Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Catherine kicks off her boots by the door, rolling her shoulders back with a quiet groan. Every shift feels longer than the last.

She barely makes it to the kitchen before Clare glances up from her spot at the table, lifting an eyebrow. “Ann's here.”

Catherine frowns. “What?”

“She got here a while ago. Been out on the terrace.” Clare shrugs, going back to whatever book she’s reading. “Seemed like she was waiting for you.”

Catherine doesn’t ask why Clare didn’t mention it earlier on the phone. She just nods, makes her way to her room, stripping out of the uniform she barely tolerates on a good day. It smells like sweat, and she tosses it in the laundry without a second glance, dragging on something more comfortable.

When she passes through the kitchen again, she grabs two beers from the fridge and steps out onto the terrace.

Ann is there, sprawled in a chair, legs stretched out, one hand curled around a beer bottle—already empty. She isn’t in uniform, which is the first thing Catherine notices. The second is the way Ann looks up at her, eyes flicking over her face.

For a second, there’s a smile. Then, a sharp exhale. A huff.

Catherine hands her a beer. “Didn’t know you were here.”

“Clearly,” Ann mutters, but she takes the bottle, twisting the cap off with quick, impatient fingers.

Catherine lowers herself into the chair beside her, studying her from the corner of her eye. There’s something off. Ann’s shoulders are tense, her jaw set like she’s grinding her teeth behind closed lips.

Long day, maybe.

Catherine takes a slow sip of her beer, letting the quiet settle between them. It’s not uncomfortable, not yet. But there’s something simmering beneath it, something Catherine can’t quite place.

Ann stares straight ahead, eyes unfocused, before letting out a humourless laugh. “You know, you’re really something, you know that?”

Catherine blinks. “What?”

Ann shakes her head, her grip on the beer bottle tightening. “Doesn’t matter.”

Catherine frowns. “Ann—”

“You don’t get it.” Ann exhales sharply, cutting her off, and when she finally looks at her, there’s something almost irritated in her gaze. “You walk around like—like you don’t even realise.”

“Realise what?”

Ann lets out another laugh, short and bitter. “Exactly.”

Catherine sets her beer down, leaning forward slightly. “Okay. What the hell is goin’ on with you?”

Ann tilts her head, mouth pulling into something that’s not quite a smirk, not quite a scowl. “Take a guess.”

Catherine clenches her jaw. She’s tired, but more than that, she doesn’t like this—doesn’t like not understanding where Ann is coming from, what’s got into her.

“You're the one who showed up here,” Catherine points out. “So why don’t you just tell me what’s wrong instead of playin’ games?”

Ann’s lips press together, and for a second, it almost seems like she will. But then she takes a long sip of her beer, sighs, and leans back in her chair like she’s already bored with the conversation.

Catherine exhales sharply through her nose. “Ann.”

Ann makes a sound in the back of her throat, something exasperated. “You did something nice for me today,” she says. “And I hated it.”

Catherine stares at her, thrown. “What?”

Ann shakes her head, takes another long sip. “Forget it.”

Catherine doesn’t. She watches Ann carefully, trying to piece together what the hell she means by that. The words don’t make sense.

“You hated it?” she echoes. “What, do you not like people being nice to you now?”

Ann exhales sharply, shaking her head. “Not when it's you.”

Catherine frowns, thrown. Ann’s looking at her with something sharp behind her eyes, something Catherine can’t read, and that’s what unsettles her the most. She knows Ann. She can usually tell when she’s bullshitting, when she’s covering something up, when she’s about to start a fight just to let off steam.

But this is different.

She leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “Alright. I’m too tired for cryptic nonsense, so why don’t you just say what you mean?”

Ann snorts, shaking her head. “Yeah, ‘cause that’s what we do, right? Say what we mean.”

Catherine squints at her, not liking the implication.

Ann huffs out a breath, running a hand through her hair before turning to look at her properly. There’s something a little unfocused in her gaze, the alcohol still in her system, but there’s also something steadier now, something she’s clearly been holding back for too long.

“You go through life completely unaware, don’t you?” Ann mutters. “Just—completely oblivious.”

“To what?”

Ann doesn’t answer right away. She tips her head back against the chair, exhaling long and slow, before shaking her head.

“Nothing. Forget it.”

Catherine clenches her jaw, sitting back. The way Ann is acting, the way she’s looking at her, the words she’s not saying—it all sets her teeth on edge.

“I can’t forget it if I don’t even know what I’m meant to be forgetting,” she points out.

Ann lets out a breath that’s almost a laugh, but there’s no humour in it.

Catherine watches her for a long moment, then sighs, rubbing a hand over her face. She should probably just let this go. Ann is clearly drunk, or close to it, and Catherine’s too exhausted to be playing whatever game this is.

And yet, she can’t just let it sit.

“So you came over here,” Catherine says again, voice quieter this time. “Why?”

Ann looks at her, really looks at her, and for a second, there’s something vulnerable in her expression. But then she blinks, and it’s gone.

“Bad decisions,” she says, and then she smirks, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Not the first time, won’t be the last.”

Catherine watches her for another long moment, then shakes her head, grabbing her beer and taking a long sip.

“Well,” she mutters. “You’re here now, may as well talk.”

Ann watches her for a second longer, then looks away, taking another sip of her own drink. The tension between them still lingers, thick and heavy, but neither of them says anything more.

Catherine watches Ann out of the corner of her eye, trying to work out what exactly she’s supposed to do with this situation. Ann’s mood is a mess—hot, cold, biting, and closed off. It’s like dealing with a drunk stray cat that both wants to be near you and wants to claw your eyes out.

And Catherine, exhausted as she is, doesn’t have the energy to figure out why. But she should. Because this is Ann. And Ann doesn’t come to her for no reason. She sighs, leaning back in her chair, stretching out her legs.

“You gonna tell me what’s actually going on?” she asks, voice careful.

Ann scoffs, shaking her head. “Jesus, Catherine. I already told you, it’s nothing. Just… a bad day.”

“Right, and yet here you are.”

Ann exhales sharply through her nose, like she’s annoyed Catherine’s pointing that out. “Where else would I be?”

That lands strangely. Catherine glances over at her again, but Ann isn’t looking at her now. She’s staring straight ahead, her fingers loose around the neck of the beer bottle.

“Ann,” Catherine says, quieter this time. “What happened?”

Ann shifts, rolling her shoulders like she’s trying to shake something off. “Nothing,” she says again. Then, as if to prove her point, she downs the rest of her beer and sets the empty bottle down on the ground between them.

Catherine sighs, setting her own drink aside.

“Alright,” she mutters. “If you don’t want to talk, fine. But at least don’t lie to me about it.”

Ann’s jaw tightens at that, but she still won’t look at her.

Silence stretches between them, thick with unspoken things. Catherine watches the way Ann’s fingers drum against her knee, restless and fidgety. It’s not like her. Ann’s usually got a stillness to her, a self-possession that’s almost irritating.

This version of her, the one that came to Catherine’s house, sat out here alone in the dark, got drunk over something she won’t talk about—this Ann is unfamiliar.

And Catherine doesn’t like it. She shifts, moving her chair a little closer, resting her arms on her knees. “Did I do something?” she asks.

Ann stills. Catherine sees it in the way her shoulders go tense, the way her fingers stop drumming against her knee. And that’s an answer in itself.

She frowns, straightening. “I did, didn’t I?”

Ann finally looks at her, and there’s something in her eyes that Catherine can’t quite place. Something sharp, something aching.

“You didn’t mean to,” Ann mutters.

Catherine’s frown deepens. “That doesn’t answer the question.”

Ann huffs a laugh, but there’s no amusement in it. She leans forward, bracing her elbows against her knees, and then rubs a hand over her face.

“Forget it,” she mutters.

“Ann—”

“Seriously, Catherine.” Ann looks at her again, and this time there’s something harder in her expression. “Just let it go.”

Catherine holds her gaze for a long moment, trying to decide if she should push this or not. Every instinct in her is telling her not to let it drop, that there’s something deeper going on here, something she’s missing.

But Ann’s shutting down, that much is clear. And if Catherine knows anything about her, it’s that pushing too hard when Ann’s like this will only make her dig her heels in deeper.

So she sighs, rubbing a hand over her jaw, and leans back in her chair.

“Fine,” she mutters. “Have it your way.”

Ann doesn’t say anything. She just turns her gaze back out towards the darkened terrace, staring at nothing.

Catherine picks up her beer again, taking a slow sip. The air between them is still tense, still heavy with something unspoken, but neither of them makes a move to break it.

They just sit there, side by side, in silence.

Catherine grips the neck of her beer bottle, rolling it between her palms as she watches Ann out of the corner of her eye.

She knows she should let it go. That’s what she would do with anyone else. With most people, she doesn’t have the patience for this kind of thing—whatever this thing is. She isn’t the type to chase someone down for answers they clearly don’t want to give. If people don’t want to talk, fine. That’s their business. Unless it's work.

But this is Ann. And it’s hard to let it go when it’s her.

Catherine takes another sip of beer, letting it sit on her tongue as she thinks. She runs through a list of possibilities in her mind, trying to piece together what could have set Ann off. Did something happen at work? Something Catherine didn’t notice? She saw Ann earlier today, and she’d seemed fine—a little tired maybe, but that’s not unusual. Was it something Catherine said? Something she didn’t say? None of it feels right.

