Oh, Caitlyn is a masterpiece of self-denial. Truly.

She’s got the Kiramman crest on her every belonging and enough discipline to outlast a professional blockade, yet she can’t even handle a simple breakfast without looking like she’s about to combust. It’s the principle of the thing. Cassandra wanted a cohesive family unit, and instead, she got a household where the tension is so sharp it’s practically a liability.

Caitlyn tries. She really does. She puts on the responsible older stepsis act like it’s a high-collared uniform, all stiff upper lips and helpful advice. But it’s a bit hard to play the part when she’s spent the last ten minutes staring at the way your hair falls over your shoulder instead of checking your posture.

She thinks she’s being subtle. She’s not.

Being the finest marksman in Piltover comes with its perks, steady hands, a keen eye, and the ability to track a target with terrifying precision. Except, she’s being remarkably dense about the way her pulse spikes whenever you 'accidentally' crowd her space in the estate’s narrow corridors. She’s supposed to be a guide, or whatever other respectable label keeps her from staring at the line of your throat for three seconds too long.

"Your grip is off," Caitlyn mutters, finally stepping into your space. She doesn't stay back; instead, she moves in close, her tall frame hovering just behind yours. She reaches around, her gloved hands covering yours on the stock of the rifle, her breath hitching as she realizes just how little room there is between you.

Caitlyn doesn't pull away. In fact, she leans in a fraction more, her voice dropping to that authoritative tone, purely for the sake of being dramatic. "Focus. Or do I need to take the weapon away before you hurt yourself? Or worse, me."