Chapter Text
PART TWO
─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───
It starts small.
Vi helping Caitlyn down the porch steps, one hand steady at her elbow, the other hovering just behind her back like she expects her to trip and tumble to an untimely demise.
Cait scowls every time, and Vi pretends not to see it.
She links arms with Caitlyn whenever they walk through town, pulling her a little closer as they cross the cobblestone streets. Caitlyn allows it— until the day they pass a huddle of pigeons. Vi steps in front of her without thinking, shielding her from the birds like they might attack. Cait’s mouth tightens. Her eyes flicks up, then down. She stops walking, shoulders drawing in as she puts a touch of space between them. The message is quiet, but clear.
At home, Vi knows she is relentless. She opens jars before Caitlyn even has a chance to reach for them, pulls out her chair at every meal and every table, drapes a blanket over her lap even when the room isn’t cold. Once, when Caitlyn reached for a pot of tea, Vi was already there, shooting the inanimate object a threatening glare and cradling the handle like it might scald her. Caitlyn had just stared ruthlessly until Vi put it down.
Even Aeris and Tobias take notice.
“You’re worse than I was with Cassandra,” Tobias says dryly one afternoon as Vi helps Caitlyn— who decidedly does not need help— into her rocking chair. “Treating her like glass.”
Vi scoffs. “I’m being proactive.”
“Careful,” Tobias warns, an amused glint in his eye. “Or your hair might start to grey like mine.”
“Excellent, Father,” Caitlyn goads. “Perhaps, with a stroke of luck and a prayer to the Gods, my wife’s vanity will at last impart a measure of sense.”
Vi lets go of Caitlyn’s hand, but not before checking to make sure her wife is properly settled.
Above all, Aeris is merciless.
During dinner one night, Caitlyn drops her fork, and Vi is already halfway to the floor to pick it up when Aeris leans back in their chair, eyebrow cocked. “What’s next? Cutting her food?”
Vi throws them a flat look. “Mind your own business, kid.”
Aeris smirks. “Hard when you two make it so damn entertaining.”
“Language,” Tobias scolds, eyes alight with mirth.
But eventually, Cait snaps.
It happens on an otherwise ordinary evening. They’re reading by the fireplace— Caitlyn curled up in the corner of the couch, Vi stretched out on the floor, one knee bent, her fingers idly tapping against her stomach.
Vi’s gaze flicks toward the book in Caitlyn’s hands. It’s something about parenting— full of clinical diagrams and dense text— the kind of thing Caitlyn pores over like a mission briefing. Her thumb presses thoughtfully against the edge of the page, and Vi can see the slight crease between her brows as she reads. There’s a slip of paper tucked into the spine, scribbled notes in Caitlyn’s neat handwriting curling down the margins.
Vi watches her, chest tight. Then she stands.
Caitlyn tracks the movement with the corner of her eye, suspicious, as Vi fully lifts the armchair nearby and sets it in front of the couch like a puzzle piece.
Vi gestures toward it, innocent. “For your feet.”
Caitlyn lowers her book an inch. “What are you doing?”
“Making sure you’re comfortable.”
“I’m already comfortable. I’m seated on a perfectly adequate couch.”
Vi only shrugs, not trusting her voice. She nudges the chair an inch closer, a silent offering.
Cait’s brow twitches. She closes her book with a soft thump.
“Violet.”
“Cupcake.”
“Enough.” Caitlyn sits up, elbows resting on her knees, eyes sharp. “You’re driving yourself— and by extension, the both of us— quite mad. I don’t require you hovering over me every second.”
Vi’s smile fades. “I’m not—”
“You are.” Caitlyn interrupts, eyes narrowing. “You don’t have to keep up this endless charade, Vi. I’m pregnant, not dying of disease.”
Vi’s gaze drops instinctively toward Caitlyn’s stomach. The bump is subtle, just a gentle swell beneath Caitlyn’s sweater, but Vi’s chest tightens all the same. Her eyes lift back to Caitlyn’s face, which is steady but expectant.
Vi exhales. “Okay. Fine.”
Cait’s eyes narrow further. “Fine?”
Vi flops back down beside the couch, stretching her legs out. “Yep, fine. No more fussing.”
A beat of silence. Then Caitlyn shifts down, pressing her knee against Vi’s shoulder until Vi’s head tilts back. Caitlyn’s hand finds Vi’s hair, fingers threading through pink strands, nails grazing her scalp. Vi’s eyes flutter shut as Caitlyn’s thumb brushes slow circles over her temple.
“Good,” Cait murmurs, her tone softer now. “You work hard enough, darling.”
The room settles around them, the quiet hum of the city filtering through the window. Caitlyn’s book rustles faintly as she turns a page. Vi’s hand drifts over Caitlyn’s calf, resting there, warm and steady.
“…Won’t stop checking in, though,” she murmurs, giving Cait's leg a playful squeeze. “Pretty sure I’m legally obligated under Piltie marital law. Clause seventeen, yeah. ‘Spouses of pregnant people must be obnoxiously attentive at all times’. C’mon, Sheriff Kiramman. Shouldn’t you know this one?”
“Oh, my Violet,” Cait sighs in acknowledgment, thumb tracing over the crease in Vi's brow fondly. “It would be foolish of me to expect anything less.”
─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───
The ballroom hums with low conversation, the warm glow of chandeliers pooling gold across polished marble. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, moonlight spills over the garden, catching the dew on the roses. The crowd is thick, the sound of crystal glasses clinking together mixing with muted laughter and the quiet hum of a string quartet stationed near the fountain.
Aeris and Tobias had chosen to retire to the fireplace earlier, where Aeris was going to teach Tobias how to embroider flowers onto a napkin. Vi had watched them go, Tobias chuckling softly as Aeris no doubt made some snide remark. Which left her here, awkward and alone.
She catches sight of Caitlyn on the far side of the room, standing with a diplomat whose name Vi has already forgotten. Cait’s eyes are sharp, assessing, mouth poised in that elegant little smile that only she can wear without it looking forced. The slate-blue gown clings to her frame, the neckline dipping just enough to make Vi’s mouth dry. Her dark hair is twisted up, loose tendrils curling along the line of her throat.
Vi wants to be there. Close enough to feel the warmth of Cait’s skin beneath silk, to watch her gloved hand gesture with precise ease. To see the way Caitlyn’s mouth quirks with that cutting Kiramman wit— sharp enough to draw blood. To feel the subtle shift in Cait’s shoulders when Vi’s hand settles at the small of her back. Her fingers twitch at her side with the urge to touch, to press close.