She exhales sharply, placing her bottle down. “You’re still actin’ weird,” she says, voice light but with an edge of persistence.

Ann shifts in her seat, sighing. “Christ, Catherine.”

“What? I asked if I did something, and you said I didn’t mean to.” Catherine tilts her head. “So what was it?”

Ann’s lips press into a thin line. She doesn’t answer.

Catherine watches her carefully, looking for some kind of tell—something in the way her fingers twitch, or how her gaze flickers. But Ann has years of practice at keeping things locked down.

Still, something’s off. Catherine leans forward, resting her arms on her knees. “Was it something I did? Something I said?”

Ann exhales through her nose, drumming her fingers against her thigh. “I said—”

“—That I didn’t mean to, yeah, I heard that part.” Catherine’s voice sharpens just slightly. “But what was it?”

Ann’s fingers still It’s just a second—a hesitation so brief it might not mean anything.

But Catherine knows Ann. And that does mean something. Her thoughts spin faster now, circling the possibilities. “Was it something at work? Did someone say something? Did I say something?”

Ann scoffs, shaking her head. “Jesus, Catherine.”

Catherine raises an eyebrow. “So that’s a yes?”

Ann’s jaw clenches. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Ann makes a frustrated noise, shifting in her seat like she wants to get up and pace but doesn’t quite have the energy for it. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Catherine watches her, weighing her next move. “Alright,” she says, slow and careful. “Then tell me what I’m supposed to know.”

Ann huffs, rubbing a hand over her face, frustration radiating from her like a storm cloud. “God, you are so—” She cuts herself off, her hand stilling as her fingers dig into her temples. Catherine watches her with mounting concern, the shift in Ann’s tone so sudden, so sharp, it leaves her momentarily stunned.

Ann pulls in a deep breath, her chest rising and falling in a deliberate, mechanical rhythm, like she’s counting to ten in her head, fighting to keep herself from snapping. When her eyes meet Catherine’s again, they’re not angry the way they sometimes get when Catherine’s pushed too hard or said something particularly stupid. No, this is different. Harder. Tired. The kind of tired that has nothing to do with sleep and everything to do with something weighing heavy on her shoulders.

“It’s nothing,” Ann says, her voice clipped and low, like every word is forcing its way through clenched teeth. “You didn’t do anything. So just—leave it alone, alright?”

The dismissal lands like a cold slap. Catherine feels her stomach twist, the unease threading through her veins with icy precision. It’s not the usual annoyance or sharp-edged teasing she’s grown familiar with over the months of working together. It’s not even the exasperation Ann directs at her when she’s being particularly stubborn or reckless. It’s something else. Something locked down tight and welded shut behind eyes that suddenly refuse to meet Catherine’s.

And Catherine hates it. Hates not understanding. Hates the distance Ann is shoving between them without even bothering to explain why. The need to fix it rises in her, urgent and overpowering, and before she’s fully thought it through, she hears herself speak.

“Did I—” The hesitation creeps in, making her voice falter, but she forces herself to push past it. “Did I hurt you?”

The question makes Ann’s entire body go still, the kind of stillness that feels like it might shatter if touched the wrong way. And for a second, Catherine almost thinks she’s imagining it. The way Ann’s fingers twitch, her shoulders locking up like a wall bracing itself against a blow.

But Catherine’s not imagining it. She knows she’s hit something. Not the truth, not the whole picture, but it’s close enough to make Ann react, and Ann doesn’t react unless something matters.

Ann’s face contorts, her expression slipping from strained control to something harsher, more frayed at the edges. Then she lets out a short, bitter laugh, the sound punching through the room with a force that startles Catherine.

“Hurt me?” Ann repeats, shaking her head with a twisted sort of amusement that looks more like pain. “Oh, fuck off, Catherine.”

The words slam into her chest with the kind of force that makes her breath catch. It’s not just the sharpness of them. It’s the fact that Ann never talks to her like that. Not even when they’re at each other’s throats over something stupid. Not even when Ann’s patience is worn so thin, Catherine can practically see right through it.

She stiffens, her spine going rigid as the sting of the rejection settles under her skin. But the hurt doesn’t last long, quickly buried under a different kind of understanding. Because Catherine has seen Ann when she’s angry. She’s seen her when she’s impatient, when she’s frustrated. But this? This is something else entirely.

Ann’s own expression changes, the instant regret flashing across her face like she wishes she could swallow the words back down. Her shoulders sag, and she rubs a hand over her eyes, fingers pressing hard against her temples. “Shit,” she mutters, voice strained and weary. “Sorry.”

But Catherine barely registers the apology. Her mind is still spinning, replaying the way Ann recoiled at her question, the way she snapped like Catherine had hit a nerve too raw to be touched. And Ann lashes out when she’s cornered. Catherine knows that. She’s seen it before, knows the instinct to push people away before they can get too close. But this feels different. This feels like hurt, not anger. And it leaves her feeling helpless and frustrated and so damn lost.

She leans forward, ignoring the way Ann’s gaze darts away from hers. “Ann.”

“Don’t,” Ann says quickly, voice tightening. Her hand falls away from her face, and the look she gives Catherine is one of pure defensiveness. Like she’s trying to build walls faster than Catherine can tear them down.

“Ann, talk to me.” Catherine’s voice is low, coaxing, even though she feels her own nerves starting to fray.

“I can’t.” The frustration there is almost painful to hear, like Ann’s forcing the words out past a throat gone tight and aching.

Catherine feels it too, that gnawing helplessness of not knowing what’s happening, of not understanding why Ann is shutting her out so completely. Her mind races with possibilities, all of them wrong, all of them missing the mark.

Ann shakes her head, fingers fidgeting restlessly like she’s trying to keep them from curling into fists. “I shouldn’t have come here,” she mutters, the words more to herself than to Catherine. “I should go.”

Catherine’s entire body locks up at that. The prospect of Ann walking out the door now, with her eyes haunted and her voice laced with something dangerously close to anguish—it makes her chest clench tight. The thought of Ann driving off like this, that hurt festering and deepening on her way home... it feels wrong. Like something she can’t allow.

So she speaks before she’s even fully thought it through. “How’d you get here?”

Ann looks at her, eyes narrowing in confusion. “What?”

“Did you drive?” Catherine presses.

Ann hesitates, a beat of suspicion crossing her features. “Yeah.”

Catherine nods, her mind already made up. “Then I’m takin’ you home.”

Ann stares at her like she’s just sprouted a second head. “That’s—”

“Not up for debate,” Catherine cuts in, her voice sharper than she intended. “You’re not driving like this.”

Ann’s mouth opens, a protest forming on her lips, but it dies before it can gain traction. She stares at Catherine, something warping and twisting in her expression, like she’s trying to decide whether to argue or just surrender.

For a long moment, neither of them moves. Catherine holds her gaze, refusing to back down, even when she feels her own heart pounding with the force of her determination. She’s not going to let Ann push her away this time. Not when she can see the cracks in Ann’s armour, the fear hiding behind her frustration.

Finally, Ann releases a shaky breath, her shoulders sagging. “Jesus Christ.”

But she doesn’t argue.

Catherine feels a flicker of relief, but it’s fleeting. Because she knows this isn’t over. Not by a long shot.

Chapter Text

Catherine pulls out of the driveway, gripping the steering wheel just a little too tight, knuckles white against the leather. The silence in the car is thick, pressing down on her like a weighted blanket, making it hard to breathe. She flicks her gaze over at Ann, just for a second, before dragging her eyes back to the road. 

Ann is staring out the window, her jaw tight, one hand resting on her knee. Her fingers tap against her jeans in a nervous, restless rhythm. She’s still tense, shoulders pulled up tight around her ears, like she’s trying to make herself smaller. Whatever’s got under her skin hasn’t let up, and Catherine can feel the tension radiating off her like heat from a fire. 

It would be easy to leave it alone. To let the quiet stretch between them until they get to Ann’s place, give her the space she clearly wants. It’s not a long drive, barely ten minutes. It would be simple to stay quiet, let Ann stew in whatever’s eating at her, and pretend it’s not clawing at Catherine’s own insides. 

But it’s Ann. 

And Catherine has never been good at letting things go, especially not when it comes to her. There’s an itch under her skin, something clawing at her ribs that she can’t ignore. She exhales through her nose, drumming her fingers against the steering wheel in a rhythm that matches the racing of her thoughts. 

She knows that look on Ann’s face, the way she’s locked down so tight, like one wrong word might make her snap in half. Catherine wants to pry those defences open, wants to reach inside and find whatever it is that’s making Ann look so damn miserable. She can’t stand it. 

Without really thinking, she blurts out, “You want the window down?”

Ann doesn’t move, doesn’t even turn her head to look at her. “I’m fine,” she mutters, voice low and tight. 

Catherine glances at her again, jaw clenching. “Didn’t ask if you were fine.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then Ann lets out a sharp, humorless exhale. It’s not quite a laugh, more like a scoff. “Christ, Catherine, just drive.”

Catherine presses her lips together, resisting the urge to snap back. She keeps her eyes fixed on the road, but her mind is stuck on Ann, on the way she’s curling in on herself, on how her voice sounds scraped raw. The tension in the car is so thick it’s almost suffocating, and Catherine wants to slice through it, to cut straight to the root of whatever’s got Ann twisted up like this.

