the toothbrush,” and from then on, they simply didn’t stop waking up beside each other.

The rhythm of it came easy.
Shared mugs. Half-watched movies. The scent of Caitlyn’s shampoo lingering in the bathroom. Violet’s guitar picks scattered among Caitlyn’s highlighters. Their lives folding together like pages in the same story.

It was a kind of dream.

A soft little nest made of tangled sheets, shared glances across the kitchen, and the weight of one another’s presence. Something warm and private, as if they’d built a quiet world that the outside hadn’t touched yet.

And maybe that’s why neither of them wanted to say it out loud, how close it sat to the edge.

x-x-x

The apartment smelled like roasted garlic and rosemary. Jazz played low from the speaker in the corner, the good kind, old vinyl crackle, brass melting into upright bass. Mel’s place always had that curated, warm aesthetic, all soft lighting, modern furniture, and little personal touches like half-read books stacked by the window and the scent of lavender diffusing in the hallway.

Dinner had been loud, messy in the best way, full of laughter and interruptions and too many side dishes for four people. Jayce had overcooked the steak slightly and refused to admit it. Mel had made a citrus salad that no one stopped eating. Caitlyn had brought wine she could barely pronounce, and Violet had teased her for it relentlessly.

Now, the plates were pushed aside. Wine glasses half full. The table dimly lit by a pendant light that hummed faintly.

Violet had her arm draped lazily along the back of Caitlyn’s chair, their knees brushing, a silent rhythm between them. Caitlyn leaned slightly into her touch, relaxed, cheeks pink from the wine, her voice softer now as she added a dry, perfectly-timed punchline to some story Jayce had just finished.

Mel stood, collecting a few dishes. “Okay, dessert before I start regretting inviting you all. Violet, you’re banned from mocking my plating skills.”

Violet lifted her hands. “I never mock dessert. Dessert is sacred.”

Mel rolled her eyes, disappearing into the kitchen.

The moment she was gone, Jayce leaned forward, elbow on the table, swirling his glass.

“You know, I don’t even know how you’re gonna manage it.”

Violet blinked, still smiling. “What?”

“Three months without her?” Jayce gestured with his chin toward Caitlyn, who suddenly went very still. “I mean, I already feel like I’m gonna lose my mind with Mel being away that long.”

Violet’s hand paused mid-gesture.

She looked at Jayce. “What are you talking about?”

Jayce furrowed his brow. “Caitlyn. Scotland. The shoot.”

Silence.

Violet turned her head slowly toward Caitlyn, who was already looking at her, but not in the way she usually did. Her expression was tight. Lips slightly parted like she wanted to speak but couldn’t find the right words in time.

Violet’s voice dropped. “You’re going to Scotland?”

Jayce paled. “Shit. You didn’t know?”

Caitlyn’s voice came out quiet. “I meant to tell you. I just—”

“Forgot?” Violet asked. The word landed too flat, too dry.

Caitlyn didn’t answer.

The air shifted. That subtle change in a room when something soft tears.

And then, Mel returned, carrying a tray of lemon tart slices and tiny spoons, pausing as soon as she stepped into the tension that hadn’t been there before.

She looked at the three of them, the silence sharp and waiting.

“What did I miss?”

No one answered.

Violet sat back in her chair. Not angry. Not yet. Just... something inside her beginning to retreat.

She swallowed. Looked straight at Caitlyn.

“You’re leaving for three months.”

Caitlyn nodded, almost imperceptibly.

Violet’s fingers curled slightly on the edge of the table. Her voice, when it came, was barely above a whisper.

“You weren’t going to tell me?”

“I was,” Caitlyn said. “I just didn’t know how.”

Mel set the dessert tray down carefully, gently, like placing something fragile between two breaking things.

The warmth of the dinner was gone now. The candlelight didn’t feel as soft. And Violet, who had kissed Caitlyn’s temple in the car on the way over and laughed too hard over burned potatoes, suddenly felt oceans away from her.

x-x-x]

The car was silent.

Not the comfortable kind they’d grown used to, the kind laced with easy music, fingers tangled between gear shifts and jokes tossed like pennies into passing streetlights.

This silence had weight.

Sharp edges.

It sat between them like another presence entirely.

Violet’s hands were tight on the steering wheel, knuckles pale against the leather. Her jaw was set, eyes forward, breathing too steady, like if she let herself unravel, even a little, she wouldn’t be able to stop.

The city passed outside her window in hazy blur, the stretch between the Lower East Side and the first bridge toward Brooklyn. She didn’t say a word.

And Caitlyn… sat in the passenger seat, barely moving.

She wanted to speak. She really did. But her mouth felt dry, her stomach twisted into something knotted and nauseous. Her chest ached in that specific way that only came when you knew you’d done something wrong, when you hadn’t meant to, but had anyway.

She’d planned to tell Violet. Truly. She’d rehearsed it a dozen times in her head.

"It’s three months."

" It’s just filming."

"You’ll come visit."

"We’ll figure it out."

But every time she tried, the words stuck.

There was always something, a good day, a soft moment, a hand brushing her back at breakfast, and she couldn't bring herself to shatter it.

To place something uncertain between them.

She had waited too long.

Now, Violet’s silence felt like the kind that comes just before something falls.

x-x-x

Violet’s mind was racing. Loud, chaotic. And under it all, one thing pulsing like a bruise:

She didn’t tell me.

It wasn’t just the going.

It wasn’t even the distance.

It was the fact that everyone else seemed to know, Jayce, Mel, probably half the set,and she didn’t. 

She left me out of something that matters. That affects me. Us.

Her fingers flexed around the steering wheel, but she still didn’t look over.

She didn’t want to cry.

Didn’t want to yell.

She just… wanted to understand why the hell the person she loved had decided to carry this alone.

Next to her, Caitlyn shifted slightly, as if the silence was burning her skin.

“Vi…” she began, voice hoarse.

Violet didn’t answer. Her mouth pressed into a line.

So Caitlyn swallowed her words. Again.

She rested her hand on her knee, the one Violet usually reached for during drives.

Tonight, it felt like a weight she didn’t know where to put.

I should’ve told her, Caitlyn thought.

I had a dozen chances. And now I’ve hurt her in a way I never wanted to.

The only sound was the low hum of the tires and the click of the indicator when Violet turned off the bridge.

Brooklyn rose around them, familiar streets casting long shadows in the early night.

Still, not a word.

And in that quiet, both of them sat with the same unbearable thought:

We were doing so well.

How did we get here?

x-x-x

The apartment was too quiet.

Normally, the sound of the door clicking shut would be followed by the scuff of boots being kicked off, the cat’s exaggerated meow, maybe a record humming to life in the corner. Violet would usually say something dry and ridiculous, Caitlyn would roll her eyes, and the night would unfold like it always did, warm, worn-in, theirs.

But tonight, nothing came.

The cat padded toward them down the hallway, tail curled, like he could feel the air was different. He stopped by Caitlyn’s foot, then tilted his head in that uncanny way cats do, as if he were judging the atmosphere.

Caitlyn knelt, slowly, fingers brushing over his fur. He blinked up at her, and something in her chest twisted harder.

“I know,” she whispered to him. “It’s weird tonight.”

He didn’t move. Just stared, silent. Waiting.

She stroked behind his ears and added, softer, “It’s going to be okay. Promise.”

Like he could believe her.

Like she needed someone to believe her.

Like he was a child caught in the middle of two people who didn’t know how to talk without hurting each other.

From behind her, there was the unmistakable sound of glass clinking.

Caitlyn stood slowly and turned.

Violet was at the small bar in the corner of the apartment, the one she rarely touched on weeknights. She didn’t say anything. Just opened the bottle of whiskey, no flourish, no drama, just precision. She poured herself a generous amount into a heavy glass. No ice.

Caitlyn watched as she raised the glass to her lips and took a long, deliberate sip.

She winced slightly at the burn, closing her eyes.

But she didn’t offer Caitlyn a drink.

Not even a glance in her direction.

Caitlyn stayed near the hallway, unsure if she should move forward or stay frozen. Her hands curled lightly at her sides. The distance between them was less than fifteen feet. It might as well have been miles.

Violet finally turned her head.

Their eyes met, for the first time since the drive.

And something in Caitlyn broke.

Not loudly. Not in any visible way.

Just a small crack, somewhere deep and scared.

Violet didn’t look angry. She didn’t even look disappointed.

She just looked… tired.

Tired of having to pretend she was okay with not being told.

Tired of discovering things from other people.

Tired of feeling like the life she was building with Caitlyn came second to a world she wasn’t fully invited into.

Caitlyn didn’t speak.

She couldn’t.

Violet set the glass down gently on the counter.

Her voice, when it came, was quiet. Steady. But it carried weight like a stone in still water.

“So?” she said, not looking at Caitlyn at first. “You were going to tell me or not?”

Caitlyn swallowed hard. Her hand brushed along the edge of the wall, something to hold onto.

“I was,” she said softly. “I just… I kept waiting for the right time.”

Violet let out a quiet, hollow laugh, not cruel, just… tired. Disbelieving.

“The right time,” she repeated. Then finally looked at her. “Do I really need to be scheduled in?”

Caitlyn’s shoulders fell slightly, but she didn’t step closer. “That’s not what I meant.”

Violet’s gaze stayed on her for a long beat.

“Am I not important enough?” she asked, and her voice didn’t crack, didn’t rise. It was a whisper, low and even. But it hit like thunder.

Caitlyn’s heart dropped. Her mouth parted slightly, as if she wanted to say a thousand things all at once.

“No,” she said, and this time her voice was firmer. Not loud, but certain. “God, Violet. No. It’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

“I was scared,” Caitlyn admitted. “Not of you. Of ruining something that’s been… good. Real. The first thing in a long time that feels like home.”

Violet looked away, her jaw tight. She reached for the whiskey again but didn’t drink this time.

Caitlyn took a hesitant step forward.

“I should’ve told you,” she said. “I know that. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Violet didn’t answer.

The silence returned, but this time, it didn’t feel like punishment. It felt like two people standing on opposite sides of something they both loved, trying to figure out how not to break it.

Violet tilted the glass and downed it in one go, barely flinching this time.

The heat in her throat didn’t compare to the one rising behind her ribs.

She reached for the bottle again.

Caitlyn took a cautious step closer. “Vi…”

Violet kept her eyes on the glass. “Don’t.”

“I’m just saying, maybe don’t overdo it.”

Violet let out a short, humorless breath as she poured another heavy measure. “I think I’ve earned a little overdoing tonight.”

She poured another drink. The whiskey hit the glass too hard.

There was silence, except for the gentle whir of the fridge and the cat shifting under the table, as if even he felt the tension vibrating through the room.

Violet leaned her elbows on the counter, her back to Caitlyn.

“I’m not mad that you’re going,” she said finally, voice low, controlled. “I’m mad that I was left out of something big. Something important.”

She turned, glass still in hand. “I’m not just some girl you see when it’s convenient, Caitlyn. I’m not background.”

Caitlyn’s face tightened. “You’re not.”

“You didn’t tell me,” Violet continued, not harsh, just steady. “You let me sit at that fucking dinner table like I was the only one in the dark. You let me laugh with you, hold your hand, not knowing what everyone else already did.”

Caitlyn opened her mouth, but Violet kept going.

“I don’t give a fuck about your intentions. I don’t care if you were scared, or waiting for the right time, or didn’t wanna ruin the fucking mood. I deserved to know. From you. Not from Jayce, in the middle of dessert.”

That last part came out more fragile than she wanted.

Caitlyn stepped forward, just slightly. Her voice was soft.

“You’re right.”

Violet’s grip tightened around the glass.

“I don’t want to be an accessory in your life,” she said. “I want to be part of it.”

“You are,” Caitlyn said immediately, her voice breaking. “You are.”

Violet looked at her. Really looked.

But she didn’t answer.

She just drank again.

x-x-x

The silence after that wasn’t angry.

It wasn’t even cold.

It was heavy, like the air before a summer storm. Still. Charged. Waiting.

Violet sat on the edge of the couch, one hand holding the half-empty glass, the other limp in her lap. She wasn’t looking at Caitlyn, but she wasn’t looking away either. Her eyes were fixed on a spot on the floor, like if she stared hard enough, it might say something useful.

Caitlyn remained near the counter, fingers curled lightly around the edge of the kitchen island. She didn’t know whether to sit or step closer or say more, she had already said too little for too long. Now every word felt delicate, risky. Like it might snap under its own weight.

The cat sat near the hallway, watching them. His tail wrapped around his body, eyes slow-blinking in that eerie, perceptive way.

Violet was the first to break the heavy silence, her voice barely above a whisper, like she was afraid the words might shatter something fragile between them.

“I don’t want us to fall apart.”

Caitlyn felt her chest tighten. The vulnerability in Violet’s voice cut deeper than she expected. “We’re not falling apart,” she said softly, though the words trembled on her tongue.

Violet shook her head slowly, her eyes shimmering with something raw. “It feels like we are,” she murmured. “Just for a second back there, I felt like I was on the outside again. Like I didn’t belong. And I can’t—”

She paused, biting the inside of her cheek before continuing, her voice hoarse but honest.

“I don’t want to shut down again. I don’t want to stop feeling things, even when it hurts. Because I care too fucking much, Caitlyn. About you. And pretending I don’t would destroy me way faster than any bullet ever could.”

Caitlyn walked toward her slowly. “I don’t want you outside. I never did.”

Violet let out a breath. “Then bring me in. You can’t do this with me halfway in and halfway out of your head.”

Caitlyn nodded. “Okay.”

She sat next to Violet, careful, as if any sudden movement might break the fragile truce forming between them.

“I messed up,” she said. “I thought I was protecting you. Or us. But really I think I was just protecting myself.”

Violet didn’t respond right away. She stared down at the amber swirl in her glass.

“You could’ve just told me,” she whispered. “Even if I’d get mad. I would’ve understood.”

Caitlyn blinked, her voice barely there. “I was scared you’d see it as me leaving.”

“You are leaving,” Violet said.

“But not from you.”

Violet looked at her then, eyes a little softer.

And for a second, they just breathed in the same space, quiet but together.

Caitlyn reached out, slow, fingers brushing Violet’s wrist. She didn’t take her hand, just let her touch be there, an offering.

“I’m trying,” Caitlyn said, her voice quiet but steady. “I want to be better at this… at us.”

Violet glanced down at their hands, her thumb brushing lightly over Caitlyn’s knuckles like she was searching for reassurance in the touch.

“I want to believe you,” she murmured. “I just… I’ve heard promises before.”

Caitlyn gently tightened her grip, her eyes searching Violet’s face. “This isn’t a promise. It’s something I’m choosing, every day. And I want you to trust that.”

Silence again, but different now.

The kind that came when things were still fragile, but no longer cracking.

From across the room, the cat gave a single, unimpressed blink, then turned and padded off toward the bedroom, as if deciding his job here was done for now.

“I don’t want to lose this,” Caitlyn said, her voice breaking just slightly as she looked at Violet. “I don’t want to lose you.”

Violet’s breath caught in her chest.

Caitlyn’s eyes didn’t waver. “We’re going to make this work. You and me. We’ll figure it out.”

There was no flourish to her words. No dramatic gesture. Just the raw, quiet kind of certainty that comes when someone has sat with the weight of a decision, really sat with it, and chosen to try anyway. To risk it.

Violet wanted to believe her.

She did.

But fear had long since carved out a place in her chest, cold and stubborn, like ice that never quite melted. It was the kind of fear that whispered, this is too good, and worse, good things never stay.

She looked away, eyes dropping to where their fingers were laced together. Caitlyn’s hands were warm, grounding. But that voice in her head was louder than warmth. It always had been.

Please don’t be lying to me, Violet thought, swallowing hard. Please don’t leave like everything else did.

She blinked fast, trying to push the emotion down, to shove it somewhere unreachable, but her body betrayed her. A single tear slipped down her cheek before she could stop it, betraying just how close to the edge she really was.

Caitlyn saw it. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak. Just watched, frozen in place.

Because in the same moment, a tear of her own found its way down her face, silent, reluctant, inevitable.

I didn’t mean to hurt her, Caitlyn thought, chest tight.

I just didn’t know how to hold something this fragile without fumbling.

And I don’t want to drop it. I won’t.

Violet wiped at her cheek with the back of her hand, fast, sharp, like she was punishing herself for letting it slip. She hated crying in front of people. She hated how vulnerable it made her feel.

“I’m trying,” she whispered, her voice thin and hoarse. “To believe that.”

