SVU - Blog Posts

Cannoli's and Carisi's

Sonny Carisi x fem!reader

391 word count

fluff tooth rotting fluffy. So much tooth rotting fluff you may want a dentist on standby.

Sunday dinner had become a tradition. Ever since Sonny introduced me to his parents, we made the trip to Staten Island every week for Sunday dinner. But this Sunday was special—it was Christmas.

The kitchen smelled of cinnamon and vanilla as I carefully filled the cannoli shells, placing each one neatly onto a plate. The creamy ricotta mixture was smooth beneath my spoon, and I couldn’t help but feel a swell of pride at how perfect they looked.

Just as I finished another, I felt a warm presence behind me. Sonny strolled in, grinning, and before I could react, he snatched a finished cannoli from the plate.

“Hey!” I scolded, but he only grinned wider as he bit into it, chewing quickly before finishing it off in a second bite.

“Mmm,” he hummed in approval, licking a stray bit of cream from his thumb. “Babe, these are amazing. You could open a bakery.”

I rolled my eyes. “Dominick Carisi Jr.,” I said, crossing my arms. “What would your mother think, stealing cannolis before dinner?”

Sonny, completely unbothered, reached for another. “Ma used to let me eat them as she made ‘em,” he said, flashing me his best innocent look.

I scoffed. “Liar.”

He gasped dramatically, placing a hand on his chest. “Are you calling me a liar?”

“Yes.” I giggled, trying to shove him away as he wrapped his arms around my waist. He pulled me into a warm hug, his laughter vibrating against my back.

Before I could react, he swiped a finger through the cannoli filling and smeared it across my nose. I gasped. “Sonny!”

The kitchen filled with laughter as I playfully swatted at him, my heart full and warm despite the chilly winter air outside. He caught my hands in his, pulling me close once more. His eyes softened, his usual playful demeanor replaced with something more tender.

“You know,” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from my face, “I’m the luckiest guy in the world.”

“Oh yeah?” I teased, still slightly breathless from our little game.

He nodded, his expression earnest. “Because I met you. Because you love me.”

I smiled, reaching up to touch his cheek. “I do love you.”

And as he kissed me, I knew that no matter how chaotic these Sunday dinners could get, they would always be my favorite tradition.

So I just spent the day making Canolli's for Christmas lunch tomorrow because I told my Mum I'd learnt how to make them. What I didn't tell her was why.

I only learnt to make Canolli because of Sonny Carisi and his obsession with them. My God are they heavenly. I could eat them all day.

Objection! Part 9

Rafael Barba x fem!Carisi!reader

5.3k word count

Summary All you wanted was to be a lawyer like your big brother Sonny. So what happens when you get a job working under the famous ADA Rafael Barba

slow-burn, colleague to friends to lovers

Authors Note: I am not happy with this chapter. I might come back to it after Christmas. I might edit it while I'm away who knows. I feel like it could be so much better.

Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

Sonny brought the car to a screeching halt in front of the DA’s office, the tires protesting loudly as we stopped. I barely waited for the engine to cut before throwing the door open and sprinting toward the building. Sonny and Olivia were right behind me, their footsteps pounding in unison with mine.

We burst through the doors, startling Carmen, who was seated at her desk with a cup of coffee in hand. Her usual calm demeanour faltered as she looked up at us, confused by our urgency.

“Carmen!” I barked, my voice sharper than I intended. Her eyes widened in alarm. “Has anyone been in my office today? Did anyone leave anything for me?”

“What—what’s going on?” she stammered, clearly thrown off by my tone.

“Just answer the question!” I snapped, running a hand through my hair as my nerves got the better of me.

She frowned, clearly trying to process my outburst. “There was a delivery earlier. A box—it’s on your desk.”

My stomach dropped. I turned toward my office door, already dreading what I might find. A cold sweat prickled my skin as my mind raced with possibilities, each one worse than the last. God, please don’t let it be a piece of her. Not like this.

But Sonny had already shoved past me, charging into my office with no hesitation. He grabbed the box from my desk, ripping the lid off in one swift motion.

For a moment, none of us breathed. Then Sonny pulled out… a plush chinchilla.

Olivia blinked, breaking the silence with a deadpan, “Is that a rat?”

“It’s not a rat!” Sonny shot back, glaring at her as he held the plush defensively. He studied it with an intensity that would have been comical if the situation weren’t so dire.

Meanwhile, I was struggling to keep up. “What the hell is this supposed to mean?” I muttered, stepping closer to the desk. My eyes landed on the folded piece of paper still inside the box. I snatched it up and unfolded it with shaking hands.

Olivia leaned in, reading over my shoulder. “For the next six clues, you’ll have to ask—but be quick, or she’ll pass.”

Her words hung in the air, heavy and ominous. I felt my stomach churn. “Ask who? And what does ‘she’ll pass’ mean? Is he threatening her life, or is this another one of his games?”

Sonny, still holding the chinchilla, finally spoke up. “It’s not a rat—it’s a chinchilla. And I’m pretty sure the only place in the city with chinchillas is the Bronx Zoo.”

“The Bronx Zoo?” Olivia asked, raising an eyebrow.

Sonny nodded firmly. “It was Y/N’s favourite place growing up. She’d go there every chance she got. And every visit started and ended with the chinchillas. It has to be the zoo.”

We didn’t waste any time. Back in the car, Sonny took the wheel again, his driving just as reckless as before. The urgency in the air was suffocating, every second ticking by like a countdown to disaster.

As the car sped through the city streets, Sonny spoke over the roar of the engine. “When we were kids, our parents would take her to the Bronx Zoo for her birthday. Every year. The first and last thing she’d do was visit the chinchillas. She loves them.”

I stared at the plush in my hands, trying to reconcile the sweet memory Sonny shared with the grim reality we were facing. My fingers tapped anxiously against my thigh as I tucked the Chincilla away with the book from earlier. “The note,” I said, turning back to Olivia. “What do you think it means? ‘Ask’? Ask who? Ask what?”

Olivia shrugged, her expression tight with worry. “It could mean anything. Marco’s been deliberately vague this entire time. He’s toying with us, and he knows it.”

I clenched my fists, frustration boiling beneath the surface. Every step of this chase felt like a slap in the face, a reminder of how helpless I was in protecting Y/N. But there wasn’t time for self-pity. We had to stay sharp.

Sonny glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “Whatever it means, we’ll figure it out. We have to. Let’s just get to the zoo first.”

His voice was steady, but I could see the tension in his grip on the steering wheel. We all knew the stakes. And with every mile closer to the Bronx Zoo, my determination solidified.

I couldn’t let Marco win. Not this time.

…

Sonny pulled the car to a jerking halt outside the Bronx Zoo. I barely had time to exhale before Olivia was already out, her badge flashing as she approached the ticket booth.

“We’re NYPD,” she said briskly, showing the man behind the glass her identification. “Has anyone left anything for us? A package, a message?”

The man blinked, startled by her intensity, and shook his head. “No, ma’am. Nothing’s been left here.”

I stepped forward, pulling out my phone to show him a picture of Marco. “What about this man? Have you seen him recently?”

The guy leaned closer, squinting at the screen. “I don’t think so. But I can’t say for sure. We’ve had a lot of visitors today.”

It was frustratingly vague, but there wasn’t time to press him further. We headed straight through the gates, the familiar smell of popcorn and animal enclosures hitting me as we walked. Despite the urgency of the situation, I couldn’t help the faint pang of nostalgia that tugged at me. Y/N had spoken about this place before, about how much she loved it as a kid. And now, it felt like Marco was using that love against her—and us.

“Where to?” Olivia asked, glancing around the sprawling zoo grounds.

“The Mouse House,” Sonny answered, as if it were obvious. “Chinchillas. Let’s move.”

We navigated the winding pathways, dodging families and strollers, my eyes scanning every face we passed. My nerves were taut, every sound and movement setting my heart racing.

The Mouse House was dimly lit, the soft chatter of visitors echoing off the walls. The smell of hay and sawdust hung in the air as we wound our way through the narrow corridors. My pulse quickened with every step, my eyes darting to every corner, searching for anything out of place.

When we reached the chinchilla enclosure, I stopped short. There they were—tiny, fluffy creatures with twitching noses, hopping around in their habitat like nothing in the world could bother them. Y/N’s voice echoed in my mind, her excitement as she’d once described them to me after I asked her about her computer background, the only reason I had recognised the Chincilla plush for what it was.

But there was no sign of Marco. No sign of Y/N. Just the glass enclosure and the animals inside.

Sonny was already scouring the area, checking behind benches and trash cans, while Olivia questioned a zookeeper standing nearby. I stood frozen, my gut telling me we weren’t in the wrong place—but we were missing something.

“Barba,” Sonny called, his voice sharp. He was crouched near the edge of the enclosure, holding something in his hand. A folded piece of paper.

I moved quickly, snatching it from him and unfolding it. The message was written in Marco’s now-familiar scrawl:

“You’re halfway there. Keep following her heart, and you might just save it.”

My grip tightened on the paper as frustration bubbled up inside me. “Her heart?” I muttered aloud, staring at the words. “What the hell does that mean?”

Olivia glanced over my shoulder. “Could be literal, could be figurative. Either way, it’s cryptic as hell.”

Sonny stood, brushing off his pants. “Her heart... what else did Y/N love? Something she always talked about?”

The weight of the chase pressed down on me like an anchor, each step feeling heavier than the last. Marco was toying with us, stringing us along with vague clues, and Y/N’s life was slipping through our fingers. Every moment wasted felt like a step closer to losing her.

As we reached the far end of the Mouse House, I spotted a man standing behind an ice cream cart, his colorful setup a jarring contrast to the dimly lit surroundings. He greeted each passerby with an enthusiastic grin, cheerfully handing out cones piled high with creamy swirls.

I approached cautiously, hope flickering weakly in my chest. Maybe he had seen something. Maybe he held another piece of the puzzle.

"Free ice cream today!" the man announced as I neared, his voice full of warmth. He held out a cone toward me, the scent of vanilla and sugar wafting in the air. "Some generous guy came by this morning and paid for the whole cart—said to make sure everyone got one."

I forced a polite smile, though the tension in my chest made it impossible to enjoy the gesture. “Thanks, but I’ll pass.” My tone was clipped, businesslike. I pulled out my phone and held up the screen, showing him the photo of Marco. “Was it this man? Did he pay for the ice cream?”

The vendor leaned closer, squinting at the screen. After a moment, he nodded with a bright smile. “Yeah, that’s him! Paid in cash, too. Real nice guy, seemed like he just wanted to spread some joy.”

I clenched my jaw, my frustration barely contained. The ease with which Marco charmed people was infuriating, his calculated moves cloaked in harmless gestures. “Did he say anything else? Leave anything behind?”

The man shook his head, his cheerful demeanor unshaken. “Nope, just told me to give out the ice cream. That’s all.”

I nodded tightly, stepping back from the cart as a dull ache settled in my chest. “Thanks,” I muttered, my voice devoid of the gratitude I should have expressed.

“Have a good day!” the vendor called after me, his voice far too bright for the grim thoughts swirling in my mind.

I turned to Sonny and Olivia, who were already watching me. Their expressions mirrored my own—a blend of frustration and helplessness. The ice cream clue was another dead end, another cruel twist in Marco’s game.

Sonny ran a hand through his hair, pacing in agitated circles. “What now? Ice cream? Are we supposed to figure out some connection to ice cream now?”

I exhaled slowly, the weight of the situation pressing down harder. “I don’t know,” I admitted. “But Marco’s not doing this without a reason. There’s something here. We just have to see it.”

The thought gnawed at me as the three of us stood there, the clock ticking relentlessly in the background. We had to figure this out—and fast.

“What now?” Olivia asked, her tone edged with impatience.

“He paid for the ice cream and told the guy to give it out for free. That’s it.” I ran a hand down my face, trying to think. “Nothing else. No clue.”

Olivia looked at Sonny. “Anything? Does Y/N have some connection to ice cream? A favourite parlour or something?”

Sonny shook his head, his hands on his hips as he stared at the ground. “Not that I can think of. She likes ice cream, sure, but nothing stands out.”

The thought of involving Amaro stung, like a sharp jab to an already tender wound, but I swallowed my pride. It wasn’t about me—it was about Y/N. If he could help us, I’d endure it. My voice came out lower than I intended, weighed down by reluctance.

“Maybe we should ask Amaro,” I said, each word feeling like it dragged itself out of me. “He knew about the bookstore—maybe he knows something we don’t.”

Sonny’s eyes widened, but not in surprise—more like a light bulb had just gone off. He snapped his fingers, his expression shifting to determination. “Wait. What if Marco means we need to ask the people around her? The ones who know her best.”

Before I could respond, he was already pulling out his phone, his fingers moving fast as he dialed.

Amaro picked up after just a few rings, his voice calm but questioning. “What’s going on?”

“We’re at the zoo, following Marco’s trail, but we’re stuck,” Sonny explained, his words rapid and urgent. “Do you know if Y/N has a favorite ice cream spot?”

There was a pause on the other end, followed by muffled voices as Amaro apparently relayed the question to others nearby. I clenched my fists, waiting, frustration bubbling beneath my skin.

After a brief silence, Amanda’s voice came through, clear and confident. “The Museum of Ice Cream,” she said firmly. “Y/N takes Jesse there all the time for girls’ days. It’s their go-to spot. The sprinkle pool is Jesse’s favorite part.”

Sonny’s face lit up with relief. He snapped his fingers again, nodding. “That’s it. Amanda, you’re a genius. Thank you.”

Amanda’s voice carried a hint of urgency now. “If Marco’s sending you there, don’t waste time. Go.”

“We’re on it,” Sonny promised, already moving toward the car.

I followed, my chest tight with a mix of emotions. Gratitude that Amanda knew the answer, frustration that I hadn’t, and an undercurrent of desperation to get to Y/N before it was too late.

…

The ride to the Museum of Ice Cream was suffocating. The only sound in the car was the hum of the engine and the occasional impatient sigh from Sonny as he maneuverered through the city streets. I sat in the back, staring out the window but seeing nothing.

My thoughts churned like a storm, each one landing heavier than the last. Amanda and Nick had known Y/N’s favourite places, her habits, her joys. Nick had known about the bookstore, Amanda about the Museum of Ice Cream. Even Sonny, her brother, had insights into her world that I could never claim.

I was her colleague, her partner. We worked side by side every day, and yet, what did I know about her? Not enough, that much was clear. Somewhere along the way, I had convinced myself that knowing her professionally was enough. Now, I wasn’t so sure.

The sharp screech of brakes jolted me out of my thoughts. Sonny brought the car to a halt in front of the brightly coloured façade of the Museum of Ice Cream.

“Let’s go,” he said, already climbing out.

We moved as one, a silent agreement to head straight for the sprinkle pool. If Amanda knew it was Y/N’s favourite, Marco did too.

Inside, the museum was alive with colour and laughter, a stark contrast to the grim tension between us. We weaved through the exhibits until we reached the sprinkle pool, a massive pit filled with foam sprinkles where kids dove in gleefully while parents looked on.

As we stood there, scanning the room for any sign of a clue, a woman in a pink uniform approached us with a broad smile. The logo on her shirt marked her as a museum employee.

“Good afternoon!” she said brightly, handing each of us a card.

I glanced at it: One Free Family Meal at a Restaurant of Your Choice.

Olivia’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you handing these out?”

The woman kept her smile, but there was a hint of confusion in her expression. “A courier dropped them off this morning with a note. It said to give them to everyone who enters today as part of a promotional event. It’s unusual, but we followed the instructions.”

The moment she walked away, Olivia turned to Sonny. “What’s Y/N’s favourite restaurant?”

Sonny rubbed a hand over his face, clearly frustrated. “There was this place we went to as kids, every Sunday with our parents and grandparents. It became a tradition, and Y/N kept going even after the rest of us stopped. But I can’t remember the name.”