But Caitlyn’s working. And Vi knows better than to get in the way when Caitlyn’s working.
So, naturally, that’s when the woman appears.
“Serene,” she introduces herself, low and suggestive.
“Uh— Vi.”
She’s short, blonde, and already too damn close for comfort.
“Funny,” Serene purrs, nails trailing over the inside of Vi’s wrist. “Someone like you showing up here alone.”
Vi stiffens and backs away, eyes flicking toward Caitlyn instinctively. Cait’s gaze is already locked onto them, her expression cooling by the second.
“I’m not alone,” Vi replies flatly. She tips her chin toward Caitlyn. “My wife.”
The woman’s eyes track the movement. “Ah,” she hums. “She looks… occupied.”
Vi resists the urge to scoff. “She’ll be over soon, I’m sure.”
Serene’s eyes dips to Vi’s hand, where her clenched knuckles flex in frustration, hard enough to make the tendons stand out.
“Well,” Serene murmurs, her mouth curling at the edges, “I can’t imagine your hands are getting much use these days. Not with your wife in such a… delicate condition.”
Vi’s breath punches out of her chest. Heat spikes beneath her collar.
“Play nice tonight,” Cait had said. But it was becoming increasingly difficult by the second.
“Excuse me?” Vi grinds out, lip curling in disdain.
“Relax,” Serene chides. “I’m merely suggesting… maybe you need someone a little less fragile.”
Vi’s fist trembles in place.
One swing, she thinks.
Just one—
“Making friends, darling?"
Caitlyn’s voice cuts across the room like a whip. Like a miracle.
Serene freezes. Caitlyn steps between them with ease, heels slicing through the silence. Her gloved hand slides around Vi’s forearm— gentle, but unmistakably possessive. Her smile is pleasant, blue eye glittering beneath the ballroom lights.
“Serene. House Virelle,” the woman offers, extending a hand so decked with jewels it could probably bankroll half of Piltover’s Council and still have change to spare.
Caitlyn’s gaze flicks down to it, then back up, her expression smooth as glass. “Yes, I recall. I curated the guest list myself.”
Serene hums, lifting her champagne flute to her mouth, the gleam of her rings flashing beneath the chandelier light.
“I see you’ve met my wife,” Caitlyn continues, her tone crisp. She appraises the woman’s fuchsia gown with clinical detachment. “That’s quite a striking color. Few would risk it, but your family has never shied away from... spectacle.”
Serene’s smile thins as she clears her throat. “We do try to make an impression.”
Cait’s hand glides down Vi’s arm, light as a breath, until her fingers settle at Vi’s wrist. She lifts Vi’s hand and presses a firm kiss to each knuckle, lingering just a moment too long. Her eyes stay on Vi’s the whole time, dark and steady beneath the dim glow of the ballroom fluorescence.
“You don’t mind if I steal her back for a moment, do you?” Caitlyn asks, honey-sweet. Her lips brush the last knuckle in a final, deliberate caress.
Vi’s breath stumbles. Her heart gives a painful kick against her ribs.
She might die, right here, right on this ballroom floor, in front of Piltover’s finest.
Something flashes in Serene’s eyes, but only for a millisecond. “Of course not, Lady Kiramman,” she mutters, turning to leave. “Enjoy your evening.”
But Caitlyn isn’t finished.
“Lady Virelle,” she calls out, demure. Deceivingly so. “Before you disappear— I couldn’t help but notice how engaged the two of you seemed. It’s heartening, really.”
Vi swallows a snicker.
Serene’s head tilts to the side. “Is it?”
“Of course.” Caitlyn’s smile remains effortless, unwavering. “Vi’s story is… compelling. Growing up an orphan in the belly of the Undercity. Scrounging for every last meal. The resilience it takes to survive that kind of hardship— well, it’s not something most of us could imagine.” A pause, calculated. “I’m sure that’s what you were discussing?”
Serene hesitates, her grip tightening on her glass. “Naturally.”
Caitlyn digs her nails harder into Vi’s wrist. “How rare,” she muses, “for someone with your resources to take such an interest in the plight of my wife’s people. And how fortunate.”
“Fortunate?” Serene flinches.
“Mm.” Caitlyn’s gaze briefly flicks to the woman’s jeweled hand. “After all, there’s still so much rebuilding to be done. So many relief efforts to be completed. Imagine the goodwill someone of your standing could generate by contributing to a cause like that.”
Serene’s expression hardens. “I’m not sure that would be—”
“Oh, don’t be modest. Theatrical flair aside, House Virelle has always possessed such a generous spirit,” Caitlyn interrupts, the threat concealed, yet unmistakable. “It would be such a shame if that philanthropic legacy were somehow overlooked.”
The weight of Caitlyn’s words hangs heavy in the air, everyone falling quiet.
Serene’s mouth flattens as her eyes rove over Vi once more, cold and cutting.
Finally, she lifts her chin. “I’ll consider it.”
“Wonderful,” Caitlyn grins. “I’ll have the details sent over in the morning.”
Serene squashes whatever retort she had prepared, then disappears swiftly into the crowd.
Vi exhales slowly. Caitlyn’s hand stays wrapped around her wrist.
“Well,” Vi drawls, “that was—”
“Don’t,” Cait warns.
Vi’s hand hovers over her wife’s waist, the silk catching beneath her fingertips before settling just under the arc of her hip. The heat of her palm presses in slow, steady— not a question, not a plea, just the gravity of knowing exactly where to touch.
“Jealous, Cupcake?” she murmurs, squeezing.
“Of her?” Caitlyn scoffs, a faint blush rising on her cheeks. “Not remotely.”
Vi’s mouth drops toward Caitlyn’s ear, her breath warming the shell of it. Her thumb strokes lazy circles at Caitlyn’s hip, a barely-there pressure.
“You sure?”
“Shut up.”
“Make me.”
Cait’s eyes darken.
And— well.
It’s going to be a fun night afterall.
─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───
There are a few things Vi knows, without question, how to do very well.
How to throw a good punch.
How to pick a lock in less than thirty seconds.
How to grit her teeth and bear it when her right arm gets that obnoxious twinge.
How to take Caitlyn apart.
How to put her back together.
How to say—
“That’s my girl.
Look at you.
You’re so pretty like this, all spread open for me.
Can you take more?
