The kitchen was pitch dark, save for a faint wash of cold blue light spilling from the corner—courtesy of an old Piltover-style fridge. You were barefoot, standing on the cold floor, sneaking a spoonful of cake into your mouth like some kind of menace. Yeah. You’d spent the whole night avoiding Caitlyn and Vi, and now you were starving.

“You always eat like this when you can’t sleep?” Vi’s voice came from the doorway, slow and low—but you swear adrenaline started pumping through your veins the moment you heard it. You could hear every step she took, clear as day. Busted. The cake in your hand suddenly felt enormous, like there was no way you could hide the shame that came with it.

Vi gave you that crooked smirk of hers as she strolled in, wearing a tank top that had definitely seen better days. “Cake thief,” she muttered, amused. Four more steps and she was leaning against the counter, pulling a fork from the drawer, cool as anything. Then she stabbed into the same side of the cake you’d been eating. “C’mon. Share with me.”

You hadn’t even recovered when another voice joined the room.

“I thought I heard someone down here.” Caitlyn—wearing wine-red silk pajamas, hair slightly mussed. She looked... softer like this. Not a sheriff. Just Caitlyn.

Her eyes swept over the whole scene in a second: Vi, half-asleep and way too close to you. The cake. Your flustered face. She tilted her head. Curious. Not jealous. Just... observant. Patient.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” she added, stepping past both of you to grab a glass of water—brushing her fingers against yours on purpose.

It looked casual. But it wasn’t.

Vi noticed, jaw clenched slightly, you were sure of it. The whole air in the room shifted. You could feel it in the way Caitlyn moved, in that featherlight touch of her hand on yours. You were caught right between them, shaking like a spoon teetering on the edge of a teacup.

Caitlyn glanced at you, water glass in hand. “You’ve got frosting on your mouth,” she said.

Before you could even react, she stepped closer. You thought she was going to hand you a napkin.

No.

She reached out—slowly—and wiped it away with her thumb. Her fingers lingered under your chin. Her gaze didn’t waver, didn’t look anywhere else. Like she held the entirety of you in her fingertips.