His fingers were already flying over his phone as he tried calling someone. After three attempts, he cursed under his breath and scrolled through his contacts again. This time, he paused and hesitated before dialling.

“She’ll know,” he muttered.

The line barely rang before it connected, and he began speaking rapidly in Italian.

“Mamma…sì, ho ricevuto il tuo messaggio…mamma…mamma...sì, saremo lì per Natale, non ce lo perderemo, lo sai…ascolta, qual era il ristorante dove andavamo con i nonni? Pensavo di prendere un buono per coccinella per Natale…Grazie mamma… Ti voglio bene, ciao” (Mum yes I've been getting your messages, Mum Mum, yes we'll be there for Chrismas we wouldn't miss it you know that, listen what was that restaurant we use to go to with Grandma and Grandpa? I was thinking I would get a gift certificate for ladybug for Christmas. Thanks Mum. Love you bye)

Olivia and I exchanged a glance, neither of us able to follow the conversation. But we didn’t need to. The tight set of Sonny’s jaw and the relief in his expression told us all we needed to know.

When he hung up, he turned to us, his voice firm. “La Nonna Restaurant. Let’s go.”

He didn’t wait for a response, already heading back toward the car. Olivia and I followed without question, a new wave of determination driving us forward.

…

Sonny drove with single-minded focus, weaving through traffic as the city flew by in a blur. La Nonna was etched deep in his childhood memories, and now it was the thread we followed, hoping it would finally lead us closer to Y/N.

The weight of my inadequacies pressed harder against my chest as the car sped toward La Nonna. I sat in the back seat, silent, letting the others talk around me. I was haunted by my lack of connection to this piece of Y/N’s life. La Nonna, a place that seemed etched into her family’s history, was foreign to me. While I worked alongside her every day, Marco had exposed just how shallow my understanding of her truly was.

The car came to an abrupt stop outside a cozy, brick-fronted restaurant. The windows glowed warmly against the fading daylight, and the air was rich with the scent of freshly baked bread and garlic. It should have been inviting, but urgency overrode any appreciation for its charm.

We pushed through the door, and the sound of light chatter and clinking plates greeted us. Behind the counter stood an older woman, her kind eyes lighting up in recognition as she saw Sonny.

“Sonny Carisi? My goodness, it’s been ages!” she exclaimed, her voice tinged with both surprise and affection.

Sonny managed a quick, polite smile, but his tone was sharp and efficient. “Mrs. Marinelli, I’m sorry, but we don’t have time to catch up. Did someone leave something here for us? A note, a package—anything?”

Her expression shifted to concern as she studied his face. “A young man did stop by this morning. Left an envelope and told me to hold onto it. Said someone would come for it later.” She reached under the counter, pulling out a plain white envelope and handing it to Sonny.

His fingers trembled as he tore it open. Inside was a single sheet of paper with Marco’s familiar cryptic handwriting. Sonny handed it to Olivia, who read aloud:

“Music spins memories and history unfolds. Find what was lost where vinyl molds.”

Olivia’s brow furrowed as she lowered the paper. “Music and vinyl? What does that even mean?”

I clenched my fists, frustration boiling just beneath the surface. “It’s vague on purpose. Marco’s playing games, and every second we waste gives him more power over us.” My voice was tighter than I intended, but the clock was ticking, and Y/N’s life hung in the balance.

Sonny began pacing the narrow space in front of the counter, muttering fragments of the clue under his breath. Olivia pulled out her phone, her fingers flying as she searched for connections. I stared at the note, willing it to make sense, but the answer danced just out of reach.

A buzz from Olivia’s phone broke the tense silence. She glanced at the screen and frowned before answering. “It’s Finn. I sent him a picture of the clue.”

She put the call on speaker, Finn’s steady voice cutting through the static. “You’re looking for Academy Records,” he said without hesitation.

Sonny stopped pacing, turning sharply toward the phone. “What? How do you know that?”

Finn’s tone was calm but certain. “Y/N loves that place. She’s dragged me there a few times. She’s got a thing for vinyl—old classics, rare finds. If Marco knows her as well as it seems, that’s where he’d send you next.”

Sonny exhaled sharply, already moving toward the door. “Thanks, Finn. We owe you one.”

The three of us piled back into the car, the engine roaring to life as Sonny floored the gas pedal. The urgency in the air was almost suffocating, but my thoughts spiraled inward.

Academy Records. Another corner of Y/N’s world I had never stepped into. Finn had shared moments with her there, moments I couldn’t even imagine. I didn’t belong in her life—not the way these other people did.

But there was no time to dwell on regrets. I could make up for my failures later. Y/N’s life depended on us moving faster, thinking smarter, and staying one step ahead of Marco’s game. I forced my focus back to the road ahead as the city blurred by, the cryptic note burned into my thoughts.

Marco’s game wasn’t over yet, but neither was ours.

…

We reached Academy Records in what felt like record time, the tires screeching as Sonny brought the car to an abrupt halt. None of us waited for a complete stop before flinging our doors open and rushing inside.

The store was small and chaotic, a maze of tightly packed shelves stuffed with vinyl records. The faint crackle of an old jazz tune played over the speakers, mixing with the smell of aged cardboard and faint traces of incense. Behind the counter stood a young man in his early twenties, his dark hair falling into his eyes as he barely glanced up at the jingling bell above the door.

“Can I help you?” he asked lazily, his tone oozing disinterest as he set down a cup of coffee.

Sonny stepped forward, the urgency in his voice cutting through the young man’s nonchalance. “We’re looking for something that might’ve been left here—a note, a package, anything unusual.”

The man blinked, finally giving us his full attention. His expression turned thoughtful, and then he shrugged. “Some weird guy came in this morning. Didn’t buy anything. Just left this.” He ducked behind the counter and came back up holding a folded piece of paper, slightly crumpled, as if it had been handled with as little care as possible.

Olivia took the note, her movements cautious, as though the thin piece of paper might hold a detonator. She unfolded it and scanned the words before reading them aloud: “Where the horses run and the waves crash loud, her laughter lingers under the clouds.”

The riddle hung heavy in the air, its poetic phrasing a stark contrast to the stark reality we faced.

Sonny groaned, dragging a hand through his hair. “Another damn riddle. We don’t have time for this!” His voice was sharp, frustration spilling over as the minutes ticked by, each one feeling like an eternity.

I clenched my fists, staring at the note as if I could will it to reveal its secrets. Marco’s games were wearing us down, but Olivia’s sudden shift in expression caught my attention.

Her lips parted slightly, a flicker of recognition lighting her face. “I know where this is,” she said, her voice steady.

Sonny and I turned to her simultaneously, disbelief and hope mingling in our gazes.

“It’s Coney Island,” she continued with certainty. “The carousel. Y/N takes Noah there all the time. He talks about it all the time— the way Noah’s face lights up when he tells me how they ride together.”

Her words hit me like a gut punch. Another place Y/N had shared with someone else, another moment I’d never been a part of. The hollow ache in my chest grew, but I shoved it aside.

“Then we go now,” Sonny said, his tone clipped as he turned and headed for the door.

Olivia and I followed close behind, my mind racing as we climbed back into the car. The streets blurred past the windows, but all I could think about was the clock ticking down and the desperate hope that we weren’t already too late. Sonny drove like a man possessed, weaving through traffic with a focus that bordered on reckless.

In the backseat, I sat in silence, my thoughts a chaotic storm. I couldn’t help but feel like I was failing Y/N in more ways than one. She had shared so much of herself with the people around her—Sonny, Olivia, even Finn—and yet I had missed so much.

Olivia’s voice broke through my thoughts. “Rafael, don’t beat yourself up.”

I looked up, startled. She wasn’t even looking at me, her gaze fixed on the road ahead, but somehow she knew exactly what I was thinking.

Olivia continued. “What matters is that we get to her in time.”

I nodded, though her words did little to ease the tightness in my chest.

…

The car skidded to a stop at Coney Island, and the carousel loomed ahead, its brilliant lights casting flickering reflections on the damp boardwalk. The setting sun painted the sky in shades of orange and purple, but I couldn’t spare a moment to take it in. All I could think about was Y/N—her life hanging by a thread, and the clock relentlessly ticking down.

The salty breeze hit me as we stepped onto the boardwalk, the faint sound of crashing waves blending with the distant laughter of families enjoying the evening. But the carousel's joyful melody felt like a cruel juxtaposition to the dread coiling in my chest.

We ran, the weathered planks of the boardwalk groaning under our hurried steps. The carousel lights grew brighter as we neared, their spinning patterns like a beacon pulling us forward. Sonny, Olivia, and I spread out immediately, questioning everyone within earshot—carousel workers, parents corralling their children, teenagers clustered with ice cream cones. But every inquiry met with a blank stare, a shake of the head, or a polite, “Sorry, haven’t seen anything.”

Frustration mounted like a storm inside me. My breaths came heavy, each one laced with the weight of Marco’s cruel taunts. Standing in front of the carousel, I repeated his chilling words aloud, barely realizing it: The longer you take, the more water fills her space.

Sonny spun on his heel, his face a mask of fury. “Are you serious, Barba?” he snapped, his voice cracking with anger. “We’re standing next to the damn ocean! How the hell are we supposed to figure this out from those stupid words?”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came. My throat tightened as Sonny’s frustration boiled over. He marched toward me, jabbing a finger at my chest.

“This is all your fault!” he shouted, his voice raw. “You’re the reason she’s in this mess! Marco didn’t just pick her out of nowhere—why? Why did he go after my sister?”

Olivia shot me a desperate look, shaking her head as if to warn me against saying what I knew I had to. But the truth had been clawing at my chest for weeks, and it wouldn’t stay buried any longer.

I lowered my gaze, my voice barely audible. “Because I’m in love with her.”

Sonny froze. His hand hovered in mid-air as if the words had physically struck him. Then, in an instant, the shock gave way to a surge of anger. He grabbed my collar, yanking me close, his face inches from mine.

“You’re in love with her?” he spat, his voice shaking with rage. “And because of that, she’s lying out there somewhere, maybe drowning while we waste time chasing riddles? You didn’t even know anything about her, Barba. Her favorite things, the things that make her, her. You didn’t even know where she got your coffee. You think loving her makes up for all the ways you failed her?”

Each word hit harder than Sonny’s fists ever could, and I knew he was right. I had been so wrapped up in my feelings for Y/N, so afraid to cross a line, that I had let someone else exploit the space between us.

“You put her in danger because you couldn’t keep your feelings to yourself!” Sonny yelled, his voice cracking. “And now we don’t even know if she’s still alive!”

The punch came out of nowhere, his fist slamming into my jaw with a force that sent stars dancing across my vision. Pain exploded across my face, but I didn’t raise a hand to defend myself. I didn’t move at all. I deserved it.

“Enough!” Olivia shouted, stepping between us and pushing Sonny back. “This isn’t helping anyone!”

I touched the corner of my mouth, feeling the warm stickiness of blood on my fingertips. “It’s fine,” I rasped, my voice steady despite the storm raging inside me. “I deserved that.”

Sonny’s chest heaved as he let go of my collar. He turned away, his anger still palpable, and pulled out his phone. “I’m calling backup. I want every available unit down here now. We’re combing every inch of this place until we find her.”

…

The flurry of officers and emergency responders that followed was both chaotic and a small comfort. Red and blue lights danced across the dark waves as search teams spread out along the beach, the docks, and every hidden corner of the area. Voices called out over the roar of the surf, flashlights sweeping over shadowed nooks and crannies.

But Marco’s words kept gnawing at me: The longer you take, the more water fills her space. My mind turned the phrase over again and again until a horrifying realization struck.

“The tide,” I whispered, my stomach twisting. Then louder, I shouted, “We have until high tide! Wherever she is, it’s going to flood!”

The words sent a ripple of urgency through the search teams. Everyone moved faster, their voices growing sharper and more determined.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, a voice shouted from beneath the docks, “Over here!”

We all ran toward the sound, my heart pounding so hard I thought it might burst. Beneath the wooden structure, in a small crawlspace created from rocks barely visible in the growing shadows, lay Y/N. The water was already lapping at her face. A paramedic was already down with her checking for signs of life. When he yelled back that she still had a pulse I released a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.

“Get her out of there!” Sonny yelled, his voice cracking with desperation.

Officers scrambled to free her, lifting her carefully onto a stretcher. My breath caught as I saw her face—so still, so unlike the vibrant woman I knew. But the faint rise and fall of her chest told me she was still fighting.

The paramedics arrived in a flurry of motion, stabilizing her as they carried her toward the waiting ambulance. Sonny climbed in immediately, his hands shaking as he gripped hers.

Then, to my utter shock, he turned to me. “Barba,” he said gruffly, his voice tight with emotion. “Get in.”

I hesitated for only a second before nodding, climbing into the ambulance and taking the seat across from him. The ride was silent, save for the beeping monitors and the hum of the engine. Sonny didn’t look at me, his focus entirely on Y/N, but his invitation spoke volumes.

All that mattered now was that we had found her. She was alive. And we would do whatever it took to keep her that way.

Tag List!

@geeksareunique @pinkladydevotee @pumpkindwight @chriskevinevans

Objection! Part 8

Rafael Barba x fem!Carisi!reader

6.1k word count

Summary All you wanted was to be a lawyer like your big brother Sonny. So what happens when you get a job working under the famous ADA Rafael Barba

slow-burn, colleague to friends to lovers

Authors Note: Drunks me has decide this chapters goodd to go blame the whiskey if its nots also blame the whiskey for any abd spellin and grammar drunk me is also not sorry for the cliffffhnager.

Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

The squad room was unusually still, the hum of fluorescent lights filling the silence like an ominous soundtrack. I sat at a desk, staring at my phone, willing it to buzz with something—anything. A message. A clue. A sign. My knee bounced restlessly under the desk, and my hands clenched into fists. Each passing second felt like a lifetime, every tick of the clock a painful reminder that Y/N was out there, alone, and I wasn’t doing enough to bring her back.

The air felt heavy, thick with tension that no one dared to break. Amanda was seated at her desk, her hands hovering over her keyboard as if typing might somehow help her forget the helplessness in the room. Finn leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, his expression unreadable but his eyes sharp. Olivia, always the calm in the storm, stood near her office, her arms folded as she scanned the room, likely calculating her next move. But it all felt distant to me. My focus was singular: the phone in front of me that refused to deliver answers.

Then the sound of heavy, purposeful footsteps storming into the room shattered the stillness like a thunderclap. Sonny.

His face was flushed with anger, a storm brewing in his eyes as he practically threw the door shut behind him, the loud slam making everyone flinch. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days—disheveled, tense, and radiating a kind of fury that no one wanted to be on the receiving end of.

“What the hell is wrong with all of you?” he shouted, his voice cracking under the weight of raw emotion. “Why are you just sitting around? Why aren’t you out there looking for my sister?”

Olivia stepped forward, her tone calm and steady as she tried to defuse the situation. “Carisi, we’re doing everything we can—”

But Sonny wasn’t having it. He cut her off, shaking his head furiously. “Don’t ‘Carisi’ me, Captain! My sister is out there with some psycho, and you’re all just standing here like it’s another day at the office!”

His eyes scanned the room wildly, seeking someone to lash out at, someone to blame. And then they landed on me.

“You,” he snarled, his voice dropping to a deadly edge as he pointed a trembling finger at me.

He crossed the room in quick strides, his fury like a physical force that slammed into me before his words even reached my ears.

“This is all your fault.”

I stood, meeting his gaze, my body tense. “Sonny,” I said, my voice low, a warning.

But he didn’t stop. His hands collided with my chest in a hard shove, forcing me to stumble back a step.

“If you’d done your damn job—if you hadn’t failed Anya—Y/N wouldn’t be in this mess!” he shouted, his voice raw with grief and fury. His words cut deeper than any blow, hitting a part of me I’d been trying to bury under determination and focus.