I know, sweetheart. I know you can.
Oh, you needed this, didn’t you?
Mhm. Harder?
Show me how strong you are, Cupcake.
Good girl, good job.
Beautiful.
Gonna give you everything.
Fuck, gonna fill you up.
Slower? Alright, I’ve got you.
I’m here.
Make me proud.
You make me so proud.
Let go, baby.
Yeah, that’s it.
That’s okay, Cait.
Give it to me.”
And Caitlyn does.
She breaks so beautifully beneath her, splintering in ways Vi knows by heart. Hips stuttering, breath caught, fingers scrambling for purchase at her back, her wrists, her hair— desperate for something, anything to cling to. Caitlyn comes undone in the way Vi loves most, in the way that makes her ache, makes her desperate to watch it happen again, and again, and again.
There are, however, a few things Vi is still learning how to do.
How to make a garden grow.
How to solve crossword puzzles.
How to cook a meal Tobias Kiramman approves of.
How to say thank you.
How to mean it.
But Caitlyn— Gods, she makes it easier. Because when Cait is there, when Cait is pressed against her, when Cait’s words burrow under her skin, each syllable sinking deep, so deep, like a sigil scribed onto her soul, how could Vi say anything but—
“Thank you.” Voice thick with feeling. Hands fisted in the sheets.
Thank you when Caitlyn laps at her soaked, sensitive slit, mouth hot and unrelenting, tongue so devoted that Vi’s head thrashes hard against the pillow.
Thank you when Caitlyn whispers a reverent “Violet,” and the first orgasm is coaxed out of her.
Thank you when Caitlyn doesn’t let up. Vi trembles, boneless and begging, and still Caitlyn keeps her there— pinned in pleasure, hands unwavering, her movements deliberate, practiced, patient— Vi’s own lessons turned cruelly against her. Caitlyn makes her come once, twice, too many times to count, until she is shaking, sweating, wrung out, wrecked.
Thank you when Caitlyn presses her down by the shoulder, her sweet, saccharine breath ghosting over Vi’s kiss-swollen lips as she murmurs, “I promised I’d shut you up.”
Thank you when Caitlyn climbs on top, sinking down nice and slow. Her nails carve crescent moons into the headboard as she takes control, using her, possessing her, riding her face like Vi was made for this alone. Vi is drowning, her world shrinking to the slick heat against her mouth, to the way Caitlyn sobs when she flicks her tongue just right, to the bounce of her tits as she moves, claiming Vi without shyness— chasing the release she craves. Vi can’t get enough, her nose nudging Cait’s clit, a whimper escaping as she loses herself completely now.
There is only Caitlyn— soft, stubborn Caitlyn.
Only the heady heat of her, the wonderful weight of her, the ravenous roll of her hips. The resulting gasps are quick, musical, rising higher and higher in pitch until they shatter into ragged cries, her body convulsing around a choked moan.
Caitlyn comes. Vi watches. Watches the way she arches. Watches and loves her so much it hurts.
Tears slip down her cheeks unbidden. Tonight, she doesn’t even try to stop them. She’s beyond shame, beyond embarrassment. It’s all a sacred part of the surrender.
“Thank you for this,” when Caitlyn lowers herself, gentle now, pressing the tenderest of kisses to Vi’s wet cheeks, tongue catching on salt.
Vi is lost. Found.
Open and raw, ruptured and whole.
And Cait is the one who makes it all possible.
“So good, Vi. You’re so good.”
Vi lets Caitlyn believe it. Lets the possibility of it seep into her bones.
Thinks, for the thousandth time, thank you, thank you, thank you.
─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───
Breakfast the next morning is a silent endeavor.
Caitlyn, wearing Vi’s dress shirt, is hiding the marks beneath her collar— it’s not too obvious, but one particular bruise peeks out, enough to make Vi bite back a grin. She is taking a languid sip from her coffee and fighting the overwhelming urge to smirk when she catches Aeris staring at them, brow furrowed in suspicion.
They take a slow sip from their juice, eyes flicking between Cait and Vi.
Back and forth. Back and forth.
Aeris sets down their glass with a deliberate clink. “Gods, you guys are gross.”
“I’m afraid I don’t quite grasp the implication behind your words,” Caitlyn declares, and Vi winces in pain. She loves the woman, but Gods, she is a terrible liar.
Aeris leans back in their chair, a smirk tugging at their lips. “Got real busy last night, huh?”
Caitlyn nearly chokes.
Vi sighs, shrugging in admission. “Yeah, we’re not exactly known for our restraint.”
“Violet.”
“C’mon, Cait. They’re fifteen, not five.”
Aeris pretends to gag. “Married people aren’t supposed to actually like each other. Isn’t that kinda the whole point?”
Vi straightens, her grin widening like a cat who’s just swiped the cream. “Someday, kid, you’ll fall in love—”
“Not likely,” Aeris interrupts, deadpan.
“—and then you’ll be just as awful as us.”
Aeris snorts, rolling their eyes. “Nope. No thanks.”
Vi, unable to resist the dangling bait, leans over and gives Caitlyn’s cheek a wet kiss. Caitlyn’s eyes widen, but she doesn’t protest, the tips of her ears flushing red.
Aeris glares dramatically. “Like I said. Gross.”
─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───
Vi sits in the chair, eyes closed, as Caitlyn’s fingers move gently through her hair. The quiet snip of scissors fills the bathroom, strands of pink drifting to the tile. It’s an old ritual, familiar between them, a kind of care that doesn’t need naming.
Aeris watches from the doorway, arms crossed, their own hair a tangled curtain past their waist. Their fingers twitch at their sides.
When Cait steps back, running a hand through Vi’s fresh cut, Aeris shifts. “Can you do mine?”
Vi turns, brow raised. “You sure?”
Aeris nods. Steps forward. Sits.
Caitlyn gathers a thick section, lifts the scissors. The first cut is tentative, just past their ribs.
Aeris exhales. “More.”
Caitlyn obliges, bringing it to their shoulders.
A pause. Then— “More.”
The scissors glide again, locks slipping to the floor. Just below their chin now, uneven waves curling at the edges.
Aeris stares at their reflection. Breathes. Then, softly— “A little more, I think.”
Cait locks eyes with Vi. Hesitates for only a moment before getting to work again. Thoughtful. Precise. Vi tilts her head, studying Aeris’s reflection. The cut is almost there, but— she gestures, a silent note, and Caitlyn adjusts. A little more at the front, a softer angle at the sides.