Caitlyn gave a small nod, her throat too tight to say more at first. Then, barely above a breath: “I know. And I’m sorry I made it hard.”

The silence that followed was thick, but not hostile, more like the air between them was holding its breath, waiting to see which way things would tilt.

Slowly, Caitlyn reached out again, this time with both hands, palms open and trembling just a little. She wasn’t asking. She was offering. No pressure. No demand. Just presence.

Violet hesitated, staring at those hands for a long second. Then she slid her own into them.

And held on.

Tight.

Like she was afraid letting go would mean the end of everything.

They sat there like that, their foreheads leaning gently together, eyes closed, breathing syncing without effort, two hearts trying to relearn a rhythm they didn’t want to lose.

“I’ll tell you everything from now on,” Caitlyn said, her voice steady even as emotion pulled at the edges. “Even the scary parts. Even when I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”

“I’ll try to listen,” Violet replied. “Even when it makes me want to shut down. Even when it hurts.”

They didn’t need to say anything more after that. For a long while, they didn’t.

Outside, the world moved, wind rustling through windows, distant city sounds humming in the background, but inside the small, quiet space between them, everything had stilled. Softened.

It wasn’t a solution.

It wasn’t peace, exactly.

But it was something real.

Two people sitting in the wreckage of a misunderstanding that had nearly cracked them wide open, and still choosing to rebuild. With shaking hands, yes. But with intention.

And for Violet, that was terrifying.

She’s the only thing that’s felt good in a long time, she thought, chest tightening.

I can’t mess this up. I can’t lose her.

I can’t lose her, Caitlyn thought, in perfect synchronicity, though the words stayed behind her teeth.

Neither of them said it out loud.

And maybe that was okay.

Because some truths don’t need to be spoken.

Some promises live in the quiet, in the way their fingers stayed tightly interlocked, and in the silence that, for once, carried no fear.

Only promise.

x-x-x

Later, in the stillness of the bedroom, they found each other again.

No fanfare. No rush.

Just quiet touches and slow breath.

Fingers tracing skin like an apology.

Mouths finding softness instead of answers.

Violet pulled Caitlyn close, her body curved around hers, like maybe this time she could hold everything together just by staying near enough. Like proximity alone could keep everything from falling apart. Caitlyn kissed the space beneath Violet’s jaw, slow and reverent, like she was afraid she might disappear if she stopped.

They made love in silence.

Not from shame or tension, but because nothing needed to be said. Not in that moment.

There was weight in the way their hands searched.

A kind of reverence in every movement.

Like forgiveness, given and taken between breaths.

After, Violet curled into Caitlyn’s side, burying her face in the curve of her neck. The scent of her, clean skin, linen, a hint of something soft and familiar, settled into Violet like home.

Caitlyn ran her fingers through Violet’s hair with absentminded tenderness, stroking gently from root to tip. Over and over. A lullaby of touch. Her other hand rested against Violet’s back, a quiet promise: I’m not going anywhere.

Their legs tangled beneath the sheets. A gentle tangle of warmth and vulnerability.

Their breathing synced again, rising and falling like waves smoothing over jagged shores.

Neither spoke. There was nothing left to say.

But everything they needed to feel was there, wrapped up in the way they held each other, in the softness of the dark, in the silence that wasn’t empty this time, but full.

It felt like a turning point.

A breath taken after drowning.

A door that had finally opened.

A promise in the dark.

Not of perfection. Not even certainty.

But of effort. Of presence. Of trying.

That they would carry this, together.

That love, raw and real and full of bruised places, would be enough.

But the world doesn’t always honor the promises we whisper in the dark.

Not out of cruelty, necessarily, but out of indifference.

Time moves forward, whether we’re ready or not.

Life pulls. People shift. And sometimes love, no matter how deeply rooted, begins to slip through the cracks we didn’t realize were forming.

It’s not always a storm that breaks a thing.

Sometimes, it’s quieter than that.

The slow unraveling.

The gentle, imperceptible erosion.

The silence that grows between two people, not in anger, but in absence.

No slammed doors.

No dramatic farewells.

Just the quiet drift.

Neither of them would know exactly when it began, who pulled away first, who stopped reaching quite as far, who left one more thing unsaid.

But it would come.

And when it did, they’d still remember this night.

Not as the moment they lost it all, but the moment they tried.

Chapter Text

The days were getting shorter.

Not all at once, and not enough for most people to notice, but Violet noticed. She always did. The light through her windows had changed, softening from the harsh gold of late summer into something gentler, cooler. It spilled across the hardwood floors in slanted lines, arriving later in the morning and leaving earlier in the evening, as if the sun was slowly stepping back.

New York was shifting.

And so were they.

Three weeks blurred past like watercolor in the rain, everything smudged together in shades of laughter, music, cluttered coffee tables, and stolen moments that felt like they might never end. There were long walks through the park with fingers laced, Caitlyn in oversized sunglasses and Violet sneaking photos of her when she wasn’t looking. There were quiet dinners with too much wine, takeout containers lined up like trophies on the windowsill. There were late nights in the studio where Violet hummed into the mic while Caitlyn sat cross-legged on the floor, reading through scripts, red pen in hand.

They still touched constantly, unconsciously. Caitlyn’s fingers grazing Violet’s wrist as she passed her tea. Violet curling her toes against Caitlyn’s shin under the table. The brush of lips on a temple. A hand on the back of a neck. It was muscle memory now, not just desire but familiarity, something that had rooted itself between them like breath.

They still laughed until their stomachs hurt. They still argued, playful and loud, over which bagel shop was superior (Caitlyn swore by the one uptown; Violet threatened to write a diss track if she said it again). They still danced barefoot in Violet’s kitchen at midnight, music playing from a speaker half-buried under a hoodie, the cat watching from the counter like he regretted choosing them.

They were happy.

Truly, they were.

But the date was always there. Quiet. Unspoken.

A shadow at the edge of every golden afternoon. A whisper behind the laughter. The knowledge of soonhung in the air like fog, not choking, not heavy, but present.

Caitlyn didn’t bring it up much. She stayed focused, meticulous. She trained every morning, still pushed herself with the kind of discipline that came from years of being underestimated. She watched old film reels, studied movement and voice, jotted endless notes in that tiny red notebook Violet had once called nerdy-hotbefore stealing it to doodle hearts on the back page.

But Violet noticed the way Caitlyn’s hand would linger a little longer on her cheek in the morning, like she was memorizing the curve of her jaw. The way she would pause mid-conversation and smile softly, eyes glazed, like she was pressing a snapshot into her memory.

Violet had started sleeping lighter.

She never said why, not even to herself, but she woke up more often now, blinking in the dark, not from dreams but from a creeping awareness. A stillness that felt like waiting. Some nights she would find Caitlyn already awake beside her, scrolling through her lines or just staring at the ceiling.

Violet kept herself busy. Studio hours, small shows, voice memos filled with half-sung verses. She was writing more, but the songs were quieter. Slower. Less about fire and more about holding on.

She didn’t know what that meant yet.

Some nights, she would sit on the couch with her guitar in her lap, staring at the strings, fingers hovering like they were afraid to press down. She’d write half a verse, sometimes just a single line. And then she’d set it aside. Crawl into bed. Curl into Caitlyn’s side and bury her face against her shoulder, saying nothing.

I’m not going to break, she told herself.

It’s just three months. We’re good. We’re strong. We’re us.

But still, her eyes would drift to Caitlyn’s suitcase sometimes, the one tucked away in the back of the closet like a secret, like a goodbye hiding in plain sight. And it would feel like looking at something she wasn’t supposed to see.

The cat had become a fixture between them, like he too had sensed the shift. Some nights he would sleep right in the middle of the bed like a little barrier, warm and heavy. Other nights he curled into Caitlyn’s lap while she read, his purring the only sound in the apartment. Violet joked that he’d already picked a side. Caitlyn just smiled and scratched behind his ears like she understood.

And still, neither of them said it.

That they were counting down. That the air felt thinner. That the weight of three months stretched ahead like a road neither of them wanted to walk alone.

Because saying it would make it real.

And for now, in these fleeting, flickering days, they still had time.

And that, for the moment, was enough.

x-x-x

The apartment was quiet.

Too quiet for Violet to sleep.

It was nearly three in the morning, and the city outside breathed in hushed, restless tones, the low rumble of a passing cab, a siren far in the distance, wind brushing against the windows like a reminder that the world was still moving. Somewhere below, a couple argued in sharp whispers that never reached full volume. The night felt suspended, stretched thin around her.

Caitlyn was asleep, tucked into the far side of the bed, her face turned toward the wall, hair wild across the pillow like she’d been chasing dreams too fast. One arm extended into empty space, fingers curled loosely where Violet usually lay.

But Violet was wide awake.

Her heart wasn’t racing, but it wasn’t still either. Something inside her was buzzing, not anxious, not afraid, just… full. Heavy with a feeling she couldn’t name, like a song that hadn’t found its melody yet.

So she slipped out of bed as quietly as she could, toes curling against the hardwood, and moved toward the studio in the corner of the apartment. The door creaked faintly, but Caitlyn didn’t stir.

The small studio wasn’t much, walls lined with old show posters, notebooks stacked unevenly on shelves, cables like vines looping across the floor. A single lamp cast a warm glow in the corner, barely reaching the edges of the room. Dust floated in the stillness.

And there, in the corner, leaning against a chipped stool like it had been waiting patiently, was her old acoustic — Bette.

Matte black, worn in all the right places. The turquoise sticker by the base had started to peel at the edges, and the neck still held a faint dent from the time she’d dropped it running offstage years ago. She hadn’t touched it in weeks. Maybe longer.

She crouched, picked it up slowly like she was afraid it might break from the silence, and sat on the floor.

The strings were dull, slightly out of tune. Her fingers found the pegs automatically, tuning by instinct, soft twists, sharp plucks, the memory of sound guiding her back. It was slow, meditative. Like brushing the dust off a piece of herself she’d left behind.

And then she played.

Just a few chords. Gentle. Careful. Her fingertips hesitated at first, but the rhythm came back, shaky, but real.

She didn’t try to push it. Didn’t force lyrics. She just let the chords breathe, soft as the night outside. And then, without meaning to, she reached for a notebook nearby, flipped to a blank page, and started writing.

The words didn’t rhyme. The phrasing was clumsy. But there was something true in it, a quiet clarity she hadn’t felt in weeks. Like for the first time, she wasn’t chasing a sound.

She was catching one.

This had become a ritual.

Lately, sleep came hard. And when it didn’t come at all, Violet came here, to the stillness, to the strings. And slowly, the music began to return.

Sometimes, in those fragile hours between night and morning, Caitlyn would appear.

Barefoot. Hair tangled. Eyes squinted from sleep.

She’d lean against the doorframe, watching for a moment before murmuring, “Come back to bed, love,” in a voice husky from dreams, with a softness that settled over Violet like a warm hand on her spine.

And Violet would smile, set Bette down gently, and follow her. Not because she was done. But because she knew she’d come back, and Caitlyn would still be there.

But tonight, Caitlyn hadn’t come yet.

And Violet kept playing. Kept writing.

Trying to hold on to whatever was growing in the quiet before it slipped through her fingers again, before the words turned to vapor and the music scattered like dust.

She didn’t hear Caitlyn’s footsteps.

Just felt the shift in the air, that familiar presence entering the room like the softest echo, before a quiet voice drifted to her from behind.

“What are you doing up?” Caitlyn asked, voice rough, still dripping with sleep.

Violet didn’t turn around right away. She pressed down gently on the frets, coaxing one last suspended chord to life, letting it hum in the stillness before it faded into the dark.

“Couldn’t sleep,” she murmured.

She heard the familiar shuffle of Caitlyn’s steps, the sound of bare feet against wood, and the faint swish of fabric. When Violet finally looked up, Caitlyn was there in the doorway, wrapped loosely in the bedsheet like a makeshift robe, her shoulders bare, her hair falling in soft waves around her face. Her expression was quiet, tender. A small crease formed between her brows, that same concerned look she wore when Violet forgot to eat or pushed herself too hard in the studio.

“You’ve been doing that a lot lately,” Caitlyn said, stepping further inside. “Sneaking off. Whispering with your guitar.”

Violet smiled faintly, lips barely lifting. “Didn’t think you’d noticed.”

“I notice everything you do,” Caitlyn said, with a sleepy softness that made Violet’s heart skip in her chest.

Violet looked down at the guitar, thumb brushing across the strings in a gentle, unfocused strum. “I’m writing something.”

Caitlyn crossed the last few feet between them, footsteps slow and quiet. “What kind of something?”

Violet paused, her fingers stilling.

Then, softly, barely louder than the hum of the city beyond the window, “A love song.”

Caitlyn blinked, clearly not expecting that. The word seemed to land somewhere deep inside her.

“For me?” she asked, her voice lower now, eyes searching Violet’s face.

Violet gave a small nod. “Yeah.”

Caitlyn smiled, slow and lopsided, sleepy and stunned all at once. “Lucky me.”

Violet rolled her eyes gently, but there was color rising on her cheeks, even in the low light of the room.

“I don’t have all the words yet,” she admitted. “But they’re coming. In pieces. Like puzzle edges.”

Caitlyn knelt down beside her, blanket trailing behind her like a shadow. She sat on the floor, folding her legs beneath her, and rested her chin on Violet’s knee, looking up at her with eyes that still held the glow of sleep but none of its distance.

“Can I hear what you have?”

Violet hesitated for half a heartbeat, then nodded once.

She lifted Bette again, hands moving with a little more confidence this time, and played.

Just a verse. Barely more than thirty seconds.

But the room went still, even the outside noise of the city seemed to pull back. Caitlyn didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just listened, eyes locked on her like Violet was the only sound that mattered in the world.

When Violet stopped, the final note curled into silence like smoke.

Caitlyn exhaled slowly. “That’s already my favorite song.”

Violet laughed softly, a breath of something lighter escaping her, and set the guitar aside. The strings rattled faintly as it hit the floor with a gentle thump.

“Come back to bed,” Caitlyn said again, voice even softer now, curling her fingers around Violet’s and giving the lightest tug.

Violet looked at her, then nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”

And together, hand in hand, they walked back to bed, the hush of the early morning wrapping around them like a promise, music still lingering between them like something sacred and unfinished, still blooming in the dark.

x-x-x

Mid-September arrived like a slow tide.

The kind you don’t notice rising until your feet are already wet, the kind that carries a chill in the early hours, curls leaves at the edges, and pulls the sun a little lower in the sky each day, casting longer shadows across sidewalks and apartment walls.

New York shifted with it.

The air had changed. Mornings came with that faint, unmistakable crispness, a quiet hush in the streets before the city truly woke. People started trading iced coffee for hot cups they held with both hands. Jackets reappeared. The smell of smoke and cinnamon drifted from food carts and bakery doors. The breeze had a different bite to it, not cruel, not yet, just... expectant.

It wasn’t cold.

But the city was holding its breath.

And so were they.

Caitlyn’s flight to Scotland was in three days.

The bags were mostly packed. Her script, worn, marked, dog-eared from too many late-night run-throughs, sat neatly at the top of her carry-on beside a highlighter and a travel-sized bottle of her favorite perfume. Violet had helped her fold sweaters into perfect squares, tucking lavender sachets between them with a kind of care she pretended was casual. She’d rolled her eyes at the number of scarves Caitlyn insisted on bringing, “You’re not moving to the Arctic, babe”, but she kissed the back of her neck anyway, lingering there longer than she meant to.

They didn’t talk about the leaving much.

Not because they were in denial.

But because neither of them had found the right words for what it meant to hold something so good in your hands and still have to let it go, even temporarily.

Caitlyn felt the weight of it in strange places.

In the way Violet’s fingers curled tighter around hers when they crossed busy streets.
In the way the cat, normally indifferent, had taken to curling up beside her every night, stretching across her lap like he was claiming her.

In the way her own heart thudded, suddenly and sharply, at random intervals, while brushing her teeth, folding laundry, zipping up a coat, as if it knew the silence that would come when Violet wasn’t near.

Three months isn’t forever, she told herself, more often than she realized.

You’ll be working. Focused. You’ll call. You’ll visit. It’ll be okay.

But the truth sat heavier than that.

Because the thought of waking up in a different country, without Violet's voice in the morning, without the guitar humming behind the bathroom door, without her laugh echoing through their too-small kitchen, made Caitlyn ache in places she didn’t know existed.

Violet, on the other hand, had gone quieter.

Not cold.

Just... inward.