His chest was heaving, his hands balled into fists at his sides. The rest of the squad watched in stunned silence, no one daring to step in just yet.

“You were supposed to look after her, Barba! That was your job!” His voice cracked, tears glistening in his eyes as his anger started to morph into something more desperate.

“I know,” I said quietly, the weight of my guilt making it hard to speak louder.

But Sonny wasn’t done. He stepped closer, his face inches from mine, his voice dropping to a dangerous hiss.

“If Marco hurts even a hair on her head,” he said, his voice trembling with both rage and fear, “you’re a dead man, Barba. You hear me? A dead man.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. The room seemed to hold its breath, waiting for me to respond.

I couldn’t.

The guilt was already eating me alive, and Sonny’s words felt like a knife twisting deeper into an already festering wound. I looked down, unable to meet his gaze, my jaw clenched as I tried to keep my emotions in check. The weight of his blame—and my own—threatened to crush me.

Finally, Olivia stepped forward, her hand resting gently on Sonny’s shoulder. “Sonny,” she said softly, “we’re going to find her. But this isn’t helping.”

He shook her off, taking a shaky step back, his chest still heaving. “You better,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper before he turned and stormed out of the room, leaving an oppressive silence in his wake.

I stayed rooted to the spot, my fists clenched at my sides, my eyes fixed on the desk in front of me. The words echoed in my head—your fault, your fault, your fault.

Before I could find my voice, the door opened again, and two uniformed officers walked in, dragging a man between them. Marco. His smug expression was infuriating, even as his dishevelled appearance betrayed that he’d been through hell.

“He turned himself in downstairs,” one of the officers said.

“Get him in interrogation,” Olivia ordered, her voice sharp.

I watched as the officers dragged Marco into the interrogation room, his head held high, his movements casual as if he were walking into a meeting instead of a police station. My blood boiled with every step they took. From the other side of the two-way mirror, I stood frozen, watching every calculated move he made. Marco leaned back in his chair with the smugness of a man who believed he held all the cards, his posture lazy, his lips curled into an infuriating smirk.

Olivia and Finn entered the room, their expressions hard as steel. They were seasoned, unshakable, but even they seemed tense as they faced the man responsible for Y/N’s disappearance. Olivia wasted no time, her tone icy as she cut straight to the point.

“You want to tell us where she is?” she asked, each word like a dagger aimed to pierce his composure.

But Marco didn’t flinch. He didn’t cower or hesitate. Instead, his smirk widened, his dark eyes gleaming with something sinister. His gaze shifted past Olivia, locking on the two-way mirror. It was as if he could see through it, his expression a challenge aimed directly at me.

“I’m not talking to you,” he said with infuriating calm. “I’ll only talk to Barba.”

The words hung in the air like a bomb ready to detonate. My fists clenched so tightly at my sides that my nails bit into my palms. I felt the heat of my anger rising, my pulse pounding in my ears. Through the glass, Olivia turned to glance at me, her hesitation flickering in the subtle furrow of her brow.

Before she could make a decision, I acted on instinct. Without waiting for approval, I pushed the door open and stepped inside. The room felt stifling, the tension pressing down on me like a physical weight. Marco’s eyes lit up as he saw me, his smirk growing into a predatory grin.

“You want to talk to me?” I asked, my voice tight with barely contained rage. I stood at the table, my hands gripping the edge so hard I thought the metal might bend. “Fine. Let’s talk. Where is she?”

Marco leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the table as if he were about to share a secret. “Oh, Rafael,” he drawled, his tone dripping with mockery. “Always so direct. Haven’t you learned by now? It’s never that simple.”

I slammed my hands down on the table, the sound reverberating through the room. The force rattled the chair Marco sat in, but he didn’t flinch. I leaned over him, my face inches from his, my fury barely leashed.

“Enough games!” I barked. “Tell me where she is!”

Marco’s composure didn’t waver. If anything, he seemed to enjoy my outburst, feeding off the anger radiating from me. He tilted his head like a teacher addressing a particularly slow student. “You like scavenger hunts, don’t you?” he asked, his voice deceptively light. “I left you some clues. Why don’t you put that sharp mind of yours to work?”

I wanted to wipe that smug look off his face, to force him to see the gravity of what he’d done. My voice rose, sharp and biting. “You’re wasting precious time!”

For the first time, his smirk faltered, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his eyes. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms, and his grin returned, but it was colder now, sharper.

“No, Rafael,” he said, his tone darkening. “You’re wasting time. The longer you stand here arguing with me, the more water fills her final hiding place.”

His words hit like a sledgehammer, each syllable echoing in my head. Water fills her final hiding place. The room seemed to tilt, my breath catching as the full weight of his threat sank in. Every second was precious. Every moment spent here was a moment closer to losing her.

“What did you say?” I demanded, my voice barely above a whisper, my hands trembling as they gripped the edge of the table.

“You heard me,” Marco said, his smirk returning, but his eyes were darker now, filled with cruel satisfaction. “If you want to save her, you’ll need to start with my things. They’re locked up downstairs. Tick tock, counselor.”

His taunting tone was the final straw. Without another word, I turned on my heel and stormed out of the room, my heart pounding like a drum. His laughter followed me, low and menacing, a ghostly echo that clung to me as I sprinted down the hall.

Every second mattered now, and I wouldn’t waste another.

The moment Marco mentioned Y/N’s life hanging in the balance, a fire ignited inside me. Every second wasted felt like a betrayal to her. My feet pounded against the linoleum floor as I sprinted toward the evidence lockup, Sonny just steps ahead of me. His desperation mirrored my own, his frantic pace proof of how much he cared for his sister.

By the time I reached the evidence room, Sonny was already there, his hands moving with frantic precision as he rifled through Marco’s belongings. His face was a storm of emotions—anger, fear, and determination all vying for control. He barely acknowledged my arrival, snatching up the evidence bag containing Marco’s personal items.

“We don’t have time for this,” Sonny muttered under his breath, more to himself than to me. Without another word, we turned and bolted back to the squad room.

The others barely had time to clear the desks before we dumped the contents of the bag onto one of them, sending papers and small objects scattering across the surface. The noise of the chaotic search filled the air—keys clinking against the desk, papers rustling, receipts crumpling under impatient hands. The tension was suffocating, the silence broken only by Sonny’s muttered curses as he rifled through the mess.

I tried to focus, my hands shaking slightly as I sifted through the random items: a worn leather wallet, a set of keys on a chain with a gaudy souvenir keyring, a handful of receipts, and a few crumpled scraps of paper. None of it made sense. None of it screamed “clue.” My pulse pounded in my ears, the seconds ticking by with cruel indifference.

Then Sonny froze, his hands stilling mid-motion. His eyes locked on the wallet, a look of realization dawning across his face. He yanked it open and pulled out a folded piece of paper tucked into one of the inner pockets.

“What is it?” I asked, my voice sharp with urgency as I leaned closer.

Sonny unfolded the note with shaky fingers, his eyes scanning the handwritten words. “It says, ‘Your next clue can be found where Y/N buys Rafael’s morning coffee.’”

For a moment, I stared at him, dumbfounded. “Where she buys my coffee? I—I don’t know where she goes.”

Sonny scoffed, frustration flashing across his face as he tossed the wallet onto the desk. “Of course you don’t. She’s been doing it for months, and you haven’t even noticed.”

The jab stung, but I didn’t have time to dwell on it. Sonny grabbed his coat, the movement abrupt and filled with purpose. “I do. She always gets it from the same place because they sell her favorite cannoli. Come on.”

Before I could respond, Sonny was already heading for the door, his pace quick and his movements sharp. Olivia grabbed her jacket, sparing a glance at me as she followed.

“Let’s move, Barba,” she said firmly, her tone leaving no room for hesitation.

I grabbed my own coat and hurried after them, sparing a brief glance back at the rest of the team. Amanda, Finn, and Nick were still in the squad room, their expressions a mixture of frustration and determination.

“Keep sweating him,” Olivia called over her shoulder as we left. “We’ll find her.”

The hallway outside felt colder, the sterile fluorescent lights casting harsh shadows. Sonny’s steps echoed ahead of us, his pace nearly a jog. The determination in his stride mirrored the fire burning in my chest. Wherever Marco’s sick game was leading us, I’d follow every step of the way—because failure wasn’t an option.

…

The tension in the car was suffocating as we sped toward the café, Sonny gripping the steering wheel like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality. His frustration bubbled over, his voice sharp and accusing as he vented.

“You don’t know where she buys your coffee? Seriously, Barba? She does it every day! You didn’t think to ask? To notice?”

I wanted to argue, to defend myself, but the truth stung too much. I stared out the window, ashamed. “I didn’t ask her to do it,” I muttered, though the words felt hollow.

“You didn’t have to,” Sonny snapped, his voice rising. “You’re just oblivious! That girl would go to the ends of the earth for you, and you wouldn’t even notice. And now, look where we are.”

His words hit like a gut punch, but I didn’t have the luxury of letting them sink in. Y/N’s life was at stake, and dwelling on my shortcomings wouldn’t help.

The car screeched to a halt in front of the café, and Sonny was out before it had fully stopped, slamming the door behind him. Olivia and I scrambled to catch up as he barged inside, holding Marco’s photo up like a badge.

“Have you seen this man?” Sonny demanded, his voice cutting through the hum of the café.

A barista behind the counter paused, her eyes flitting from the photo to me. “Are you Rafael Barba?” she asked, her tone uncertain.

I stepped forward, my throat tight. “Yes.”

Wordlessly, she handed me a coffee cup. My name was scrawled on the side in sharp, black letters, and beneath it, a note in Marco’s handwriting: “Enjoy this at the table closest to the window. Best view in the house.”

I stared at the cup, my stomach churning with unease. “Keep it,” I said, setting it firmly back on the counter. The thought of playing Marco’s twisted game made my skin crawl.

Sonny and Olivia were already at the window, scanning the street outside for anything out of place. I joined them, my eyes darting over the view: the passing cars, bustling shops, and scattered pedestrians. Then my gaze landed on the florist across the street, its display bursting with vivid blooms.

“It’s there,” I said, my voice firm with conviction.

Sonny frowned, skeptical. “How do you know?”

I pointed to the florist’s display. “Magnolias. Y/N’s favorite perfume is magnolia and honeysuckle. That florist has magnolias right out front. It has to be there.”

Sonny didn’t wait for further explanation, and neither did I. The three of us bolted across the street, dodging honking cars and shouted curses from drivers. The air was thick with the sweet scent of flowers as we reached the florist, and we immediately began combing through the arrangements.

I shoved aside bouquets of roses, daisies, and lilies, searching for something—anything—that stood out. Sonny did the same, muttering curses under his breath as petals flew in every direction.

“Cosa stai facendo?” a furious voice suddenly bellowed in Italian, startling all of us.

An elderly man emerged from the shop, his face red with anger as he gestured wildly at the mess we were making. Sonny stepped forward, his tone urgent as he switched to rapid Italian, showing the man Marco’s photo.

“Avete visto quest'uomo? È importante, ha mia sorella,” Sonny pleaded.

The man’s scowl deepened, but after a long pause, he disappeared back into the shop. Moments later, he returned, holding a small bouquet of magnolias and honeysuckles. Attached to the stems was a card.

Sonny snatched it and unfolded it quickly, his hands trembling. He read aloud, “Congratulations on getting this far. I promise the rest won’t be as easy. Your next clue requires some required reading. CSL.”

“CSL?” Sonny repeated, his voice rising with frustration. He crumpled the card in his fist. “What the hell does that mean? There’s gotta be hundreds of libraries and bookstores in the city! How are we supposed to figure out which one?”

“Marco’s clues have been tied to Y/N,” Olivia interjected calmly. “Think. What library or bookstore would be important to her?”

Sonny groaned, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t know! She loves reading, she’s been to dozens of places—”

My mind raced. Marco’s game wasn’t random. Every clue so far had been calculated, designed to taunt us and waste precious time. Suddenly, Sonny spoke again, his tone more focused.

“We should go to Y/N’s room,” he said. “Maybe there’s something there. A book, a receipt, anything that could lead us to a specific place.”

I hesitated. The thought of tearing apart her sanctuary, her private space, felt invasive. But there was no other option.

“Let’s go,” Olivia said, already moving toward the car.

We piled in, the silence heavy with unspoken fears as Sonny drove us back to Y/N’s apartment. Every second felt like an eternity, the weight of the clock ticking down pressing harder with each passing moment.

…

Sonny stormed into his apartment ahead of Olivia and me, his frustration palpable as he pushed the door open and headed straight for Y/N’s room. I followed, not knowing what to expect but feeling an ache in my chest I couldn’t shake.

The moment I stepped inside, I was surrounded by her. The faint scent of magnolia and honeysuckle lingered in the air, her favorite perfume. It was subtle but unmistakable, and it sent a pang through me. Her room was uniquely hers—organized chaos that told a story in every corner.

Three towering bookshelves lined one wall, each one crammed full of books. Some were neatly arranged; others had stacks leaning precariously or lying flat across the tops of rows. A mix of genres, from legal thrillers to battered fantasy paperbacks, filled the shelves, alongside small trinkets that made the space so undeniably Y/N.

There were figurines of owls, a tiny Eiffel Tower, and a vintage globe no bigger than my fist. A jar of sea glass sat next to a framed photo of her and Sonny, both grinning like they didn’t have a care in the world. I stopped to look at it for a moment, the joy on her face a stark contrast to the fear I knew she must be feeling now.

The desk was cluttered but purposeful—papers, notebooks, and pens scattered across the surface. A lamp with a floral shade cast a soft glow over the space. A coffee mug sat on the desk, still half-full and abandoned in haste.

The bed, a queen size with a simple gray comforter, was unmade, the covers tossed back as if she’d just rolled out of it. A stuffed animal—a well-loved bear with one eye missing—sat propped up on the pillows. It was the kind of detail that felt so personal, so intimate, that it made my throat tighten.

Sonny tore through the room with urgency, pulling books off shelves and flipping through them for hidden notes. He yanked open drawers in her desk, scattering pens and papers across the floor. “There has to be something,” he muttered, frustration evident in every motion.

Olivia joined him, opening the wardrobe and sifting through the neatly hung clothes. She checked pockets, rifled through shoeboxes tucked on the floor.

I moved to one of the bookshelves, running my fingers over the spines of the books. “She has so many,” I murmured, almost to myself.

“She loves to read,” Sonny said without looking up. “Always has. If you paid more attention, you’d know that.”

I didn’t respond. Instead, I crouched to check the lower shelves, trying not to think about how well Sonny knew her or how much I didn’t.

I opened the bedside table, finding a stack of journals and a flashlight. The journals were tempting, but I couldn’t bring myself to violate her privacy like that—not yet.

“Check the desk again,” Olivia said.

I stepped over to it, brushing my fingers over the coffee mug. It was still warm. She must have left it there this morning before this nightmare started.

Sonny cursed, pulling a pile of papers from the bottom shelf of the last bookcase. “There’s nothing here! No library card, no receipt, nothing.”

I leaned back against the desk, frustrated. The room was in disarray now, her things scattered everywhere, but we’d found nothing useful.

“I don’t know where she goes for books,” Sonny said, his voice breaking slightly.

“She has to have mentioned something,” Olivia said.

Before Sonny could respond, Olivia’s phone rang. Finn’s voice came through the speaker as she answered.

“Any luck on your end?” Finn asked.

“No,” Olivia admitted, running a hand through her hair. “We’ve torn her room apart and come up empty. You?”

Finn put her on speaker, and she repeated the clue. When Nick’s voice cut through, my stomach twisted.

“Centre Market Place,” he said. “Secondhand bookstore, below street level. Y/N took me there once to buy a present for Zara. She calls it her secret hideaway.”

“Of course, Little Italy our Nonna use to take her there all the time, it was their special place,  I can’t believe I forgot about that” For a brief moment joy flashed across Sonny’s face but was quickly replaced by determination.