Vi knows bad haircuts. The kind done in dim light with dull scissors, jagged ends sticking out at odd angles. Her mother’s handiwork— more hacking than trimming— but always done with love, her voice warm at Vi’s back.
"Hold still, Violet. I'm almost done, honey."
The hum of a half-forgotten tune, the strong scent of axle grease, the way she’d sometimes cut too much and laugh, trying to fix it. Vi had run her hands through the uneven ends and grinned anyway. Every time.
She watches Caitlyn now, working diligently, and huffs a quiet breath of amusement to herself. At least this time, nobody has to lie about liking the results.
Aeris lifts a hand, twining tentative fingers through the short, green strands. Their reflection is new, unfamiliar. But something in their gaze unfurls.
Vi grins, ruffling their hair. “Look at you, Aer. Feels different, huh?”
Aeris swats Vi’s hands away petulantly and nods, slow, like they’re testing the weight of it. Their mouth twitches, a smile threatening.
Caitlyn brushes the stray clippings from their shoulders. “I believe this rather suits you.”
Aeris studies their reflection a moment longer, then releases a breath— deep, steady.
They don’t say it, but Vi sees it in their eyes.
Lighter.
─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───
Vi watches from the window, the glass cool against her forehead, the city humming low in her bones. Work had been long and arduous, full of slammed doors and non-committal answers, her own voice hoarse from asking the same damn questions over and over— where can Aeris go? Who will take them? More importantly, who is fit?
No one.
No one.
No one.
She exhales. Below, the sun lays itself out across the training grounds, gold and heavy. Caitlyn moves like a steady current, natural, concise, and Aeris— Aeris is a storm bottled tight, frustration winding tight in their shoulders, their grip too rigid around the gun. Vi watches the shot go wide, the way Aeris clenches their jaw, tips their head back like they’re gritting some nasty words behind their teeth. They are, probably.
Caitlyn steps in, calm and certain. Hands at Aeris’s wrist, their shoulder, reshaping the way they stand. Vi watches how Aeris lets her. No flinching, no stiff recoil. Just a nod, an adjustment.
Interesting. They try again.
The bullet finds a home closer to the mark. Not perfect, but better. Aeris blinks at the target like they don’t quite believe it. Caitlyn says something— Vi can’t hear it, but she sees the smile, small and knowing. And then Aeris laughs. Loud, unguarded, a sound that rings against the air like something breaking open. Vi swallows hard.
She should feel relief. She should feel like progress is within reach, like soon, this weight will lift. But something unfurls in her chest, slow and aching, a thread pulled loose. She’s had Aeris for weeks upon weeks now, searching for a way to stitch the edges together, a solution that always slips just beyond her grasp. And yet—
And yet.
She lingers at the window, longer than she should. Watching them. Watching this. The way Aeris’s shoulders ease, the way Caitlyn steadies their hands, murmuring something low and patient. The way the sunlight stretches long across the grass, warm and golden, like it means something.
Vi should turn away. Should keep searching. Should—
“Take a breath, my love.”
That’s what Caitlyn would say. “You’re too tense here,” a finger tracing strained muscles.
She breathes. In. Out. Allows her shoulders to drop.
Maybe she’ll stop the search.
Just for now.
Just for a little while.
Or maybe… just for a little longer than that.
─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───
Caitlyn sleeps like she’s losing a fight.
One arm crooked under her head, jaw locked tight, uniform half-shucked, collar askew. Her boots are laced tight, like she meant to get up again. Like she never intended to go down.
The lamp burns low. Paperwork spills across the coffee table in little avalanches— some of it her’s, some of it Cait’s, all of it abandoned. A sandwich sits half-eaten beside a hefty stack of folders, the lettuce wilted and browning at the edges.
No appetite. No time.
Vi stands in the doorway, fists clenching and unclenching, dread sinking heavy into her gut. She’s been standing there a while. Watching. Counting the quiet ways Caitlyn keeps slipping further out of reach.
Dinner going cold.
Conversations turning to briefings.
Falling asleep mid-sentence, mid-breath, mid-touch.
Inches apart, worlds away.
The baby’s fine. Regular checkups. Every test passed with flying colors.
It’s not the baby.
It’s them.
Caitlyn shifts, murmuring something half-dreamed and fussy. Her hand moves to rest on her belly, protective and instinctual, and Vi feels her heart stutter at the sight. A beat later, Cait breathes out another word— soft as a prayer. “Violet.”
Vi moves at last. She crosses the room and sinks to her knees beside her wife, fingers working carefully at Caitlyn’s boots, undoing the stubborn laces one by one. Her hand brushes Caitlyn’s ankle— warm, fleeting— and she swallows against the sudden lump in her throat.
“Right here, Cupcake.”
She works the rest of the uniform free, tugging the sleeve from Caitlyn’s arm. Finds the throw blanket from the back of the couch and wraps it around her, tucking it close. Switches off the lamp. Lets the darkness fold in.
Vi stays there, kneeling, close enough to feel the slow, steady rise of Caitlyn’s chest. Close enough to remind herself that even now— even bone-weary— Caitlyn is still reaching for her.
Still trying.
Still hers.
─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───
Vi watches from the hall, weight resting against the doorframe, arms crossed like a shield.
Inside, Caitlyn is buried in paperwork, half her face caught in the narrow band of afternoon light spilling through the window. It draws a clean line upon her cheek, sets the ink on her papers glowing faintly gold. The other half of her is lost in shadow.
She hasn’t noticed Vi. Or at least, she refuses to look up.
Vi exhales. She doesn’t say anything— just watches.
Like if she stares long enough, Cait’ll finally take a break. Or take a breath.
“She gets that from my wife, you know.”
Vi jumps, turning around, her fist aimed and ready to fly.
Tobias holds up his palms in surrender, grinning faintly.
“My apologies. I had no intention of startling you,” he says, sounding particularly pleased with himself. “You looked about ready to bite my head off.”
“Only if you’re wearing a council pin,” Vi bristles, letting her fist fall.
She crosses her arms again, tighter than before.
Tobias steps up beside her, folding his hands behind his back.
They stand shoulder to shoulder in the quiet hush of the hallway, observing Caitlyn from afar, caught in the midst of her usual relentless push— like a current that won’t let up.
“Cait’s doing too much,” Vi whispers finally. “Again. I’ve been trying to get her to slow down for weeks. Every time I bring it up, she acts like I’m the one being unreasonable.”