She still made jokes. Still bumped her hip against Caitlyn’s when they brushed past each other in the hallway. Still brought coffee to rehearsal and played her new half-finished songs in the car.

But the light behind her eyes flickered.

She wasn’t angry. Not really.

She was just preparing, the way someone does when they see a storm on the horizon, when they know it’s coming but there’s nothing to do except close the windows and wait.

She’s going, Violet thought, again and again, without trying to.

She’s going and I can’t make it stop.

She didn’t say it out loud. Didn’t want to be the weight on Caitlyn’s shoulders. This was everything Caitlyn had worked for. A dream. A breakthrough. And Violet was proud, fiercely, endlessly proud.

But pride didn’t stop the pit from growing in her stomach.
Didn’t stop her fingers from trembling a little every time she thought about the space Caitlyn would leave behind.

Last night, she heard the soft zzzzip of the suitcase, just checking, Caitlyn said, testing it, and Violet had nodded, excused herself, and locked the studio door behind her.

It was just her and Bette for a while.
And a few verses that never quite made it into a song.

So September settled around them like a soft warning.

They still slept tangled up, legs knotted under warm sheets. Still kissed like they had time to spare. Still said I love you in all the ways they always had, with gentle touches to the back, with refilled tea mugs, with tired smiles pressed to temples before Caitlyn left for early rehearsals.

Nothing had broken.

But something had shifted.

Not in what they felt.

Just in what they couldn’t stop.

The clock ticked louder with each passing night.

The light kept changing.

The air kept thinning.

And neither of them was ready.

x-x-x

The morning had come quietly.

There was no alarm. No sudden jolt of wakefulness. Just the soft hush of sunlight slipping through the blinds, pale and golden, casting faint stripes across the bedroom floor. It moved slowly, steadily, crawling across the sheets, over the tangle of limbs and linen, warming the bare skin of two bodies still wrapped around each other.

They had made love before they were even fully awake, drawn together in that hazy space between sleep and morning, between dreams and need. There was no rush in it. No sharp edges. Just a slow, instinctive ache that found its answer in the curve of a shoulder, the press of a hip, the warmth of lips against a familiar mouth.

Fingers traced old paths, reverent. A thumb brushing across a scar. A palm cradling the back of a neck. Breaths mingled. Eyes barely opened. Like they were both trying to hold onto something, not just each other, but the feeling of this. The stillness. The safety. The closeness that had no name but felt like home.

Later, when they were more awake, they reached for each other again.

It was different, then. More breathless. More aware. The touches were firmer, deeper, like their bodies understood something their voices hadn’t said yet. That this was the last time for a while. That the hours were thinner now.

Caitlyn kissed Violet like she was trying to memorize her.

Violet pulled Caitlyn closer like she was trying to stop time.

Neither worked, but they tried anyway.

They showered together after. Water cascading over their skin in steady streams, steam curling around them like mist. They held each other under the spray, foreheads touching, chests rising and falling in quiet sync. Neither spoke.

There was nothing left to say that hadn’t already been said with their hands, with their mouths, with the way Caitlyn pressed a kiss to Violet’s shoulder like she was scared she’d forget the taste of her.

Soap was forgotten.

Time evaporated.

There was only warmth. And silence. And the quiet ache of everything they were trying to hold before they had to let go.

x-x-x

Now, the kettle hissed softly in the kitchen.

Violet stood by the counter, hair still damp, wearing one of Caitlyn’s oversized shirts. She was buttering toast with deliberate slowness.

Caitlyn sat at the small table, legs curled beneath her, mug of tea between her hands. Her suitcase sat by the door. Closed. Waiting.

The cat was nowhere to be seen, as if even he understood what kind of morning this was.

“I made your eggs the way you like,” Violet said, placing the plate in front of Caitlyn.

“You always do,” Caitlyn said with a soft smile.

Violet sat down across from her. She picked at her toast. “Gotta give you a reason to come back.”

Caitlyn chuckled. “You think eggs will do it?”

“No,” Violet said. “But maybe the shirtless guitar solos will.”

“That’s unfair,” Caitlyn said, sipping her tea. “That’s cheating.”

Violet smiled, but her eyes lingered too long on Caitlyn’s face.

They ate in pieces. In glances. In silences that weren’t uncomfortable, just full.

Caitlyn looked out the window, then back at Violet. “We’re okay, right?”

Violet nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

“You’d tell me if we weren’t?”

“I’d yell,” Violet said. “Probably set something on fire. You’d know.”

Caitlyn reached across the table and brushed her fingers over Violet’s wrist. “I’m going to miss this.”

Violet’s mouth tightened, just for a second. “Yeah.”

They were trying.

To laugh.

To eat.

To stay upright.

But it was there, the clock ticking behind every glance.

“I hate that you’re not coming to the airport,” Caitlyn said quietly. “Even if I know why.”

Violet sighed. “It’s better this way. No photos. No speculation.”

“No tears in Terminal 4,” Caitlyn added.

Violet half-smiled. “You’d cry.”

“You would.”

“Liar.”

Caitlyn laughed softly, then leaned forward, pressing a kiss to the back of Violet’s hand.

Violet closed her eyes for a moment, like she was breathing her in.

The kettle had stopped. The plates were mostly empty. And the sound of the city crept in around them like fog.

In a few hours, the car would come.

And everything would start changing.

x-x-x

The knock on the door was soft.

Not urgent. Not loud. But final.

Caitlyn stood by the suitcase, her coat folded neatly over one arm, scarf already around her neck. Violet hadn’t touched her own coffee for the last half hour. The mug sat cold and full beside the sink.

Neither of them moved immediately.

Outside, the car idled on the curb, the city still wrapped in that late-morning hush, the kind that settles after long nights and heavier goodbyes.

Caitlyn turned first, adjusting the strap on her bag, fingers lingering longer than necessary. Violet stood in the center of the room, arms crossed, jaw set like she was holding something in place.

“Okay,” Caitlyn whispered.

Violet’s throat tightened. “Okay.”

There was a pause.

Then Caitlyn knelt.

The cat had emerged from his mysterious corner at some point and now sat in front of the door, tail twitching slowly, gaze fixed on her.

“I guess this is where you pretend not to care,” she murmured to him.

He blinked. Slow. Regal. Judgmental.

Caitlyn smiled, eyes glassy.

She reached out and scratched behind his ears, gently. “You take care of her, okay?”

The cat blinked again, then, to Violet’s surprise, brushed against Caitlyn’s arm before walking away.

Caitlyn stood.

And Violet was right there.

They didn’t rush the hug. Didn’t grip too tight. It was slow. Familiar. Like pulling the pieces of themselves together one last time.

Violet’s voice was low, barely a breath. “Send me something. A photo. A message. Anything.”

“I will,” Caitlyn promised. “Every day.”

“I’m serious. If you get famous and ignore me, I’ll write an album about you and it won’t be flattering.”

Caitlyn laughed, the sound cracking slightly. “Deal.”

They pulled back just enough to see each other’s faces. Eyes red. Mouths trembling.

“Three months,” Caitlyn said.

Violet nodded. “Three months.”

The knock on the door came again, firmer this time.

Caitlyn turned toward it, but Violet stopped her gently, catching her wrist.

“Wait,” she said, her voice quiet and strained.

Caitlyn turned back to her, brows pulled with tenderness, eyes already beginning to gloss over.

Violet pulled Caitlyn’s phone from the coat pocket and tapped the screen quickly. “I sent something. Just now. AirDrop.”

Caitlyn blinked. “What is it?”

Violet hesitated for a breath. Then looked up at her with something soft and breaking behind her eyes.

“It’s the song I was working on,” she said. “The one I’d go off and play in the middle of the night.”

Caitlyn’s lips parted. Her chest rose with a sharp inhale.

“I finished it two days ago,” Violet continued. “It’s rough. Just me and Bette. No band, no polish. But it’s… it’s honest.”

She paused. Then added, more gently, “When the missing gets bad... when it starts to really hurt... put your headphones in. Let it be me, for a little while.”

Caitlyn couldn’t answer at first. Her throat was too tight. She nodded slowly, blinking as a tear rolled down her cheek.

“I don’t think I’ll stop listening to it,” she said, her voice cracked and small.

Violet stepped closer, resting her forehead against Caitlyn’s.

They stayed like that, breathing the same shallow breath.

“I love you,” Caitlyn whispered.

It wasn’t dramatic.

It wasn’t even trembling.

It was steady, like something already rooted deep.

Violet closed her eyes. Her own tear slid down, warm and quiet.

“I love you too,” she said, barely louder than a breath.

And that was it.

No vows. No last-minute outbursts.

Just two people loving each other in the most human way possible, while the world outside waited to change everything.

They kissed again, soft, desperate, slow.

And then Caitlyn stepped back. Picked up her suitcase.

Neither wiped their tears. They let them fall.

Violet opened the door.

The hallway was cold, empty. Ready to take her.

They didn’t look back.

But they didn’t have to.

x-x-x

The door clicked shut.

It wasn’t loud, but it echoed.

Violet stood there for a few seconds, hand still on the doorknob, as if her body hadn’t quite caught up to the fact that Caitlyn was gone.

She stared at the wood grain, eyes stinging, but no new tears came. Just that quiet ache behind the ribs, the kind that makes you want to press a hand to your chest to check if it’s still beating right.

The apartment was still full of Caitlyn.

Her perfume. The mug she used every morning. The throw blanket she always dragged over her lap. A pair of socks left draped over the armrest. Violet swallowed hard.

The cat appeared again, stretching as if nothing monumental had just happened. He walked past Violet, brushing against her calf, and hopped onto the couch like it was any other Tuesday.

Violet turned slowly and stepped back into the apartment, each footfall landing heavier than the one before.

She passed the kitchen table, everything sat cooling beside the quiet remains of breakfast, crumbs on a plate, a folded napkin, the echo of conversation still lingering in the air.

The kitchen was still warm with memory. A pan sat in the sink, flecked with cooling yolk, the same one Violet had used to make Caitlyn eggs that morning, her hands moving on instinct while her heart tried not to count the hours left.

The hallway, where Caitlyn’s shoes used to sit, the space now noticeably, painfully empty.

And finally, the studio.

She paused in the doorway, fingers curling against the frame.

Bette was still resting on the stand. The notebook was still open from the night she’d finished the song.

Violet didn’t go in. Not yet.

Instead, she walked to the living room, dropped onto the couch beside the cat, and stared at the space where Caitlyn had sat just an hour ago, laughing, living and breathing. 

The silence wasn’t peaceful. It was thick, and still, and so loud it made her ears ring.

She leaned back slowly, arms crossed tight over her chest.

Three months, she thought.

Just three months.

But right now, it felt like the world had shifted a few degrees off center.

She didn’t cry again.

She didn’t move much.

Just sat there, listening to the city beyond the window, and trying to hold onto the sound of Caitlyn’s voice in her mind.

x-x-x

The car moved slowly through the city.

Not because of traffic, though there was always traffic in New York, but because everything felt slower now. Like the whole city had softened its edges to match the ache in Caitlyn’s chest.

She watched the streets roll by through the backseat window: brownstones bathed in early sun, bodegas setting out crates of fruit, kids in uniforms dragging their feet to school. The sky was clean and pale blue, not a single cloud.

It should’ve been a perfect day.

Instead, her stomach twisted every few minutes like something was sitting on top of it.

Her suitcase was in the trunk. Her script was in her bag. Her passport tucked into her coat pocket.

But her heart, her focus, her gravity, was still back in Violet’s apartment.

Still curled under a blanket that smelled like them.

Still whispering I love you against skin in the dark.

She unlocked her phone and put in her headphones. A little red dot hovered over the file Violet had sent that morning.

No title. Just a recording.

She hesitated.

Then tapped it.

The recording was raw, no studio polish, no layered instruments. Just Violet’s voice and the soft, intimate sound of fingers pressing into acoustic strings. Bette, Caitlyn realized. That old guitar with the turquoise sticker Violet never let anyone touch.

Violet’s voice filled her ears.

Low. Honest.

Like a secret meant only for her.

And then the song began:

"Sweet creature
Had another talk about where it’s going wrong
But we're still young
We don’t know where we’re going
But we know where we belong."

Caitlyn’s throat tightened instantly.

She closed her eyes, just for a second, letting the sound of Violet’s breath between verses settle over her like a second skin.

"No, we started
Two hearts in one home
It's hard when we argue
We’re both stubborn, I know..."

Her voice cracked slightly on that last word, not a mistake, just something real. It wasn’t perfect. And that made it everything.

Caitlyn stared down at her phone, jaw clenched, blinking quickly.

The car turned onto the highway ramp toward JFK. The skyline stretched behind her, getting smaller.

But Violet’s voice stayed right there.

"Sweet creature
Sweet creature
Wherever I go, you bring me home..."

Caitlyn pressed the phone closer to her chest, eyes still burning.

This is love, she thought.

Messy and complicated and real.

And it was hers.

Violet had left her heart in this recording, in every note, every breath.

And as the airport signs loomed ahead, and the first planes cut across the sky, Caitlyn whispered into the quiet of the car:

“Come with me. Stay with me.”

And in a way, Violet already had.

The moment the song ended, Caitlyn didn’t hesitate.

She opened her messages, thumbs hovering just briefly before she started typing. The city was already falling behind her, and the airport signs flashed past the windows, but all she could think about was Violet’s voice in her ears.

[Caitlyn]

I just listened to it.

The song.

I don’t even have words. It’s beautiful, Vi. It’s you.

And I already miss you so fucking much.

She hesitated, watching the blinking cursor for a moment.

Then added:

[Caitlyn]

I love you.

Thank you for giving me something to hold on to.

I’m keeping it on repeat.

She hit send, then leaned back in the seat and looked out the window, the weight in her chest loosening just slightly.

Violet hadn’t answered yet.

But she would.

And Caitlyn could still hear her voice in her head, soft and steady:

“Wherever I go, you bring me home.”

x-x-x

The apartment was still too quiet.

Violet hadn’t really moved since Caitlyn left. She’d wandered from room to room, fed the cat, half-cleaned the kitchen, and scrolled aimlessly through her phone. The coffee she poured earlier had gone cold moments ago.

She was still wearing the same oversized shirt, Caitlyn’s, sleeves hanging long past her wrists. It smelled like her. Like sleep and skin and something almost too tender to name.

The buzz of a new message pulled her out of the fog.

She snatched the phone from the counter.

[Caitlyn]

I just listened to it.

The song.

I don’t even have words. It’s beautiful, Vi. It’s you.

And I already miss you so fucking much.

I love you.

Thank you for giving me something to hold on to.

I’m keeping it on repeat.

Violet blinked hard. Her chest tightened, but not in the way it had earlier. This was different.

Not grief.

Not pain.

Just… everything.

She sat down on the edge of the couch, thumbs hovering over the screen before she typed:

[Violet]

it’s just a rough take

but it’s me

and i’m yours

i miss you already too, cupcake

and i love you too

She stared at it for a second.

Then, smirking a little through the ache in her throat, she added:

[Violet]

go win your award

I’ll be here waiting

writing the rest of the album

probably about you

Her finger hovered, then tapped send.

minute later, Caitlyn’s reply lit up the screen:

[Caitlyn]

God help the world if they hear it.

She set the phone down beside her and stared out the window.

The sky was already shifting, clouding over with that strange, heavy New York gray. Not a storm. Not quite rain. Just the kind of color that made everything feel quieter. Slower. A dull weight settling across the city like a sigh.

The cat pressed against her thigh, warm and insistent, his fur brushing her leg with the kind of casual intimacy only animals and people who never leave can give. Violet reached down without thinking, her fingers finding the familiar spot behind his ears. He purred low, leaning into her touch.

The apartment felt too still.

There was still so much Violet wanted to say.

So many thoughts she hadn’t managed to turn into lyrics, let alone text messages or phone calls or anything useful. They were all just there, heavy in her chest, stuck between her teeth.

She glanced toward the studio, where Bette still rested on her stand like she hadn’t moved in hours, maybe days. The light from the window didn’t quite reach the corner. It sat in shadow, silent and waiting.

Maybe later, Violet thought.

Maybe not.

She leaned further into the cushions, wrapped in the faint, lingering scent of Caitlyn’s perfume. That soft, clean, unmistakable mix of something floral and something sharper, like crushed leaves and rainwater. Violet hadn’t realized how much it had soaked into the apartment. Into the fabric of the couch. Into her.

She pulled Caitlyn’s sweatshirt tighter around her, sleeves still slightly too long, cuffs soft from wear.

And sat there.

