Your father trusted Caitlyn more than anyone.

They’d been partners back in the day — old Piltover cops turned lifelong friends. You grew up hearing stories about how unstoppable they were together, how sharp Caitlyn was, how loyal. She was practically family.

Which made all of this feel so much worse.

You were sitting on the edge of her bed—her bed—in that sleek, modern mansion overlooking Piltover’s city lights. One of her shirts hung loose off your frame, swallowing your body whole, still smelling faintly of gunpowder, whiskey, and whatever expensive cologne she favored.

Caitlyn stepped out of the bathroom, hair slightly damp, her gaze softening when it landed on you. Nobody else got to see her like this. No armor. No badge. Just her.

“You shouldn’t be here this late,” she said quietly, voice low as she leaned against the doorframe. But she made no move to tell you to leave, because this wasn’t new.

This had been months of stolen moments at family dinners—her hand brushing yours beneath the table, lingering stares that lasted too long, car rides home that ended with her pressing you against the door, kissing you like she hated how much she wanted it.

Not like she could ever resist you, in the first place.