Tobias hums knowingly.
“Caitlyn is her mother’s daughter,” he chuckles. “Once, Cassandra was so deep into a zoning dispute I had to stage a fake infrastructure emergency just to drag her out of a council meeting. She was already in labor. Swore up and down she could deliver and debate a trade clause at the same time.”
Vi huffs, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Sounds familiar.”
Tobias gives her a sideways glance. “You’re not fighting her, you know. You’re fighting for her.”
“Doesn’t feel like it,” Vi grumbles. “She’s killing herself trying to pick up everybody's slack. Half the council’s still licking their wounds from the war— whatever’s left of it, anyway. The rest are too scared to approve anything that might look like change.”
She pauses, the words leaving a bitter taste in her mouth.
Why she’s telling Tobias this— she can’t say. They don’t share secrets, fears. Only brief courtesies.
It's better that way, she thinks. Easier.
Still, against every inclination in her body, the words come.
“Cait and I put forward this proposal— take a portion of the Enforcer budget, redirect it to rebuilding Zaun. Not just patching holes. Schools. Clinics. Trees in the dirt. Programs for kids who never got to choose a side in this mess.” She snorts, but there’s no humor in it. “You’d think we asked them to burn Progress Day to the ground."
Tobias nods thoughtfully. “They’re afraid.”
“They’re cowards,” Vi snaps. “They want things back the way they were. Like that worked.”
He doesn’t disagree.
“Sevika’s on my ass about it too,” Vi adds. “Told me if Piltover won’t help, Zaun will take care of its own. Caitlyn wants to stop another powder keg from lighting, not hand Sevika the damn match."
Her gaze drifts back to the office.
The light has shifted— catching on the line of Caitlyn’s collarbone, highlighting the faint curve of her mouth. She’s scribbling, chasing something across the page with fierce determination.
“Caitlyn’s been pushing just as hard,” she says, voice lower now, like the truth isn’t meant to echo too loud. “Trying to make them listen. But they don’t see her. Not really. To them it’s all some fantasy. A kid’s idea of justice.”
“They always say that about every proposal,” Tobias mutters, shaking his head. “And yet, somehow, you two always drag those proposals right across the finish line.”
Vi lets out a breath, long and steady. “I just don’t want to see her torn apart any longer.”
“She’s tougher than you give her credit for,” he tosses back.
“Oh, I know she’s tough,” Vi mutters. “That’s the problem. If it weren’t for the baby, I don’t think she’d stop. I don’t think she’d know how.”
Cait blinks in concentration, oblivious to the both of them. Vi's mind lingers— on her past mistakes, the ones her wife carries like shrapnel under the skin.
The ones she pretends not to carry anymore.
“She’ll come around, in time," Tobias vows.
Right on cue, Caitlyn turns another page.
Violet hopes— really hopes— that the old man is right.
─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───
Caitlyn bursts through the bedroom door that evening, her bag hitting the chair with a heavy thud. She’s already tugging at her navy uniform, frustration carved into every movement.
Vi acts on instinct, crossing to the dresser, yanking open the drawer, fingers curling around Caitlyn’s indigo nightgown. The fabric is cool against her skin as she turns back—
But Caitlyn doesn’t slow. She’s already stripped down, yanking off the last of her clothes impatiently. Her boots land with a dull sound, a low groan slipping from her lips. One second she’s standing, shoulders rigid, wound tight, the next she’s sinking into the mattress, legs spreading wide, so wide, as she exhales.
Vi’s jaw nearly hits the floor.
Caitlyn’s dripping. Dripping and—
“Cait—?” she splutters.
“Fuck me,” Caitlyn demands.
The nightgown slips from Vi’s hands, forgotten.
She doesn’t need to be told twice.
─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───
“Are you gonna tell me what’s—?"
“Tomorrow.”
“Cait.”
“May I sit on your face?”
“You— we can’t just… Caitlyn!”
“Is that a no?”
“In the morning.”
“Mm.”
“We’re talking about this in the morning.”
“Naturally.”
─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───
They don’t talk about it in the morning.
Morning finds Vi alone, awash in sun and silence. No warm press of Caitlyn’s thigh against hers, no soft hair tickling her shoulder, no steady breathing on the back of her neck. Just a dent in the pillow and a note leaning against the lamp, straight-backed and smug.
There's been a work emergency, darling.
I'll miss our morning coffee terribly.
—C.
Vi huffs. Out loud. Like the note might take the hint and scurry off.
It has the audacity to remain put.
And worse, it’s been sprayed— of course it has— with that delicious lavender-peppery perfume that clings to Cait’s uniform collar, and the crook of her neck, and the backs of her knees, and—
Vi rolls her eyes at the thought so hard it ought to give her a headache.
It doesn’t. Instead, she breathes the scent in deep, disgusted with herself for softening so quickly.
Irritation creeps in— not at Caitlyn, not quite. More at the unbearable intimacy of being known.
That she’d think to leave Vi with something that might make her smile through the grumbling.
That she probably penciled in “meltdown” between “breakfast” and “patrol”.
That she’s right. That it does make Vi feel better.
And that makes Vi mad, which makes her madder, and suddenly she’s knee-deep in an argument that Caitlyn’s not even around to have with her.
Worst of all? She’s losing. Miserably.
Vi drags herself to the bathroom, muttering mutiny under her breath, and splashes cold water on her face like it might rinse off the ridiculous tenderness tugging at her heartstrings.
There’s another note taped to the mirror— smack dab in the middle. Like it owns the place.
I imagine you're already scowling.
Shall I read to you by the hearth tonight?
You bring the tea. I'll bring the dramatics.
—C.
Vi stares at it. The faucet’s still running. Her face is dripping. Her heart is traitorous and soft.
“Goddamn it,” she mutters.
Folds the note in half. Tucks it into their bedside drawer with all the others.
─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───
When Vi finally arrives home from work, her shoulders are tight from hours of bureaucratic bullshit— signing reports, talking parents off ledges, walking kids through the kind of heartbreak most adults don’t survive. Her jacket is laden with street dust, her patience wearing thinner than the soles of her shoes.
The manor is still. Tranquil. Gold-lit. Warmth bleeds from the corridor, a hush wrapped in flickering light. The scent of jasmine floats through the air.
Vi follows the trail blindly.