But she doesn’t know how. Doesn’t know what’s gone wrong or why Ann is acting like a wounded animal, backed into a corner and lashing out to keep anyone from getting close. 

The drive feels longer than it should, every minute dragging out like hours, and Catherine’s jaw aches from grinding her teeth. She’s not used to this. She knows how to push Ann’s buttons, how to poke at her until she gets a reaction, but this—this cold, silent version of Ann—she doesn’t know what to do with it. 

When she finally pulls up outside Ann’s place, the engine’s rumble fades to silence, and the quiet that follows swallows them whole. Ann doesn’t move, doesn’t even reach for the door handle. She just sits there, staring straight ahead, shoulders stiff and jaw clenched. 

Catherine hesitates, unsure whether to say something or just wait. Her fingers tap absently against the wheel, her heartbeat loud in her ears. She watches Ann out of the corner of her eye, waiting for some sign that she’s ready to move, but Ann just stays there, frozen, like she’s trying to will herself to get out but can’t make her body obey. 

Eventually, Ann shifts, sucking in a breath like she’s about to speak. But whatever words she might have said die before they make it past her lips, and she just exhales sharply, muttering something under her breath that Catherine can’t catch. 

Then, with a low, frustrated growl, Ann mutters, “Fuck this,” and reaches for the door handle. 

Catherine reacts without thinking, blurting out, “Ann—”

But Ann pushes the door open anyway, stepping out with a stiff, jerky motion that makes Catherine’s stomach clench. She’s out of the car in a second, following without hesitation, catching up to Ann just as she reaches the front door. 

“Ann—” 

Ann doesn’t stop, just pulls out her keys and fumbles with the lock, jaw set tight. Catherine huffs out a breath, frustration curling hot in her gut, and strides up behind her, reaching out to catch Ann’s wrist before she can push the door open. 

“Would you just talk to me?” Catherine snaps, her voice sharper than she intended. 

Ann whirls around, eyes flashing with something fierce and wounded all at once. “Jesus, why do you care?”

The question makes Catherine stop short, like she’s been punched in the chest. “What?” 

Ann huffs, shaking her head, her expression twisting into something bitter. “Forget it.” 

She tries to turn back to the door, but Catherine doesn’t let go, keeping her grip on Ann’s wrist firm but not tight. “Ann.” 

Ann goes still, and for a moment, they just stand there, inches apart, Catherine’s hand on her wrist like a tether holding her in place. Ann’s breathing is uneven, her eyes fixed on the ground, and Catherine can feel the way she’s trembling, just faintly. 

“Let go,” Ann says, but the fight’s gone out of her voice, leaving it rough and tired. 

Catherine hesitates, loosening her grip but not stepping back. She can feel the heat of Ann’s skin under her fingertips, and something twists painfully in her chest. “Talk to me,” she says again, softer this time. 

Ann’s jaw tightens, and she pulls her hand free, but she doesn’t move away. She just stands there, shoulders slumped, looking so damn defeated it makes Catherine’s throat tighten. 

“Go home, Catherine,” Ann says quietly, but it lacks conviction. It sounds like she’s saying it because she thinks she has to, not because she actually wants Catherine to leave. 

Catherine’s hand falls to her side, and she studies Ann’s face, taking in the way her eyes are fixed on the ground, the way her hands keep curling and uncurling at her sides like she doesn’t know what to do with them. 

Something about the way Ann’s voice cracked on her name makes Catherine’s stomach clench, and before she can think better of it, she steps closer. “Ann, come on. Just tell me. Whatever’s going on... you don’t have to deal with it alone.”

Ann laughs, but it’s a bitter, broken sound. “You really don’t get it, do you?”

Catherine frowns, confusion prickling at her. “What do you mean?”

Ann drags a hand through her hair, looking away like she can’t stand to face Catherine anymore. “Nothing. Doesn’t matter.”

Catherine feels something twist painfully in her chest, and without thinking, she reaches out again, this time gently brushing her fingers over Ann’s shoulder. Ann’s eyes snap to hers, wide and uncertain, and Catherine feels a shiver go down her spine at the way Ann looks at her—like she’s something too good to be true, something fragile that might disappear if Ann blinks too hard. 

“I’m not leaving,” Catherine says, her voice firm but gentle. “Not until you tell me what’s going on.”

Ann’s jaw works, and she swallows hard, like she’s fighting against something she can’t quite get rid of. Finally, she mutters, “You’re so fucking stubborn.”

“Yeah,” Catherine says, not even trying to deny it. “So are you.”

Something in Ann’s face crumbles, just a little, and she drops her gaze, looking at the ground between them. Catherine doesn’t move, just waits, giving her the space to breathe. 

When Ann finally speaks, her voice is raw and barely above a whisper. “You wouldn’t understand.”

Catherine’s throat tightens. “Try me.”

Ann exhales sharply through her nose, her gaze flicking away. “For fuck’s sake, Catherine.”

Catherine crosses her arms. “Yeah, yeah. I’m annoying. I know.”

Ann hesitates, eyes flicking up to meet hers, and for a moment, Catherine sees something unguarded there, something vulnerable and aching. Then it’s gone, buried under that stubborn mask again, and Ann takes a step back, putting distance between them. 

Catherine doesn’t follow. She just waits, watching Ann’s face like it might give her a clue to what’s going on inside her head.

Ann clenches her jaw, pressing her lips together like she’s physically holding something back. She shifts her weight, turns back to the door, keys still in hand. Catherine doesn’t move.

“I mean it, Ann,” she says, quieter this time. “You know I can’t leave you like this. It'll eat me up.”

Ann’s fingers twitch against the keyring. She doesn't look back, but she doesn’t go inside, either.

Catherine waits.

It takes a full ten seconds before Ann huffs out a breath and mutters, “Fuckin’ hell,” under her breath. Her shoulders drop, like she’s given up fighting whatever internal battle is raging in her head. She unlocks the door, shoves it open with more force than necessary, and strides inside without another word.

Catherine hesitates, her hand lingering on the door frame. But then she steps over the threshold and follows. She’s not about to leave Ann like this. She can’t. Not when something is clearly gnawing at her, clawing at her insides, making her act like a cornered animal with all her barbs and snarls aimed right at Catherine.

The door swings shut behind her with a dull thud, the sound of it echoing in the narrow hallway. Catherine wipes her shoes on the mat by habit, her gaze already fixed on the stairs ahead, where Ann’s footsteps thud against the creaky wood. She trails after her, the silence between them heavy and uncomfortable.

Ann’s flat is small and cosy. The kind of place that looks like someone actually lives there, with stacks of books on nearly every surface, mismatched cushions on the sofa, and half-forgotten sketches piled on the coffee table. Catherine used to find it charming. Now, it just feels suffocating.

She follows the sound of Ann’s movements into the kitchen. Ann’s already at the cupboard, yanking it open and pulling out a bottle of whisky. Catherine watches her unscrew the cap, the sharp metallic scrape of it grating against her ears. Ann pours herself a drink with a kind of precision that’s almost clinical.

Catherine leans against the counter, arms folded across her chest. She watches Ann down the whisky in one go, her throat working as she swallows. The glass hits the counter with a dull thud, and Ann is already pouring herself another before Catherine can even think of something to say.

“Ann,” Catherine says, her voice low, careful.

Ann doesn’t react. Doesn’t even glance her way. She just lifts the glass to her lips again, but this time, she only takes a sip. Her fingers are clenched too tight around the glass, knuckles white against the dark amber liquid. Catherine can’t stop staring at those hands, the way they’re trembling just slightly, like Ann’s trying to hold herself together and failing.

Catherine studies her, trying to read her. The tension in her shoulders, the dark circles under her eyes that she’s not even bothering to hide, the way she refuses to look at Catherine. This isn’t just anger. It’s something deeper. Something heavier. And Catherine has no idea what it is or how to fix it.

Ann finally sets the glass down and sighs, rubbing a hand over her face. The gesture looks exhausted, defeated. “What do you want, Catherine?” The words are sharp, but there’s something weary underneath them. Something that sounds suspiciously like hurt.

Catherine’s lips part, her mind scrambling for words that make sense. “You.” The word slips out before she can stop it, her voice rougher than she intended.

Ann’s eyes snap to hers, a flicker of surprise crossing her face. But then her mouth twists into something that’s almost a smirk. “Well, that’s a hell of a confession,” she says, but there’s no humour in her tone. Just bitterness.

Catherine shakes her head, frustration tugging at her ribs. “Not like that. I mean... I want to know what’s wrong. What the hell’s goin’ on with you.”

Ann’s gaze drops, her fingers twitching where they rest on the counter. For a moment, she looks like she might say something real, something true. But then her shoulders tense, and her expression shutters. “It’s nothing,” she says flatly, her voice so cold it leaves a chill in the air between them.

Catherine’s patience snaps. “Bullshit.”

Ann’s eyes narrow, but she doesn’t rise to the bait. Doesn’t snap back with one of her usual cutting remarks. All she does is look tired. Like something’s been draining her dry from the inside out.

“Leave it alone, Catherine,” Ann says, and it’s almost a plea.

“Why?” Catherine’s voice is sharper than she intends. “Why the hell won’t you just tell me?”