Still. Wrapped in memory. Holding the weight of the quiet like a blanket she didn’t know how to fold away.

Because the hardest part, she was learning, wasn’t the goodbye.

It was everything that came after.

And as the sky shifted outside both their windows, one in Brooklyn, one high above the Atlantic, neither of them said the obvious:

That soon, they would no longer wake at the same time.

That Violet’s mornings would begin just as Caitlyn’s were halfway over.

That breakfast for one would now mean dinner for the other, five hours apart, stretched across cities, workdays, weather.

The symmetry they’d built, the shared rhythm of their days, would unravel in subtle, disorienting ways.

And that mattered more than either of them had said aloud.

On the plane, Caitlyn stared out the oval window, forehead resting lightly against the cool glass. Her reflection stared back at her, blurred and pale, framed by the blue tint of sky and engine noise.

It’s just a few months, she reminded herself again.

People do this. People survive this.

But love wasn’t built on time zones.

It was built on mornings.

On the simple act of waking up next to someone, of hearing them breathe, of knowing their hand would find yours without needing to look.

It lived in the laughter they’d miss. The shared silence. The offhand jokes over burnt toast. The music drifting from the other room.

And that ache, that absence, had no language. No calendar.

Back in Brooklyn, Violet still sat curled on the couch, the cat now asleep in her lap. Her fingers hovered above her phone, but she didn’t type anything.

She knew the math of it:

Five hours ahead.

Thousands of miles.

Different suns.

But what she didn’t know, what she was afraid to know, was how to fill the hollow space between Caitlyn’s goodnight and her own.

Or how to keep the silence from growing teeth. From sounding like distance. From becoming something else entirely.

They were still them.

Still in love. Still whole.

But already, quietly, slowly, their worlds were beginning to shift.

And neither of them knew yet how much that would matter.

Only that it would.

Chapter Text

It had only been a few days.

But already, the rhythm of things had changed.

Caitlyn now woke with difficulty, her body still caught between time zones, her internal clock stuck somewhere in between Brooklyn and Edinburgh. The Scottish mornings were sharper than she’d expected. The wind bit at the edges of the windows, and the cold stone floors of her temporary house made her miss the warm, creaky wood beneath Violet’s feet, the floor that always groaned softly when she danced barefoot through the kitchen, half-singing lyrics that didn’t exist yet.

The house was beautiful in a sterile way, vintage, clean, tastefully designed. But it wasn’t home. Not really. It didn’t smell like coffee and smoke and almond shampoo. It didn’t have the cat leaping onto windowsills, or Violet’s boots by the door, or the sound of a guitar string being tuned for the third time in a row.

Her days were full, at least.

Rehearsals ran long. Camera tests. Costume fittings. Meetings with the director, who spoke in vivid metaphors and pointed out scenes with phrases like "emotionally simmering, not boiling." The cast was lovely. Talented. Open. They laughed easily and stayed late and offered to show her the best pubs around the small town. Caitlyn liked them.

But they weren’t hers.

They didn’t know how she took her tea, or how she needed to pace before a big scene. They hadn’t seen her fall asleep with highlighters in her hair. They didn’t ask about the girl in New York who made her smile when she wasn’t supposed to.

At night, she’d collapse onto her bed, limbs heavy with work, mind buzzing with lines and movement.

And then, always, she’d reach for her phone.

Her texts to Violet came in quiet spurts. A photo of a new favorite teacup she found in a corner café. A blurry, three-second video of the view from her house, rooftops and crows, the distant shimmer of the sea. A sleepy selfie in oversized sweats, captioned only:

“Missing my cat. And the one who claims him.”

Violet answered every time.

Not always right away.

But always.

Sometimes just a heart.

Sometimes a photo of the cat sprawled dramatically across Violet’s lap, or a voice note that started mid-thought and ended in laughter. Once, a picture of Violet’s boots on the fire escape with the message:

“thought about you the whole damn day”

Caitlyn read each one three times.

But even with the messages, the back-and-forth, the soft tether between them, the ache of distance was starting to settle in.

It wasn’t pain, exactly.

They texted constantly at first. Little things, photos, inside jokes, sleepy voice notes. But even in the affection, a strange lag crept in. Time zones tangled their schedules. One would be waking while the other was already half-asleep. Calls got missed. Messages went unanswered for just a little too long. Not enough to panic. Just enough to sting.

x-x-x

[Caitlyn]

There’s a sheep outside my window. Just staring.

Not sure if it’s a welcome or a warning.

[Violet]

that’s the head of the local film critics’ guild. be nice

don’t fall in love with a sheep

[Caitlyn] 

Only if it has your arms and your laugh.

Also, not to be dramatic, but I already miss your smell.

x-x-x

[Caitlyn]

(photo of a chipped blue teacup next to a window)

This thing leaks a bit when I tilt it, but I think I love it anyway.

[Violet]

that’s because it’s dramatic 

you’d obviously love it 

[Caitlyn]

I think it reminds me of you.

Chipped. Pretty. Impossible not to notice.

Violet stared at the screen for a long second, her thumb hovering. The cat shifted against her stomach.

[Violet]

wow 

you get poetic in cold climates, huh? 

[Caitlyn] 

You bring it out in me. Even from 3,000 miles away.

[Violet]

I miss you

[Caitlyn]

I miss you too.

So much it aches.

x-x-x

[Violet]

the cat sat on your pillow this morning and looked betrayed when I moved him 

I think we’re both in mourning

[Caitlyn]

Tell him I love him.

Tell you I’m imagining your legs tangled in mine and it’s ruining my meeting.

[Violet]

good, my revenge for you leaving 

eat your scone and suffer 

x-x-x

[Violet]

why is your selfie so hot?

this lighting is illegal

[Caitlyn]

Flirting with a jet-lagged actress… risky.

But go on.

[Violet]

you’re dangerously hot when exhausted and mildly unhinged

come back and ruin me already

[Caitlyn]

Don’t tempt me.

I’ll book a flight and show up on your doorstep in that trench coat you like.

With nothing under it.

[Violet]

say less

x-x-x

[Caitlyn] 

I’m exhausted. But I saw a bookstore that reminded me of you.

Graffiti on the window. A mess inside. Beautiful.

[Violet]

you’re the worst at compliments

and I miss you 

[Caitlyn]

I miss you too.

Want to call? I won’t talk much. Just want to hear your voice.

And they do. Violet curls up on the couch, the cat on her chest. Caitlyn lays in bed, her phone tucked under her chin. Neither speaks for long.

But they don’t hang up.

x-x-x

In the first days, Violet, for her part, tried to fill the hours.

She woke late. Stayed in the studio too long. Ordered takeout she barely touched. Started three new songs and hated all of them. The words didn’t land, the chords felt thin. Even her voice sounded off when she played it back, like she was trying to sing through a window.

She kept telling herself that she was fine, that it was just a shift in pace. That this was normal. Temporary. Manageable.

But her nights didn’t end anymore, they just dissolved into mornings. Blurred at the edges, stretched thin by insomnia and half-finished thoughts. Sleep didn’t come easy, and when it did, it felt more like blacking out than resting.

She missed being the big spoon, holding Caitlyn close, her chin tucked into that soft space between Caitlyn’s neck and shoulder. Missed the way Caitlyn would hum, barely audible, when Violet’s arms wrapped around her in the dark. It always made her feel solid. Anchored. Now, the bed felt hollow without Caitlyn’s body curled into hers, without that familiar weight settling against her chest like a secret only they knew.

And now it was Sunday.

The first one they hadn’t shared since the night of the bodega run. Since that first soft-eyed, shy-smiled beginning.
That night had replayed itself more than once in her mind, Caitlyn holding that ridiculous snack in one hand, trying not to laugh, the way her voice softened when she said Violet’s name.

Violet. Like it was something worth saying carefully.

5:04 AM.

She hadn’t slept.

The city was still. Just the hum of distant traffic. A siren far off, rising and falling like a question without an answer. No birds yet. No sunrise. The sky outside was a dull, uniform gray, the kind that made it hard to tell if morning was coming or if the night just refused to end.

She sat on the couch, legs pulled up, hoodie stretched over her knees. Her hair was tied up messily, tendrils falling into her face. The sleeves of the hoodie were frayed at the cuffs, the fabric stretched out from too many wears. It still smelled a little like Caitlyn, some faint trace of perfume and fresh laundry, buried beneath Violet’s own scent and days of restless sweat.

The guitar rested nearby, untouched. Its strings dull, catching none of the faint light. She hadn’t played since Friday. She hadn’t had the energy to fake inspiration.

The cat, her cat, had curled beside her without invitation. Usually standoffish, always suspicious. But tonight, or maybe this morning, he had climbed into her lap like he’d finally decided to stop pretending. Like even he had noticed the shift in the air.

She reached out, tentatively. He didn’t flinch.

Her fingers sank into his fur. Coarse in some patches, soft in others. He blinked once. Then closed his eyes, as if to say, alright, fine.

Violet was sad, but she didn’t cry. She just stared at the ceiling, eyes hollow with exhaustion and ache. Her breath shallow. Her chest tight. Like she was waiting for something, a text, a knock at the door, the past to come back and change its mind.

This was what it felt like, she realized.

To miss someone not with fire or fury, but with silence.

The couch still smelled like Caitlyn. Faint and fading. A ghost of her perfume clinging to the fabric, like clean sheets on a spring morning. It hit Violet in waves when she shifted, subtle enough to make her heart twist every time.

The apartment was quiet.

But not peaceful.

Just… empty.

The kind of quiet that rang in her ears. A quiet that used to mean comfort, now stretched out into something heavier. Hollow. Like the silence had grown teeth and was waiting for her to say something, to admit something.

The cat shifted in her lap as she reached for the bottle on the coffee table.

It was half-full. Warm.

Leftover from the night before, one of those nights where she told herself one drink would help her sleep. It didn’t. It never did. But she kept trying anyway, as if a bitter sip could soften the edge of missing someone.

Violet took a slow sip, nose wrinkling at the bitterness. Her face scrunched slightly, not just from the taste, but from what it reminded her of, how far gone she felt from who she was with Caitlyn next to her.

“You’re judging me,” she said, glancing down at the cat.

He didn’t move. Just gave her a slow blink. Passive approval. Maybe even pity.

“Yeah, well. You’re not exactly coping either,” she muttered.

His fur was warm under her fingers, surprisingly soft in the early light. She rubbed behind his ear gently, and he leaned into it like he’d been waiting for her to do that all along.

She rubbed behind his ear gently, watching the light shift faintly behind the curtains. Dawn was beginning to stir, barely. The faintest suggestion of gold bleeding into the gray outside. It made the dust in the air look like glitter. Or ash.

“This is pathetic,” she whispered. “We used to be cool.”

The cat gave a small sigh through his nose, like he agreed. Or maybe he was just tired too.

Violet leaned back, resting her head against the couch. The beer bottle still in hand, the cat a quiet, grounding weight on her thighs. His small, steady breaths were the only real rhythm in the room.

“You know, she’s gonna come back with a Scottish accent and everything,” she added, eyes to the ceiling.

Violet said it like it was a punchline. But it wasn’t funny.

x-x-x

Thousands of miles away, the light was different. It was already morning. 

Harsher. Windier. Cooler.

Caitlyn stood near a field that looked like it had come straight out of a painting, rolling green hills, scattered stone walls, a pale sky stretched wide and open. The small Scottish town behind her was quaint, gray-bricked and centuries old. It smelled like peat and wet stone.

The film set was buzzing. Crew members moved quickly with coats and cables. There were trailers and tents, heaters hissing low. The clatter of activity was constant, but beneath it all was the gentle hush of the countryside.

Caitlyn was already in costume, hair swept into a loose braid, wool coat pulled tight, her cheeks slightly red from the wind. She was listening to final notes from the director when she spotted Mel at a distance, arms crossed, observing the scene with her usual composed glare.

Mel met her gaze, raised a brow, and mouthed, Breathe.

Caitlyn exhaled.

They were shooting a difficult scene that day, emotional, quiet, a turning point in the story. The kind of moment where nothing exploded, no one screamed, and yet everything was supposed to shift. A look. A breath. A crack in the armor.

Caitlyn had read it a hundred times. She knew her lines, knew the blocking, the camera angles, even the beats the director wanted her to hit. But now, standing in the cold courtyard of a centuries-old estate in the Highlands, with fog rolling low over the grass and damp stone beneath her boots, something in her chest felt tight. Off-kilter.

The wind tugged at her coat between takes, and her finger, bare for the scene, tingled from the chill. Viego, her co-star, gave her a soft nod from across the set, their eyes catching for just a second. She nodded back, but her mind was elsewhere.

Violet.

She pressed a hand to her chest without realizing it. Not dramatic. Just… instinct. Like checking for a heartbeat.

"Wherever I go, you bring me home."

The line from Violet’s song floated in her mind.

The line from Violet’s song echoed, unbidden. The second time she heard it, she'd laughed through almost tears. The third, she'd memorized every note.

Now, it was all she could hear.

She wanted to text her. Call her. Hear her voice say something stupid or sweet, complain about the cat or New York traffic or the way her coffee place always spelled her name wrong.

But the cameras were rolling.

And she had a job to do.

So she blinked hard. Straightened her shoulders. Took a breath.

And stepped into the scene, her body grounded in the story, her heart holding Violet like a melody stuck behind her ribs. Each word she spoke felt heavier now, realer. Not just performance, but something lived.

She didn’t look at the camera, or at her co-star.

She looked just past it, into the quiet, into the stillness, and imagined green walls, guitar strings, the shape of Violet’s silhouette against the morning light.

And then she spoke her lines.

Like she meant them.

x-x-x

The shoot wrapped just after golden hour. Almost 7 PM. The light had turned soft and golden, kissing the edges of the hills, but Caitlyn barely noticed.

The wind had picked up again, brushing cold fingers across her face as she stepped off set. Her hands were raw from the chill, her cheeks windburned, and her voice a little hoarse from another long, emotional scene. The kind that stayed in your body long after the cameras stopped.

But her thoughts had never really left New York. Not once.

She exhaled into the cold as crew members bustled around her, packing up cables and gear, laughter rising somewhere behind her. It all felt far away.

Mel approached with a steaming cup of tea. Chamomile, probably, she always remembered the little things.

“That was good,” she said, her voice warm. “Really good.”

Caitlyn nodded, taking the cup between her stiff fingers. “I almost forgot what it’s like to cry on camera.”

Mel tilted her head, studying her. “You weren’t acting the whole time, were you?”

Caitlyn didn’t answer. Just gave a faint smile, more muscle memory than anything else, and turned back toward her trailer.

Inside, the quiet wrapped around her like a too-thin blanket. She peeled off her costume piece by piece, the wool coat, the scuffed boots, the worn-in gloves. Every movement was slow, deliberate. The kind of stillness that came after giving too much of yourself away.

Her phone blinked on the counter, a message from the assistant director lighting up the screen. Call time. Wardrobe notes. A new script revision.

She ignored it.

Instead, she scrolled to her contacts, thumb hovering for just a second longer than usual before pressing Call.

It rang twice.

Then—

“Vi?” Caitlyn asked, voice soft, a little frayed.

There was rustling on the other end, a sleepy inhale, then Violet’s voice, thick, slow, low from just having woken up. “Hey, cupcake. I was dreaming about waffles.”

Caitlyn smiled instantly, sinking onto the couch in the trailer with a sigh. “Sounds deeply symbolic.”

“Probably. I was eating one in the shape of your face.”

“That’s horrifying.”

“You were smiling.”

“Still horrifying.”

Silence followed, not awkward, not stretched. Just... full. Like an exhale held between two people who knew exactly how the other breathed.

“Long day?” Violet asked eventually, her voice softer now, more awake.

“Yeah,” Caitlyn said. She let her head rest against the trailer wall. “It was good. But… I missed you. The whole time.”

Violet didn’t say anything for a moment.

Then, with something tender and rough behind it, “I missed you too. Even the cat missed you.”

Caitlyn smiled again, eyes fluttering shut. “Is he being good?”

“He let me hug him. Twice.”

“Is he dying?”

“Probably.”

A breath of laughter escaped her. The kind that came from deep in the chest. She pictured Violet, rumpled and warm in bed, hair a mess, voice low and teasing, one hand probably still curled around a pillow.

“I wish I was there,” Caitlyn said quietly.

“Me too.”

There was another pause, longer this time, but not empty.

“I’m proud of you, Cait.” Violet said. Her voice dropped a little, quieter, sincere. “Really.”