The sun spills into the fireplace room in amber ribbons, brushing the floor like silk. And there— bathed in the soft glow of evening— is Caitlyn. She lounges like a cat on the chaise, long and lazy, with a pot of tea steaming beside her, two cups waiting, and a carefully arranged stack of books nearby. A familiar gleam dances in her eyes.
“Well,” she says, smirking. “Look who’s survived another day.”
Vi doesn’t miss a beat. “If I have to hunt down one more goddamn signature for some useless form that’ll vanish into Zaun’s bottomless pit of paperwork, I’m taking hostages.”
“Mm,” Caitlyn nods. “This morning I had to mediate a six-hour dispute over public urination, so if anyone’s taking hostages, get in line.”
With a full-bodied groan, Vi sinks to her knees in front of her wife. She loops her arms loosely around Caitlyn’s hips and presses a gentle kiss to the swell of her pregnant belly.
“We should unionize,” she mumbles, cheek resting against Cait’s thigh, eyes fluttering shut.
Caitlyn’s fingers slide into her hair, slow and familiar.
“Darling,” she murmurs, dragging her nails lightly along Vi’s scalp. “I am the union.”
Vi laughs. “You win.”
Caitlyn smiles. “I always do.”
Three sharp knocks interrupt the short-lived peace.
“Everybody decent?” comes Aeris’s voice, muffled through the door.
Vi sighs, not unkindly. “Come on in, kid.”
Aeris rushes in immediately, wind-tousled and wide-eyed. “So I was up on the roof and—”
“You were up on the roof?” Caitlyn repeats, scandalized.
“Adjacent to the roof,” Aeris amends, shrugging. “Semantics.”
Vi stands, bracing her hands on her hips. “That’s not what semantics means.”
Aeris rolls their eyes, arms crossing with flair. “Well, that’s what it means to me.”
Vi pinches the bridge of her nose, breathing deep.
“Anyway,” they barrel on, seemingly unbothered. “Thought you might wanna know there’s a tall, pissed-off lady with a giant metal arm banging on your front door.”
Caitlyn and Vi lock eyes.
“Sevika,” they groan in perfect unison, the joy vacuumed clean from their voices.
Vi’s already moving, snapping into motion like a spring-loaded trap, jacket drawn tighter as her whole body tilts toward confrontation. “Aeris, go to your room.”
“What? But—” they splutter. “But you’re the one who told me roof-hopping builds character!”
Cait shoots Vi a sidelong look, one brow arched in elegant disbelief.
“Semantics,” Vi mutters in explanation, deadpan, before turning back to Aeris. “You’re not in any kind of trouble, alright? Forget about the damn roof. Just— please. Room.”
Aeris plants their feet, chin lifting in protest. “This is so unfair.”
Caitlyn’s voice cuts through the tension like a well-honed blade— calm, cool, and absolute.
“Has Vi ever asked you to do something for any reason other than to keep you safe?”
A pause.
They don’t offer an answer— but their shoulders drop. Just a fraction.
Somewhere down the hall, something crashes.
Footsteps now. Heavy. Sure. Getting closer.
Sevika storms into the room like a lit fuse, all momentum and muscle, a weapon drawn in the shape of a woman. Her shoulders are squared confidently, metal arm flexing with a quiet hiss, jaw set like stone.
Behind her, poor Lena stumbles into view, breathless and flushed. “I-I tried to tell her you were in the middle of— something—”
No one responds. No one dares.
It is Aeris who breaks the insufferable, prolonged silence.
“I think, uh—” they stutter, already halfway out the door. “I think Tobias maybe needed something. From me. Out in the, um. Garden.”
They’re gone in a flash, so quick Vi has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.
“Councillor,” Caitlyn greets at last, tone frostbitten.
Sevika growls her dissent. “Let’s not play dress-up, Kirammans.”
She straightens to her full height, towering closer, the mechanical hum of her prosthetic arm underscoring each deliberate movement. “I see Piltover’s still deciding what scraps Zaun’s allowed to lick off the floor.”
Caitlyn doesn’t so much as flinch. “On that, we agree. It’s unacceptable.”
“Oh, spare me the diplomacy.” Sevika’s words curl like smoke. “It’s bad enough we only get one seat at the damn table. You—” She stabs a finger toward Cait. “—you swore to have my back on this initiative. But I should’ve known better than to expect anything from Sheriff Topsider.”
“Topsider or not,” Vi says, stiffening. “We care about the Undercity. I’m from the Undercity.”
Sevika scoffs. “You sure as hell don’t act like it.”
Vi shoulders herself in front of her wife, chest flaring with bitter disdain. “What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?”
Sevika just turns her head slightly, gaze sweeping pointedly across the polished furniture, the glowing light fixtures, the high ceilings and clean lines of the Kiramman estate. Her metal arm shifts at her side as she scowls. “You tell me, Vi.”
Vi’s laugh is a bitter scrape. “Right. Says the councillor who didn’t even blink at cashing her stipend the second they handed it to her. Don’t you dare claim moral superiority— not when your shimmer ops left kids working until they dropped dead. Left families torn to pieces. Families I piece back together for a living.”
Vi sidles closer, until they’re chest to chest now, the ghost of old brawls echoing between them.
That's when Caitlyn steps in.
“As Sheriff, I’ve been working round the clock,” she says. “Vi and I have put forth five separate amendments to reallocate funding. We’re not the enemy.”
“No, you’re not,” Sevika sneers, taking a single step back. “You’re just Piltover’s finest.”
Caitlyn’s eyes narrow. “I beg your pardon.”
Vi feels it before she knows it. That twitch in the air. The weightless second before a fight. Her pulse kicks up, hot and insistent, and the hairs on her arms rise like a war drum’s beat.
Sevika grins slyly, towering overhead. “Looks like the bitch still has her bite.”
A fleck of spit lands on Caitlyn’s cheek.
Vi rushes forward, her body coiled tight, ready to pounce. But Caitlyn’s hand lifts— a gentle flick of the wrist, barely a touch— and she stills, knuckles aching nonetheless.
Caitlyn’s voice is calmer than her eyes. “Trying to acquire a second seat for Zaun would mean revoking an existing member’s position. Councillor Shoola has expressed willingness time and time again— but her voice matters. She’s a stabilizer. A rational counterweight in chambers that are already leaning too far.”
Sevika scoffs, the sound like metal grating over gravel. “How noble. Just like you were, huh? Six years ago, giving up your family’s seat? Yet here you are, still tangled up in Piltie politics. Funny how that works, Commander Kiramman.”