Of course, Nick knew. He’d been there with her, shared that part of her world that I hadn’t.

“She never told me about it,” I said quietly, more to myself than anyone else.

Sonny glanced at me, his expression unreadable. “Well, now you know. Let’s go.”

I followed him out, the scent of magnolia and honeysuckle still clinging to me as we left her room in disarray. The thought of her stuck somewhere, terrified and waiting, pushed me forward. I wouldn’t stop until we found her.

…

Sonny drove like a man possessed, weaving through the dense New York traffic with a reckless precision that made my pulse hammer in my ears. The city blurred past in streaks of light and color as he pushed the car to its limits. My hand gripped the handle above the door tightly, knuckles white, but I said nothing. Sonny’s jaw was set, his focus unbreakable, and I knew better than to distract him. It wasn’t just the speed or the sharp turns that had my stomach in knots—it was the fear. The fear that every second slipping through our fingers might be one we couldn’t afford.

We skidded to a stop in front of the bookstore Nick had mentioned, the tires screeching loudly enough to draw annoyed looks from passersby. The building itself was understated, its entrance a narrow, weathered staircase descending into what looked like the basement of an old brownstone. The sign above the door was small and almost easy to miss, its hand-painted letters reading Rare Finds Books.

The moment we stepped inside, the air changed. It was warm and smelled of old paper and leather, with faint hints of coffee wafting from somewhere deeper in the maze-like shop. Shelves stretched in endless rows, towering over us, each crammed with books of all shapes and sizes. Some areas seemed impossibly tight, the shelves so close together that two people couldn’t pass through at the same time. Hidden alcoves featured overstuffed armchairs and small tables, inviting readers to lose themselves in a story. Despite its modest exterior, the store sprawled beneath the street above, an intricate labyrinth of literature.

“This place is a maze,” Olivia muttered, turning in a slow circle as her eyes scanned the towering shelves. “How are we supposed to find anything in here?”

Sonny’s expression was grim but determined. “CSL. It’s gotta be C.S. Lewis. Y/N loves his books—always has.”

His confidence spurred us into action. We split up without hesitation, scanning the shelves for anything bearing the familiar name. It didn’t take long to locate the section dedicated to C.S. Lewis. The shelves were packed with his works: The Chronicles of Narnia, Mere Christianity, The Screwtape Letters. Gold and silver lettering gleamed on the spines of hardcovers, while well-loved paperbacks showed the wear of countless readings.

Olivia and I dove in, pulling books from the shelves and flipping through their pages. I worked quickly, my fingers trembling slightly as I rifled through covers and dog-eared pages, searching for any sign of a clue. The tension in my chest grew with each empty book I replaced, the clock in my head ticking louder with every passing moment.

Then Sonny froze, his hand hovering over a single book on the shelf. “That Hideous Strength,” he murmured, pulling it down carefully.

I looked over at him. “Why that one?”

“It’s the last book in a trilogy Y/N’s been reading,” Sonny explained without looking up. “She’s been searching for this one for months. I’m sure of it.”

He opened the book, flipping through its pages with purpose. Midway through, a small slip of paper fluttered free, landing on the floor. Sonny snatched it up quickly, his breath hitching as he read it aloud.

“‘Eight clues to go, but will you make it in time? Your next clue will require a steep climb.’”

Olivia frowned, glancing around as though the next clue might be hidden in plain sight. “A steep climb? What does that mean?”

Sonny’s jaw tightened. “It means we don’t have time to waste. Let’s move.”

He dropped the book unceremoniously onto a nearby table and strode toward the door, muttering under his breath about steep climbs in the city. Olivia and I exchanged a quick glance before hurrying after him.

But I hesitated. My gaze drifted back to the book, its edges slightly frayed, the cover bearing the faint marks of countless hands. Something about it tugged at me. Without thinking, I picked it up and carried it to the counter.

“I’ll take this,” I said, pulling out my wallet.

The cashier, an older man with round glasses perched on his nose, smiled faintly as he rang it up. “Good choice,” he said. “Lewis always has a way of speaking to the soul.”

I nodded absently, tucking the book under my arm as I turned to leave. I didn’t know if we’d find Y/N in time, but I clung to the hope that we would. Christmas was only a few weeks away, and if she made it through this, I’d find a way to give her the book. It wasn’t much, but it was something—a small piece of normalcy in a nightmare that felt never-ending.

I jogged to catch up with Sonny and Olivia, the book pressed tightly to my chest like a talisman against the uncertainty ahead.

…

Back in the car, the atmosphere was tense, the air thick with frustration and urgency. Sonny gripped the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles white, as he and Olivia volleyed ideas back and forth about what "a steep climb" could mean. Their voices overlapped, each growing louder as their frustration mounted.

“Could it be the Empire State Building?” Olivia suggested, glancing at her phone as she pulled up a map. “It’s a climb, and it’s iconic.”

Sonny shook his head sharply. “Too public. Marco’s been keeping this quiet. It’s gotta be something personal to Y/N.”

I sat in the backseat, clutching the book I had bought for her, my mind racing. The clue had to mean something tied to Y/N—every step so far had been personal, connected to her routines, her likes, her life. Then it hit me.

“What if it’s the courthouse?” I said, my voice cutting through their argument.

Both of them turned to look at me, Sonny’s frown deepening. “The courthouse? Why would it be there?”

I leaned forward, gripping the back of the front seat. “She’s there almost every day. It’s a part of her routine. The steps could easily be considered a steep climb.”

Sonny’s eyes flicked to Olivia, annoyance flashing briefly in his expression, as if he was frustrated he hadn’t thought of it first. But then his jaw set, and he nodded. “Alright, let’s check it out.”

He hit the gas, the tires screeching as we sped toward the courthouse. The familiar city streets whipped past, the growing ache in my chest tightening with every block. Time felt like a physical weight pressing down on me, each second a reminder that Y/N could be slipping further away.

The moment we arrived, we were out of the car and sprinting toward the courthouse steps. The towering building loomed over us, its columns and grandeur as imposing as ever. We scaled the steps two at a time, the burn in my legs barely registering through the adrenaline coursing through me.

At the top, a man leaned against the railing, his clothes tattered, a worn backpack slung over his shoulder. He straightened the moment he saw us, his sharp eyes locking onto me.

“Hey!” he called, his voice rough but clear. “You Rafael Barba?”

I stepped forward, my chest heaving. “Yes. Did someone leave a message for me?”

The man nodded, digging into his pocket. From the folds of his jacket, he pulled out a crumpled $50 bill. “Some guy gave me this. Told me to wait here and say, ‘Water liberty seat.’”

“Water liberty seat?” Sonny repeated, his voice rising with frustration. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

The man shrugged, pocketing the bill and wandering off before we could press him for more information. Sonny threw up his hands in exasperation, pacing back and forth along the top step. “This is ridiculous! How the hell are we supposed to make sense of that?”

Olivia placed a calming hand on his shoulder. “Sonny, we’ll figure it out. We just have to stay focused.”

But I wasn’t paying attention to them. My mind was already working, the words tumbling over each other in my head like puzzle pieces sliding into place. Water liberty seat. It wasn’t random. It wasn’t a riddle—it was a description.

“Battery Park,” I said, my voice cutting through Sonny’s muttering.

Sonny stopped mid-pace, turning to face me. “What did you say?”

“It’s Battery Park,” I repeated, more firmly this time. “Y/N eats lunch there sometimes when she’s working late. She told me once she likes to sit where she can see the Statue of Liberty. ‘Water liberty seat’—it fits.”

Sonny blinked, his frustration giving way to dawning understanding. “That’s... yeah, that’s gotta be it.”

Olivia nodded, already heading for the car. “Then let’s move.”

We were running again, my legs burning as we pounded back down the courthouse steps. The sense of urgency clawed at me, each step feeling heavier, each second more precious.

As we raced through the streets toward Battery Park, I couldn’t shake the thought gnawing at the back of my mind: time was slipping through our fingers, and we couldn’t afford to lose another moment.

…

Sonny slammed on the brakes, bringing the car to a screeching halt in front of Battery Park. Before the engine had fully died, I was out of the car, my feet pounding against the pavement. My focus zeroed in on the bench, the one Y/N always sat on, the one I’d overlooked so many times before.

The bench faced the water, perfectly positioned to catch a view of the Statue of Liberty. I dropped to my knees beside it, ignoring the curious stares from passersby. My hands groped underneath, searching for something, anything, out of place. My fingers brushed against the edge of a crinkled paper bag, wedged in a spot so hidden it was almost invisible.

“Got it,” I muttered, tugging the bag free and sitting back on my heels. Olivia and Sonny crowded around me as I opened it. Inside was a neatly wrapped sandwich and a single folded piece of paper.

The note was maddeningly vague, written in Marco’s infuriatingly smug handwriting: “You know where to go.”

Sonny snatched the note from my hand, scanning the words as his frustration boiled over. “What the hell does that even mean?” he shouted, crumpling the note and hurling it into the trash along with the untouched sandwich. “This guy’s screwing with us! We’re running around the city while Y/N—” His voice broke off, and he turned away, pacing angrily along the sidewalk.

I sat on the bench, the weight of the situation pressing down on me like a tidal wave. My head dropped into my hands as I tried to piece together Marco’s twisted logic. He wouldn’t leave something vague without expecting me to figure it out. It wasn’t random; it was deliberate.

The steady rhythm of the waves caught my attention, pulling my gaze toward the water. For a moment, the chaos around me faded. The answer wasn’t in the note—it was in Marco’s mind. Every step of this game was a taunt, a deliberate jab at me. This wasn’t about Y/N, not really. She was the bait, a pawn in Marco’s personal vendetta.

I stood abruptly, the answer snapping into focus. “The DA’s office,” I said, turning to Olivia and Sonny. “It has to be the DA’s office.”

Sonny stopped pacing, his frustration giving way to determination. “Why the DA’s office?”

“Because this about Y/N,” I said, my voice steady despite the turmoil in my chest. “It’s about her. Every clue has been personal, tied to her life, her routine. The DA’s office is the center of it all—it’s where he wants me.”

Without hesitation, we piled back into the car. Sonny floored the gas, the tires screeching as we tore through the city streets. Inside the car, the tension was a living thing, suffocating and thick. The blare of horns and shouts of frustrated drivers barely registered over the pounding of my heart.

Sonny broke the silence, his knuckles tight on the steering wheel. “I’ve been thinking,” he said, his voice low but edged with anger. “Why Y/N? Why did Marco go after her? Why would he think she’s your weakness?”

His question hung in the air like a blade poised to strike. Olivia shifted uncomfortably in her seat, her eyes meeting mine in the rearview mirror. Her gaze was heavy with sympathy, but I looked away, unable to face it.

I knew why. We, Olivia and I, both did. But the words stuck in my throat, the admission too raw, too close to everything I had ignored for far too long. Y/N was targeted because of me—because I had let her into my life without considering the danger that came with it. Marco saw her as my weakness, the one way to make me pay for what he thought I’d done to him.

But I couldn’t say it. Not now. Not with Sonny’s anger simmering and Olivia’s quiet understanding pressing down on me like a weight I couldn’t lift.

“I don’t know,” I lied, my voice barely above a whisper.

The silence in the car was deafening after that. Sonny’s jaw tightened, and I could feel his frustration radiating off him, but he didn’t press further. Olivia glanced back at me again, her eyes soft with unspoken words, but I kept my gaze fixed out the window. The city blurred past, the familiar streets a reminder of how close we were—and how far Y/N still seemed.

As we approached the DA’s office, my chest tightened. The closer we got, the heavier the weight on my shoulders grew. Marco had dragged us here for a reason, and I could only pray we weren’t already too late.

Tag List!

@geeksareunique @pinkladydevotee @pumpkindwight @chriskevinevans

alex's habit of putting her hand around her neck in high-stress situations is so me

PLEASE I AM FOAMING AT THE MOUTH FOR THIS MAN

Can someone with more skill then me pleeease write some Munch fics cause istg I’ve read all 10 of them by now 😭

It’s a wonder Barba gets any work done at all…

i could add a second chapter to Clerical Error, but it won’t be what the people want

:p

Clerical Error | Alex Cabot x Casey Novak

one bed trope because why tf not fluff? they start making out. nothing explicit. that's what your imagination is for. freaks.

Casey Novak checked her watch for the third time as the train began to slow. Outside the window, the upstate landscape blurred past: amber trees, lonely fields, gas stations clinging to the highway. It was colder here than in Manhattan, the kind of air that bit the edges of your coat and promised a long winter.

Across from her, Alex Cabot barely glanced up from her copy of The Giver..

Casey cleared her throat. “So… What exactly is this conference again?”

Alex turned the page. “Cross-District Prosecutorial Strategies for High-Risk Witnesses. Hosted by Albany. They run it every fall.”

Casey nodded. “ And we’re on the same panel?”

Alex finally looked up. “It’s more of a roundtable. They want real-world insight into inter-bureau cooperation—especially with organized crime cases. Your recent fraud case had a trafficking component. That’s why you’re here.”

“Oh. So I’m the newbie they invited to make the room look diverse.”

A small smile ghosted across Alex’s face. “Don’t flatter yourself. I fought to get someone from White Collar on that panel. Your case actually had teeth.”

Casey blinked. She wasn’t expecting that. “Thanks. I think.”

“You’re welcome,” Alex said simply, then leaned back into her seat. “Just don’t bomb. We’re both representing Manhattan.”

The hotel was the kind of place that advertised “Free WiFi” on a plastic sandwich board near the door like it was a luxury. The carpet was an aggressive maroon with gold swirls, the kind found in chain hotels with more ambition than budget. At the front desk, the clerk looked like she’d rather be anywhere else.

“One room under the Manhattan DA’s Office,” Alex said crisply.

The clerk typed something into her ancient computer. “Yup. Got you here. Cabot, right?” She slid a single keycard across the counter. “Room 219. One queen.”

Casey blinked. “Wait—one bed?”

“Should be two,” Alex said, already frowning. “We requested two.”

The clerk gave a shrug that said ‘not my problem’. “Sorry, ma’am. We’re at capacity. Hockey tournament in town. Last-minute changes screwed up a few reservations.”

Alex’s jaw tightened. “There’s nothing else available?”

“Nope. Fully booked.”

Casey glanced sideways at Alex, lowering her voice. “We could take turns on the bed. Or I’ll sleep on the floor. I’ve survived worse.”

Alex sighed and snatched the keycard. “Let’s just get upstairs. It’s been a long day.”

The room wasn’t terrible. Clean. Smelled faintly like lemon disinfectant and decades-old air conditioning. One bed in the center with stiff-looking pillows and a wooden nightstand on either side. There was a welcome packet on the dresser from the Albany DA’s Office beside a TV that probably hadn’t seen cable news since the Clinton administration.

Casey hovered near the window, arms crossed. “Well. This is cozy.”

Alex placed her briefcase down, unbuttoning her coat. “We’ll deal. I’ll call down in the morning. Maybe something will open up.”

“Or maybe we’ll both develop an aversion to personal space,” Casey muttered.

Alex raised an eyebrow. “You’re not that interesting.”

Casey smiled, surprised. “You’re funny when you’re tired.”

“I’m always funny. You’re just too new to notice.”

Casey moved to plug in her phone and unzip her suitcase. Alex’s eyes lingered for a second longer than necessary before she turned away and reached for the remote.

“Great,” Casey said, staring at the tiny flatscreen TV. “Maybe we can catch Top Chef before bed.”

Alex’s lips twitched. “God help us.”

The room was quiet now, save for the hum of the heater and the occasional creak of old plumbing. The lights were off, leaving only a thin sliver of orange glow bleeding through the curtains from the parking lot outside.

They lay on opposite sides of the bed, backs turned at first, but slowly, they both ended up staring at the same cracked ceiling tile, blanketed in silence.

Casey broke it first. “This is so weird.”

Alex turned her head slightly. “What?”

