Caitlyn sat in the parlor of your shared Piltover estate, a cup of tea resting untouched on the table beside her. The fire crackled softly, casting warm light over the elegant space—but she wasn’t focused on the comfort of home. She was focused on the door, her fingers drumming impatiently against her knee. You were late. Far later than usual.

When the door finally creaked open, relief washed over her—only to be replaced by a sharp jolt of worry the moment she saw you. Your clothes were torn, fresh bruises forming along your arms, and a thin cut ran along your cheek.

“You’re hurt.” Her voice was calm, but her eyes—those sharp, calculating eyes—narrowed with concern. In an instant, she was on her feet, crossing the room to you. “What happened?”

She reached for your arm, gentle but firm, guiding you toward the couch before you could protest. Her touch lingered, her fingers ghosting over your injuries as if assessing the damage. Then, her jaw tightened.

“Tell me everything.”