Caitlyn’s flinches at the harrowing title, her eyes flashing with remorse.
Vi feels a cruel chill snake down her spine.
“I’ve advocated tirelessly for the Firelights to have representation,” Caitlyn spits, volume rising now, words raw and whethered. “My powers are limited. I have no vote. But I will persist in using my voice— and the weight of my family’s legacy— to serve the interests of all our people.”
Sevika fires back with a venomous barb, her words slashing through the air like broken glass.
The argument swells— thunder rolling in the distance, crashing louder, fracturing into shards of fury. Vi stands helplessly in the eye of the storm, ears ringing, every word blurred and warped, a kaleidoscope of noise and fury that makes her head spin.
A bolt of lightning cleaves through Vi’s mind.
She sees—
Caitlyn, pressed against a cold, unforgiving wall.
Caitlyn, with a hand clamped in an iron grip around her throat.
Caitlyn, words flying furiously past her lips, the unmistakable swell of her pregnant belly framed beneath the soft drape of her clothes.
Caitlyn, face to face with Sevika.
Sevika, whose arm lifts in frustration.
Vi doesn’t think.
She moves. Fast.
Sevika snarls as Vi shoves her backward, launching like a storm unleashed.
Fists swing.
Flesh on metal.
Vi tries.
She tries to keep up.
Tries to remember—
Duck.
Counter.
Win.
But she’s slower than she used to be, every instinct dulled, rust flaking from joints that once moved without direction.
The old rhythm is gone.
And Vi— out of practice, out of her depth— blocks with her face.
Pain bursts white behind her eyes.
She cries out, vision swimming.
A heartbeat too long.
Rough fingers twist in the collar of her shirt, wrenching her off balance.
She’s lifted— suddenly weightless, suddenly small— a ragdoll in Sevika’s grip.
And then—
A click, clean and final, slicing through the room.
Everything halts.
Caitlyn stands tall and fierce amidst the chaos, rifle retrieved and raised, the barrel leveled with deadly precision at Sevika’s head.
“Enough,” she commands. “We’ll discuss this in a civil forum when I bring my next proposal to the council. Not now, and certainly not in our home.”
Sevika lets out a harsh breath.
She releases Vi— who crumples to the floor like a marionette with cut strings— and storms out without another word.
The floor does nothing to soften Vi’s landing.
She tastes copper.
Feels her knuckles pulsing.
Sees the blood trickling steadily from her nose, staining the carpet a sickening red.
“Violet—”
“Let’s not.”
Violet staggers towards the bedroom, limping.
This is definitely not the evening she’d had in mind.
─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───
Vi flinches at the sting of cloth against her scraped skin.
Caitlyn’s touch is tender, almost timid, but it pulls a wince from her anyway.
Low, wavering candlelight spills across the bedroom, catching the elegant cut of Caitlyn's jaw, the puckered scar arcing over her left eye, the quiet crease in her brow as she works with unspoken care, each movement precise enough to make Vi feel seen and skinned at once.
Silence swells.
Unnatural. All-consuming.
Vi wants to vanish.
Slip beneath the floorboards.
Become something hollow.
Something harmless.
She shouldn’t have fought with Sevika. She knows that. She knows it like muscle memory, like the regret burning itself into the backs of her eyelids. But she also knows— with bone-deep certainty— that for Caitlyn, she would do it all again. Because the flame inside never asks permission to devour. Just one spark, and it's swallowing the room whole.
“You’re an idiot,” Caitlyn chides affectionately, wringing out the cloth in the bowl beside her, water dark and rusted red.
Vi tries to laugh, but the sound doesn’t make it past the knot in her throat. “I know.”
“The council is going to hound me for this.”
“I know.”
“I could’ve handled it.”
“I know, Cait,” Vi repeats, fragile this time. Cracked down the middle.
Vi doesn’t look at her. She can’t. The look Caitlyn offers up is too kind, too open, too much like grace and not enough like punishment. Vi doesn’t want to face the forgiveness waiting there.
Tears prick at her vision, painful in their persistence, as her own memories claw at her throat.
A brawler who can’t keep her fists to herself.
A brawler who can’t keep her fists to herself.
A brawler who can’t keep—
In one fluid motion, Caitlyn’s hands come down over hers.
Still. Steady. Sweet.
Only then does Vi realize she is trembling.
Caitlyn reaches for her chin, achingly gentle, tilting her face upward with fingers that ask more than they take. She doesn’t speak. Just waits patiently— a question etched onto her face.
The words slip out before Vi can stop them. “What if the baby turns out like me?”
Caitlyn freezes.
Something flickers behind her lashes— surprise, maybe sorrow— but she doesn't let go.
The room is soundless but for the rasp of Vi's hitching breath.
Vi thinks back to the children in the market— to their small, paint-splotched hands.
And then, she sees Powder’s hands— covered in soot and ink and wire, hands made for building, not breaking.
Hands made for beauty, not violence. Delicate, dexterous things. Artist’s hands.
Even as a child, Powder created where Vi destroyed.
“What if they’ve got... whatever this is.” Vi gestures at herself, unraveling. “This… switch that flips inside of me. What if I don’t know how to teach them to live with it? What if I break them— the way I... the way I broke—”
The thought spirals out of control, too fast to catch, and then she’s gasping— grief ripping through her forcibly, tears streaking hot and unchecked down her face.
Caitlyn is there, swiping away each and every drop.
When she finally speaks, her voice is the balm Vi didn't know she needed.
"I hope she's exactly like you."
Vi jolts, startled.
Caitlyn doesn't let up.
“I hope she’s stubborn. Loud. Impossible,” she says, hushed. “I hope she breaks the rules when they’re unjust. I hope she throws punches for people who can’t throw their own.”
Her eyes bore into Vi's as she plants a kiss to one of her bloodied knuckles.
“I hope she has your laugh. Your kindness," Caitlyn breathes. "Your beautiful, generous heart. The part of you that won’t give up on people, no matter how much it hurts. The part that will never, ever stop loving her.”
More kisses. One, two, three.
Vi is weeping now. Ugly, unrestrained. Caitlyn weeps with her.
Eventually, Vi manages to speak through the wreckage of her sobs. “Her?”
Caitlyn's laugh bubbles up, watery and warm. “Haven’t you been paying any attention to the book? Kiramman women always end up with daughters. It's practically our destiny. I'm hardly an exception."