Caitlyn opened her eyes again, suddenly stung by the softness of it. “Thank you,” she whispered.

A beat.

“Now go take a shower,” Violet added, deadpan. “You sound crusty.”

Caitlyn let out a tired, sharp laugh. “You’re a menace.”

“You chose me.”

“I’d do it again.”

And in that moment, across countries and time zones, between sleep and silence, between tea and takeout and two wildly different lives.

They still felt close.

They still felt like them.

And maybe that was enough.

x-x-x

The next night, it was Violet who called.

Caitlyn answered immediately, phone pressed to her cheek, steam curling from a mug of tea she hadn’t touched.

“Hey,” she said, voice already warm with recognition.

“Hey yourself,” Violet replied. “You alone?”

Caitlyn glanced around her tiny house, scripts scattered, a sweater draped over the back of a chair, and the small town humming faintly beyond the frosted window. “Yes.”

“Good,” Violet murmured. “Now I can say inappropriate things.”

Caitlyn smirked. “Oh, how scandalous. Do go on.”

“I had a dream you punched someone.”

Caitlyn blinked. “What?”

“Yeah. He was being rude and British, and you just decked him. Very sexy.”

“…Was I wearing gloves?”

“Obviously.”

“Good.”

A pause.

Then Violet’s voice softened. “You okay today?”

Caitlyn exhaled, the kind of breath that felt like releasing something invisible. “I think so. It’s weird. I keep doing all these amazing things and wanting to turn around and tell you immediately. And then I remember I can’t. Not like I used to.”

“I know,” Violet said. “Me too.”

Caitlyn let the silence stretch, let it hold them both for a second.

Then—

“You still sleeping on your side of the bed?”

“No,” Violet said, deadpan. “I sleep diagonally now. Like a starfish. Total freedom.”

“You traitor.”

“You left me here with a judgmental cat and all your smell and perfume. I earned the diagonals.”

Caitlyn laughed, the sound curling around the room like a blanket. “I love you.”

Violet didn’t answer right away.

Then—

“I love you too. Even if I still find your tea obsession deeply unsettling.”

Caitlyn rolled her eyes. “It’s not an obsession, it’s cultural appreciation.”

“It’s a cult, Cait.”

“Again, cultural.”

More laughter. More quiet.

Then Violet said, voice quieter this time, “You’re still coming back, right?”

Caitlyn’s heart caught. “Of course I am.”

“Promise?”

“With everything I’ve got.”

Violet swallowed. “Okay.”

And maybe the distance was still there, maybe it still ached, but in that moment, Caitlyn closed her eyes and imagined the weight of Violet’s hand in hers, the way their fingers always found each other in sleep. And she knew, no matter the miles:

They hadn’t lost it.

Not yet.

x-x-x

Two weeks later, the distance had begun to settle in. Not loud or dramatic, just steady. Like a fog rolling in slowly over everything.

The time difference, once an inconvenience they joked about, now carved real space between them. Caitlyn’s filming schedule was unpredictable, full of last-minute call times and long days that bled into nights. Sometimes she’d fall asleep with her makeup still on, the script clutched to her chest, missing Violet’s texts entirely. Other times she’d wake before the sun, send a photo of her coffee or the view from the trailer, only to realize Violet hadn’t even gone to bed yet.

Their rhythms were out of sync.

Caitlyn was thriving, or at least, that’s what it looked like from the outside. The production had picked up pace, and she was working harder than ever. Early mornings, long days, intense scenes under gray Scottish skies that never quite turned blue. She was in her element, focused, driven, precise. The kind of performer who never missed a mark, never forgot a line.

The director praised her timing. Her co-star told her she brought something “real” to every take. Mel, usually hard to impress, had pulled her aside one evening and said, without irony, “You’re making something unforgettable.”

And Caitlyn believed it. Most days.

But some nights, when the cold clung to her skin and the silence of her house pressed in too close, she’d stare at her phone like it might explain something.

Every time it buzzed and it wasn’t Violet, or worse, when it didn’t buzz at all, a knot pulled tighter in her chest. A kind of slow ache she couldn't shake.

She told herself Violet was just busy.

Creating.

Thinking.

Living.

But she missed her like hell.

Missed the chaos of their mornings, the socks Violet never matched, the guitar pick always left on the bathroom sink.

Missed her laugh through the walls.

Missed how she always turned the volume up too loud when she cooked.

Missed being known in the smallest, stupidest ways.

x-x-x

And on the other side of the world, Violet was unraveling, in quiet, nearly invisible ways.

It didn’t look dramatic. It didn’t look like a breakdown.

It looked like skipping one shower. Then another.

It looked like sleeping in her jeans because changing felt like too much effort.

Like washing a mug and using it again for whiskey instead of coffee.

She couldn’t remember what it felt like, living without Caitlyn. Not in a real, grounded way. It was like trying to recall a dream after waking up, blurry, distant, coated in a haze of noise and motion and numbness.

Sure, she knew what she used to be like. The patterns. The habits. The excuses.

Drink until the sharpness dulled. Smoke until her lungs ached in place of her chest. Hook up with people she didn’t care about just to prove she didn’t need anyone.

But that version of her, wild, unreachable, untethered, felt like someone she could only watch from the outside now. Like a memory she couldn’t trust.

Now, every time she reached for a bottle, it felt like cheating. Not on Caitlyn, but on the life she’d built with her. On the version of herself that had grown into something steadier. Kinder. The version that let someone love her.

And yet, she couldn’t stop.

The worst part wasn’t that she missed Caitlyn. It was that she didn’t know how to function without her. Violet had forgotten how to be alone without slipping. She tried. She really tried. She went for walks, blasted music, even showed up at the studio twice and sat there pretending something might come out of her. But it didn’t. Nothing did.

She’d sit on the couch at night with a cigarette burning low and think, I used to be okay like this.

But the truth was, she’d never really been okay. She’d just gotten better at pretending.

And now the pretending wasn’t working anymore.

And every time her phone buzzed with Caitlyn’s name, she felt both saved and exposed.

Because Caitlyn believed in the version of her she couldn’t find anymore.

The version that held steady. That stood tall. That didn’t break.

Now, the silence made her feel like she was falling through something hollow.

Now, she realized, maybe for the first time, just how much she’d let herself need Caitlyn.

And how fucking terrifying that was

She hadn’t opened her notebook in a week. The guitar case stayed snapped shut. A layer of dust clung to the edges of her desk. Dishes gathered in the sink like some slow-growing colony. Every room in the apartment was dim, except for the kitchen where the refrigerator light flickered when it opened.

Violet stood in front of it often. Staring at nothing.

Just breathing.

Just existing.

She stopped going to the studio. Lied about feeling sick. Said she needed “space to write.”

But the truth was, every time she sat with her guitar, her fingers trembled.

Every sound she made felt wrong. Every melody reminded her of her.

Caitlyn.

Caitlyn in the kitchen doorway at 2 a.m., wrapped in one of Violet’s shirts, sipping tea and smiling like the world was soft.

Caitlyn saying, “You don’t have to be anything but you, love,” like it wasn’t the most terrifying thing anyone had ever said to her.

She’d crawled so far inside Violet’s heart, there was no digging her out now.

And with Caitlyn gone, really gone, across an ocean and buried in scripts and schedules, Violet wasn’t sure what part of her was still hers.

Every room still smelled faintly like Caitlyn, shampoo, linen, her perfume.

There was still a pair of her socks under the coffee table.

Her scarf, the one Violet used to steal just to annoy her, was draped over the back of the chair like it had always lived there.

And maybe that was the problem.

Caitlyn hadn’t just been in Violet’s life.

She had softened it.

Slipped into the cracks. Made the sharp things feel duller. Easier to carry.

And without her, without that quiet voice saying “breathe, Vi”, or the way she hummed when she did dishes, or how she always remembered to leave the kettle warm for Violet when she stayed up too late, everything felt colder.

More brittle.

She hadn’t told anyone. Not really.

But lately, she’d been catching herself thinking:

“Maybe Caitlyn was the only good thing I ever had.”

It was a thought she hated.

Because it sounded weak. Co-dependent. Sad.

But it also felt… true.

Nothing else worked the same.

Music didn’t spark.

Coffee didn’t taste right.

And she kept telling herself this was temporary. That Caitlyn would come back. That she just had to wait it out.

But deep down, she was starting to wonder:

What if Caitlyn didn’t need her the way she needed Caitlyn?

What if she came back and Violet wasn’t enough anymore?

What if she never had been?

She curled into the corner of the couch, knees pulled to her chest, the city outside her window buzzing and bright.

Inside, it was quiet.

Too quiet.

x-x-x

The gym smelled like old tape and determination. Somewhere, music played low, something with a steady beat and no lyrics, like motivation pretending to be background noise.

Violet’s gloves were already loose, her stance a little lazy. Sett tapped his pads together once. “Ready?”

She nodded. Threw a jab. It was... technically a jab.

Sett tilted his head. “Was that meant to scare me? Or just wave hello?”

Violet exhaled through her nose. “I’m conserving energy. Eco-friendly boxing.”

“Cute,” he muttered. “Now actually try.”

She did. The next combo was a little better, but still off. Her weight shifted too late, her guard dropped too early. Sett caught one of the punches and tapped her lightly on the shoulder with the pad.

“Focus.”

“I am focused,” she lied, then immediately flinched when he faked a hook.

“Yeah? On what, exactly? Because it’s not this.”

She looked away for a beat. Something in her jaw tightened. “Just tired.”

“Bullshit,” he said, but not unkindly.

She didn’t respond. Just readjusted her gloves and tried again. The sound of the punch was sharper this time, not good, but angry.

Sett studied her. “You ever think maybe you’re trying to outrun something you should be walking through?”

Violet snorted. “You been reading fortune cookies again?”

He grinned. “Shut up, firecracker.”

She smirked, briefly. Then fell quiet again.

No breakdowns. No big confessions. Just the rhythm of gloves and breath, her thoughts louder than the music.

And in the silence between punches, something in her ribs ached, soft and stupid and shaped like someone who made her want to be better.

x-x-x

“You look like shit,” Jinx said one night, blunt as ever. She was perched cross-legged on Violet’s counter, picking at the label of a beer bottle.

Violet didn’t flinch. “Thanks.”

“I mean it with love.”

“I know.”

There was a pause. Violet leaned against the opposite counter, arms crossed, shadows under her eyes. The only light came from the hood over the stove, dim and yellow.

“You wanna tell me what’s going on, sis?” Jinx asked, more gently now.

Violet scratched the back of her neck. Her voice was rough from not using it much. “It’s just… it’s not even about her being gone. It’s about—” She stopped. Took a shaky breath. “I think I broke something. In me. Or maybe it was already broken and Cait was just holding the pieces together.”

Jinx blinked, lips parting slightly. “You don’t really believe that.”

“I do.”

A silence settled. Heavy. Intimate.

Then Jinx hopped off the counter and walked over, bumping her shoulder into Violet’s. “You're still here, Vi. Even if you're a goddamn mess. And I’ve known you a long time — you don’t stay down forever.”

“I don’t think I’m down,” Violet murmured. “I think I’m drifting.”

x-x-x

Violet groaned as she rolled over on the couch, one arm flopping dramatically off the edge. The cat blinked at her from the armrest like he, too, was judging.

“What.”

"Well, damn, I was two minutes away from printing missing posters." 

She rubbed her face. “Jesus, Ekko. What do you want?”

“It’s been four days. Four. Since anyone’s heard from you. You missed two meetings. Sett is worried. Powder tried to FaceTime you and got me instead. That girl is one bad signal away from staging a full-scale hostage recovery mission.”

Violet sat up slowly, hair sticking out in all directions, one sock halfway off her foot.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine, Vi. You’re offline.”

She sighed. “I’m not in the mood for a lecture.”

“Good, ‘cause I’m not calling as your publicist right now.”

A beat.

“I’m calling as your friend, who is also your very stressed-out publicist, and who’s currently trying to explain to a label rep why his star artist hasn’t posted a single thing except a blurry photo of her cat’s ass in two weeks.”

Violet cracked a tiny smile. “That was art. The lighting was dramatic.”

“The caption was just the word ‘same.’ You okay? Or should I be worried you’ve merged consciousness with the cat and communicate exclusively in sighs now?”

Violet leaned back, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“I’m just… not in the mood to be perceived right now, okay?”

“That’s cool. Except your entire job is perception.”

“Then maybe I picked the wrong job.”

That silenced him for a moment. It was the kind of pause Violet knew well, when Ekko was weighing how much to push, how much to hold back, and whether it would even matter.

This time, he didn’t hold back.

“Look, I get it. Caitlyn’s gone. You’re spiraling. I’ve seen this movie before, and spoiler alert, it ends with you drunk in the back of a cab, regretting life." 

Silence again.

Then, quieter:

“Just… talk to me, Vi. Let someone in. You don’t have to be on. You just have to be here.”

Violet swallowed. Her voice cracked a little when she spoke again.

“It’s hard to be here when she’s not.”

“Yeah,” he said gently. “But she’s not the only one who cares about you.”

x-x-x

One more week had passed, almost a full month of Caitlyn in Scotland.

Not just days anymore. Not just a stretch of silence or a few missed calls.

It had been long enough for routines to settle, long enough for the ache to dull at the edges, not gone, just folded into the rhythm of things like an old bruise you forget about until something brushes against it.

Caitlyn had thrown herself into the film. Scene after scene. Long hours. Script rewrites. Costume changes. Interviews. She gave everything, not out of obligation, but necessity. It was easier to lose herself in someone else’s story than to sit in the stillness of her rented house, staring at a phone that stayed dark more often than not.

And the film was… incredible.

Viego was electric, magnetic in front of the lens, impossible not to watch. Jhin was terrifying in the most elegant, deliberate way. The entire cast had started to sync like clockwork, and the production moved with a hum of precision. Even the tiny Scottish town, once so quiet it felt eerie, had begun to feel familiar. The creaky pub down the road knew her name. The barista at the café remembered how she took her tea.

There was comfort in that.

And yet…

Every time she stepped off set, every time the last line of the day was spoken and the cameras cut, there was a hollowness she couldn’t shake. Like her body had been present all day, but the rest of her hadn’t caught up.

It crept in during the quiet moments, the ones between scenes, in the dressing room, or when the wind cut through the set and made everyone huddle a little tighter into their coats. Violet would’ve hated this weather. She would’ve cursed at the cold and called Caitlyn deranged for calling it “brisk” like some Victorian poet.

Caitlyn smiled at the thought. Then frowned just as fast.

She hadn’t heard Violet’s voice in three days.

Not really. There were texts. Dry, polite ones. A few “hope today’s going well”s, a photo of the cat curled up on a hoodie, and a halfhearted thumbs-up reply when Caitlyn sent her a behind-the-scenes video from the cliffs.

She thought about calling. About pushing. About asking what was really going on.

But she didn’t.

Because she was the one who left.

She was the one who flew across the ocean chasing a dream she’d fought for, they’d fought for, in a way. Violet had encouraged her. Told her to go. Told her she'd be fine.

Caitlyn cared so much, she was scared she might suffocate whatever piece of Violet was still holding on.

Instead, she poured herself into the work. She smiled for cameras. She hit her marks. She laughed with castmates over post-shoot drinks and responded to Violet’s slow replies with warmth, never pressure.

But at night, when she slipped out of costume and into quiet, she scrolled back through old photos. Played old voice notes.

And whispered “I love you” into the dark, hoping Violet still believed it.

x-x-x

That afternoon, they were between takes.

Viego and Jhin were deep in a pivotal scene, voices echoing under the vaulted ceiling of the manor they were filming in. Caitlyn stood just off to the side, bundled into a long coat, cradling a cup of tea that had already gone lukewarm. The air smelled like old wood and smoke.

Diana stood beside her, poised, polished as always, her gaze following the scene but her presence quiet, anchoring.

“They’re ridiculous,” Caitlyn murmured, nodding toward the two men as they moved with a synchronicity that felt almost choreographed.

Diana gave a short, amused hum. “They’re magic when they want to be.”

Caitlyn huffed a soft laugh, more breath than sound. “Sometimes I still think someone’s going to pull me aside and say there’s been a mistake. That I’m not supposed to be here.”

“You’re not here by accident,” Diana said, calm and firm, but not unkind.

Caitlyn nodded, but her eyes had already drifted. Past the lights. Past the crew. Toward nothing.

Diana watched her for a moment, then said gently, “Still thinking about her?”

Caitlyn hesitated. Her fingers tightened around the cup.