Ann looks away, her gaze fixed somewhere over Catherine’s shoulder. The muscles in her jaw work, like she’s trying to grind the words into dust before they can escape. “Because it’s not your problem,” Ann says finally. “It’s mine. So just... drop it.”

Catherine swallows hard, her chest aching with something she doesn’t know how to name. “Ann, come on. You can talk to me.”

Ann picks up the glass again but doesn’t drink from it. Just turns it slowly between her fingers, watching the liquid slosh against the sides. “It’s work,” she says. The lie is so blatant, Catherine almost laughs. “That’s all.”

Catherine’s stomach clenches. She knows Ann. Knows the way she lies, the way she deflects. And this—it’s all deflection. A smokescreen she’s putting up because the real truth is something she doesn’t want Catherine to see.

“Something happen?” Catherine asks, not letting her voice waver.

Ann’s lips twitch into something that might be a smile if it wasn’t so full of bitterness. “Something always happens.”

The words are dismissive. Empty. Catherine can feel her own frustration building, but she tamps it down. Getting angry won’t help. Pushing harder won’t help. But god, it’s like talking to a brick wall.

“Ann.” Her name is a plea on Catherine’s tongue. A desperate, stupid attempt to get through to her.

Ann’s fingers tighten around the glass, her knuckles stark white against her skin. But she doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t even acknowledge the way Catherine’s voice cracked.

Catherine drags a hand over her face, feeling the exhaustion settle into her bones. Oh, she’s already sick of this, but she hates giving up. Without a word, she reaches up and grabs a glass from the cupboard. Ann watches her, suspicion and confusion flickering in her eyes as Catherine pours herself a drink from the same bottle.

Catherine lifts the glass, her gaze locked on Ann’s. “To whatever the fuck this is.”

Ann blinks. The corner of her mouth twitches, almost like she wants to smile but can’t quite let herself. But the tension in her shoulders eases just slightly, and when she lifts her own glass to clink against Catherine’s, her fingers aren’t trembling quite so much.

They drink.

The burn of whisky slides down Catherine’s throat, settling heavy and hot in her chest. For a moment, neither of them speaks. Just the quiet between them, a fragile, delicate thing, hanging by a thread.

Catherine’s gaze remains fixed on Ann’s face. And Ann, for once, doesn’t look away.

Chapter Text

It’s not easy—her brain keeps circling back to it, keeps picking at it, like a loose thread she can’t ignore—but she stops asking. Ann doesn’t want to talk about it, and Catherine’s learnt by now that pushing too hard just makes Ann dig her heels in deeper.

And—maybe it’s just the whisky, or maybe it’s the fact that Catherine’s stopped prodding—but over time, Ann seems to settle. Not completely, not entirely, but enough.

They slip into something closer to normal.

They talk about work—nothing serious, just the usual gripes and observations. Catherine tells a story about one of her colleagues being an idiot, and Ann smirks, shaking her head, making some dry remark that makes Catherine laugh. Ann complains about some of the higher-ups making a mess of things, and Catherine rolls her eyes and nods along. They don’t avoid anything, exactly, but they don’t step too close to whatever the hell was sitting between them before, either.

For a little while, it feels normal again. Not entirely, not in the way it used to, but enough that Catherine lets herself relax, just a little. Ann isn’t biting anymore, isn’t throwing barbs like she was before. She’s drinking slower now, less like she’s trying to get lost in the whisky and more like she’s just having a drink. Catherine still doesn’t know what the hell started all of this, but at least for now, it feels like Ann isn’t about to snap at her again. It’s not quite comfortable, but it’s close enough.

And then Catherine, without thinking, reaches out and brushes something off Ann’s sleeve. It’s instinct. Barely even a conscious decision. Just a small motion, a flick of her fingers against the fabric, something she wouldn’t even register if it weren’t for the way Ann reacts.

She goes stiff. Not a little, not just for a moment, but all at once, like her entire body locks up. Catherine watches the tension coil through her frame, watches her shoulders snap tight, her posture rigid, like she’s just been hit with something she wasn’t prepared for.

Catherine stops breathing for half a second, her hand falling back to her side as she stares at Ann. The reaction is too much, too sharp, too wrong for something so simple.

“Ann?” she asks, voice quieter now, wary.

Ann doesn’t answer. She doesn’t even move, just stands there, rigid, eyes fixed somewhere past Catherine, jaw tight. There’s something in her expression, something unreadable, something Catherine can’t pin down.

Catherine frowns. “You okay?”

Ann exhales sharply, like the sound of Catherine’s voice itself is grating on her nerves. “Yeah.”

“Bullshit.”

Ann’s jaw tightens further.

Catherine keeps her eyes on her, searching her face, trying to read whatever the hell is going on beneath the surface. “I barely touched you,” she says, because it’s true, because it makes no sense for something so small to have caused this. While Ann's definitely the one who reaches out more often, Ann's never had an issue with Catherine touching her, either. Not until now, apparently.

Ann presses her lips together, her expression flattening. She still doesn’t look at Catherine.

“Ann,” Catherine tries again, firmer this time.

Finally, Ann moves—just a small shift, turning slightly away, breaking the line of eye contact. She rolls her shoulders once, like she’s trying to shake something off. “Forget it,” she mutters.

Catherine’s pulse kicks up a notch. She doesn’t know why, but she knows this isn’t nothing. This is something else entirely, something she doesn’t understand, and that’s the part that gets her the most. She can’t stand not understanding.

“Ann.”

Ann sighs, dragging a hand over her face like she’s already exhausted by this conversation. “Christ, Catherine, just leave it.”

Catherine’s patience snaps. “No,” she says, sharper now, more insistent. “Not this time. What was that?”

Ann’s jaw clenches. “Nothing.”

“No.” Catherine shakes her head, stepping in just a fraction, unwilling to let this drop. “No, that wasn’t nothing. That was—” She gestures vaguely, frustration bleeding into her tone. “Something.”

Ann exhales again, this time with more force, her shoulders lifting with it. “Jesus,” she mutters, more to herself than to Catherine, like she’s barely holding on to whatever patience she has left.

Catherine narrows her eyes. “Ann.” Her voice is steady, but there’s a sharpness to it, a tension she can’t quite hide. She watches Ann carefully, waiting for her to say something, to react, to do something other than just stand there like she’s somewhere else entirely.

Ann doesn’t respond. She won’t even look at her.

Catherine steps closer, instinct overriding thought, needing to close the distance that suddenly feels unbearable. The moment she moves, though, Ann takes a step back, not much, just a slight shift away—but it’s enough.

It lands like a physical blow, knocking the breath from Catherine’s lungs. She stops. Her chest tightens, and for a moment, all she can do is feel it—how much it stings, how much it hurts. She hadn’t expected that. She hadn’t even realised she’d been expecting something different until Ann pulled away, putting space between them like it was necessary, like Catherine was a threat.

She doesn’t try again. Doesn’t step forward, doesn’t push, doesn’t do anything. Just watches Ann, her heart hammering, her stomach twisting itself into something cold and heavy.

Ann still won’t meet her eyes.

Catherine swallows, her throat dry. “Why?”

Ann exhales sharply, tilting her head back as if she’s searching for patience, as if Catherine is the problem, as if she’s being difficult.

The tightness in Catherine’s chest only grows. She watches Ann’s jaw tighten, watches the subtle shift in her posture, the way her fingers twitch at her sides. It’s like she’s bracing for something.

Catherine’s pulse beats hard in her throat. She swallows again, but it doesn’t help. “Was that something to do with the bastard? Or just me?”

Ann flinches. It’s small. Barely there. A flicker of movement, a split-second reaction. But Catherine sees it. And the moment she does, it’s like something solid drops into the pit of her stomach.

Ann’s shoulders go rigid, her whole body held tight, locked down. “It’s not that,” she says, voice clipped.

Catherine frowns. “Then what?”

Silence.

She waits. The seconds stretch, thick and heavy between them. Long enough that Catherine starts to think Ann won’t answer at all. Long enough that her own thoughts start spiralling, twisting through every possible explanation, none of them making sense, none of them fitting.

Then, finally, Ann mutters, “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

The words are quiet, almost too quiet to catch, but Catherine hears them. They land like another weight pressing down on her chest.

Her frown deepens. “What?”

Ann holds her gaze for a long moment, her expression unreadable, like she’s weighing something, deciding something. Then she exhales, sharp and decisive, and shakes her head. “Forget it.”

Catherine’s pulse is a relentless pounding in her ears. Her mind races, trying to piece together a puzzle she doesn’t have all the pieces for.

“Ann.” Her voice is quieter now, but no less firm.

Ann presses her lips together. “Let it go, Catherine.”

Catherine swallows. Every instinct in her is screaming don’t, is telling her to push, to figure it out, to not let this sit between them like an open wound. But Ann’s face—Catherine has never seen her look like this.

So she exhales slowly, the breath dragging against the tightness in her chest. She should let it go; told herself she would. She tried. But the way Ann is standing there—tense and closed off, like she’s barely holding something back, like she’s fighting herself—it’s infuriating. And worse, it hurts.

Because Catherine doesn’t know why.

And Ann won’t tell her.

So she does what she always does when something isn’t making sense. She picks at it.

“Ann.”

Ann’s jaw flexes. “Catherine—” She exhales sharply, her shoulders shifting with the weight of it. “Drop it.”

