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Vi leant her head back against the jamb and whistled a laugh through her nose, "Well, good thing it hasn't been work hours for about 4 hours now. It's 11. Night shift changed a few hours ago,"

Caitlyn's sharp eyes snapped to meet her own. Vi glanced pointedly at the wall clock. The Sheriff bit her lip. Vi balled her fist in her jacket pockets tighter and kept her face a smooth smug. Caitlyn's armor had folded away like a Shimmer shop in downtown Piltover. Sheriff had been her name for 5 years now, and with a single soft jab, she was Caitlyn again. Vi glowed inside every time.

"Very well," she let a smile slip, "I'll take this up again in the morning. It's possible I've been looking at the same things for too long,"

Caitlyn delivered the line with a small drag of mocking sarcasm: it was Vi's go-to when she found the Sheriff moments away from beating her head against a wall. No one could look at evidence and see like Caitlyn, but her insight came at an obsessive cost.

"Tomorrow's Saturday, sweetness. I suggest you invest in a calendar before the City starts charging you rent,"

Cait cracked a smile, rolling her eyes and pushing away from her desk. She stood, gathering the materials up into a thick accordion folder. Vi watched with a soothed interest. Caitlyn crossed to the far side of her office, rifle workbench littered with pieces. She slid the firing pin into a bolt action and assembled her rifle with artistic ease. Absently, she triple checked the locks securing Vi's gauntlets in their cradle.

"Right then," Caitlyn collected her things, "Let's be off, shall we?"

Vi harshed out a lazy chuckle, when Cait brushed past her toward the door, "Why do you make it sound like you're the one waiting on me?"

"Well, I am now," Caitlyn threw a grin over her shoulder and swept off down the precinct. Vi smiled. It was a big, open-mouthed affair of admiring audacity and a thunderstruck joy. She dug for her own keys and locked Cait's office before jogging through the station after her. They waved to the night shift enforcers on desk duty, Vi's hand a steady pressure on her lower back, guiding Cait all the way to the exit.

"You're aware that I'm quite capable of exercising self control right?" Caitlyn said, amused, "It was only the once I picked up an extra case from casual conversation in the break room,"

"It was at least four," Vi smirked, "One in the break room, one during an in-pursuit foot chase, one in a men's bathroom, and one on an actual date,"

Caitlyn threw her head back to laugh just as they opened the door to the parking lot. Vi smiled with her, admiring the night's hextech steetlamp highlighting the sharp features of her partner. Cait's imperfect teeth. Her long, stiletto nose. Lips to die for. Cheekbones high and sharp enough to gut a man. So, so fucking pretty.

Her laugh died suddenly as Caitlyn looked behind Vi and stopped short. Caitlyn's smile slid off her face in a fraction of a second, eyes narrowed in focus. Vi turned, nerves wire taut, fists wrapped and ready to strike where Cait pointed. Instead of urban terrorism or guerilla street defense, Vi found her motorcycle. And a woman leaning against the front.

"Marina?" Vi wondered aloud.

The woman straightened, realized who Vi stood next to and swallowed, a deep embarrassment coloring her cheeks. The top hat was unmistakable.

"Uhm," Marina held her elbow, "You said to call if I ever wanted to," she glanced to the Sheriff and back to Vi, "-again, I mean," she trailed off.

The night air was suddenly much colder than before.

"Enjoy your evening ladies," Caitlyn gave a tight smile and walked away.

Vi immediately lunged to catch her quick, clipped strides. She reached for Caitlyn's elbow and came up with her hand instead.

"Wait," she said, jaw grinding, "Cait, wait- It's not what it looks like,"

Caitlyn's incredible azure eyes glittered with challenge. Intellect thrummed in her expression. Well then? that face said. What is it if not exactly what it looks like?

To which Vi had no answer. It was what it looked like: 5 years of separation, and Vi had been lonely for every day of them. Caitlyn's eyes softened. Her shoulders bowed, and Vi's heart cracked in half as Cait did what she always would.