“Lying in bed next to you. I’ve known you for, what, a month? You don’t even like me.”

Alex huffed a quiet laugh. “I don’t dislike you.”

“That’s not a denial.”

“You’re competent,” Alex said finally, like it cost her. “You care. Most people don’t. That earns you some points.”

Casey turned onto her side, propping her head on her hand. “Wow. I might blush.”

Alex’s lips twitched. “Please don’t.”

They both smiled in the dark. It felt strange and unfamiliar, but not unwelcome.

After a moment, Casey asked, “Did you always know you wanted to do this? Law, I mean.”

Alex didn’t answer right away. “Yeah. My mother was a judge. My uncle was on the Second Circuit. It was sort of… expected.”

“Wow,” Casey said, flat. “That’s casual.”

Alex glanced over. “Let me guess. First-gen?”

“Third. But I’m the first to finish college without a baby or a felony in the middle.” She meant it lightly, but her voice dipped, just a little. “My mom cleaned houses. Dad was always deployed. I waited tables all through undergrad and law school. Worked the 2 a.m. shift at a 24-hour diner in Queens. I still hear ‘Pancakes, table six!’ in my nightmares.”

Alex turned to face her more fully now, expression unreadable. “That’s impressive.”

“It was exhausting.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Alex said softly.

Casey looked at her. “I know.”

Another pause. The kind where the silence feels heavy but not uncomfortable.

“You ever get tired of pretending it’s not hard?” Casey asked.

Alex blinked. “What?”

“This job. The people. The pressure. All of it. You ever get tired of acting like you were built for it?”

Alex hesitated, then said, “More often than I’ll admit out loud.”

Something softened between them. Casey didn’t smile, but she looked less guarded. “Well, for what it’s worth… you make it look easy.”

“I don’t,” Alex said, voice quiet. “I just learned how to hide the cracks.”

They both lay still for a moment, staring into the space between them.

“I think I like you better like this,” Casey murmured.

Alex quirked a brow. “In bed?”

Casey snorted. “Tired. You’re less terrifying when you’re half-asleep.”

Alex chuckled, the sound low and surprisingly warm. “Don’t get used to it.”

“Too late,” Casey whispered, eyes already drifting shut.

Alex woke slowly, pulled out of sleep by the unfamiliar weight of something warm draped across her.

She kept her eyes closed for a few moments, breathing in the scent of cheap linen and Casey’s shampoo. Something citrusy, sharp. Casey was tucked behind her, one arm draped lazily across the blonde’s waist, breath soft and steady against the back of her neck. Her legs had tangled somewhere during the night, one knee bumping against the back of Alex’s calf. She was completely, shamelessly asleep. Alex exhaled slowly. She hadn’t been held like that in years, maybe. Not without expectations. Not without cost.

She blinked her eyes open slowly, adjusting to the early morning gray that filtered through the thin curtains. Her mind was foggy with sleep, but her body was still, cautious. She just lay there, staring at the ceiling and feeling something foreign bloom in her chest.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Casey Novak was new. Rough-edged. Too young, too idealistic. All grit and no polish, yet somehow cutting through red tape like she’d been born to it. She asked too many questions. She spoke without permission. She looked at Alex like she didn’t see the name, the legacy, the curated perfection.

She looked at Alex like she was real.

And now she was wrapped around her like it was nothing. Like it was normal. Alex didn’t know how to hold that.

Carefully, she lifted Casey’s arm and slid out of bed.She stirred faintly, but didn’t wake, just sighed and turned over, her hand falling to the empty sheets beside her. Alex dressed in silence, pulling her blazer over her blouse and smoothing down the sleeves with a practiced hand. The mirror showed her what she expected: composed, sharp-eyed, untouchable.

But her hands hesitated when she picked up her watch.

She glanced over her shoulder. Casey had curled into the space she left behind, her hand resting on the pillow, brow furrowed slightly in sleep. She looked younger like this. Softer. Like someone who hadn’t been clawing her way up for years.

Alex crossed the room and stood beside the bed. For a moment, she did nothing. Then she reached out, gently brushing a lock of hair from Casey’s cheek.

“Hey,” she said softly. “Time to get up.”

Casey stirred, eyes blinking open slowly. She squinted up at Alex, confused and sleepy. “Wha—time is it?”

“Six fifteen,” Alex replied smoothly. “We’re due downstairs at seven-thirty. Thought you might want a head start.”

Casey groaned, flopping back on the mattress. “You already got dressed? God, you are a robot.”

Alex smirked faintly. “And yet you were practically using me as a body pillow all night.”

At that, Casey sat up, blinking fast. “Wait—what? Did I—?”

Alex didn’t look up from her bag. “Don’t worry. I survived.”

Casey flushed, scrubbing her hands over her face. “I swear I’m not usually like that. I just—uh. Long week.”

Alex finally looked at her. “It’s fine, Novak.”

Casey covered her face with her hands. “Kill me now.”

“I don’t think they’d appreciate that at the conference.”

“Do you?” Casey asked, peeking at her through one eye.

Alex’s mouth quirked. “Not today.”

There was a long pause. Casey sat up, pulling the sheets around her. “I didn’t mean to… I mean, I don’t sleep like that normally.”

Alex studied her for a moment. “I didn’t mind.”

Casey blinked.

Alex turned toward the door, her lips twitching into a smile she didn’t let Casey see.

“Get dressed,” she said. “I’m not carrying you to the conference.”

The hallway was a blur of gray suits, clacking heels, and rustling folders. A table near the wall offered lukewarm coffee in flimsy paper cups, and the buzz of pre-panel chatter filled the space like static.

Alex stood off to the side, one arm crossed as she tapped through emails on her phone. Her posture was as crisp as ever, but her eyes were a little less guarded than usual. She didn’t say anything when Casey appeared beside her, coffee in both hands.

“Coffee,” Casey said simply, handing her a cup.

Alex accepted it without looking. “If you can call it that.”

Casey smirked. “Better than nothing. Though barely.”

Alex shot her a glance. Casey looked infuriatingly fresh-faced, hair pulled into a low ponytail, a pen already clipped to her notebook. “How’d you sleep?” Casey asked, too casually.

Alex sipped her coffee. “Fine.”

“Just fine?”

“I’m not used to sharing a bed with someone who sleep-kicks.”

Casey grinned. “I told you I don’t usually do that.”

“You also said you don’t usually latch on like an octopus.”

“Okay, ouch. I was having a vulnerable moment.”

Alex gave her a sidelong glance. “You were unconscious.”

“Exactly. The purest form of vulnerability.”

Alex tried not to smile and mostly succeeded.

They fell into a comfortable silence, the kind that would have been unthinkable even a few weeks ago. Casey broke it first.

She tilted her head slightly, studying the banners hung along the wall. “You think they make us come to these just so we can meet people and pretend we’re not drowning?”

“I think they make us come so they can say they did something productive about inter-bureau communication,” Alex replied, deadpan.

“You’re such a ray of sunshine.”

Alex glanced over. “You say that like it’s an insult.”

Casey laughed softly, then sipped her coffee. “You always this charming before nine a.m.?”

Alex arched a brow. “You’re the one who insisted on sitting next to me.”

“I didn’t see a ‘reserved for emotionally distant career women’ sign.”

Alex almost choked on her coffee. “Novak.”

Casey grinned, eyes sparkling, but said nothing more. The silence that settled between them wasn’t awkward. It felt earned. Easy.

Alex’s gaze drifted to the wide conference doors ahead. “First panel starts in fifteen.”

“Joint prosecutions. You excited?”

“I’m prepared.”

Casey bumped her shoulder lightly. “That’s what I meant.”

Another long pause. The kind that could have been filled with small talk, but wasn’t.

Finally, Alex spoke again. “You did well the other day.”

Casey blinked. “Thanks.”

“You had command of the case details. You were… direct.” She hesitated. “In a good way.”

Casey’s voice softened. “That almost sounded like a compliment.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

But there was warmth behind it. Not teasing. Not cold. Something else.

The PA system crackled overhead: “Session A is now beginning in Room 4B.”

Casey shifted her coffee to her other hand and straightened her jacket. “Let’s go, Cabot. We’ll wow them with our coordinated cynicism.”

Alex gave her a sideways glance. “Don’t trip over your sarcasm on the way in.”

Casey walked beside her. “No promises.”

They entered the conference room side by side, and if Alex’s hand brushed the small of Casey’s back as they passed through the door, neither of them said a word about it.

They didn’t say much on the walk back from the little Italian place down the block. The air was cool and sticky with humidity, the sky above them smudged with clouds that didn’t quite commit to raining. The restaurant had been cozy, warm-lit and cramped, with red-checked tablecloths and bad jazz spilling out of battered speakers overhead. The pasta was passable, the wine strong enough to make them both quiet in that way that wasn't quite uncomfortable, just... careful.

Now, back in the hotel room, everything had gone still again. The soft glow of the bedside lamp turned the beige walls golden, and somewhere down the hall, a door slammed, muffled and faraway.

Casey dropped her keycard onto the dresser with a clatter that sounded louder than it should have. She kicked off her heels, letting out a soft groan as she rolled her shoulders, the motion lazy and feline. She looked tired in that sunkissed, wine-loosened way—cheeks flushed, lids low. “Shower’s calling my name,” she mumbled, voice already trailing off. “If I don’t come out in twenty minutes, assume I’ve drowned and avenge me.”

Alex, perched at the desk in one of those stiff hotel chairs, barely looked up. Her blazer was slung over the back of it, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, glasses slipping down her nose as she absently flipped through her notes from that afternoon’s legal ethics panel. “If you drown in a Marriott bathtub,” she said dryly, “I’m not sure vengeance would be my jurisdiction.”

“That’s cold, Cabot,” Casey called over her shoulder, her voice tinged with mock betrayal as she disappeared into the bathroom.

The door clicked shut. A second later, the water started, a soft rush behind the wall.

Alex didn’t move. She just stared down at her notes, eyes unfocused now, words blurring into meaningless lines. Her pen hovered above the page, unmoving. In the quiet, she could hear the sound of the water running, steady and gentle, and under that, the silence stretching long between them. There was something about Casey’s laugh, that fake-dramatic tone she used when she wanted to pretend she wasn’t tired or hurt or thinking too much, that tugged at something Alex couldn’t quite name.

She sighed and leaned back in the chair. The wine lingered faintly in her bloodstream. Just enough to take the edge off, to soften the sharp corners of her usual restraint. Her head buzzed with a gentle warmth, not quite a fog, but enough to slow her down. To let her drift.

She should be reviewing their notes. Or catching up on emails. Or reading something dry and dense to anchor herself back into focus. Something that didn’t have cheekbones or a crooked smile or legs for days.

Instead, her gaze slid over the edge of the desk and toward the closed bathroom door. Her mind wandered, reluctantly at first, then with more boldness.

Not in the usual way, the disciplined way, where her thoughts clicked into place around case law and procedural nuance. This was slower. Warmer. Dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with physical risk.

She imagined the steam curling around Casey’s bare shoulders, softening the sharp lines of her silhouette until she looked more like a dream than a person. The kind of image that lived behind closed eyelids at night.

She pictured the flush rising high on Casey’s cheeks, blooming across her skin from the heat of the water, not embarrassment or nerves. The way her ponytail would unravel, strands slipping loose one by one until it gave up entirely. Damp gold clinging to the curve of her neck, the slope of her spine, until it settled along her back in a messy sheet that demanded no polish, no artifice. Just honesty.

And that laugh.

The one Alex had only heard a few times, and always by accident. Never in a courtroom, never at work. A snorty, unfiltered thing that crinkled her nose and lit up her whole face, like she'd forgotten to care how she looked. It was never calculated. Just joy. Undeniable and rare.

Alex bit the inside of her cheek, hard.

She could almost see Casey stepping out of the bathroom in nothing but a towel, skin still damp and glistening in the lamplight. Hair dripping onto her shoulders. Her expression open, lazy with warmth, grinning at some dumb offhand comment Alex hadn’t even meant to be funny.

Alex sat up sharply, spine stiffening as though she'd been caught.

Absolutely not.

She exhaled hard through her nose, dragged a hand over her face, and crossed her legs tightly, trying to root herself back into something practical, something safe. She stared down at her notes again, willing herself to focus, but the words smeared and reassembled in unreadable patterns. Nothing stuck. Nothing helped.

The shower kept running. The quiet in the room filled up like fog.

She glanced toward the bathroom door again—just a flick of her eyes—then turned her head back so fast it felt performative, even though no one was watching. She hated this. This need. This aching, irrational want that had nothing to do with justice or duty or any of the clean, orderly things she’d spent her life clinging to.

Because Casey Novak was supposed to be a junior colleague. A sharp-tongued ADA with too much nerve and a reckless streak she tried to hide behind long hours and coffee. She wasn’t supposed to matter like this. She wasn’t supposed to crawl under Alex’s skin and settle there.

The water shut off with a sudden clunk of finality. Alex rose too quickly, almost knocking her knee against the desk, and crossed the room in three brisk steps.

The window offered a view of the parking lot. Rows of sedans under humming streetlights. A Waffle House neon sign flickering somewhere in the distance. It was all blessedly uninspiring and bland. She stared out into the nothing, arms folded tightly across her chest.

Behind her, the bathroom door clicked.

Casey emerged in a baggy sweater and plaid boxers, hair damp and curling at the ends. She looked… small. Not in stature; she still moved with that restless energy, like her bones were wired for motion. Softer now. Blurred around the edges, like the day had finally worn her down and there was no point pretending otherwise.

Alex, still standing at the window with her arms crossed, glanced over her shoulder. Just once. Just long enough to register the sight before turning her gaze sharply back to the parking lot like it had something urgent to offer.

“Shower’s free,” Casey mumbled, rubbing the towel through her hair in lazy circles.

She crossed to the bed and flopped down face-first with a grunt, limbs sprawled wide like she couldn’t hold herself together anymore. “I swear to God,” her voice was muffled against the comforter, “if I ever have to sit through another three-hour PowerPoint on interdepartmental task forces—”

“You’ll what?” Alex replied without turning, her tone cool as glass. “Stage a rebellion?”

“No,” Casey said, rolling onto her back and letting the towel fall to the floor. “I’ll fake a seizure and take myself to urgent care just to get out of it.”

Alex's mouth quirked slightly. “Your commitment to public service is inspiring.”

Casey giggled and reached blindly into her overnight bag. “How are you not exhausted? You were like, scary alert all day.”

Alex turned away from the window at last, fingers moving to the buttons on her blouse with clinical precision. “Discipline,” she said. “And caffeine.”

She didn’t look at Casey as she unfastened the last button, nor as she turned to grab her toiletry bag from the chair.

It wasn’t avoidance, exactly. It was survival.

But Casey looked. God, she looked.

No better than a man, really. Eyes followed the line of Alex’s spine as she moved, drinking in the pale stretch of skin that peeked between shirt and waistband. The slope of her shoulders. The fine, deliberate motion of fingers undoing one button after the next like none of it meant anything.

Casey knew she shouldn’t stare. She should look away. Say something. Do something other than sit there on the edge of the bed like her tongue had gone heavy and her thoughts had short-circuited.

But she didn’t.

Because Alex moved like a quiet kind of violence—elegant, restrained, devastating in the details. Every flick of her wrist, every sharp inhale, every goddamn ounce of composure just made it worse. Made Casey want to unravel her.

She swallowed hard and let her eyes trace the curve of Alex’s neck, the faint dip of her spine as she bent to grab her things. Her bra strap slipped slightly down one shoulder, and it took everything Casey had not to let out a sound.

The bathroom door clicked shut behind her a moment later. She sat up slowly, hands braced behind her on the bed, staring into the warm wash of lamplight on the carpet. Her skin was still flushed from the shower, and her hair clung to the back of her neck, cooling in the air.