“I try not to, during scenes. But afterward? It’s all I do.”

The wind picked up, teasing loose strands of hair from Diana’s braid. She was quiet for a beat before speaking again.

“Leona and I… we went through something like that once.”

Caitlyn turned, surprised. Diana didn’t usually offer personal stories.

“We were younger,” Diana said, her voice softer now. “Stubborn. Impulsive. It was a disaster for a while.”

She smiled faintly, looking down at her gloves. “But somehow, through all of it, we found our way back.”

“How?” Caitlyn asked, quietly. The question came out before she could stop it.

Diana looked skyward, as if weighing the memory. Then she met Caitlyn’s eyes again.

“She was the sun,” she said. “And I was the moon. We weren’t built to burn the same way. Not at the same time.”

Caitlyn’s throat tightened.

“But we... learned,” Diana went on. “We collided, and then we figured it out. We found a way to orbit. Because that’s what it was supposed to be.”

Caitlyn stared at her, something tender and sharp blooming behind her ribs.

“I don’t know if Violet still wants that,” she said, barely above a whisper.

Diana nodded slowly, knowingly. “Then ask. But don’t chase a shadow, Caitlyn. Love needs to meet you halfway.”

Caitlyn blinked hard, turning back toward the set, the movements of Viego and Jhin still fluid, intense.

But her mind was already elsewhere.

Brooklyn.

A dim apartment.

A cat curled on the windowsill.

A voice she hadn’t heard in days.

x-x-x

The apartment smelled like smoke and something old, like yesterday’s ash and a memory left out in the rain.

There were two empty takeout containers on the counter, one tipped onto its side. A hoodie on the floor, half-buried beneath a crumpled blanket. The guitar leaned against the wall, strings dulled with dust, its silence somehow louder than music ever was. The home studio door stayed shut, like it was keeping something out, or in.

Violet sat on the floor, legs stretched in front of her, the base of the couch cold against her spine. The whiskey bottle rested by her ankle, almost empty. No glass. She hadn’t bothered. Just the bottle, three fingers left and fading fast, like everything else.

The laptop cast a pale, artificial light across her face. Onscreen, Caitlyn smiled into a sea of microphones, framed by soft lighting and a thousand watchful eyes. Charcoal blazer. Perfect posture. Words like sharp glass wrapped in velvet.

Violet didn’t blink.

She tried to.

But she couldn’t.

Her hand hung loose around the neck of the bottle, fingers slack, like even that small effort was too much.

The cat sat nearby, tail flicking slow, like he’d seen this before. Like he was tired of it too.

Autoplay skipped to a new clip, a press conference. Caitlyn seated beside Viego and Jhin, backlit like a star already carved into the sky. Her voice clear, poised, magnetic. Even through tinny speakers, she sounded untouchable.

Violet shut the laptop with a sharp snap, the sound too loud in the quiet room.

Caitlyn had looked perfect, as always, calm, composed, effortlessly charming. Smiling through press questions like nothing had changed. Like her life hadn’t cracked open five weeks ago.

And Violet sat there in an oversized hoodie, surrounded by booze and silence, wondering if she’d imagined how much Caitlyn once needed her.

She didn’t look like she was hurting.

She looked like someone fine.

Worse, someone better.

Violet pressed her palms to her face, jaw clenched, chest tight.

She didn’t want to feel this. The bitterness. The jealousy. The ache.

But it was there.

And it whispered like a wound:

Maybe she’s better off without you.

And then Violet made the worst choice she could.

She opened her phone.

Thumb scrolling like a habit she hated. Fast at first. Then slower.

Falling into the void with both eyes open.

Comments. Photos. Headlines.

"She could literally have anyone. I don’t get it."

"Violet’s hot but she’s a mess."

"Kiramman deserves someone who won’t hold her back."

"Why is she with someone who’s stuck in the same Brooklyn dive bar for ten years?"

And then:

"She’s not exactly Hollywood, is she?"

That last one stayed.

Hung in the air like smoke that wouldn’t clear.

Violet stared at the words, and something inside her cracked. Not loud. Not clean. Just the slow splinter of something old giving way.

A bitter laugh slipped from her lips. Dry. Hollow. Ugly.

She looked down at the bottle in her hand.

“No shit,” she whispered. “No fucking shit.”

Another sip. No grimace.

The cat crept closer, his movements careful, like the floor might collapse if he stepped wrong. He brushed gently against her leg and sat there, silent.

Violet glanced at him, eyes bloodshot, lined with fatigue and something deeper.

“She looks like she’s already gone, little man” she murmured. “And I’m still here. Sitting in a pile of takeout, whiskey, and songs I can’t even finish.”

Her voice wavered, barely.

“I feel like I’m waiting for the tide to do something. Pull me out. Push me forward. I don’t even fucking care which anymore.”

The cat didn’t move. Just leaned into her with a quiet, steady warmth.

Violet looked past him. Past the laptop. Past the dark windows reflecting her outline like a stranger’s.

“I don’t think I know how to swim without her,” she said.

One more sip.

One more headline.

"Hollywood’s Brightest New Star and Her Brooklyn Ghost."

She stared until the letters lost shape, blurring at the edges.

And for the first time in a long time, she believed it might be true.

Not because Caitlyn was too bright.

But because Violet had stopped trying to rise from the tide.

And had forgotten she ever could.

x-x-x

Caitlyn had been staring at the ceiling for over an hour.

The bed creaked when she turned. The room was quiet, save for the distant murmur of wind pushing through the Scottish hills. The radiator clicked softly in the corner, working overtime to push warmth through the old walls. The digital clock on the nightstand read 2:43 AM.

She had tried breathing exercises. Lavender oil. Tea.

None of it helped.

Her body was here, wrapped in thick white blankets, but her mind was still in New York — on a couch, next to a cat, and wrapped around a girl who hadn’t answered her last three texts.

Caitlyn sighed, rolled over again, and reached for her phone.

She didn’t overthink it.

Just tapped Violet’s name.

It rang once.

Twice.

A third time. 

A fourth. 

“Vi?” she said softly, when the call connected.

There was a rustle, the clatter of something falling, a bottle maybe, and then Violet’s voice, rough and slow, coated in sleep and whiskey.

“…’Lo?”

“Did I wake you?”

“Nah,” Violet muttered. Her words were slurred at the edges. “Was just talking to the cat. He’s judgmental as fuck.”

Caitlyn exhaled, half-smiling. “Still prefers me, then.”

“Obviously,” Violet mumbled.

A silence followed. Heavy. Not empty, but not full either. Like both were waiting for the other to breathe first.

Caitlyn rolled onto her back, holding the phone tighter against her ear.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“Me neither,” Violet murmured.

Caitlyn didn’t answer, just let that settle between them.

Then Violet added, almost like a shrug, “You sounded nice in the interviews.”

Caitlyn’s brow furrowed. “You watched them?”

“Mmhmm.”

“You didn’t answer my messages.”

“I know.”

The honesty landed with a soft thud.

Caitlyn sat up slightly, voice gentler now. “Vi… are you okay?”

Violet let out a shaky breath, one that caught in her throat. “I think I’m just… floating.”

The sentence cracked something in Caitlyn.

“I miss you,” she said quietly.

There was a rustle on the other end. The sound of Violet shifting, maybe sitting up, maybe wiping her face. Then:

“Yeah,” Violet whispered. “I miss you too.”

And then, like it took effort to get the words out, like they had teeth, she added:

“I haven’t been feeling like myself lately, Cait. And... I think it’s my fault, not yours.”

Caitlyn closed her eyes.

She didn’t try to fix it. Not this time.

She just stayed on the line.

“I’m here,” she said. “Even if you’re floating.”

Violet swallowed, and for the first time that night, she let herself cry, quietly, bottle forgotten, hand pressed to her eyes while her cat curled beside her like a silent witness. It was not loud, not messy. Just quiet, broken little sniffles that barely filled the room. The kind of cry that didn’t ask to be soothed, only seen.

And Caitlyn, oceans away, listened.

Not because she had the answer.

But because Violet hadn’t hung up.

The silence stretched again.

Not cold. Not awkward. Just… stretched thin by distance.

By exhaustion.

By everything they weren’t saying.

“I love you,” Caitlyn said first, her voice almost too quiet for the line.

There was a pause.

Then Violet replied, not slurred, not guarded. Just soft. Honest.

“I love you too.”

Caitlyn bit her lip, let her thumb trace idle circles on the edge of the blanket. Then, gently, like an idea she was still building herself:

“Would you come visit? Just for the weekend. Next week. I… I think it would help.”

Violet blinked, staring at the ceiling, breath catching a little.

“I don’t know,” she said after a moment. “I… I’m scared, Cait.”

“Of what?”

Violet hesitated. Her voice was quieter now. Smaller.

“Of you seeing me like this. Of you seeing me and realizing I’m not… who you might remember. Or not worth coming back to.”

Caitlyn closed her eyes. Let the weight of those words settle.

Then, firmly but softly:

“You’re worth it. Even like this. Especially like this.”

Violet didn’t speak right away.

Her mind raced.

What if Caitlyn got here and saw the mess? The half-finished songs, the half-finished self?

What if she saw all the cracks Violet had tried to keep hidden, not out of shame, but survival?

And worse… what if Caitlyn looked at her and saw someone too far gone?

But, somehow, buried under all that fear was a flicker of something else.

Hope.

A small, defiant flame that said: Maybe she already sees it. And maybe she’s choosing me anyway.

Her throat tightened.

“…Okay,” she said.

Not loud.

Not certain.

But real.

Caitlyn smiled, alone in the dark, a quiet breath escaping her lips like she’d been holding it for days. “Yeah?”

Violet nodded, even though Caitlyn couldn’t see it. “Yeah,” she repeated, a little stronger. “I mean… I don’t know how I’ll look. Or feel. But I want to try anyway. I want to see you.”

Caitlyn let her head fall back against the pillows, eyes glassy but soft. “You don’t have to look like anything, Vi. Just come as you are.”

Violet let out a shaky laugh. “That’s the part that scares me.”

“I know,” Caitlyn whispered. “But I’ll be here. You don’t have to pretend with me.”

Violet went quiet again, her fingers absently curling in the hem of her t-shirt. “Can I… just stay with you? I don’t want a hotel or some press-approved thing. I just want to be with you.”

“You’ll stay with me,” Caitlyn said, without hesitation. “No cameras. No noise. Just us.”

Violet exhaled slowly, and tried to ease the tension, like she always did when words failed her and silence felt too heavy. “The cat’s not coming, by the way. Logistical nightmare.”

Caitlyn smiled. “He wouldn’t do well on the plane.”

“I’m pretty sure he’d get flagged at security,” Violet muttered. “That face? He’d end up on some international watchlist.”

“Suspected of terrorism?”

“Absolutely,” Violet said. “Probably something involving shredded couches and psychological warfare.”

Caitlyn laughed, the sound light and warm. “I’ll miss him too.”

“He says he’ll hold down the fort. And judge me remotely.”

Caitlyn closed her eyes again, still smiling. “Just get here safe.”

“I’ll try,” Violet whispered. “Next weekend.”

“I’ll send you everything you need. Don’t worry about anything.”

Violet nodded again, her voice a little steadier. “Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“I do,” Violet said. “You’re… you’re the only thing that still feels like home.”

Caitlyn swallowed hard.

“I’ll be waiting,” she said gently.

“I know,” Violet replied, voice breaking just slightly, but this time, with something closer to hope. “That’s why I’m coming.”

x-x-x

After the call ended, Caitlyn kept the phone pressed against her chest for a while, listening to the quiet settle back into the room. The wind was still brushing against the windows, soft and persistent, but it felt farther away now.

She’s coming.

The thought was both a relief and a weight.

Caitlyn turned onto her side, eyes open in the dark. She wanted Violet to be okay. Wanted her to be excited, grinning, cracking terrible jokes and insisting New York coffee was superior to anything Scotland had to offer. But that voice on the phone hadn’t sounded like that. It was shaky. Worn thin. A little hollow.

She’s trying, Caitlyn reminded herself.

And that was all she could ask for. But the fear still lived in the quiet spaces.

Fear of seeing Violet in person and realizing how far she'd drifted.

Fear of not knowing how to pull her back.

Fear, most of all, of losing her. 

But beneath all of it, there was still that stubborn flicker of hope.

Violet had picked up.

She’d said I love you.

She’d said yes.

Whatever it takes, Caitlyn thought. I’ll be there. Even if she doesn’t know how to come back to herself yet. Even if I’m still figuring out how to hold all of this, too.

Across the ocean, Violet stared at the dark screen of her phone long after the call had ended. The room around her was quiet, the cat curled on the couch with a paw draped over his eyes. The whiskey bottle sat forgotten on the floor.

I said I’d go.

And she would.

But she wasn’t sure if she could hold herself together once she got there.

Because part of her still believed Caitlyn deserved better.

Someone steadier.

Someone whole.

Someone who hadn’t spent the last few weeks unraveling in slow, quiet chaos.

What if she looks at me and realizes it’s not worth it?

What if she sees everything I’ve been trying to hide?

But beneath the fear, buried deep under the guilt, the exhaustion, the doubt, was something else.

A flicker of something warmer. Brighter.

Hope.

Because maybe Caitlyn still saw her.

And maybe, if someone like Caitlyn could look at her and still want her…

Maybe Violet could learn to want herself again, too.

If she still sees me, Violet thought, maybe I can start to see me again.

She got up and lay down on the couch, pulling the blanket that hung over the edge. The cat shifted slightly on top of her, settling in.

Violet closed her eyes, inhaled deeply… and exhaled just the same.

And for the first time in weeks, she didn’t dream about drowning.

Chapter Text

Mid-October had settled over Brooklyn like a faded denim jacket, a little cold at the edges, familiar in its weight.

The streets below Violet’s apartment were littered with crisp, wind-tossed leaves, amber and gold and tired brown. The air had that unmistakable bite of approaching winter, the kind that crept in early and lingered behind windows and under doorways. Coffee shops glowed warm on corners, couples walked in layered jackets, and the trains below rumbled with their usual urgency, but none of it reached her.

Upstairs, behind closed blinds and an unused studio, the world had narrowed into something smaller. Quieter. Still.

Violet was trying. She really was.

She was waking up earlier, even if she didn’t always get out of bed. She was drinking less, water and whiskey, and forcing herself to eat something that wasn’t ordered at 2 a.m. or pulled from the back of the fridge. The studio stayed quiet, but she’d opened the door. That had to count for something.

She hadn’t really noticed how much Caitlyn had become her center until she wasn’t around. Not gone, not really, just farther, in a way that made a difference. The kind of difference that slipped into the quiet moments and made them feel a little off.

Violet had never been great with quiet. Or with calm. Stability always made her nervous, like something was about to fall apart and she should be the one to break it first. For years, she filled the gaps with chaos, fast nights, fast drinks, people she wouldn’t have to care about. It was easier that way. Cleaner.

But Caitlyn didn’t let her keep the usual distance. She stayed. And Violet let her. That was the part that scared her the most now, not knowing how to go back to the noise when, for the first time, she’d actually gotten used to the quiet.

She’d tried to work on new music, but her hands froze the second they hovered over the strings. Her voice cracked when she tried to sing. There were notebooks stacked on the table, pages blank or filled with the kind of frustrated half-sentences that never became lyrics. She couldn’t even hum to herself without feeling like a fraud.

x-x-x

UPPER EAST SIDE, three months ago 

Now, Violet was sitting on the kitchen floor, legs stretched out, a spoonful of peanut butter in one hand and the cat perched silently on the counter, watching her.

The notebook was open beside her, a pen tucked behind her ear. She hadn’t touched either in over an hour.

She’d meant to write something, anything, but had ended up cleaning the fridge, then making tea, then just… sitting there.

The cat blinked slowly at her.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she said, taking another bite. “People write sad songs about breakups, not… temporary international work assignments.”

No reaction.

She looked at the notebook. Then back at the cat.

“I don’t even know what I’m doing. Like, what am I gonna write? ‘Miss you, but not enough to function’?”

The cat licked its paw. She rolled her eyes and stood up slowly, joints cracking.

“Useless,” she muttered, not at the cat, not really at herself either. Just at everything.

She left the notebook open, untouched. The page stayed blank.

x-x-x

And it wasn’t just the music.

The silence stretched longer every day, and the things outside of her control, the press, the comments, the way her name popped up next to Caitlyn’s on gossip blogs like she was some messy footnote in a rising star’s story, made everything worse.