“I can’t.” Catherine crosses her arms, her chest tight. “You know I can’t.” The words come out sharper than she intends, her frustration laced through every syllable. She watches Ann’s fingers twitch at her sides, sees the way her gaze darts away for just a second before snapping back, like she’s trying to hide something and failing miserably.

“Just tell me. Whatever it is. If it’s about me, just say it. I can take it.” Catherine’s voice drops, something pleading slipping into the words she can’t quite swallow down.

Ann’s mouth twists, pressed into a thin, stubborn line. There’s a beat, thick with something unspoken and jagged, before Ann mutters, “I can’t.”

“Why not?” Catherine’s shoulders tense, her fists clenching at her sides. This conversation is circling itself, going nowhere and somehow leaving her feeling raw and restless.

Ann lets out a short, bitter laugh. “Because you don’t want to hear it, Catherine.”

The way Ann says her name—clipped, sharp—makes something twist low in Catherine’s stomach. “I’m sure I’ve heard worse,” Catherine bites out in an attempt at dry humour, but her patience is fraying, unravelling like loose threads pulled too tight.

Ann shakes her head, her jaw tight, eyes flickering with something Catherine can’t name. “Trust me.”

“Fine.” The word snaps out of Catherine’s mouth before she can stop it. She takes a step back, her chest heaving with something that feels too close to panic. “I’ll leave you be. This is going nowhere.” Her voice cracks on the last word, and she hates herself for it. Hates the way she’s losing control of whatever this is between them.

She tilts her glass back and swallows down the rest of her whisky, the burn doing nothing to ease the tightness in her throat. “For the record, I trust you, Ann. You know that.” The words fall heavy between them, and without waiting for a response, Catherine turns away and heads for the door, her own frustration thick and clawing at her insides. She’s not sure how the hell she’s getting home with the amount of whisky she’s downed, but right now, she just needs to leave. Needs air. Needs distance.

Behind her, Ann exhales sharply, the sound cutting through the silence. “Jesus, Catherine—”

Catherine doesn’t turn around. Her hand’s already reaching for the door handle, the cool metal grounding her just enough to keep her from shaking.

“You really wanna know?” Ann’s voice rises, raw and unsteady, something splintering at the edges, something that sounds like desperation and fury twisted together.

Catherine’s pulse jumps, her fingers tightening around the handle. “Yes—”

“Fine.” Ann moves. Fast.

Catherine barely registers it before Ann is right there, standing so close their breaths mingle, the air between them charged and electric. Ann’s hands come up, one gripping Catherine’s shoulder, the other cupping her jaw with a gentleness that feels at odds with the fierce intensity blazing in her eyes.

And then Ann kisses her.

It isn’t soft. It isn’t careful. It’s fierce and frustrated, like Ann has been holding something back for so long it’s breaking her apart, piece by piece. The kiss is heat and desperation, a clash of mouths that feels more like an argument than an apology. And for a split second, Catherine’s whole world tilts off its axis.

She freezes, her breath caught in her throat, her mind too scrambled to make sense of what’s happening. All she knows is the press of Ann’s lips against hers, rough and insistent, like she’s trying to prove a point. Or maybe trying to obliterate one.

Catherine’s hands hover in the air, uncertain, useless. She can feel Ann’s fingers pressing against her skin, grounding her, and somehow tearing her apart at the same time. The kiss is all teeth and heat, and it sends a jolt through her that she feels all the way down to her bones.

Then, just as suddenly, Ann pulls back. Only by a few centimetres. Just enough to look at her, their faces still so close Catherine can see the frantic pulse at Ann’s throat, can feel the way their breaths tangle together.

Ann’s eyes are dark and searching, something raw and terrified flickering beneath the anger. “There. Happy now?” The words are a challenge, but the tremor in Ann’s voice betrays her.

Catherine stares at her, her own breathing ragged, her chest heaving. Her mind is a jumbled mess of tangled thoughts and emotions, but one thing cuts through the chaos with brutal clarity.

Oh. Oh, fuck. Ann kissed her. Ann kissed her, and it wasn’t some drunken, careless mistake. It wasn’t something Ann would laugh off later with a shrug and a joke. No, that kiss was real. Raw. Desperate. It was everything Ann’s been holding back, shoved into the space between them with the force of a hurricane.

Catherine’s mind reels, so many interactions she’s had with Ann in the last months flashing before her eyes. The teasing. The arguments. The stupid, petty fights that never meant anything because they always made up afterward, like nothing had happened.

Except something had happened. Over and over again, and Catherine had been too stupid or too stubborn to see it.

She swallows hard, still feeling the pressure of Ann’s mouth against hers, the heat of her breath, the weight of it all. A part of her—the logical part, the part that always keeps her grounded—is telling her to take a step back, to think, to get some distance before she says something she can’t take back. But the other part of her, the one that’s been drinking beer and whisky all night, the one that still feels the way Ann’s body pressed against hers, is telling her to stop thinking for once in her life.

Ann looks at her like she’s bracing for impact, her gaze fierce and vulnerable all at once. Like she’s waiting for Catherine to react, to do something. Maybe to yell, maybe to push her away. Maybe to pretend it didn’t happen. Catherine doesn’t know what Ann expects, but she does know that she has absolutely no idea what the hell she’s supposed to do with any of this.

She can see it now. All of it. The tension. The frustration. The way Ann’s been trying so damn hard to keep something buried that’s been clawing its way to the surface. And the worst part is that Catherine should’ve noticed it a long time ago.

But she hadn’t. Because she’s an idiot. Because she’s spent so much time trying to figure Ann out without ever stopping to consider what might be staring her right in the face.

“Say something, Catherine,” Ann snaps, her voice breaking on her name. “Or just—just go. I don’t care.” The last three words sound like a lie. Even as Ann spits them out, her gaze darts away, her jaw clenched so hard it looks painful. Catherine catches the way her fingers twitch at her sides, like she wants to reach out but can’t quite bring herself to do it.

Catherine’s chest feels tight, something clawing at her ribs, making it hard to breathe. She can feel the heat of Ann’s gaze on her, even when Ann refuses to actually look at her. This is what Catherine wanted, isn’t it? The truth. And now it’s standing right in front of her, raw and angry and tangled up in a mess of hurt she doesn’t even know how to begin to unravel.

But it’s too much. Too sudden. Too real. Her throat feels like it’s closing up, words sticking there and refusing to budge. She should say something. Anything. But all she can manage is a shaky breath that sounds more like a strangled gasp. And then she’s moving.

She doesn’t even think about it, her feet already turning her toward the door that’s right behind her. Her body turning faster than her mind, jerky and desperate. The whisky’s still thrumming through her veins, turning everything into a blur of panic and disbelief. The air feels heavy, the walls of Ann’s flat suddenly too close, pressing in on her until she can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but get the hell out.

Her hand’s returned to the handle before she realizes it, her back turned to Ann. She doesn’t say goodbye. Doesn’t say anything. Because she can’t. Because if she tries to speak, she’s afraid of what might come out. She twists the handle and yanks the door open. The hallway is dim, the chill of it biting against her skin like a slap to the face. It feels like a different world, removed from the heat and tension of Ann’s flat. She steps out, her breathing coming too fast, too shallow, like her body’s trying to expel something it can’t name.

She’s a few paces down the hallway when she hears it.

A sound. Broken, muffled, like someone trying and failing to swallow down a sob.

Catherine’s steps falter. Her chest tightens, her fingers curling into fists. She shouldn’t have heard it. Shouldn’t have been able to pick it up over the blood rushing through her ears, over the frantic pounding of her own heartbeat.

But she heard it.

Ann’s crying.

And it’s her fault.

The door clicks shut behind her, the quiet finality of it like a knife slipping between her ribs. And for a wild, reckless moment, she almost turns back. Almost knocks on the door again, goes to Ann and demands an explanation for what the hell just happened.

But she doesn’t.

Instead, Catherine forces herself to move. Forces her feet to carry her down the stairs, one heavy step after another. The world outside is dark, the town smudged in shadows and streetlights that gleam too bright against the night.

She stumbles toward her car, fingers fumbling for her keys before she remembers she left them buried somewhere in her jacket pocket. When she finally manages to dig them out, she stands there for a moment, clutching them too tightly, her hand trembling just enough for her to notice.

But the second she sinks into the driver’s seat, she knows this is a terrible idea. She’s not going anywhere. Not by car. Her hands are shaking too much, her head spinning from too much whisky and too much... everything. She can barely think straight, her pulse thudding wildly against her throat.

Fuck it.

She shoves the keys back into her pocket and slams the car door shut behind her. She can’t drive. Not even close. But there’s no way in hell she’s calling a taxi. Not when her entire body feels like a live wire, buzzing and straining and ready to snap.

Walking it is, then. It’s going to take her a while by foot. But right now, the idea of trudging through the streets until she regrets not calling a taxi sounds like the best option she has. Moving is better than standing still. Moving means she doesn’t have to think.

The night air hits her like a slap, the cold biting through her jacket and seeping into her skin. It’s late enough that the streets are mostly empty, just the occasional car roaring past, headlights slashing through the darkness. Catherine keeps her head down, her hands shoved deep into her pockets, her breath fogging in the chill.

Her feet hit the pavement hard, each step pounding out a rhythm that’s almost enough to drown out the echo of Ann’s voice. But not quite. Because the memory of Ann’s broken laugh, the way her voice had shattered on Catherine’s name, is lodged in her chest like a splinter she can’t pull free.