"It's quite alright," Caitlyn whispered. She pursed her lips in a grimaced smile. Toyed with her hat before dropping Vi's hand to put it on her head. The brim cast her eyes in shadow, "It was a long time ago, Vi," the Sheriff said, "I've moved on,"

Something hot balled in Vi's throat.

"We're both shit liars, cupcake,"

But Caitlyn had already turned away, heels clicking on the stone street.

"See you Monday, Officer,"

"See you Monday, Sheriff,"

Caitlyn did what she always would - respect the request Vi had made those 5 years ago. After oil and water became water and blood. After a cold kiss in a rain storm and a warm body pressing her to fine silk sheets. After Vi had bought the supplies and carefully inked the crossed Kiramann keys on her thigh.

"Come on, Cait. It has to be this way. No Sheriff of Piltover has an undercity ex-con girlfriend,"

"Don't talk about yourself that way. You're an enforcer and I'm so proud to be with you. I could be the first,"

"No, cupcake. You can't. The Council would never elect you. Even your mom looks at me like I'm upstart trash. Look, it's not about me. It's about what you could do as Sheriff. You're the one always talking about cycles and shit. You could actually make a difference as Sheriff,"

"But Vi, breaking up? I can't lose you-,"

"-You won't lose me. You'll be saving little me's everyday. Kids like me. Like Powder. Please, Cait. Do this for Piltover. For me. It won't be forever. I promise,"

Picture this, you’re in a large and cold studio. You are tangled up in white sheets, sprawled out on a colossal bed, on a set designed to look like a hotel room. All around you blinding lights are shining and cameras are pointed at you and the man next to you in bed. A stylist has spent nearly two hours artfully crafting your hair and painting your face. The costume designer has searched high and low for weeks upon weeks for the perfect little silk negligée for you to wear. You feel beautiful but weak in the knees and dizzy from nerves.

Picture this, you’re in bed in a cold studio and a beautiful man is lying next to you. All around you, people are adjusting lights, rearranging camera angles, and testing sound recorders. The director is screaming in the distance at someone and a loud argument has just broken out between two set designers regarding the layout of the room. It is mayhem, it is chaos, it is pandemonium - and all of it falls on deaf ears to the ‘lovers’ in bed. For all they care, they are the only people in the room.

Picture this, you have been cast to play the lead role in a movie about two young lovers on the run from their families; who have nothing but some stolen money and their undying, death-defying love for one another to their name. It is a completely and utterly unoriginal script and the only reason you’ve said yes to the role is because of the male lead.

You have spent all morning kissing each other, touching each other, looking and yearning for each other. Only while playing your characters, of course.  

However, here’s the thing, it is nearing the end of shooting and you have spent months together at this point, and the yearning and touching on screen has made its way in between takes. For example, right now the cameras aren’t rolling and yet Tom’s hand is in your hair, stroking your cheek, and he’s smiling at you, one of those easy smiles that seems to come so effortlessly when you’re around that he isn’t even aware he’s smiling. And you are looking at him and you are smiling too.

“What is your happy place?” you ask, voice tinged with curiosity.  

“My what?” he replies, voice sleepy and eyes full of stars, his mouth still formed in a smile.

“You know,” you blink up at him “The place you go to in your mind when you need to escape. Your safe space, where no one can touch you and where you can always return when things go bad.”

He keeps stroking your cheek with his thumb, almost compulsory and as if he isn’t aware of doing it. Like it’s simply a necessity to touch you. He considers it for a moment, a small frown on his face, before answering, “I don’t think I have one.”

Your eyes go wide and you burst out, “oh, but then we must make you one!”

His smile grows larger “alright” he says, voice filled with tenderness. “But a happy place like? What is your happy place?” he asks.  

Somewhere in the background the sound of smashing glass, yet neither of you seems to notice.

“It’s a cottage,” you smile, “a cottage somewhere far out in the countryside in a small village. Close to both the forest and the sea with hardly any modernities except for clean water in the taps and electricity. Where I’ll bake endless amounts of cherry pies with cherries that I’ve picked from my own cherry tree and I’ll make countless jars of strawberry jam with strawberries I’ve picked myself from my own strawberry bushes. And I’ll make elderberry wine too. And I’ll have geese and ducks and chickens, and rabbits and bunnies and a dog and a cat.” And then, as in afterthought, “and maybe a cow, and a goat too. And wild mice in the garden that I’ll sing to every morning.”