Violet had never cared about the media. She used to laugh at the headlines, shrug off the noise, flip off a camera or two just to prove a point. But now… now Caitlyn’s name was tangled up with hers. And that changed everything.

She wanted to seem decent. Not polished, not fake, just someone worthy of standing next to Caitlyn without dragging her down. She hated that it mattered. Hated how much space it took up in her brain. Hated the idea of proving anything to people who couldn’t tell the difference between a real person and a curated headline.

But still, when they called her reckless, unpredictable, bad for Caitlyn's image, a part of her believed it.

"While Caitlyn Shines On Set, Violet Keeps a Low Profile — Too Low?"

"Once a Power Couple, Now Just Power and...?"

"Where’s the music? Violet fans question the singer’s long silence."

"Are Caitlyn and Violet Still Together? Here's What We Know (and What We Don’t)"

She stopped reading them after a while. But it didn’t matter. The words had already rooted themselves in her brain, repeating in the quiet like some cruel, involuntary mantra.

Caitlyn deserves better.

Someone cleaner. Stronger. More together.

Someone who didn’t fall apart the moment things got a little hard.

The kettle whistled, but Violet didn’t move.

She was sitting at the kitchen table, one leg pulled up to her chest, scrolling aimlessly on her phone. She wasn’t looking for anything in particular, which meant she found exactly what she shouldn’t.

Another headline.

“ Can Violet Song Keep Up with Hollywood’s Favorite Brit?”

She locked the screen. Then unlocked it again. Then locked it.

The cat jumped onto the chair across from her and stared.

“Don’t start,” she muttered, reaching over to pour hot water into a mug she probably wouldn’t drink.

The article didn’t even say anything that bad. It was mostly speculation, filler between celebrity sightings and half-confirmed sources. But her name next to Caitlyn’s… it didn’t look right. Not anymore. It looked like a comparison. And she already knew how that ended.

She picked up the mug and just held it.

The cat meowed softly.

“Yeah, I know,” she said. “I said I’d stop reading that shit.”

She looked at the steam curling up from the mug, the faint reflection of herself in the dark tea.

“I mean, they’re not wrong.”

The words slipped out before she could catch them. She didn’t take them back.

She didn’t cry. She didn’t throw anything. She just sat there, quiet, as the steam faded and the tea went cold.

x-x-x

Violet sat on the edge of the bed, her shoulders slightly hunched, hands resting loosely between her knees. The room was dim, not dark, just washed in that kind of late-afternoon gray that made everything feel a little heavier.

She hadn’t done much that day. Hadn’t really planned to. The hours had just... passed. In silence. In stillness.

The pillow on Caitlyn’s side of the bed still smelled faintly like her, that clean, expensive scent Violet could never quite describe, only recognize. She leaned toward it out of habit, breathed in softly, then pulled back just as quickly.

It didn’t make her feel better. It just reminded her of how quiet everything had become.

She missed Caitlyn in ways she hadn’t expected to. Not just the big things, her voice, her laugh, her presence, but the grounding feeling that came with knowing someone was always just a room away. Someone who didn’t need her to explain herself. Someone who made the world feel a little less scattered.

Lately, Violet had felt untethered. Restless, but tired. Like she was moving through her own life without really fitting into it. She kept trying to go back to what used to work, music, noise, distraction, but none of it stuck.

She rubbed her hands over her face, then let them fall into her lap.

“Alright,” she said under her breath. A filler word. A placeholder. Something to mark the moment before standing up.

The cat padded in from the hallway and sat by her feet, tail twitching once before going still.

Violet stood slowly. Her body felt heavier than it should. She walked to the kitchen without really thinking about it, barefoot, aimless. The air smelled faintly of dust and something she couldn’t place.

She poured water into a glass she didn’t want. Took a sip anyway.

The apartment didn’t feel better. But it didn’t feel worse either.

It just felt like this, like waiting for something to shift.

x-x-x

Thursday had arrived, cool and gray, with clouds heavy over Brooklyn and a promise of rain that never quite came.

Violet was finishing up her packing, a beat-up suitcase thrown open on her bed, half-filled with layers she hoped would be enough for the Scottish cold. A hoodie Caitlyn had once stolen and then given back, a few worn sweaters, two pairs of jeans, and the leather jacket that made her feel just a little more put together than she actually was.

The apartment smelled like coffee and laundry detergent. For once, it didn’t feel like a crypt.

She’d managed to get dressed, actually dressed, in soft joggers and an oversized hoodie, hair pulled into a loose bun, face clean, eyes still a little tired but not dead. There was color in her cheeks again. Not much. But some.

The truth was, she felt something.

Not quite calm, not quite steady. But awake, in a way she hadn’t felt in weeks.

The idea of seeing Caitlyn again, being near her, not just a voice through the phone, unsettled her. But it also made things feel a little less heavy.

She didn’t know what it meant.

But it mattered.

She zipped the suitcase closed and turned to the living room just in time to catch the cat glaring at Ekko from the armrest of the couch like a disappointed landlord.

“I’m just saying,” Ekko was saying, holding up both hands. “There’s no way this guy isn’t planning my murder.”

“He’s not planning it,” Jinx said from the kitchen. “He’s already executed it three times. We just keep respawning.”

Sett was crouched near the litter box, eyeing it like it might explode. “He hissed at me when I opened a window.”

“He hisses when I open a window,” Violet muttered, stuffing a charger into her backpack.

“We’re not qualified for this,” Ekko said.

“You’re all I’ve got,” Violet replied with a half-smile.

Jinx leaned her elbows on the counter and grinned. “We’ll keep him alive. Ish.”

“I left detailed instructions. And a vet’s number. And the spray he likes for his fur. And he gets treats everyday.”

Sett blinked. “He’s got a schedule?”

“He’s emotionally complex,” Violet said, walking over to scratch behind the cat’s ears. He blinked slowly, benevolently, like a tired king accepting tribute.

“Don’t get attached,” she told him softly. “I’m coming back.”

Her phone buzzed in her pocket.

[Caitlyn]

I s your flight still on time?

[Violet]:

so far

if it gets delayed, I’ll just swim

[Caitlyn]:

Don’t. It’s freezing.

And you’re a terrible swimmer.

[Violet]

what

you’ve literally never seen me swim

[Caitlyn]

I’ve seen you trip over a rug. I can guess.

Violet smiled down at the screen, thumbs hovering.

[Violet]

I’m really coming

There was a pause. Then the reply came, simple and steady.

[Caitlyn]

I know.

And I can’t wait.

Violet stared at the words for a long moment, chest tight with something tender. Fear still pressed at the edges, of not being enough, of disappointing her, of falling apart on arrival.

But under it all… she was ready.

Or maybe not ready. But going anyway.

And that felt like enough.

She slipped her phone into her pocket, rolled her suitcase to the door, and looked back one last time.

“Don’t eat them,” she said to the cat.

He blinked.

“Especially not Jinx.”

Jinx raised a brow. “Wow. Just me?”

“I think you taste like anxiety and Red Bull.”

Ekko snorted. “She’s not wrong.”

Violet shook her head, laughed under her breath, and opened the door.

Scotland was waiting.

And so was Caitlyn.

x-x-x

The city moved past the window in a blur as Violet sat in the back of the cab, one hand loosely around her phone, the other resting on her leg. Her suitcase was wedged beside her, scratched up, heavier than it should be, and her backpack sat by her feet, stuffed with headphones, gum, a book she probably wouldn’t touch, and a change of clothes she’d packed out of habit more than need.

She’d booked the ticket herself.

Caitlyn had offered, politely, in that calm, persistent way of hers, but Violet had said no.

I need to do this part alone.

And she did. It wasn’t about the cost. It was about doing something on her own terms. About proving to herself that she could still show up.

She’d even gone for first class. Not for luxury, she didn’t care about champagne or privacy, but to avoid small talk. No questions. No strangers asking if she was who they thought she was. No explaining anything.

She didn’t want to talk. She just wanted to get there.

The cab rolled to a stop at the terminal, and she moved through the airport without thinking much, hoodie up, sunglasses on even though the sky was gray. A few people glanced her way. Maybe recognized her. Maybe didn’t.

Someone behind her in the security line whispered, “Is that…?”

She heard it, barely. Didn't turn.

Let them wonder.

On the plane, her seat was near the front, wide leather, window streaked with rain. She slid into it, tugged the hood a little lower, and let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding.

No drama. Just tired. Just ready.

Her phone buzzed just as she was buckling in.

[Caitlyn]

Thinking of you. I know you don’t like flying.

Violet smiled faintly, thumbs moving fast.

[Violet]

I ’m on the plane

window seat

first class

feeling bougie

[Caitlyn]

I’m impressed.

You must be really serious about me.

[Violet]

don't get cocky

[Caitlyn]

Too late.

I’ve already imagined you walking through arrivals three different ways.

[Violet]

okay, hit me

best version?

[Caitlyn]

The one where I ignore all the signs and meet you at the gate like a rom-com.

No crowd, no waiting. Just us.

Violet felt her throat tighten, not painfully, just… real.

[Violet]

do I get to run into your arms or is that too much?

[Caitlyn]

Please. I expect full dramatic flair.

Maybe a dip if you're feeling bold.

Violet laughed softly, thumbs pausing for a second.

[Violet]

I’d really like that

A pause.

[Caitlyn]

Me too.

Let me know when you land, okay?

[Violet]

I will

Violet smiled down at the screen and tucked her phone away, her heart steady for the first time in days. Then rested her head against the cold window. Outside, the tarmac glistened beneath soft drizzle. The engines hummed low in the background, a sound that always used to make her tense.

This time, she didn’t mind it.

The flight would be long. The hours would drag a bit.

But Caitlyn would be there at the end of it. And that was enough.

x-x-x

The cottage was quiet, tucked somewhere between charming and slightly crooked, with low ceilings and a stone floor that held onto the day’s cold. Caitlyn sat on the small couch, legs folded under her, nursing a mug of tea she hadn’t touched in a while. Her phone rested beside her, screen dark, though she’d tapped it at least six times in the past hour.

Mel was curled up in an armchair across from her, wrapped in a borrowed blanket, sipping something stronger than tea.

“You’re going to stare that phone into submission,” Mel said, voice low, amused.

Caitlyn didn’t look over. “I’m just checking in case the flight’s early.”

Mel raised an eyebrow. “To the minute?”

Caitlyn finally sighed. “She hasn’t landed yet. I know.”

Mel waited. Caitlyn said nothing. Then, softly:

“I just don’t want to overwhelm her.”

Mel sat up a little straighter. “You?”

Caitlyn gave a faint, tired smile. “I know how that sounds.”

“No, no, it’s cute. The woman who planned a ‘spontaneous’ weekend getaway with a spreadsheet is now worried about overwhelming someone."

Caitlyn ignored the jab.

“She’s been going through… a lot. And now she’s flying all the way out here, and I don’t want her to feel like she’s expected to be fixed just because we’re in the same place again.”

Mel’s expression softened.

“She wouldn’t be coming if she didn’t want to be with you.”

“I know,” Caitlyn said. “But still.”

Mel was quiet for a moment, then added:

“You’re not asking her to perform. You’re just… opening the door. She can walk through it however she wants.”

Caitlyn looked down at her tea. “I keep thinking I should’ve told her not to come. Given her more time.”

“And then you would’ve stared at the same wall for another week, running through every worst-case scenario,” Mel said calmly. “You needed her here just as much as she needs you.”

Caitlyn didn’t argue. Instead, she looked out the small window beside the couch, nothing but trees and the vague silver outline of the road in the dark.

“She’s going to be tired,” she murmured.

“She’s going to be happy,” Mel corrected. “Tired, slightly underdressed for the Scottish weather, and probably hungry, but happy.”

Caitlyn smiled again, just barely.

“Thank you for staying tonight.”

Mel waved a hand. “Please. The Wi-Fi at my place is a crime against humanity. This was practically charity.”

Caitlyn shook her head, laughing under her breath. The tension in her shoulders hadn’t vanished, but it had loosened, just enough to breathe.

Outside, the wind shifted. The hour crept forward. And somewhere above the clouds, Violet was on her way.

x-x-x

The flight was seven hours. Caitlyn had told herself she’d sleep through most of it, rest a little, take advantage of the quiet before the whirlwind of emotions and reconnections and whatever else waited for them both.

But she didn’t sleep.

She couldn’t.

She’d tried. Made tea. Lit a candle. Put on a playlist Violet had once made for her, soft and scratchy, full of yearning vocals and raw guitar chords. But her body refused to settle. Her mind kept skipping ahead, imagining Violet stepping off the plane, tired and rumpled, hoodie half-zipped, eyes searching. Searching for her.

Mel had stayed the night to help calm her down, despite her own packed schedule. She’d brought snacks, wine, and her dry wit, hoping it would be enough to keep Caitlyn from spiraling. For a while, it worked. They played cards. Talked about anything but Violet. But at some point, somewhere between Caitlyn reheating tea and pacing the stone floor in her socks, Mel had fallen asleep, curled up on the tiny couch. 

Now the only sound in the room was her soft breathing.

And Caitlyn’s thoughts, loud as ever.

Will she look the same?

Will she smile?

Will she fall into me or hold herself back?

The questions wouldn’t stop.

Caitlyn stood by the window of the cottage, arms wrapped around herself, watching the sky turn pale blue over the hills. The morning was quiet, the kind that usually calmed her, soft light, distant sheep, wind pushing through the trees like breath.

But today, all it did was make the waiting feel longer.

She’d taken the day off from filming, finally. Mel had insisted. “If you don’t step back, you’ll collapse face-first into the next scene, and I’m not dragging you off set like a Victorian ghost bride.”

Caitlyn had laughed, promised she’d rest. But rest wasn’t coming.

Not after the month she’d just had.

She had given everything to this film, every line, every frame, every corner of her mind and body. Always composed, always prepared. On set, she couldn’t let her guard down. Not for a second. She was building something, and everyone was watching, the cast, the crew, the press.

She was proud of her work. Really. She was grateful.

But it was exhausting being your best self all the time.

The kind of exhaustion that didn’t come from lack of sleep, but from holding too much, too many expectations, too many masks, too many perfect takes. She smiled when she was supposed to, answered every question with precision, laughed at the right times. She hit her marks, nailed her cues, gave just enough in interviews to sound open but never reckless.

And in between? In the silences between takes and scenes and scheduled dinners, she felt the cracks. Small at first. Barely noticeable. A breath that caught in her throat. A pause before answering a message. The way her reflection looked more like a version of herself than the real thing.

She missed being off. Just… off. Messy. Quiet. Unfiltered.

She missed being looked at by someone who knew when she was faking it, and didn’t mind. Someone who never needed her to sparkle.

She missed Violet.

x-x-x

BROOKLYN, two months ago

The apartment smelled faintly of takeout and chemicals, remnants of Violet’s earlier attempt to bleach her own denim jacket in the kitchen sink. Caitlyn sat on the couch, posture slouched, her sweatpants a size too big and hair pulled into a messy bun that kept falling apart.

Her script lay open in her lap, pages marked with highlighter and notes in precise handwriting. But none of it was sticking.

Her eyes burned. Her jaw ached from clenching. She had just spent the last hour watching footage of her own performance, rewinding, rewatching, scrutinizing every expression, every line delivery, until it ended with her swearing at the wall and throwing a pillow at the tripod.

She rubbed her hands over her face. “I’m never getting this right. I sound like I’m auditioning to be a PowerPoint presentation.”

Violet, barefoot and holding a half-eaten granola bar, appeared in the doorway. “What’s wrong with PowerPoint? I’d let you narrate every quarterly earnings report of my life.”

Caitlyn let out a weak laugh, but it fizzled too quickly. “I can’t make this scene work. I feel… off. Wooden. Like I'm not even in my own skin.”

Violet crossed the room and sat behind her on the couch, legs on either side, pulling Caitlyn back gently until she was resting against her chest. Her arms wrapped around her without a word, anchoring.

“You’re allowed to suck sometimes, y’know,” Violet murmured into her hair. “Even British overachievers are legally permitted one emotional collapse per quarter.”

Caitlyn huffed a laugh. “I’m behind, then. This is at least my third.”

“There we go.” Violet kissed her temple. “Now we’re being productive.”

They stayed like that for a moment, Caitlyn sinking into the warmth, her body slowly unclenching.

“You reek of chemicals,” she muttered.

“Yeah, well. You smell like despair.”

Caitlyn let out a full laugh this time. “Romantic.”