What the hell was that kiss even supposed to mean? Surely Ann’s smarter than to fall for someone as old as her parents. For someone who’s her superior officer. For someone who’s her best mate, for bloody sake.

She tries to shove it away, tries to bury it under the mechanical repetition of left foot, right foot, over and over until it’s the only thing her mind can focus on. But the harder she tries, the clearer everything becomes.

The way Ann’s eyes had burned into hers, fierce and furious and desperate all at once. The feel of Ann’s mouth pressed against hers, rough and unrelenting, like she’d been trying to pour every bit of feeling she’d kept bottled up straight into Catherine’s veins.

Ann had kissed her.

And Catherine had run away.

She lets out a rough, humourless laugh that sounds too much like a sob. Jesus Christ, what is she even doing? This whole night feels like some surreal nightmare she can’t wake up from. Or maybe just a reckoning that’s been waiting to tear through her life for longer than she wants to admit.

The street stretches out in front of her, endless and uncaring. Catherine keeps walking, her footsteps echoing against the concrete, her hands clenched into fists inside her jacket pockets. It’s a long walk. But that’s the point, isn’t it?

She needs time to think. To process. To figure out what the hell she’s supposed to do now that Ann has taken what Catherine thought was a close friendship, and turned it on its head with a single, desperate kiss.

Chapter Text

Catherine doesn’t like being ignored. She can put up with a lot of things—shouting, swearing, even the occasional swing in her direction—but this? This is different. This is Ann, deliberately avoiding her, and Catherine doesn’t fucking like it. She notices it right away, first thing in the morning. Ann barely looks at her during briefing, keeps her head down, doesn’t even try to make eye contact.

Fine.

Then, when assignments are given out, she mutters something to Shaf, and next thing Catherine knows, they’ve switched duties. Ann’s not in the car with her. She’s out with someone else.

Fine.

Catherine lets it go—for now. Maybe Ann just needs space. Maybe last night was a lot, and she’s embarrassed. Catherine can understand that.

But then it happens again. And again.

For a week.

And now it’s not fucking fine.

Because it’s not just Ann avoiding eye contact, it’s the way she makes herself scarce the second Catherine enters a room. The way she hurries off when Catherine’s heading in her direction. The way she barely even acknowledges her, like Catherine’s just another person, like that night didn’t happen.

Catherine can only be patient for so long.

So she finds her. She’s not even subtle about it. Just waits for her to go to the loo and follows her down the hallway. Waits for Ann to come back out and cuts her off before she can disappear again.

“Right,” Catherine says, standing square in Ann’s path, arms crossed. “What’s all this, then?”

Ann freezes. It’s brief—just a second—but Catherine catches it. Then Ann schools her face, shrugs, like she has no idea what Catherine’s on about. “What?”

“You tell me. You’ve been dodging me all bloody week. All weekend an’ all.”

Ann huffs, glancing away. “No, I haven’t.”

“Yes, you have. Swappin’ duties, makin’ yourself scarce, not even lookin’ at me. So, what’s goin’ on?”

Ann shifts, jaw tightening. “Nothin’s going on. I’ve been busy.”

Catherine narrows her eyes. “Busy. Right.”

“Yeah. Busy. You know, work?” Ann gestures vaguely around them, voice edged with something sharp. “Some of us have actual shit to do.”

Catherine just stares at her. “Right.”

Ann crosses her arms, defensive. “Can I go now, or is this some official interrogation?”

It’s the tone that does it. Like Catherine’s some nuisance, some problem Ann just wants to get rid of. It shouldn’t get under her skin, but it does.

Catherine lets out a short breath, pressing her lips together, fighting the urge to snap. Instead, she takes a step back, holding Ann’s gaze, letting her see it—Catherine’s patience wearing thin.

“You do whatever you want, Ann,” Catherine says. “But don’t think for a second I don’t see what you’re doin’.”

***

Catherine doesn’t try again the next day. Or the day after that. She figures if Ann wants to be left alone, fine. She can do that. Except she can’t, not really. Because even if she isn’t pushing, she’s still watching. Still noticing things. Like how Ann still keeps her distance, but doesn’t really leave the room when Catherine’s in it. Or how she listens when Catherine talks, even if she acts like she doesn’t. Or even how she’s fidgeting more, tense in a way that isn’t just work stress.

And then there’s the drinking.

It’s not much—nothing anyone else would clock—but Catherine knows Ann. Knows her habits. And the last time Ann had too many pints on a weeknight, she woke up alone in some bloke’s flat the next morning, and called Catherine to pick her up.

So when she walks past the pub after work and sees Ann sitting inside, Catherine doesn’t think. She just acts, because Ann looks like hell. Not the messy, falling-apart kind, but the worn-down, wrung-out, dead-on-her-feet kind. Like she’s been fighting something that refuses to back down.

Catherine sends Clare a text to start dinner without her, and then she’s inside. Ann’s tucked away in a corner booth, shoulders hunched and fingers curled around a half-empty glass. The slight flush to her cheeks and the stiffness in her posture tell Catherine enough—Ann’s had a few, and it’s not helping.

Catherine doesn’t even hesitate. She just strides right up, slides into the seat across from Ann, and folds her arms on the table like she’s settling in for a proper conversation. “Right, what’s this about then?”

Ann looks up, startled, then groans, setting her glass down with a little too much force. “Jesus Christ.”

Catherine raises an eyebrow. “No, just me.”

Ann pinches the bridge of her nose. “I am not in the mood for this, Catherine.”

“Yeah, well. Tough.”

Ann’s eyes narrow with all the warmth of a knife’s edge. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Same as you, apparently. Drinking. Or... about to be, I guess.” Catherine gives a pointed look at Ann’s glass. “Thought maybe you wanted someone to drink with.”

Ann stares at her, completely unimpressed. “You’re not drinking.”

“I could.” Catherine’s voice is breezy, but her gaze is steady, not leaving Ann’s face for a second.

Ann lets out a tired huff of air, something almost like a laugh but mostly just worn-down irritation. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Yeah, I get that a lot.”

Another beat of silence. Ann’s fingers toy with her glass, tracing the rim like it’s the only thing holding her together. Her gaze drops, and Catherine sees something in the tension of her shoulders, the way her hand trembles just slightly before she stills it.

“Seriously,” Ann says, voice rough. “What do you want?”

Catherine doesn’t miss a beat. “To talk.”

Ann’s eyes snap up again, her gaze sharp and defensive. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Bullshit,” Catherine says flatly. “The way you’ve been avoiding me at work? The way you keep shutting me out and acting like I don’t bloody exist unless I’m right in front of you? That’s something.”

Ann looks away, her jaw clenched so tight Catherine can practically hear her teeth grinding. “You know what? Fuck this.” Ann shoves her glass aside, the liquid sloshing dangerously close to spilling. And then she’s up and moving, her coat already thrown over one arm as she storms toward the exit.

“Ann—”

But Ann’s already gone, pushing through the pub door and spilling out into the street. Catherine hesitates only a second before lurching to her feet and following, her boots scuffing against the old wooden floor.

The night air is cold, sharp enough to steal the breath from her lungs. Ann’s stride is quick, determined, like she’s trying to outrun the conversation before it can even start. Catherine has to jog to catch up, her footsteps clumsy on the uneven pavement.

“Would you just stop for a second?” Catherine snaps, annoyance rising in her chest. “You can’t just walk away every time I try to talk to you.”

Ann doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t even glance her way. “Then take the fucking hint, Catherine.”

Catherine matches her stride, eyes trained on Ann’s rigid profile. “No. Not until you actually talk to me.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Ann repeats, voice brittle and threadbare.

“Yeah?” Catherine challenges. “Then why the hell are you running away?”

Ann finally stops. Her shoulders are hunched, her hands shoved deep into her coat pockets, like she’s trying to hold herself together by force alone. They’re standing in some quiet side street, the world around them muted and dark, the distant hum of traffic the only sound breaking the silence.

“What do you want me to say?” Ann demands, her voice raw and unsteady. “You wanna drag this out? Fine. Let’s do it. Let’s hear you say whatever you need to so you can feel better about leaving me standing there like a fucking idiot.”

Catherine flinches, the accusation landing hard and fast. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” Ann’s eyes blaze with something furious and broken. “You wanted to know what that was the other day? What the hell do you think it was, Catherine?”

“I don’t know!” Catherine blurts, her own frustration bubbling over. “That’s the problem! You just... threw that at me out of nowhere, and now you’re acting like I should’ve known, like I should’ve—”

“Should’ve what?” Ann snaps. “Figured it out sooner? Seen all the goddamn signs? Well, guess what? I did everything but spell it out for you, and you still—” She cuts herself off, her voice cracking. Ann’s hands are trembling, her gaze darting away like she can’t stand to look at Catherine anymore.

“It meant something to me,” Ann says, softer now, the anger fraying at the edges. “But you made it very clear that it didn’t mean anything to you. And that’s fine, ‘cause I pretty much knew that was gonna happen. But you didn’t have to run away to make me get that.”

The words are a punch to the chest. Catherine stares at her, mouth open but useless, words tangled up somewhere between her throat and her tongue. Because she can’t deny it. She did run away. But it wasn’t because it meant nothing.

“That’s not fair,” Catherine says again, voice tight.