Vi laughs shakily, leaning in, letting Caitlyn's love surround her senses.
A shield of her own.
“I’m scared too, you know.” Caitlyn’s tone is lofty, but the words land hard— like the truth always does.
“I’m terrified,” she admits. “Of not being enough. Of our world not changing fast enough.”
And then the pieces fall into place for Vi, all at once.
This is why Cait has been working so damn hard. Why her hands are always pushing, reaching, chasing the path of progress like it’s the only promise she can make a reality.
Caitlyn wants to create a future worthy of their life.
Their family.
“But then I remember,” she murmurs, snapping Vi out of her thoughts. “I’m doing this with you, Violet. And somehow, that makes everything feel entirely possible."
Their foreheads meet, a gentle collision, breaths mingling in the small space between them— two heartbeats syncing into one.
"It's alright to be afraid," Caitlyn whispers, lips brushing Vi's. "But be afraid with me."
"Okay, Cait," Violet chokes out, trembling with fear. With insurmountable hope. "Okay."
─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───
Caitlyn had drifted off sometime between chapter six and Vi’s third sarcastic comment about the Kiramman family’s color-coded developmental milestones chart— painstakingly curated by a nanny with two degrees and, apparently, a vendetta against spontaneity.
It had taken them the better part of the evening to arrive here— tea cups steaming beside them, adrenaline finally cooling in their veins. A truce carved out in quiet companionship, in the rustle of pages and the faint clink of porcelain. After everything that had come before, the simple act of sitting down together and reading felt practically rebellious.
The patter of footsteps draws Vi’s out of her leisurely haze.
Aeris stands there, silhouetted in the dim glow of the hearth, their face fixed in an unreadable expression.
“You should be in bed,” Vi says softly, more an invitation than a reprimand.
Aeris shrugs. “Wasn’t tired.”
Vi hums, tilting her head toward the dozing form beside her. “Then you came to the wrong room. Cait’s drooling on the pillow.”
That earns her something— a breath that catches at the edge of a laugh, quick and startled like they didn’t mean to let it out. The tiniest crack in their armor.
Vi takes it as a win.
Aeris's gaze drifts from Caitlyn, curled against Vi’s side, to Vi herself— and then quickly away, as if eye contact might cost them something.
They shift their weight. Uncross their arms. Recross them.
“That lady didn’t seem very…” They fumble for the right word. “Nice.”
Vi raises a brow. “Sevika?”
Aeris nods, wary.
“She’s not all bad,” Vi says, the words tasting strange in her mouth. “Wants what’s best for Zaun, at least in her own way. But she’s made a mess of it more than once. Hurt a lot of people.”
Aeris picks at a loose thread on their sweater sleeve, eyes fixed on the rug.
“She hurt you,” they mumble.
Vi nods. “Yeah. She did.”
The fire pops, underscoring the silence that falls between them.
Aeris’s voice, when it comes again, is almost lost in the crackle.
“Are you, um…” They falter, fidgeting. “You’re pretty tough, huh?”
Vi feels it then— that quiet, wordless worry tucked into the question like a note slipped under a door.
The way their voice shakes. The way they can’t quite meet her eyes.
Her heart twists, aching in that deep, protective place.
She smirks. “I’ve taken a few hits, yeah.”
Then, gentler, “But I’m okay, kid. You don’t have to worry about me.”
Aeris bites their lip. “You didn’t talk much. At dinner.”
Vi softens, her voice dropping. “Just a lot on my mind.”
Another pause. Aeris shifts again. “I can go back to my room. I just—”
They stop.
Vi waits.
Aeris finally blurts, “...You were reading.”
Vi lifts the book slightly, showcasing its monotonous pages. “Piltie parenting techniques interest you that much?”
Aeris exhales like they’re jumping off a cliff. “I used to fall asleep to people reading. Back when…”
They don’t finish.
Vi doesn’t ask them to.
There’s a tightness in Aeris’s frame that speaks louder than words.
When they finally meet Vi’s eyes again, it’s fleeting— but brave.
“Could you…” They trail off. "Will you read to me, too?"
Vi doesn't hesitate.
"Of course,” she murmurs, motioning to the opposite couch. “Settle in.”
By the middle of the third paragraph, Aeris is out cold— snoring loud enough to stir the whole damn neighborhood.
She brushes a sweaty curl from their forehead.
Behind her, the floor creaks once again.
This time, it's Tobias who pads in, eyes sweeping from Caitlyn— drooling unabashedly in Vi’s old spot on the chaise— to Aeris on the couch, dead to the world.
“I heard it was a long night,” he says, in a tone unfamiliar to Vi. “Aeris was beside themselves. I managed to beat them at cards twice, which concerned me greatly."
Vi sighs heavily, dragging a hand over her sore jaw. “Yeah. It’s been… a lot.”
Tobias leans over Cait, pressing a fleeting kiss to her brow. Her heart warms at the sight.
Abruptly, he turns to Vi, declaring— "You have done exceedingly well for my Caitlyn."
The words fall like rare jewels, precise and formal, yet wrapped in a tender luxury Vi never thought she'd be on the receiving end of. Her chest tightens, a sharp, sudden ache blooming there, and the moisture in her eyes refuses to be held back.
“Thank you, Tobias,” she mutters, lost for words.
He inclines his head, chuckling lightly. “Perhaps it’s time we put aside these absurd formalities. You may call me ‘Dad,’ if that pleases you.”
Under any normal circumstance, Vi would be halfway through a joke about his phrasing already— but the words stick in her throat.
All she can manage is a shaky, “Yeah… okay. That— yeah. That pleases me.”
He nods once, curtly, as though some silent contract has been signed in full. Then, without ceremony, he makes his way the to where Aeris lies asleep, twisted in a contorted position and half-wrapped in a blanket that’s now slipped to the floor. With a careful touch, he props their pillow higher and tucks them in.
“I daresay,” he murmurs, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he glances back at Vi, “you’ve done well by them, too.”
Vi’s breath stalls, mouth agape.
She’s not sure what shocks her more— the words themselves, or the absolute certainty in them.
It’s not a compliment tossed like a bone, not a peace offering.
It’s belief.
Trust.
Approval.
Her throat aches. She nods, eyes glistening.
He turns to go, pausing in the doorway just long enough to glance at her one last time.
“Goodnight, Violet.”
Caitlyn's words echo insistently inside her head. "It's alright to be afraid."
She swallows, then musters the courage.
"Goodnight... Dad."