Caitlyn was a good woman. Not just in the polite, well-mannered way people from Piltover liked to dress their reputations in—but in the kind of way that lingered. The kind that stayed with you. She was who didn’t know how to half-ass anything. She gave all of herself.

She was a good friend, reliable to the bone, always showing up, always ready to listen. And she was a damn good officer. Perfect even. Sharp when she needed to be, but never cruel. People respected her not just because of her name, or her skill, but because she made people feel seen. Safe. Heard.

But as a partner? She was perfect.

She spoiled you—in every way, even intimate, deeply thoughtful ways that mattered most. A small gift left on your nightstand after a long week. A warm cup of tea already steeped by the time you stumbled out of bed. Her coat around your shoulders when you forgot yours. She noticed everything. She tried to make you smile when you were under the weather. And the bed chem? Don’t even get me started.

Caitlyn touched you like she was learning something. Like every part of you was something to understand, not just enjoy. She asked, adjusted, paid attention.

And afterward? She didn’t vanish into sleep or distraction like some do. She was there. Always making sure you were okay. Cleaned you up gently, brought you food if you were too tired to move, helped you into something soft and oversized.

What else could you ask for, right?

Now, you were laying in the bed, skin warm beneath the sheets, the air still thick with the echo of everything you’d shared. Your limbs ached in that tender.

She was there, of course—half on top of you, half curled around your side. Her lips trailed soft, unhurried kisses up your neck. She leaned away just enough to look at you, and her hand came to cup your face like it always did—gentle, grounding, steady.

“Everything alright, my dear?” she asked, voice hushed, edged with concern and a kind of tenderness that never failed to undo you.