Ann gives her a look that’s all weary disbelief. “No? Because from where I’m standing, it looks pretty fucking fair. I’ve been standing here making a goddamn fool of myself over you, and you—” Her voice cracks again, her composure fraying with every word. “Christ, I don’t even know why I’m doing this.”

Something in Catherine’s chest twists painfully. Because this is all wrong. Everything about this is wrong. “You’re drunk. You’re not thinking straight.”

Ann laughs, a hollow, bitter sound that makes Catherine’s skin prickle. “You think that’s why I did it?” Ann’s eyes meet hers, furious and desperate all at once. “You think I just woke up the next day and never felt any of it?”

Catherine’s jaw works uselessly, her chest burning with something she can’t quite name. “Ann...”

“What?” Ann snaps, her shoulders rigid. “What do you want me to say, Catherine? You want me to lie? To pretend I don’t feel... like this?”

The silence stretches, taut and heavy. Catherine feels the chill of the night air settling into her bones. But she doesn’t move. Doesn’t look away.

“No,” Catherine says, the word a ragged exhale. “I don’t want you to lie.”

“Good.” Ann’s voice is hoarse, her gaze fixed somewhere past Catherine’s shoulder. “Because I’m done pretending.” And then she turns away and starts walking again, leaving Catherine standing there.

Ann’s words hit her like a freight train, barrelling into Catherine with brutal force, her heart lodged somewhere painfully between her ribs. It’s too much, all of it, and yet she can’t walk away. She can’t leave Ann like this, no matter how much her own mind is spinning.

“Ann, wait.” Catherine jogs a few steps to catch up, falling into stride beside her. Ann doesn’t even glance her way, her eyes fixed straight ahead, her mouth pressed into a hard line.

“Seriously, Catherine. Just go.” Ann’s voice is sharp, but there’s something hollow about it, too. Something that sounds like resignation, like she’s already given up.

“No.” The word comes out firmer than Catherine expects, her jaw tightening. “I’m not just gonna let you walk away like that. Not after what you just said.”

“Why not?” Ann throws back, her pace quickening. “Why not just let me fuckin’ deal with it? I’ve been dealin’ with it all this time, haven’t I?”

Catherine swallows hard. “And how’s that been workin’ out for you?”

Ann’s shoulders hunch defensively, her gaze fixed on the ground. The street lamps cast long shadows over her face, turning her expression into something sharp and weary. “Brilliantly, thanks for askin’,” Ann says, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “It’s fucking great, actually. Pining after someone who’s never going to feel the same way. Exactly what everyone wants.”

“Ann, come on—”

“No. You wanted to talk, right?” Ann snaps, eyes finally darting over to Catherine with a fire that feels more like desperation than fury. “Well, here it is. You want to hear me say it out loud? Fine. I’ve been in love with you for months, Catherine. Months. Probably longer, actually, but it took me a while to figure that out. ‘Cause I thought—I thought if I ignored it, if I just acted normal, it would go away. But it didn’t. It just kept getting worse. And then the other day, you were just—” Ann’s voice cracks. “You were just so fucking kind to me, like you always are, and I lost it. I couldn’t keep it in anymore.”

They’ve stopped walking, the street quiet around them, their voices swallowed by the night. Catherine’s mouth is dry, her throat burning with something that feels a lot like guilt.

“I didn’t know,” Catherine says, her voice low, the words feeling useless and hollow.

“Yeah, well, you never really looked, did you?” Ann’s tone is rough, but the anger’s mostly gone. What’s left is exhaustion, something fragile and frayed. “And you know what? That’s on me. Because I knew you weren’t—” Ann breaks off, looking away. “I knew it was never gonna happen. And I’m not mad at you for that. I’m mad at myself for being so goddamn stupid.”

Catherine’s fingers clench at her sides, nails pressing into her palms. “You’re not stupid.”

They’re standing at the edge of some deserted park, the air thick and cool around them. Ann’s eyes are glassy in the dark, her breathing coming quick and uneven, like she’s barely keeping herself together. She lets out a bitter laugh. “Feels like it. Because even after all of that, even after you walked away, it’s still here.” She presses her hand against her chest, her fingers fisting the material of her coat. “It’s still fucking here, Catherine.” Her voice breaks on the last word, and Catherine can see moisture collecting in her eyes.

“That doesn’t make you stupid, Ann,” Catherine says, her voice soft.

“It just makes me an idiot.” Ann’s shoulders slump. “Because you were my friend. And I couldn’t just stop feeling how I feel. Didn’t you notice how hard I tried to be normal? To just be friends? Believe me, I’ve tried. You think I want to keep feeling like this? You think I wanted to ruin everything?”

Catherine’s chest twists painfully. “You didn’t ruin anything.”

“Yes, I did,” Ann snaps, her voice cracking. “The second I kissed you, everything changed. And I can’t take that back, no matter how much I wish I could.”

Catherine wants to argue, wants to tell Ann that’s not true, but the words stick in her throat. Because the truth is, she’s not sure what to say. She doesn’t want to lose Ann. But she also doesn’t know how to give her what she wants.

“I just wanted you in my life,” Ann says, her voice breaking. “That’s all I wanted. And I know I fucked it all up, but I couldn’t... I couldn’t keep pretending everything was fine when it wasn’t. When I kept looking at you and… wanting more.”

Catherine feels something in her chest squeeze at those words. Ann wanted her. Still does, clearly.

Ann lets out a breath, dragging a hand over her face. “Fuck.” She exhales sharply, shaking her head again. “And you being so fucking nice all the time, it just makes everything worse, Catherine. Because it reminds me that I don’t just get to have you like that. That I never fucking will.” 

Catherine feels like she can’t breathe. “Ann—”

“No,” Ann cuts in, shaking her head, her eyes flashing. “Don’t. Don’t tell me it’s okay, don’t tell me it doesn’t change anything. Because it does. You know it does.”

Catherine doesn’t know what to say. She feels helpless, because Ann is standing in front of her, hurting, and all Catherine wants to do is fix it. But how the fuck does she fix this?

“Ann,” she tries again, softer this time.

Ann lets out a shaky breath, her hands clenched at her sides. “I know you don’t feel the same,” she says, quieter now, like she’s forcing the words out. “I know. And I’ve—I’ve accepted that. But that doesn’t mean it’s been easy, Catherine. That doesn’t mean I can just—just pretend it doesn’t fucking hurt.”

Catherine feels something deep inside her ache at the way Ann says that. Because Ann is wrong. Catherine shakes her head, not sure where that thought came from. Okay, so maybe she doesn’t know what she feels, but how is she supposed to know that, in the middle of all this mess? Could people just stop springing stuff on her? Just for a minute. Give her a bloody moment to get her head wrapped around things.

She looks at Ann walking away again, and that’s when she realises that maybe she doesn’t have the luxury of waiting, not if she wants to salvage this. She swallows against the tightness in her throat. Ann looks like she’s barely keeping it together, her whole body wound tight, hands clenched into fists like she’s holding onto the last bit of control she has. And Catherine—Catherine fucking hates it. Hates seeing Ann like this. Hates knowing she’s the reason.

“You shouldn’t have to pretend.” Catherine’s voice trembles, and it’s not just because she’s jogging to catch up to Ann. “But I’m not just gonna walk away from you, Ann. I can’t. I won’t.”

“Why not?” Ann demands, her eyes narrowing. “Why do you even care? You obviously don’t feel the same way, so why are you even still here?”

“Because you matter to me,” Catherine says, the words bursting out of her like she’s been holding them in too long. “You matter, Ann. I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to say, but I can’t just let you walk away from me.”

Ann’s gaze flickers, something raw and uncertain flashing in her eyes. “I’m not your responsibility, Catherine. You can’t just... keep me around out of pity.”

“It’s not pity.” Catherine’s voice is hoarse. “It’s never been bloody pity, Ann. Not ever.” She takes a deep breath, frustrated by the mess of emotions tangling together in her chest. “You’re important to me, Ann. And I want you in my life. That hasn’t changed. I know I’m shit with words, but you’re important to me.”

Ann’s shoulders sag, some of the fire bleeding out of her posture. “It’s not enough,” she whispers, her eyes searching Catherine’s like she’s trying to find something to hold on to. “Whatever you’re trying to do here, it’s not enough.”

The words land with a force that leaves Catherine breathless. “I don’t... I don’t know what you want me to say.”

Ann looks away, her expression shattered and somehow distant at the same time. “I don’t think there’s anything you can say.”

For a moment, they just stand there, surrounded by the dark and the cold and the awful, awful truth of it all. And Catherine can’t help but feel like she’s trying to grasp something slipping through her fingers, something she’s not sure she’ll ever be able to hold on to.

Ann’s always been easy to hug, and so Catherine doesn’t think. She just moves, stepping forward, reaching for Ann.

Ann flinches. “Don’t.” Her voice is sharp, warning, but her body betrays her—she doesn’t step back. She stiffens, arms caught between them, hands pressing against Catherine’s chest like she’s about to push her away. But she doesn’t.

So Catherine ignores her. She wraps her arms around Ann, firm, unyielding.

“Catherine,” Ann snaps, voice rough, but she doesn’t push. She just stands there, breathing hard, trapped between resistance and something else. “Don’t do this. Just—just leave me alone.”

“No,” Catherine says, just as firm, just as unyielding. “I’m not leavin’ you like this.”