Her eyes drifted to the bathroom door. Steam curled at the edges beneath it like the ghost of something private, something unseen. She rubbed at her face and looked anywhere but the door. Anywhere but the space Alex had just vacated. But it didn’t matter. She could still feel her there. In the air. In her own chest.

It was ridiculous, this thing between them. Quiet and unnamed but present, like a low hum just under the floor.

Ten minutes passed. Maybe twelve.

Alex came back out quieter than she’d gone in. She wore a soft long-sleeved shirt and loose pants that clung slightly at the knees. Nothing revealing. Nothing intentional. Still, Casey looked up like she couldn’t not.

Alex didn’t say anything. Just crossed the room, slow and careful, and slipped onto her side of the bed like the space between them wasn’t full of static.

“You good?” Casey asked, her voice barely a thread.

Alex paused. “Fine.”

“You say that like you don’t mean it.”

“I say it like it’s all I’ve got tonight,” Alex said softly, pulling the blanket up to her chest.

Casey lay back beside her, stretching out. Their shoulders didn’t touch. But they could have.

For a while, there was only the hum of the heater and the faint clatter of a distant ice machine.

“I forgot how draining these things are,” Casey murmured eventually, her voice muffled by the pillow.  “All the smiling. The note-taking. Pretending to be interested in panelists who haven’t practiced law since the ‘90s.”

Alex gave a soft hum of agreement. “And the subtle competitiveness. Like everyone’s measuring everyone else’s ambition.”

Casey turned slightly toward her. “You play that game?”

Alex was quiet for a moment. “I used to.”

“You don’t now?”

“It’s not about winning anymore. Not the way it was when I was younger. Now it’s about… impact.”

Casey turned her head slightly, eyes skimming the shape of Alex in the dark. “You always seem like you know who you are. What you want.”

“I used to think that was the same thing,” Alex said.

A silence settled. Not awkward, but charged. 

“Do you ever feel like you’re becoming someone you don’t want to be?” Casey asked.

Alex’s reply was quiet. Immediate. “Every day.”

That landed hard in the space between them. The bed creaked as Casey shifted onto her side, facing Alex’s back. Not touching. But there.

“You don’t have to keep proving anything,” Alex said after a while. “Not to them. Not to me.”

Casey blinked at the dark. Her throat felt tight. “You saying that, like you mean it, might ruin me.”

Alex didn’t move. “Then I won’t say it again.”

She let out a laugh that sounded like it hurt. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

They didn’t touch. But they didn’t drift apart, either.

The minutes stretched, and the quiet got heavier, like the room itself was holding its breath.

Alex lay still, eyes open in the dark. She could feel Casey’s presence beside her, close enough that the warmth bled across the mattress. She didn’t mean to roll over.

But she did. Slowly, carefully, like a secret. She shifted onto her side and let her eyes fall on Casey, half-shadowed in the low lamp glow. Her face was relaxed now, the kind of softness Alex almost never got to see. The usual spark, the restlessness, was gone, replaced by something quieter. Casey’s hair had dried into a soft halo of waves against the pillow. Her lips were parted just slightly. Her lashes cast shadows against her cheeks.

Alex let herself look. She didn’t rush it. Took in every inch like it might be taken from her if she blinked too long. The slope of her nose. The faint scar near her brow. The way one of her hands had curled into the blanket like she needed something to hold.

Casey stirred slightly, brow knitting. Not asleep, then. She blinked once. Turned her head a little.

Their eyes met. She didn’t say anything.

Didn’t ask why Alex was watching her, didn’t joke or flinch or roll away.

She just looked back. Steady. Curious. A little amused.

Then she closed her eyes again, deliberately, and let out a breath that sounded like permission.

Alex stayed right there. Eyes wide open. And for the first time all day, she let herself want. Quietly, silently, with reverence.

Casey didn’t open her eyes again. But Alex could tell she wasn’t asleep. There was a shift in her breathing, slow, but conscious. Measured. Like she was waiting.

Alex watched her a moment longer, the curve of her cheek, the rise and fall of her chest beneath the old sweater. She knew she should look away. Knew this wasn’t fair. But something in her had cracked open, just a little.

She spoke, voice barely above a whisper. “You always sleep this still?”

Casey’s mouth twitched. “Only when someone’s staring at me.”

Alex huffed a quiet laugh, more breath than sound. “Sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

She wasn’t.

Alex’s hand was just inches away on the blanket. She could feel the temptation like gravity.

Casey broke the silence this time, voice husky with sleep or something heavier. “You ever wonder what this would look like if we weren’t who we are?”

Alex swallowed. “I try not to.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want to want something I can’t have.”

Casey turned her head again, eyes open now, clear and unflinching. “You already do.”

The words hit like a bruise. Not cruel, just true. Alex didn’t answer. Didn’t need to because the space between them wasn’t empty anymore. It was thick with everything they weren’t saying.

Everything they were too smart, or too scared, to speak upon.

And still, they didn’t move. Didn’t reach across the inches between them. But they didn’t look away either. And that was almost worse.

Casey had never been patient. Not with things like this. So she moved. Just her hand, at first. Slow. Barely brushing the back of Alex’s knuckles beneath the blanket.

Alex didn’t flinch or speak, just let out the smallest breath, like something inside her had cracked from the pressure.

Casey’s fingers slid over hers, palm to palm, tentative but deliberate.

“I won’t make you say it,” she murmured. “But I need to know I’m not imagining this.”

Alex turned her hand, laced their fingers together.

“You’re not,” she said quietly. “You never were.”

That silence came back, but now it was warm. Alex’s thumb brushed slowly over Casey’s knuckles, grounding, anchoring, unbearably gentle.

Casey leaned in, only a little, close enough to feel the heat of her, but didn’t close the distance. She waited.

And Alex?

Alex finally looked at her like she couldn’t not anymore. Like maybe, for once, she didn’t want to be careful.

That, more than anything, unraveled something in Casey. Because Alex always looked away when things got too close. 

So Casey shifted, slow and uncertain. Her knee brushed Alex’s hip beneath the blanket. She hesitated for half a second, heartbeat thudding in her ears, then climbed awkwardly over her, bracing herself with one hand near the pillow.

Alex went still, eyes wide but soft.

Casey hovered there, close enough to feel the heat of Alex’s breath, but not close enough to drown in her.

Her voice was quiet. Rough.

“Tell me to stop.”

She meant it. Every word. But Alex didn’t object,

And so Casey leaned in, and kissed her.

It wasn’t confident, and it definitely wasn’t perfect. It was careful. Hesitant. The kind of kiss that asked a question instead of answering one.

Alex made a soft, startled sound against her mouth—something between a sigh and a sob—and then her hand came up, fingers curling into the hem of Casey’s sweater like she needed something to hold onto.

Casey pulled back just enough to look at her. Alex’s eyes were glassy in the low light, her voice barely a whisper.

“You didn’t imagine it.”

“I know,” Casey said, so quietly it almost wasn’t sound.

The second kiss was fuller, hungrier. Casey shifted her weight, deepening it without thinking, her fingers tracing the curve of Alex’s jaw, holding her like she was afraid she’d disappear.

 Alex didn’t disappear. She kissed back like she’d been waiting for permission, like she’d spent weeks starving this feeling and was finally letting go.

 She moved beneath Casey, one hand curling around the back of Casey’s neck, the other still tangled in her sweater.

 It wasn’t smooth—their noses bumped, and Casey’s damp hair fell onto the pillow. Neither seemed to care. Alex’s hand slid into her hair, fingers tangling in the damp strands.

 “Casey…” Alex breathed her name like a warning, but her mouth kept chasing hers, her fingers tightening at Casey’s waist.

 “I know,” Casey whispered, forehead resting against Alex’s. “I know.”

 “You okay?” Casey asked, eyes searching.

 Alex nodded—a small, sharp motion. Her voice was hoarse. “Don’t stop.”

 Casey’s thigh slipped between Alex’s legs as she shifted—awkward at first, then deliberate. Her hands moved to Alex’s waist, tentative but wanting. The fabric of Alex’s sleep pants was warm beneath her knees. She leaned down again.

 “Are you sure?” she whispered, their foreheads brushing.

 Alex reached up, brushing a thumb over Casey’s jaw like a secret. “Are you?”

a/n this is the stupidest thing i have every created

pwp or like… a fic with actual effort…

my motivation is out the window. i miss her too much.

Temporary Guardians | Alex Cabot x Casey Novak

the accidental baby acquisition you have all been waiting for

fluff (what else would it be?)

I will finish editing this when i have the energy to open my laptop

It’s 5:03 a.m. when the doorbell rings.

Casey stumbles toward the front door in her pajamas, hair a mess, eyes barely open. She peers through the peephole, squints, and opens the door a crack.

“Amanda?” she mumbles.

Rollins looks like she hasn’t slept in a week. She’s balancing a squirming toddler on her hip, a diaper bag slung over one shoulder, and car keys clenched between her teeth. She spits them into her hand and thrusts the baby—Jesse—into Casey’s arms.

“I have to go to Georgia,” Amanda says in a rush. “My sister got arrested again, my mom is spiraling, I booked the first flight out—can you please just—just take her for a day or two?”

Casey blinks. “Wait, huh—?”

Amanda’s already tossing over the diaper bag and fishing another key off her keyring. “Here’s the spare to my apartment if you need anything. Her snacks are labeled. Oh, and she doesn’t like oranges this week.”

Casey fumbles to catch the diaper bag while Jesse clings to her like a koala. She stares down at the child like she’s holding a live grenade.

Amanda’s halfway down the hallway. “Thank you! I owe you big time! Love you, bye!”

The door shuts.

Casey looks at the baby.

The baby looks back.

Five minutes later, Alex blinks awake to the sound of creaking floorboards and a faint rustling. She sits up groggily, rubbing her eyes.

“Casey?”

Casey is standing at the edge of the bed, frozen, holding Jesse at arm’s length. Her voice is quiet but wild with disbelief. “Alex…?”

Alex squints at the bundle. “…Why do you have Amanda’s baby?”

“I don’t know!” Casey whisper-yells. “She just showed up, dumped her on me, and vanished into the sunrise like some southern child-depositing cryptid!”

Alex stares for a long beat.

Then, because it’s 5:12 a.m. and nothing makes sense anymore, she scoots over and lifts the covers. “Get in. We’ll figure it out after sleep.”

Casey carefully climbs into bed, still holding Jesse like she might detonate at any moment.

Jesse curls into Casey’s chest and is asleep within seconds.

Casey glances down, awestruck. “She’s…kind of cute.”

Alex yawns and rests her head against Casey’s shoulder. “That’s how they get you.”

They fall asleep like that: Alex’s head on Casey’s shoulder, Casey holding Jesse like she’s made of glass, the early morning light just starting to peek through the blinds.

By mid-morning, the apartment is a war zone of makeshift baby safety strategies.

The coffee table has been repurposed as a gate. Couch cushions block off sharp corners. The actual couch? Shoved halfway across the room to form a barricade between Jesse and the bookshelves.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Casey grunts, shoving the armrest into place. “We are two very educated women. With degrees. And this is what we’ve been reduced to.”

Alex, sitting crisscross on the floor with Jesse, doesn’t look up. “You’re the one who opened the door.”

“I didn’t know there’d be a baby on the other side!”

Jesse squeals happily and bangs a toy dinosaur on Alex’s knee.

Alex winces but smiles. “At least she likes me.”

“Yeah, well,” Casey huffs, brushing her hair out of her face and heading for the kitchen, “I’m the one trying to keep her alive.”

She opens the fridge and stares at the contents like she’s defusing a bomb. “Okay… does it—does she—have teeth?”

No response from the living room.

Casey leans around the fridge door. “Alex?”

Alex glances up. “What?”

“Does. She. Have. Teeth? We have to feed her. I don’t want her choking and dying in our care.”

Alex looks at Jesse, who’s now attempting to feed her dinosaur a sock. “I think she has, like, four?”

“Four?” Casey mutters, turning back to the counter. “Great. So… mushy.”

She ends up chopping a banana into microscopic pieces, so small they look like they’ve been grated. She sprinkles them onto a paper plate with the care of a Michelin-starred chef plating caviar.

When she walks back into the living room, banana plate in hand, she stops in her tracks.

Alex is completely engrossed in Dinosaur Tales. Jesse is snuggled up beside her, wide-eyed and drooling slightly.

“Are you seriously into that?”

Alex doesn’t even blink. “It’s surprisingly educational.”

Casey raises a brow. “You’re watching it without her now.”

“She wandered off and came back,” Alex murmurs, eyes still glued to the screen. “There’s character development.”

Casey sits beside them, balancing the plate on her knees. “Do I give it to her like birdseed?”

Alex takes a banana piece, offers it to Jesse, and watches as she shoves it in her mouth with enthusiasm. “You did great.”

Casey leans back against the couch barricade and lets out a breath. “Okay. One banana down. Just… however long to go.”

Jesse claps and throws a piece of banana at the TV.

Casey sighs. “Perfect.”

Morning came and went, and Jesse is no longer the sweet, drooling cherub they woke up to.

She’s fussy. Grouchy. Whining just enough to fray nerves but not enough to indicate what’s wrong. She refuses banana. She throws her sippy cup. She lays on the floor, face down, in full silent protest.

Alex stands near the barricaded living room like she’s observing a wild animal. “What’s happening? Is she broken?”

Casey paces nearby, hands on her hips. “I gave her food, she had water, her diaper is clean. That’s the whole baby checklist, right?”

Jesse lets out a long, miserable groan and kicks a stuffed giraffe across the floor.

Alex glances at Casey, exasperated. “Don’t you have, like, eight cousins? Shouldn’t you know babies?”

Casey shoots her a look and rubs her temples. “Not when they’re surrendered with no warning at five in the morning.”

Jesse grunts and curls into a ball.

Alex sighs and crouches down. “Okay, maybe she’s—wait. Do babies… get tired?”

Casey blinks. “Oh my God. She needs a nap.”

Alex straightens. “We let her skip the nap. We broke the baby.”

“We broke Amanda’s baby,” Casey mutters, eyes wide. “She’s gonna kill me.”

Ten minutes later, the apartment is dimmed, the white noise machine is an old fan on medium, and Jesse is passed out in the middle of Casey and Alex’s bed, starfished and snoring softly.

Casey tiptoes out of the room like it’s a crime scene.

Alex meets her in the hallway, whispering: “That was horrifying.”

Casey nods, dazed. “I think she looked into my soul.”

Alex pats her on the back. “She’s asleep now.”

Casey leans her forehead against the wall. “I feel like I need a nap.”

Alex sighs and rests her head next to hers. “I say next time, we leave you on Amanda’s doorstep at five in the morning.”

By dinnertime, the illusion of control is gone.

Casey stands in front of the fridge again, hands clasped behind her neck, staring into the abyss of condiments, expired yogurt, and a suspiciously soft cucumber.

“Unless we want to feed her mustard and shredded cheese, we’re out of options,” she says grimly.

Alex sits at the kitchen table, Jesse balanced on her hip, chewing contentedly on her own fingers. “Didn’t Amanda leave snacks?”

“She left a pack of teething biscuits and three squeezable pouches that expired in March.” Casey closes the fridge. “We’re taking her out.”

Alex raises an eyebrow. “Like… to a restaurant?”

“Do you have a better idea? Because I’m five seconds from giving her dry cereal and hoping for the best.”

They settle into a booth at a quiet diner with the kind of sticky menus and warm lighting that says “we don’t judge.” Jesse is in a borrowed high chair—too big for her, but she’s thrilled regardless.

Casey orders pancakes and applesauce for her, pancakes and coffee for herself and Alex. The waitress coos at Jesse, who responds by flinging her spoon across the floor.

“She’s got an arm,” Alex mutters.

By the time the food arrives, Jesse’s in a mood again—fussy until the moment applesauce hits her tray. Then she digs in like she’s been stranded on a desert island.

Alex watches, completely entranced. “Okay, she’s… kind of cute.”

Casey sips her coffee. “Don’t say it.”