His smile is even wider now, the skin around his eyes wrinkling and the dimples in his cheek showing. He’s so close, your foreheads almost touching, and you could spend the rest of your day seeing the constellations of the stars mimicked in the freckles spread out across his nose. 

You continue your story,

“And the hallways shall be painted in mint green and the kitchen will be cobalt blue and white. And all my porcelain will be in sunshine yellow, faded from years of washed dinners, and I’ll only have linen tablecloths. And all my pots and things shall be copper, bought at auctions and second-hand stores.” You can’t help but smile at it all and you know it has more to do with the fact that Tom’s face seems radiant with happiness and his eyes almost seem to shine as they look at you than it has to do with you describing your happy place out loud for the first time.  

“And what will your bedroom be like?” he asks, voice low and raspy, his thumb stroking your cheek again. Around you, people are still arguing and preparing to shoot the movie. 

“Pink, of course,” you respond instantly, “Handwoven powder pink wallpaper, with a pattern of wild birds on it. And a bed, even bigger and softer than this one! On which I’ll have sweet dreams each night. And I’ll have a dressing table and a massive wardrobe, all in cherry wood. And the bed will be a four-poster one, with heavy canary yellow coloured drapery. And everywhere you turn in my cottage there shall be fresh flowers from my gardens in pretty little vases that I’ve picked up on village markets.” You playfully tap his nose with your finger, for no other particular reason than that it makes you both laugh. “Oh, and they have to be wildflowers,” you add, in a faux stern voice.

“And why is that?” he inquires. 

You scrunch up your nose in mock disgust and this time he taps your nose. You ignore him and continue, “I hate genetically modified flowers, made to look perfect and to smell of nothing. I want them wild, and messy. Growing in all their wild glory.”

“Can I come and visit your cottage?” he asks in a wistful voice, hardly louder than a whisper.  

“Of course,” you say, “I mean, you must come and see my library after all.”

“Oh, there’s a library there too now? How big is this cottage exactly?” He sounds teasing, but he sounds fond too.  

“Well, it’s all about priorities and I prioritize a library, duh,” you laugh. “All the bookshelves will be in oak and floor to ceiling, overpacked with books in no particular order. Books about everything, fiction and nonfiction all jumbled up in an unholy mess, because not even in my happy place do I take an organized path in life.”

He’s laughing too now, so you continue. “My garden will be a magnificent one, with all sorts of trees and bushes and plants I haven’t even heard of yet. And roses too, lots and lots of roses. And a pond for the ducks and the geese. And do you know what the geese shall be named? This is the most important thing,” you ask but he just shakes his head, looking at you as if mesmerized. “Abigail and Amelia. You know, like the geese in Aristocats.”

And then he bursts into full on laughter.

“Alright, guys! let’s try this one more time,” roars the visibly angry director and you and Tom are snapped out of your shared daydream and brought back to the cold studio. 

“Ready? Action!” he yells.

And then Tom is kissing you and it’s tender and sweet and slow; like he’s trying to make the moment last as long as possible. Your hands are in his hair, moving over his back, caressing his cheek. He is moving above you, arms placed on either side of your head, trapping you in the most beautiful way you can imagine. His scent is all around you, lemon and pine, mixing with the fragrance of the freshly washed sheets. The bed feels soft under you, and his body hard above you. He sighs into the kiss and you wonder if acting or if he can’t help himself like you can’t when you almost involuntarily move your hips up against his.

“CUT,” bellows the director and you move away from one other, both of you panting for breath. “Take five, and then we’ll move on to another angle!”

Later you are huddled up in a corner of a pub. After having seen him bare-chested in bed all day it feels almost odd to see him casually dressed in sweatpants and a hoodie. He looks so cosy and sweet and his hair is all over the place and all you want to do is cuddle up beside him, place your head on his shoulder and hold his hand. Feel the heat of his body and the smooth fabric of his clothes. But instead, you dig into your broccoli burger and you ask him, “so, have you thought about your happy place?”

