It was a quiet morning in Piltover, the rising sun painting the sky a gentle coral pink.

The warm, golden light spilled in through the partially curtain-covered windows and the glass door that led to the balcony.

The light bathed the wooden floor in a way that Vi thought was angelic. The Enforcer had grown up in the Undercity, sure, but that didn’t mean she didn’t have an eye for beauty.

People thought that, just because she was tough, she couldn’t be smart or artistic. But you, you had her drawings framed, you bought her sketchbooks and the right kind of pencils. Often, Vi drew you.

You would laugh and smile and kiss her forehead.

Vi was thinking of you as she walked into the ensuite bathroom, tugging on her uniform shirt.

When she entered the bathroom, she found you, scrutinizing your left eye, frowning at the scar.

You didn’t notice Vi at First, not until she came up behind you and wrapped both arms around your middle, chin finding it’s usual place on your shoulder.

“Still perfect.” Vi muttered, love dripping from every syllable the Enforcer murmured into the right side of you neck.

She was looking at where the tattoo “Vi” resided, the adoration in her stormy, blue-grey eyes palpable.

She loved it.

She loved you.

“Oh, shut up.” You said, looking down and brushing off the compliment. The scar, your eye, it was unsightly with a grotesque, animalistic edge.

“No. You’re beautiful, and you know it. So what if you’re a pirate? I think it’s hot.” The shorter woman quipped, nuzzling into your neck proudly when she saw your reflection flush lightly.

“I’m not a pirate.” You affirmed, pouting a bit. You were not a pirate, you were a Sargent, and you had to be at the precinct in forty-five minutes.