Alex gently brushes a crumb off Jesse’s cheek. “What? I didn’t want to like her. But she’s got these little—these cheeks.”

“You’re bonding.” Casey points at her, mock-accusing. “You’re emotionally compromised.”

Alex scoffs but she doesn’t put Jesse down for the rest of the meal. Even when the baby finishes eating and starts dozing against her shoulder, Alex just shifts her gently, resting her hand protectively over Jesse’s back.

Casey watches with a soft smile. “You’re a natural.”

Alex snorts. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. I also once tried to microwave a frozen burrito with the foil still on.”

Back in the car, Amanda still hasn’t responded to any texts or calls. Casey sighs and taps the wheel at a red light. “We should swing by her place. Grab extra diapers, maybe a couple of changes of clothes.”

Alex nods, looking down at Jesse snoozing peacefully in the backseat. “If she stays another night, we’ll need reinforcements.”

Casey glances at her. “You okay with that?”

Alex smiles. “She’s already survived one day with us. We owe her a second one.”

Amanda’s spare key sticks a little in the lock, but Casey jimmies it open with a grunt and pushes the door inward.

The apartment is warm and cluttered, with baby toys scattered everywhere, an overstuffed diaper bag flopped in the entryway, and at least two mismatched socks on the kitchen counter.

Alex steps in cautiously, Jesse once again on her hip, peering around. “This place is… lived in.”

“Yeah,” Casey says, flicking on a light. “Lived in by a tornado.”

They start gathering essentials: diapers from the hall closet, a box of wipes from under the sink, a crumpled grocery list scrawled in Sharpie that just says “cheddar bunnies???” and “plums?”

Alex sets Jesse down on a play mat in the living room, where she immediately grabs a plastic truck and starts chewing on it.

Casey reappears from the hallway holding a tiny pair of dinosaur footie pajamas. “Okay, this is unfairly cute.”

Alex smiles. “You’re the one getting emotionally compromised now.”

Casey glares halfheartedly and tosses the pajamas in their growing supply pile. “I’m being practical. Pajamas are necessary.”

As Alex digs through the changing table drawers, she finds a small, dog-eared notebook jammed between a pile of extra bibs and a lavender-scented burp cloth. She flips it open curiously.

Inside are scribbled notes in Amanda’s messy handwriting: “Jesse loves ceiling fans,” “sings along to Grey’s Anatomy theme(??),” “says ‘mama’ only when mad at me,” and “likes when Casey talks. seriously, her voice calms her down.”

Alex freezes. “Casey.”

Casey looks up from the pile of baby socks. “Hmm?”

Alex holds up the notebook, open to the page. “You’re in here.”

Casey steps closer and reads, eyebrows rising. “Well, that’s weirdly flattering.”

Alex smiles. “Or incriminating. You’ve got baby-calming powers.”

“I demand that be added to my résumé immediately.”

Jesse lets out a squeaky giggle from the play mat. Casey looks over, watching her lift the truck and smash it gently onto her lap with great pride. She can’t help it. Her face softens.

Alex watches her watching Jesse and murmurs, “We’re kind of good at this.”

Casey turns to her, surprised. “You think so?”

“I mean,” Alex shrugs, “no one’s died. She’s fed, clean, and we only got banana in one shoe.”

Casey grins. “That’s basically parenting, right?”

They gather up the loot: pajamas, diapers, a handful of teething toys, and the weirdly sentimental notebook, and head out, Jesse now fast asleep in Alex’s arms again.

As they walk down the hallway, Alex whispers, “Think Amanda planned this?”

Casey glances sideways. “Planned as in… tricked us into babysitting to prove a point?”

“She is from Georgia. Southern guilt is a deadly weapon.”

Casey smirks. “Next time, I’m leaving you on her doorstep.”

The next morning dawns soft and sleepy. No new texts. No calls. Amanda’s radio silence stretches into its second day like a held breath.

Casey wakes to the smell of coffee and the faint sound of cartoon voices drifting down the hallway.

She rubs her eyes, pads into the kitchen barefoot, and stops.

Alex is sitting cross-legged on the couch, her hair loosely tied back, a mug of coffee balanced on the armrest beside her. Jesse is tucked into her lap, babbling quietly between spoonfuls of oatmeal.

Alex guides each spoon with a calm focus, occasionally pausing to wipe Jesse’s mouth with a napkin, murmuring, “Slow down, kiddo,” with a fond little smile that Casey can’t remember seeing before.

It’s gentle. It’s quiet.

Casey leans against the doorway, arms crossed, just watching.

She doesn’t say anything at first, doesn’t want to break the spell, but Alex eventually senses her and glances over.

She startles just a bit. “How long have you been standing there?”

Casey smiles softly. “Long enough to question if I woke up in an alternate universe.”

Alex snorts, scooping up another bite of oatmeal. “You were out cold. Jesse and I decided to have an early breakfast.”

Casey steps forward, voice low. “She’s letting you feed her.”

“She also let me put her hair in these ridiculous little antenna buns,” Alex says, tilting her head toward the baby, who indeed has two tiny, lopsided pigtails sticking out like she’s halfway to becoming a Teletubby.

Casey grins. “Okay, that’s adorable. You’re doomed now. She’s imprinted on you.”

Alex looks down at Jesse, who’s now stuffing oatmeal into her own mouth with one determined fist. “Could be worse.”

Casey watches them for another moment, quieter now. “You’re good at this.”

Alex shrugs, pretending not to blush. “She makes it kind of easy.”

“No, she doesn’t,” Casey says. “That’s what makes it impressive.”

Their eyes meet—just for a second too long—and then Jesse sneezes oatmeal onto Alex’s shirt, breaking the moment entirely.

Alex groans. “Okay, no one tells Amanda about this part.”

Casey grabs a napkin and hands it over with a smile. “Too late. I’m mentally drafting the group chat now.”

Alex narrows her eyes. “I will take this child and flee the country.”

Casey laughs as Jesse squeals with delight, oatmeal-covered fingers waving in the air like she knows she’s won something.

As the sun sets on the second day, the apartment looks like a daycare collided with a crime scene.

There are board books in the couch cushions, a half-eaten apple on the windowsill, and someone (definitely not Jesse) has drawn on the wall with a purple crayon.

Casey is lying face-down on the rug, one arm stretched out dramatically. “This is how I die.”

Alex sits cross-legged nearby, her blouse stained with juice, gently brushing Jesse’s hair back as the baby dozes in her lap. “We survived. Barely.”

“You made her macaroni.”

“You bribed her with Tinkerbell.”

“You enjoyed Tinkerbell.”

“I was desperate,” Alex mutters.

They sit in exhausted silence, the only sound the faint hum of the dishwasher and Jesse’s soft breathing. For a moment, it’s peaceful again. Still, soft, even a little comforting.

Then Casey’s phone rings.

She fumbles for it and groans. “It’s Amanda.”

Alex perks up. “Put her on speaker.”

Casey does and Amanda’s tired face fills the screen. She’s clearly in some rundown motel room, hair up in a messy bun, a bottle of gas station iced tea in one hand.

“Hey,” Amanda says. “Don’t hate me.”

Casey and Alex exchange a look. “What happened?”

“My sister’s a trainwreck, my mom’s yelling at everybody, and I had to chase my nephew through a Walmart in heels. Anyway, I’ve got to stay two more days.”

Casey audibly groans. Alex slumps backward against the couch.

Amanda winces. “I know. I’m sorry. I owe you both like, ten brunches and a kidney.”

“Make it two kidneys,” Casey mutters.

Jesse stirs in Alex’s lap, then lets out a loud, dramatic sigh in her sleep. Amanda’s face softens.

“Is she okay?”

Alex adjusts the blanket around Jesse. “She’s fine. Chaos incarnate. But fine.”

Amanda smiles a little. “Thank you. Seriously.”

Casey waves a hand weakly. “Don’t thank us yet. You still have to come get her.”

Amanda laughs, and then the screen freezes for a moment—her connection dropping just long enough for them to miss her goodbye.

Casey stares at the frozen screen. “Did she hang up, or did we lose her?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Alex mumbles, already lying down. “We’re in this now.”

Jesse shifts in her lap, snuggles deeper.

Casey exhales, then reaches over to pull a blanket across both of them. “We really are.”

The three of them fall asleep tangled together on the couch.

calex, to no one’s surprise

One Week | Alex Cabot x Casey Novak

Casey brings home a cat.

fluff

“It’s just for a week,” Casey said, cradling a scrawny, orange creature in her arms like she was holding a human infant (which wasn’t too far off, because the thing had been screaming since she left the shelter).

Alex gave the cat a once-over. It looked like it had recently fought God, lost, and now lived with the consequences. Its fur stuck out at odd angles, it was missing a small chunk of one ear, and it was currently trying to climb into Casey’s jacket.

“She looks like she eats drywall,” Alex said.

“She’s perfect,” Casey cooed, stroking the cat’s crooked whiskers. “Her name’s Pickles.”

“Of course it is,” Alex sighed. “One week.”

Casey’s face lit up. “I love you so much.”

“One. Week,” Alex repeated, pointing.

“Totally.”

“No exceptions.”

“Absolutely.”

“She’s not sleeping in the bed.”

Three hours later, Pickles was curled up between them on the bed, snoring, her matted tail flicking over Alex’s bare leg.

Alex blinked at the ceiling, deadpan. “I hate you.”

Casey, already half-asleep with a smile on her face, murmured, “Love you too.”

Day Two started with the distinct sound of ceramic shattering on hardwood.

Alex bolted upright in bed. “What was that?”

Casey, groggy and wrapped in the comforter, barely opened one eye. “She’s just exploring.”

“She’s committing crimes,” Alex said, storming into the kitchen.

There, on the counter, sat Pickles—smug and entirely unbothered—next to the broken remains of Alex’s prized espresso mug. The one from Florence. The one Alex had bubble-wrapped and hand-carried back through airport security because “you can’t trust checked luggage with art.”

Pickles sneezed directly into the open sugar bowl.

Casey appeared in the doorway, rubbing her eyes. “She’s got spirit.”

“She’s got a death wish,” Alex muttered, sweeping up the shards.

Pickles leapt down and immediately attempted to climb Alex’s pant leg like a tree.

Day 4.

Alex returned home to the sound of running water and the distinct, unmistakable sound of something being violently splashed.

Alarmed, she dropped her briefcase and hurried toward the bathroom.

“Casey?” she called out, knocking once before pushing the door open.

The scene inside resembled a crime scene. The floor was soaked. A towel hung halfway off the shower rod like it had tried to escape. Shampoo bottles littered the ground. In the center of the chaos, Casey sat on a tiny plastic stool, soaked from the neck down, with a defeated look on her face.

Pickles sat beside her in the tub, completely drenched and looking like a very wet, very pissed-off meatball.

Her fur clung to her bones in angry spikes. Her eyes were wild, pupils fully dilated, as she clung to the porcelain tub wall like she was scaling it to freedom. The water was shallow, barely enough to soak her paws, but Pickles made it sound like she was being boiled alive.

“What the hell is going on in here?” Alex demanded, eyebrows raised so high they nearly reached her hairline.

Casey looked up like a prisoner of war. “I thought she had a flea,” she said weakly. “She kept scratching and I panicked. I Googled it. It said to try a bath.”

“You Googled it?” Alex repeated, stunned. “You didn’t call a vet. You didn’t ask me. You just threw the cat in the tub like you’re washing a pair of jeans?”

“I gently lowered her in,” Casey said, defensive. “She launched herself out.”

As if on cue, Pickles made a sound like that of a kettle and tried to leap onto the windowsill. She missed, skidded on a bar of soap, and landed in Alex’s lap.

Alex screamed.

Casey screamed.

Pickles hissed, scratched, and bolted out of the bathroom, leaving wet paw prints and chaos in her wake.

There was a long pause.

Alex, frozen, slowly looked down at the claw marks on her thigh. “I’m bleeding.”

“She didn’t mean it,” Casey said, reaching for a towel and trying not to laugh.

“She’s a menace,” Alex muttered, yanking toilet paper off the roll to dab her leg. “You bathed her like she’s a golden retriever. She weighs five pounds and runs entirely on spite.”

“I panicked,” Casey said again, standing up and wringing out the ends of her hair. “I just—I wanted her to feel clean and safe.”

Alex gave her a look, but her expression softened. “You’re so lucky I love you.”

Casey stepped forward, wrapped her arms around Alex’s waist, and buried her wet face in her shoulder. “She’s kind of growing on you, though.”

Alex sighed. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

From the hallway, a wet mrrp echoed like a vengeful ghost.

Alex groaned. “She’s plotting her revenge.”

“She just wants a cuddle.”

“She wants my soul.”

Day 6.

Alex had gone to the store for one thing: oat milk.

Just oat milk. Maybe a box of herbal tea if they had the kind Casey liked. A quick, efficient stop on her way home from court. In and out.

She did not plan to spend 18 minutes in the pet food aisle.

Yet there she was, dressed in slacks and a tailored coat, crouched on the linoleum floor comparing cans of cat food as if they contained ancient scripture.

“Why are there so many flavors?” she muttered to herself, holding up a tin of “Tuna Florentine in a Delicate Sauce” and squinting at the ingredient list. “Why does she need Florentine anything? She eats her own tail.”

A woman with a stroller passed by and gave her a sympathetic smile. Alex straightened abruptly, tucking the can under her arm like it was contraband.

Eventually, she walked out with three different flavors of “gourmet” wet food, a new ceramic food bowl shaped like a fish (because the current one was ‘depressing,’ Casey had claimed), and, inexplicably, a catnip-infused plush mouse.

She sat in traffic for twenty minutes afterward, staring straight ahead and re-evaluating her entire life.

When she opened the apartment door, she was immediately greeted by the sound of Pickles yowling. Not her usual war cry. This one was lower, more drawn-out. Sadder.

“Casey?” Alex called.

“In the bedroom!”

Alex toed off her shoes and followed the noise to find Pickles sprawled dramatically on the bed, head on Casey’s pillow like a Victorian widow. Casey stood at the dresser, folding laundry.

“She wouldn’t eat the chicken pate,” Casey said as Alex entered. “She stared at it like I’d offended her ancestors.”

Alex blinked. “That was the expensive kind.”

“She looked at me like I was a disappointment. Then she licked my leg and sulked off.”

Alex dropped the bag on the bed and pulled out the new cans. “What about Tuna Florentine?”

Casey gasped. “You got her a fish bowl.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Pickles perked up at the sound of the bag rustling. She rose slowly, suspiciously, and approached Alex.

Alex knelt down. “Look, demon. I brought you the kind with gravy. You better appreciate this.”

Pickles sniffed the air, bumped her head gently against Alex’s knee, then curled up against her side like it was no big deal.

Casey froze.

Alex stared down at the creature now purring like a chainsaw in her lap.

“She’s using me for food,” Alex said flatly.

Casey’s face was splitting into a grin. “She cuddled you.”

“She thinks I’m a vending machine.”

“She loves you,” Casey sang, grabbing her phone. “Smile for the ‘Alex Is Soft Now’ album.”

“I will end you.”

Pickles lifted her head and licked Alex’s hand once.

Alex blinked. “Okay… that was almost cute.”

“Admit it,” Casey said, leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed. “You love her.”

“I—” Alex looked down. Pickles was now curled tightly in her lap, snoring. “I think I’m being emotionally manipulated.”

Casey walked over, kissed the top of her head, and whispered, “Welcome to cat ownership.”

Alex sighed and gently stroked a patch of Pickles’ fur that wasn’t sticking up like a cowlick.

“She’s still not sleeping in the bed.”

“She definitely is.”

Alex didn’t argue.

Day 7.

Casey was crying.

Not the cute, watery-eyed sniffles that made Alex melt a little. No. This was full-on, gut-wrenching, ugly sobbing. She’d clearly given up on tissues and was just using the sleeve of Alex’s hoodie, which she’d stolen again. Pickles was curled in her lap, purring gently and blinking in that vaguely condescending way only cats could manage, like she didn’t quite understand what the fuss was about.