He chews his food, brow furrowed, thinking. “I’m not sure where it could be.” He says this so evasively that you wonder if he’s lying. 

“Of course, you don’t have to tell me, you know,” you say. “Like, if you figured one out and it’s private then that’s fine,” and honestly, it is. He doesn’t have to tell you anything if it makes him uncomfortable  

“No, it’s just,” he begins, and maybe it’s a trick of the dim light in the pub, but you can almost swear that he’s blushing. He avoids your gaze, dips a sweet potato fry in his dip. Around you, the other pub guests are enjoying their meals, chatting and laughing, as a singer performs Ed Sheeran covers on the small stage. Then it is as if he changes his mind and he says, “oh, I don’t know, can you help me make one? I really don’t know what mine would be. And you were so good at making me imagine yours.”  

“Well,” you laugh, “you need to help me a little.”  

“Sure,” he says and nods.  

“Should it be in town or in the countryside?”

He thinks for a long time, chewing his food absentmindedly. “In the city,” he finally decides.  

“London?” you ask, smiling. During the shoot, you’d had long conversations about London and your shared love for the city. He smiles as well. 

“Sure,” he says, all soft voice and tender eyes. 

“Alright, well what if your happy place is a perfect day in London? Where would you stay?”

This time he doesn’t need to think for long before answering, “South West”.

“Well,” you say and smile, “obviously you’re going to start this perfect day in a hotel room with some girl you fancy and champagne breakfast?”

“Obviously,” he answers and smiles around yet another fry.

You carry on like this for a long time, planning his day in meticulous detail, from champagne breakfast in bed to walks all around London. Looking at art and going to the Camden market and listening to live music and then a pub quiz in the evening, and so on and so on and so on. You talk all the way through dinner and while walking back to the hotel you’re both staying at while shooting the movie. And without thinking or really reflecting too much on it you’ve both made it to your hotel room and you’ve thrown yourselves on his bed, both laying on your backs and looking up at the ceiling, talking and laughing and planning his perfect day still. 

He turns to you, head resting on his elbow, looking down on you, eyes full of devotion. “So,” he begins, and you think you can pick up a hint of nervousness in his tone. “The girl I’m sharing this day with, any suggestions for who she could be?” 

Your heart starts to beat faster in your chest. Is he insinuating something, or is he just playing with you? “Pamela Anderson?” you suggest, sheepishly.

He bursts out in laughter, “What? Is that the first person that came to mind for you? Why?”  

And you’re laughing too, for what must be the millionth time that day. “Honestly, I have no idea. Why not Pamela Anderson? She’s fit.”

You have no idea how it’s happened if it is him or you that’s moved closer, but suddenly you’re so close to each other that you can feel the heat radiate off of his body, see the all the different shades of brown in his eyes; hear his even breath and feel them against your cheek.  

“No,” he says smiling, “I’m not imagining my perfect day with Pamela Anderson”.

“She does seem like fun though,” and you want to smack yourself for being so awkward but you don’t know what to do with yourself when he’s this close.  

He smiles again, and he looks so fondly at you that you swear you feel your heart squeeze in your chest. And then he’s even closer and you stop breathing. And this is crazy because you have literally been kissing him all day and so how can you possibly be this nervous? But that has been while playing other people, pretending to be two love-struck and desperate-for-each-other adolescents. This is real life. This is not Tom in character, this was just Tom. And you want him. And you have always wanted him. And you want him to want you; not the person you’re playing.

“I was thinking of you, actually,” he says shyly, his confession quiet in the otherwise silent hotel room. “I was thinking about you the whole time we were making up my happy place and my perfect day, although,” and now his mouth is just millimetres from yours, “I really wouldn’t have minded spending time in your cottage either. Making jams and cherry pies with you, feeding the ducks and the geese.”  

He kisses you, before you can say anything else awkward or silly, and so instead of saying anything at all you kiss him back. 

And so picture this: You’re on a bed with the man you love and he’s kissing you and you are kissing him back, and maybe, just maybe, he loves you as well.