Violet grinned, resting her chin on Caitlyn’s shoulder. “That’s what I’m here for. Disgusting snacks, emotional damage, and unsolicited cuddles. And if none of that works…”, she reached for the remote, “I queue up the worst reality dating show I can find and we rot together until your soul resets.”

Caitlyn tilted her head back to look up at her. “You’re the worst therapist.”

Violet kissed her. “But I’m yours.”

x-x-x

Caitlyn glanced at the clock again.

She knew the flight schedule by heart now. She’d refreshed the tracker three times in the last twenty minutes. She’d already picked out the coat she’d wear to meet her, not too formal, not too wrinkled, something soft enough to hold Violet in.

Her phone buzzed with a new update from the airline:

Flight 2034 — On Time. Estimated Arrival: 9:47 AM.

Almost there.

Caitlyn exhaled slowly, fingers curling into the fabric of her sleeves. She could already see it, Violet at the arrivals gate, bleary-eyed, hoodie slipping off one shoulder, hair a mess, probably smirking that familiar half-smirk that gave her away every time.

It had been over a month.

Long enough.

And this time, Caitlyn wasn’t planning to hang back behind some barrier.

She’d be there, in the crowd, walking straight toward her.

Because Violet was coming back, and Caitlyn wasn’t going to leave her to face it all on her own.

x-x-x

Caitlyn slid into the driver’s seat of the rental just after dawn, the cold leather making her flinch through her jeans. She turned the key, and the engine came to life with a low hum, headlights stretching into the soft morning fog still draped across the village roads.

She knew the way now, every curve lined with sheep, every stone wall leaning into the hills, every hand-painted sign half-swallowed by ivy. The town had become familiar in that slow, quiet way places do when you’re not looking.

She didn’t need the GPS anymore.

The drive to Edinburgh Airport would take just over an hour, maybe less if the roads stayed empty. She’d left earlier than necessary, something about the stillness of the morning making it easier to move than to sit and wait. That’s what she told herself, anyway.

In truth, she just wanted to be on her way.

Caitlyn had agreed to pick her up at the airport. Even knowing someone might take a photo. Even if it meant showing up on some gossip site, tucked between cruel captions and wild speculation. Of course, Mel hadn’t thought it was a good idea. If they still wanted to keep anything private, any boundary, any breathing room, this went against all of it.

But Caitlyn didn’t care anymore. Not after the past few weeks. Not after missing her this much.

She’d dropped Mel off at her cottage before setting out, the two of them bleary but joking as always. Mel had insisted Caitlyn go sleep, but Caitlyn had only half-listened, her mind already tracing the route. By the time she’d said goodbye, the sky had begun to turn, that gray-blue that hinted at something warmer underneath.

The message, “I’m really coming.”, had stayed with her all night, looping gently in the back of her mind. She must’ve read it a dozen times. It felt simple, but it meant something. Enough to push her out the door before the sun was even up.

As she drove, the hills shifted with the light, golden in places, heavy with mist in others. Her hand rested on the wheel, the other picking absently at a thread on her coat sleeve. She didn’t rehearse what she’d say. There wasn’t really a plan.

She just wanted to be there.

Not waiting behind glass, not pacing by arrivals. Just there.

Because Violet was coming back.

And Caitlyn didn’t want her to land alone.

x-x-x

Caitlyn stood in the international arrivals hall of Edinburgh Airport, hands buried deep in the pockets of her coat, her posture composed, or at least, it looked that way. Inside, everything was fraying.

She’d arrived too early, of course. The flight hadn’t even landed yet, but she was already there, standing beneath the muted fluorescent lights, surrounded by echoing announcements, rolling suitcase wheels, and the low murmur of waiting strangers.

The place smelled faintly of coffee, floor polish, and jet fuel. A child cried somewhere near the escalators. An older couple stood nearby holding a handwritten sign. A businessman beside her kept checking his watch, sighing loudly with every passing minute.

Caitlyn didn’t move.

Didn’t check the time.

She couldn’t.

If she looked, she might lose her grip on whatever thin calm she had left.

Instead, she watched the arrivals screen in soft focus, barely registering the changing statuses.

On Time.

Seven hours. That’s how long Violet had been in the air. Seven hours with no messages, no calls, just silence and anticipation and Caitlyn’s own thoughts growing louder with every second.

She hadn’t slept the night before. She’d tried. But her body had been too wound up, her mind running endless loops.

What if she changes her mind?

What if she sees me and it’s all too much?

What if I say the wrong thing? Do the wrong thing?

What if she’s not okay?

Caitlyn stared at the automatic doors where passengers would eventually spill out. Each time they opened, for someone in a suit, someone with a backpack, someone laughing into a phone, her heart kicked against her ribs.

She tried to breathe through it, to stay grounded.

But she missed Violet so much it made her chest ache.

She missed her laugh, the uneven cadence of it. The way her eyes softened when she was tired. The way she filled a room even when she wasn’t trying. The way her voice lingered in Caitlyn’s head for hours after she'd stopped speaking.

More than anything, Caitlyn missed the weight of being near her, of knowing she was close. That she was real and solid and not just a voice on the line or a memory she kept replaying.

She wrapped her fingers tighter around the strap of her bag, digging her nails into the fabric, grounding herself with pressure.

People began to gather. A slow swell of movement. Violet’s plane had landed.

The tension in her shoulders was unbearable now, but she didn’t shift. Didn’t pace.

She just kept her eyes fixed on those doors, like if she looked hard enough, Violet would appear early. Like wanting her enough would pull her through faster.

Caitlyn's eyes were flicking toward the sliding doors every few seconds, even though she knew it would still take a while. Disembarking always took time. There was immigration, baggage claim, a dozen little delays.

But none of that stopped the anticipation from building in her chest like static.

She was here. Somewhere behind those walls, Violet was here.

x-x-x

Time passed, but Caitlyn’s mind remained restless with anticipation.

Please be okay.

Please still want me.

Please just—

She didn’t finish the thought. Couldn’t.

Because the next time the doors opened, the crowd around her stirred.

And Caitlyn’s heart leapt, whether it was her or not.

The doors opened.

At that exact moment, Caitlyn’s phone buzzed in her pocket.

She didn’t even have to look.

Somehow, she knew.

There was a shift in the air, in the rhythm of the crowd, in the pull inside her chest. And then there she was.

Violet.

Dragging her suitcase behind her, backpack slung over one shoulder, headphones snug around her ears. Her hoodie was zipped halfway, and the sleeves of her jacket were pulled down tight over her hands. Her hair was messy from sleep and travel, eyes shadowed from the long flight and the kind of cold that clung deep.

She looked tired.

And beautiful.

And real.

Caitlyn didn’t move. Not yet.

Violet stepped through the sliding doors like someone bracing for something, head down at first, shoulders tight, but her eyes flickered up quickly, scanning.

She didn’t need long.

There.

Caitlyn. Waiting.

Always poised. Always polished. Always standing like she belonged in every room she entered. Hair pulled back, coat immaculate, posture straight, as if the month apart hadn’t touched her.

But Violet knew better.

And in that moment, all her insecurities, all the noise, the doubts, the fears that had followed her across an ocean, dulled.

Because Caitlyn was there.

Caitlyn was still hers.

And she was smiling.

Caitlyn's entire expression changed. Her spine lost its rigidity. Her lips parted just slightly. Her eyes softened in a way they hadn’t in weeks. She was smiling, wide, unguarded, breaking across her face like sunlight after too many gray mornings.

Relief flooded her features. Joy. The kind of deep, aching affection that came not from missing someone, but from finally finding them again.

She didn’t say a word. Didn’t need to.

Because Violet was there.

And that was enough.

And then, they started walking.

At first, it was slow, cautious, uncertain, like the space between them was fragile and sacred. But with every step, something shifted. The rhythm picked up. The noise of the airport faded, and the crowd blurred around them like background static.

Violet didn’t realize she’d dropped the handle of her suitcase until it was several steps behind her. She didn’t care.

Her breath hitched, eyes fixed on Caitlyn like she couldn’t look anywhere else. Like looking away would break whatever tether had pulled them back together.

She’s here. She’s real. She’s mine.

She didn’t want to overthink. Didn’t want to second-guess. She just wanted to be near Caitlyn again, to close the distance, to feel steady in a way only Caitlyn ever seemed to make her feel.

Caitlyn had moved too.

Her coat swayed around her legs as she quickened her pace, eyes never leaving Violet’s. Her expression was still open, still full of that stunned, joyful relief, but there was urgency now.

She needed to get to her.

Because Caitlyn had spent the last month holding herself together for the world, always performing, always polished, always fine.

But she wasn’t fine.

She needed Violet.

She needed the only person who saw her without the armor.

Who made the weight a little easier to carry.

Who reminded her of who she was underneath the roles and rehearsals.

And so she met her halfway.

Neither of them stopped.

When they finally reached each other, not rushed, not dramatic, just sure, it felt like a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding.

Violet’s arms wrapped around Caitlyn’s shoulders with a desperation that almost startled her, fingers tightening in the back of her coat. She buried her face against her neck, breathing in that familiar scent like it was the only thing keeping her standing.

Caitlyn held her just as tightly, one hand cradling the back of Violet’s head, the other pulling her impossibly closer. Her eyes fluttered shut.

You’re here.

I missed you so much it physically hurt.

Neither of them spoke.

Not yet.

There wasn’t much to say in that moment, and maybe there didn’t need to be.

The warmth, the closeness, the quiet sense of relief said enough.

They barely noticed the people walking by, or the flight announcements overhead.

All that really mattered was that, for the first time in a while, they were together again.

Violet leaned in, resting her face against Caitlyn’s neck, breathing her in like something familiar, something that felt like home.

She still smelled the same. That soft, clean scent Violet could never quite describe but always recognized. Something like lavender and wind and safety. Like a page in a book that had been folded and unfolded so many times it felt like home.

She hasn’t changed, Violet thought.

And maybe that was what undid her.

Because for weeks, everything had felt like it was slipping, her music, her body, her sense of self. Everything felt cracked and fragile. But Caitlyn… Caitlyn felt steady. Unmoving. Still hers.

She’s still here.

She didn’t give up on me.

She wanted to believe it, with everything in her.

That Caitlyn wouldn’t leave.

That she wouldn’t decide one day that Violet was too much. Too messy. Too broken.

That Caitlyn would stay, even now, after all of it.

The thought hit hard.

Too hard.

A sudden pressure built behind her eyes. A lump rose in her throat. Her arms tightened instinctively around Caitlyn’s shoulders, fingers curling in the fabric of her coat like she could keep her from ever leaving again.

She didn’t cry.

Not fully. Not yet.

But she wanted to.

From relief.

From fear.

From everything.

She felt Caitlyn’s breath against her temple, steady, quiet, and then Caitlyn’s hand smoothing up and down her back, anchoring her like she always did.

And for a second, Violet let herself lean in. Just a little more.

Let herself believe that maybe this time, she wouldn’t have to survive everything alone.

Caitlyn had imagined this moment so many times, Violet stepping through the crowd, the ache in her chest easing, the impossible closeness of finally being near her again.

But nothing had prepared her for the way it actually felt.

The second Violet’s arms wrapped around her, Caitlyn’s breath caught in her throat. Not from surprise, but from something deeper. Something like release.

She held her tightly, one arm around Violet’s waist, the other resting protectively at the back of her head, fingers curling into the fabric of her hoodie. Her heart was pounding, but her hands were steady. Her thoughts, however, weren’t.

What if she doesn’t want this anymore?

What if I’m clinging too hard?

What if she came all this way just to say goodbye?

Caitlyn had spent weeks convincing herself that she was strong enough to handle whatever Violet needed, distance, time, silence.

But the truth was… she was scared.

Terrified.

Of saying too much. Of saying too little.

Of pushing Violet when she was already trying so hard just to stay standing.

Of losing something that had become the best thing in her life without even meaning to.

But here, in this moment, with Violet pressed against her, warm and solid and trembling just the slightest bit, all of that fear went quiet.

Not gone. Just… quiet.

Because there was something about holding her that silenced everything else.

The doubts. The distance. The noise.

Violet was here.

In her arms.

Not walking away.

Just here.

And for the length of that embrace, the world could crumble and Caitlyn wouldn’t notice.

Because for the first time in what felt like forever, she wasn’t pretending to be okay.

She was just allowed to be.

Just Caitlyn. Just Violet.

x-x-x

They pulled back just enough to see each other’s faces, not far, just inches. The air between them was charged and trembling, full of emotion too big for words.

Violet’s hands rested on Caitlyn’s waist, fingers splayed, grounding herself in the warmth and realness of her. Caitlyn’s hands had settled on Violet’s shoulders, her thumbs brushing the thick fabric of the gray sweater, feeling the solid strength beneath, the tension, the muscle, the weight Violet carried even when she said nothing.

She hadn’t realized how much she missed touching her, not just the comfort, but the presence. The reality of her.

Their eyes met.

And that was it.

The pressure behind Caitlyn’s chest pushed higher. Violet’s eyes were glassy, her lips parted like she wanted to say something, but didn’t trust herself to speak.

Caitlyn smiled first, small, soft, full of something raw. Violet mirrored it, crooked and a little tired, but real.

Tears burned just beneath the surface, clinging to their lashes, but neither of them looked away.

Violet blinked, sniffed, and tilted her head slightly. Her voice came out hoarse, but the smirk was unmistakable.

“You look taller,” she murmured. “That, or maybe I shrank from missing you too much.”

Caitlyn let out a breath, half a laugh, half a gasp, her grip on Violet’s shoulders tightening just slightly.

“You’re ridiculous,” she whispered, shaking her head with a quiet smile.

“Yeah,” Violet murmured. “But I showed up”

Caitlyn closed her eyes for a second, overwhelmed.

And then, forehead to forehead, breath mingling, they stayed there, caught in the stillness, in the relief, in the thousand unsaid things held between their bodies.

No one else mattered.

No cameras. No expectations. No fear.

They stayed there for a beat longer, breath to breath, hearts syncing in the quiet hum of the terminal around them. Caitlyn’s thumbs brushed slow circles against Violet’s shoulders, grounding them both in the moment.

Then Caitlyn leaned back just slightly, enough to take in all of Violet’s face, the tired eyes, the wind-chapped lips, the unmistakable smirk trying to push through.

Her voice was soft, laced with warmth and a hint of playfulness.

“So… are we doing the dramatic airport kiss or skipping straight to the part where I pretend I’m not desperate?”

Violet chuckled, fingers brushing lightly at Caitlyn’s side. “Didn’t take long for the charm to turn shameless.”

Caitlyn leaned in just a little, her voice playful. “I’ve had a lot of time to rehearse.”

Violet held her gaze, a half-smile tugging at her lips.

“Then stop stalling.”

Caitlyn leaned in first, but Violet met her halfway, like she always did.

Their lips touched gently, tentatively, the kind of kiss that didn’t rush, that didn’t demand. It lingered, soft and slow, but there was heat underneath it, a quiet fire built from weeks of distance, of sleepless nights, of missing each other in silence.

Violet’s hands slid up, her fingers curling lightly into Caitlyn’s coat. She tilted her head just slightly, deepening the kiss by a breath, her mouth moving with a kind of reverence, like she couldn’t believe she was allowed to taste her again.

Caitlyn, she thought, her chest tightening.

Still here. Still mine.

The bitterness, the guilt, the fear, it all fell away under the weight of her lips. All that was left was this. This moment. This anchor.

Caitlyn’s grip on Violet’s shoulders eased, sliding up to frame her face, fingers splayed against her cheeks like she couldn’t get close enough. She kissed her back with restraint and longing tangled together, her lips trembling slightly at the edges from everything she wasn’t saying.

She is here.

She really is here.

And for the first time in weeks, Caitlyn didn’t feel like she had to be strong. Didn’t have to pose or hold her breath. Violet’s kiss melted the last bit of armor she had left.

When they finally pulled apart, it was slow, their foreheads resting together again, both of them flushed, eyes half-lidded, breath mingling in shallow exhales.

Neither of them spoke right away.

They didn’t need to.

The kiss had said it all.

For that brief, fragile moment, the kiss had quieted everything.

The questions, the doubts, they quieted beneath the warmth of lips meeting, the gentle weight of familiar hands, the shape of something remembered.

The ache of distance, the worry of what might’ve changed, they softened, settled somewhere out of reach, just for now.

The fears didn’t vanish, but they stayed still. Lingering quietly beneath the surface.

Because in that moment, held in the soft hum of the arrival gate, under harsh lights and muted footsteps, they had found their way back to each other.

And that, quietly, was enough.

Chapter Text