“I just—she trusted me,” Casey hiccupped, pressing her cheek to Pickles’ bony side. “She’s finally not screaming all the time and now I have to take her back? She thinks she lives here, Alex.”

From the door, Alex said nothing. There was a brief scraping noise.

“I mean, I know it was supposed to be a week, I know, I know, but she’s mine, okay? She’s weird and loud and shaped like a brick and she bites you for no reason but—” Casey broke off with another sob, wiping her nose on the cuff of her sleeve. “I love her.”

There was a grunt. More scraping.

Casey looked up blearily, snotty and red-faced, just as Alex emerged from the hallway dragging in a cat tree the size of her.

It had platforms. Ramps. A tunnel. A little flower-shaped perch at the top.

“What… are you doing?” Casey asked between gasping sobs, brow furrowed.

Alex set the tree down with a thud, wiped her hands on her jeans, and looked Casey dead in the eyes.

“I signed the adoption papers three days ago,” she said casually.

Silence.

Pickles let out a single, satisfied squawk.

Casey stared at her, mouth open, blinking rapidly like her brain had short-circuited. “You… what?”

Alex walked over, knelt in front of the couch, and gently wiped a tear off Casey’s cheek with her thumb. “You really thought I was going to make you give her up after you made her a little hat out of yarn and sang her a lullaby last night?”

“That was private,” Casey whimpered.

“I know,” Alex said, smiling faintly. “I came out for water and heard you rhyming ‘Pickles’ with ‘tickles.’ It was disturbing.”

Casey laughed, then immediately hiccuped and cried harder.

“She’s ours?”

“She’s ours,” Alex confirmed. “Congratulations. You’re now legally responsible for a sentient dust mop with abandonment issues.”

Casey clutched Pickles to her chest, who tolerated it with a quiet wheeze, and reached out with her free hand to pull Alex into a hug.

Alex let herself be folded in, buried her face in Casey’s hair, and whispered, “She’s still not sleeping in the bed.”

From her new perch, Pickles blinked slowly, smug as hell.

She knew.

Benched | Alex Cabot x Casey Novak

Casey faints at the batting cage. Alex panics. There’s urgent care, tears, IVs, attempted soup arson, and cuddles. consider this my formal apology for yams. too tired to edit. fluff. lots of it. mention of needles and iv's 2.3k wc

“Come on, it’s not that hot,” Casey said, rolling her shoulders as she stepped up to the plate again. Her cheeks were flushed, hair frizzing beneath the helmet, and she looked determined, which, Alex knew, was Casey’s default setting, even on a Saturday.

Alex sat primly on the bench, legs crossed at the ankle, sunglasses fixed in place, and a book in one hand. She looked entirely unbothered, like someone who had not been dragged to a dusty batting cage on her only free afternoon. “You say that like you’re not about to pass out in front of suburban dads and ten-year-olds.”

Casey swung and missed. Then again. Then—thwack. A clean hit that cracked into the chain-link fence.

“There’s the overachiever I know and put up with,” Alex said, sipping her drink.

“I’m relaxing,” Casey shot back, panting slightly. “This is cathartic.”

“You prosecute creeps more gently than you treat that ball.”

But Casey didn’t answer. She stayed still after her next swing, bat slipping from her fingers. Her knees wobbled.

Alex was standing before she even realized she’d moved.

“Casey?”

Then Casey slumped to the ground.

Alex was through the gate in seconds, her stride purposeful despite the uneven turf and the useless wedge sandals she’d insisted on wearing. A teenage staffer reached out to help, but Alex brushed past him with a lawyer’s practiced authority.

“Move,” she said calmly. “I’ve got her.”

She knelt beside Casey, immediately checking her pulse, her voice steady despite the panic crawling up her spine. “Casey, hey. Talk to me.”

Casey groaned, eyes fluttering open. “M’fine.”

“No, you’re not.” Alex’s tone was firm but measured. “You just passed out mid-swing like a melodramatic heroine.”

“I didn’t faint.”

“You did. And we’re not arguing about it.” She adjusted Casey’s head onto her knee and glanced at the staffer. “Get water. Cold. Please.”

Casey squinted at her through bleary eyes. “Don’t yell.”

“I’m not yelling,” Alex said, already helping her sit up slowly. “You’re hearing the sound of barely restrained panic in an extremely competent tone.”

The kid brought a bottle of water. Alex held it to Casey’s lips with one hand and dialed her phone with the other.

Casey caught sight of the screen. “No ambulances. Alex, no.”

“Yes ambulances,” Alex said coolly.

“No! They’ll charge me six hundred dollars to sit in traffic and I’ll end up in the ER with some intern who thinks I’m hungover.”

Alex paused. Calculated. She weighed her options like she would a plea deal. “Urgent care,” she decided. “But I’m driving.”

“Against my will?”

“You fainted. You don’t get a vote.”

“You’re kidnapping me.”

“I’ll get off with probation,” Alex muttered, already looping Casey’s arm around her shoulder.

Alex helped Casey through the sliding doors of urgent care, her grip steady, her expression composed. The air conditioning hit them like a wall, and Casey immediately sagged against her.

“Try not to smack your face on the tile,” Alex murmured gently. “I don’t think your dignity could survive two concussions in one day.”

Casey managed a weak glare.

Alex sat her down in the waiting area before approaching the front desk.

“Hi, good afternoon,” she said warmly to the receptionist. “Novak, Casey. She fainted at the batting cages. She’s conscious, but dizzy, lightheaded, and pale.”

Casey made a strangled noise. “Don’t say pale.”

“You are,” Alex replied sweetly, “but in a very charming way.”

The receptionist glanced at Casey, who gave her a miserable little wave from where she was slumped against the chair.

“We’ll get her checked in right away,” the woman said, handing over a clipboard. “Just fill this out.”

“I can take care of that,” Alex offered smoothly. “She’s not in any condition to write her name right now.”

“Still standing right here,” Casey mumbled, eyes closed.

Within twenty minutes, they were in a small exam room. Casey sat on the edge of the bed, looking like she was trying to disappear into the wall. Alex sat in the visitor’s chair beside her, legs crossed neatly, reading a pamphlet titled Hydration and You like it was a Supreme Court brief. “It says here that coffee is not a hydrating beverage.”

“I’ll sue,” Casey muttered.

“You’ll lose. Science is against you.”

Casey groaned. “Don’t joke. I’m dying.”

“You’re not dying. You’re dehydrated.”

“Same thing.”

There was a soft knock, and the nurse entered. “Alright, Ms. Novak, your blood pressure’s a little low, and your heart rate’s up, which tells me you’re still pretty dehydrated. We’re going to start you on some IV fluids, okay?”

Casey stiffened. “IV?”

The nurse smiled kindly. “It’ll just be a little needle. We’ll put the line in your arm, and it’ll take about thirty minutes.”

“Wait. Wait, no.”

“Just a small IV in your arm. It won’t take long at all—”

“No, no, no, no, no.” Casey’s voice cracked. “Alex, I can’t—” She started shaking her head, eyes wide, panic flooding her face. “Needles—I can’t—no. No. Can’t you just give me, like, Gatorade?”

Alex stood and stepped in gently, putting herself between Casey and the nurse. “You sued the U.S. military. You can handle this.”

“Alex.”

Her voice was small now. Embarrassed. Her eyes were glassy.

Alex sat beside her on the table, slipping her arm around her waist. “Hey. Look at me.”

Casey did. Just barely.

“Breathe. You’re okay.”

“I hate this.”

“I know.” Alex kissed her temple, voice low and steady. “But you’re braver than you think.”

“I’m not just scared, I’m—I’m terrified.” Her hands trembled, and tears filled her eyes, slipping down her cheeks.

Alex’s heart cracked. She cupped Casey’s face and brushed her thumbs gently under her eyes. “I know. But you fainted, sweetheart. You need fluids.”

Casey sniffled. “Will you hold my hand?”

Alex stood and pressed the call button. “Always.”

The nurse returned moments later with practiced grace. “We’ll make this quick,” she promised.

Casey whimpered as the nurse prepped her arm. “Talk to me. Talk about anything.”

“Did I ever tell you about the time I accidentally set off the courthouse metal detector because I had a fork in my purse?”

Casey let out a wet, hiccuped laugh. “A fork?”

“Leftover cake. It was strategic.”

“Of course it was.”

The needle went in. Casey squeezed her eyes shut, gripping Alex’s hand like a lifeline, a tear sliding down her cheek, but it was done before she even noticed.

“All finished,” the nurse said, securing the line with tape. “You did great.”

Casey sagged against Alex, still sniffling. “I did not.”

“You absolutely did,” Alex murmured into her hair. “You were brilliant.”

“Did you really bring a fork to court?”

“With intent,” Alex said gravely.

Casey let out a soft, exhausted laugh.

Alex kissed her hair again and tightened her hold. “Next time, we’re going to the bookstore.”

By the time they got home, Casey was groggy but stable, her color returning and a blanket draped over her shoulders like a cape. Alex had insisted.

“Stop looking at me like I’m a ghost bride,” Casey grumbled as she flopped onto the couch.

“You passed out in public and cried over a needle. You’re getting pampered whether you like it or not,” Alex said, brushing a kiss to her forehead. “Blanket stays.”

“Fine. But I draw the line at hot water bottles. I’m not a reptile.”

“Noted,” Alex called from the kitchen, already rifling through the pantry. “Now. Sit back, relax, and let your competent, nurturing wife handle dinner.”

There was a long pause.

“You’ve never cooked a day in your life,” Casey said warily.

“I have. I just choose not to.”

“You tried to make toast once and set off the smoke alarm.”

Alex sounded very dignified. “It was an old toaster.”

“You tried to microwave pasta with the water already drained.”

“That was an experiment.”

“Alex.”

“I’m making soup,” Alex declared. “You can’t ruin soup.”

This, of course, was a lie.

Within minutes, chaos was quietly erupting in the kitchen. Alex had put a pot on the stove and dumped in a can of tomato soup without reading the part about adding water. Then she added garlic. And pepper. And half a bottle of basil because, as she whispered to herself, “that’s what chefs on TV do.”

Casey stayed curled on the couch, listening to the clinking of metal and muttered curses.

Then the inevitable:

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

The smoke alarm screamed to life.

Casey didn’t even flinch. “So... what stage of the culinary process are we in now?”

“There is... a small issue,” Alex said as calmly as possible, waving a towel at the ceiling.

“You started a fire, didn’t you?”

“It’s contained.”

“You burned canned soup.”

“I enhanced it.”

Casey dragged herself off the couch and wandered into the kitchen, still wrapped in her blanket. She stared at the pot, which was bubbling with thick, violently red sludge.

“Alex.”

Alex looked at her, helpless. “I wanted to take care of you.”

Casey’s heart squeezed in her chest. “You’re a disaster.”

“I know.”

“But you’re my disaster.” She reached up and smudged some tomato off Alex’s cheek. “Let’s order takeout before you burn the building down.”

Alex sagged in relief. “Bless you. Chinese?”

“Obviously.”

They ended up curled on the couch twenty minutes later with lo mein and soup that didn’t require a fire extinguisher. Casey had her head on Alex’s lap, the blanket still wrapped around her. Alex carded gentle fingers through her hair as they watched some nature documentary narrated by someone very British.

“Hey,” Casey murmured. “Thank you. For today.”

Alex looked down at her. “For dragging you to urgent care?”

“For holding my hand. For kissing my forehead. For ordering me egg rolls instead of feeding me spicy tomato cement.”

Alex smirked. “It had potential.”

Casey yawned. “You’re lucky you’re pretty.”

“And you're lucky you're dramatic enough to keep life interesting.”

“Mm. Let’s go to bed.”

“Will you faint on the way there?”

“Only if it gets me out of washing the dishes.”

By the time the dishes were ignored and the leftovers safely stashed, Casey was already half-asleep on the bathroom counter with a toothbrush dangling from her mouth. Alex leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching her with the fond exasperation of someone deeply in love with a woman who could argue down a judge but couldn't stay awake for a full hygiene routine.

“You’re foaming at the mouth like a rabid raccoon,” Alex said softly.

Casey pointed at her with her toothbrush.

“You love this raccoon.”

“Tragically, I do.”

Casey made a pitiful whining noise and swayed forward a little too dramatically, nearly bonking her head on the mirror. Alex caught her just in time, steadying her with a hand on her back.

“Okay, come here,” Alex murmured, easing her upright.

She plucked the toothbrush from Casey’s hand with practiced efficiency, dabbed a bit more toothpaste on it, and turned the water back on.

“You’re not brushing, you’re just… foaming and dozing. This is a liability.”

“I’m very tired,” Casey slurred, leaning heavily on her shoulder. “You have no idea.”

Alex smirked and gently tapped the toothbrush against her lips. “Open.”

“You’re brushing my teeth? What am I, five?”

“Yes. Five, dramatic, and currently a biohazard.”

Despite her protests, Casey parted her lips with a tiny huff, letting Alex guide the toothbrush across her teeth in slow, careful strokes.

“Wow,” Casey mumbled around the bristles, “You’re very gentle. Did you miss your calling as a hygienist?”

“I’m adding it to the list,” Alex said. “Right between ‘terrible cook’ and ‘expert wife.’ Spit.”

Casey did, then leaned her cheek against Alex’s shoulder, eyes fluttering shut again.

“Okay,” Alex whispered, guiding her toward the door. “Bedtime.”

Eventually, after much blanket arranging and flopping and one brief moment of panic when Casey realized she left her phone charging in the kitchen, they settled under the covers. The lights were low, the room quiet except for the soft hum of the street outside and the occasional creak of the old building.

Alex lay on her back, one arm tucked behind her head, the other curled protectively around Casey, who had wasted no time sprawling half on top of her.

Casey rested her cheek against Alex’s chest, fingers lazily tracing little patterns on the fabric of her top. “I was really scared today,” she said quietly.

Alex kissed the top of her head. “I know.”

“Like, really scared. I hate that it got to me so much.”

“It’s not weakness,” Alex said gently. “Fear isn’t a flaw. It’s just… real.”

“I cried in front of a nurse.”

“You also made some good hits before fainting. It balances out.”

Casey laughed softly. “You really were going to call an ambulance, weren’t you?”

“You hit the ground like a sack of potatoes and then tried to argue with me about consciousness. Yes, I was going to call an ambulance.”

Casey looked up at her, eyes warm. “I love you.”

She reached down and brushed her thumb over Casey’s cheek. “I love you too.”

“Even when I’m dehydrated and sobbing?”

“Especially then.”

Casey leaned up and pressed a slow kiss to the corner of Alex’s mouth. “You’re the only person I’d faint in front of twice.”

Alex smiled against her lips. “If you do, I’m buying you a CamelBak and taping electrolyte packets to your blazer.”

They kissed again—soft and slow and sleepy.

Then Casey burrowed back into her side with a yawn. “If I die in my sleep, tell the nurse she was very nice.”

“She was.”

“And that I want to be buried with egg rolls.”

Alex ran her fingers through Casey’s hair, a quiet, rhythmic motion. “Noted.”

A few minutes passed in silence.

“You know,” Casey murmured, voice drifting, “you’re actually kind of good at this.”

“At what?”

“This. Comfort. Caretaking. Love stuff.”

Alex looked down, a little stunned. “You think?”

“I know. Even if your soup skills are a crime against humanity.”

Alex huffed. “Go to sleep.”

“Make me.”

So Alex did by holding her closer, tucking them together beneath the covers, and pressing one last kiss to her forehead.

fluff out of context #1

Within minutes, chaos was quietly erupting in the kitchen. Alex had put a pot on the stove and dumped in a can of tomato soup without reading the part about adding water. Then she added garlic. And pepper. And half a bottle of basil because, as she whispered to herself, “that’s what chefs on TV do.”