“You should,” Ann mutters. “You should just fuckin’ go.”

“Well, I’m not.” Catherine’s grip tightens slightly, anchoring them both. “So you can stop trying to push me away, because it’s not gonna work.”

Ann trembles. It’s barely noticeable, just a slight shake in her shoulders, but Catherine feels it. Feels the tension, the way Ann is barely holding herself together.

“You don’t get it,” Ann says, her voice almost breaking now. “You don’t fucking get it.”

“I’m trying to,” Catherine murmurs. “I swear to God, Ann, I’m tryin’.”

Ann lets out a shaky breath, and then suddenly, finally, she breaks. A sob wrenches out of her, sudden and violent, like it’s been clawing its way up for hours. Her fingers curl into Catherine’s sides, gripping tight, and she buries her face against Catherine’s shoulder like she doesn’t want to be seen falling apart.

Catherine holds her tighter. “I’ve got you,” she murmurs, low, steady, like she’s trying to ground Ann. “I’ve got you, love.”

Ann sobs again, her whole body shaking. “I hate you,” she chokes out, even as she clings to Catherine like she’ll drown without her. “I fuckin’ hate you.”

Catherine just nods. “I know.”

She rubs slow circles into Ann’s back, holding her through it, letting her cry. Letting her feel. Because Ann needs this. She’s been needing this. And Catherine feels guilty, somehow, so she just wants to be here—be there for her.

Ann’s breathing is still ragged against her shoulder, but the shaking has started to subside. The tension in her arms has eased, just slightly, her fingers still gripping Catherine’s sides but without the desperate force from before.

She’s still holding on, but it’s different now. Not fighting. Not pushing away. Just… there.

Catherine doesn’t move, not yet. She just keeps holding her, rubbing slow, steady circles into her back. The weight of Ann in her arms feels different now, heavier in a way that has nothing to do with her actual body. More like the weight of everything that’s been unsaid, everything that’s settled between them tonight like a storm cloud ready to burst.

Eventually, Ann shifts. It’s slow, tired, like even pulling away takes effort. When she lifts her head, her face is blotchy, red-eyed, her breath still hitching slightly as she wipes at her nose with the back of her hand. She looks wrecked. But also like she’s closing up again, piece by piece.

Catherine’s throat feels tight. She doesn’t know what to do with this, with the ache in her chest that has nothing to do with herself and everything to do with Ann.

Ann clears her throat, then steps back fully. The loss of contact is immediate, and it’s stupid, but Catherine feels colder.

Ann sniffs, still swiping at her face. “You can go now.”

Catherine frowns. “Ann—”

“No.” Ann shakes her head, eyes flicking away, jaw tightening like she’s forcing herself back together. “Seriously. I just—I need you to go.”

Catherine hesitates. Every instinct in her body is telling her to stay, to keep trying, to refuse to walk away when Ann is still hurting, still looking like she’s one wrong word away from shattering all over again.

But Ann’s gaze comes back to hers, sharp and pleading all at once. “Catherine. Please.”

That word—please—hits somewhere deep.

Catherine exhales, dragging a hand through her hair. Everything in her is screaming not to go, but she doesn’t know what else to do. If Ann wants her gone, what choice does she have?

Still, she can’t leave it like this.

“I want you in my life,” she says, voice quieter now, steadier. “And I’m sorry that I’m the one hurtin’ you right now. That’s not—that’s not something I ever wanted.”

Ann’s breath catches. For a second, it looks like she’s going to say something, like her lips might part, and the words will come out, raw and real and painful. But she just presses them together instead, swallows hard, and shakes her head.

Then she looks away. “Go home, Catherine.”

Catherine watches her for a long moment. Then, because there’s nothing else she can do, she does.

Chapter Text

Catherine’s fingers are trembling when she unlocks the front door. She’s not sure how she made it home, her feet just moving, automatic, taking her to her car, her brain buzzing too loud to focus on anything but Ann’s voice ricocheting around her skull as she drove home.

I fuckin’ hate you.

But Ann hadn’t let go. She’d clung to Catherine like she was a lifeline and an anchor all at once. And that’s the worst part, isn’t it? Because Catherine knows she’s neither of those things. She’s just a coward who doesn’t know how to be what Ann wants. What Ann needs.

All she can think about is how destroyed Ann looked. The way her voice cracked. The way her eyes burned, something fierce and breaking all at once. And Catherine had just stood there like an idiot, trying to find words that wouldn’t sound like cheap sympathy or forced reassurance. She should’ve just... left sooner. Should’ve let Ann walk away and given her the space she clearly fucking needed. But no. Catherine had to keep pushing, had to chase after her like she couldn’t bear the thought of letting her go.

The door creaks shut behind her, and she leans her back against it, sliding down until she’s sitting on the floor, knees pulled to her chest. Her coat is still damp from the night air, her hands freezing from the chill that never left her bones. Her chest feels hollow, bruised from the inside out, the quiet of the house doing nothing to calm the awful, writhing mess of emotions tangled inside her.

“Catherine?”

The voice snaps her from her thoughts, and she looks up to see Clare poking her head around the corner of the hallway. Her hair’s pulled back into a messy bun, and she’s wearing one of those oversized hoodies she practically lives in.

“Hey,” Catherine mumbles, trying to gather herself. “Didn’t know you were still up.”

“Thought I’d wait for you.” Clare’s eyes narrow, her gaze sharpening as she takes in Catherine’s dishevelled state. “Are you okay? What are you doin’ down there?”

“Just tired,” Catherine says quickly, forcing her voice into something almost steady. “Work stuff. Some muppets bein’ twats. You know.”

“Uh-huh.” Clare’s tone is sceptical, but she doesn’t push. Not yet, anyway. “Well, there’s food if you want. I made pasta. I can heat it up if you’re hungry.”

It’s such a simple, ordinary thing, and Catherine feels her throat tighten with a wave of unexpected gratitude. Because for all her pestering, Clare’s always the one person who looks out for her. Even when Catherine’s being a mess. Especially then.

“Yeah. Food sounds good, actually.”

“Great. Come on.” Clare tilts her head toward the kitchen before disappearing around the corner.

Catherine peels herself off the floor, legs unsteady as she follows her sister. The warmth of the kitchen is a small comfort, the scent of garlic and basil lingering in the air. Clare pulls a container out of the fridge and starts spooning penne onto a plate, popping it into the microwave.

“So,” Clare says, leaning against the counter as the microwave hums. “You wanna tell me what’s actually goin’ on? Or are we gonna keep pretendin’?”

Catherine almost smiles at that, but the expression doesn’t quite stick. “Just a long day. Got stuck in meetings. Then I thought Ann and I were gonna have drinks, but she just wanted to go home.”

Clare gives her a long, evaluating look, like she’s trying to decide if Catherine’s feeding her complete bullshit. Eventually, she just nods. “Well, if you’re gonna skip out on drinks, you might as well eat. Otherwise, you’ll end up all grumpy and dramatic, and I’m not dealing with that tonight.”

Catherine huffs a weak laugh. “You’re spoilin’ me, Clare.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Clare says, flashing a grin before grabbing the now-steaming plate from the microwave and sliding it over to Catherine. “Eat.”

They settle at the small kitchen table, Clare chatting about her day, some new recipe Winnie showed her, the latest ridiculous thing Daniel posted on the family group chat. Catherine lets her words wash over her, nodding where appropriate, offering the occasional comment when it feels like she’s supposed to.

“How’s the pasta?”

Catherine looks up at Clare. “Oh. Good, it’s good. Are you fishin’ for compliments now?”

Clare laughs, a fond twinkle in her eyes. “Just thought I’d see whether you’re still present. You looked miles away.”

She’s too exhausted to argue, or even deny it. “Yeah, maybe.” Looking down at her half-eaten plate, Catherine sighs. The pasta is good, creamy and rich, but she barely tastes it. Her mind keeps pulling her back to Ann, her voice cracked and ragged and hurting, and to the way her eyes had looked when she’d whispered, It’s still fucking here, Catherine.

And how Catherine had just... left her there.

“Ann okay?” Clare’s voice is a little quieter now, almost as if she’s worried someone might listen in.

“What?” Catherine’s head shoots up, and for a mind-numbingly long moment, she wonders whether she’s spoken out loud. “Yeah, she’s fine. Fine.”

“She don’t look fine,” Clare says, clearly worried, her brows furrowed, forming a deep line. “Not lately. She’s been a lot more quiet, and she’s not come ‘round as much, either, now that I’m thinkin’ about it.”

Catherine doesn’t answer straight away. She sets her fork down, pushes a bit of pasta around her plate with the edge of it, like she needs to focus on something small, something manageable. She doesn’t want to lie. But she also doesn’t want to talk about Ann, not properly, not about any of the things Clare’s actually asking.

“She’s just had a lot on,” Catherine says eventually, keeping her voice even, casual. “Work’s been rough.” That much is true. Work has been rough—for both of them.

Clare doesn’t look convinced. “That all?”

Catherine exhales through her nose, a tight, humourless thing. “No.” She hesitates, then forces herself to meet Clare’s eyes. “I cocked it all up a little.”

Clare’s brows draw together, her head tilting slightly. “How d’you mean?”

Catherine shifts in her chair, suddenly feeling too restless, too exposed. “Just—said the wrong thing. Did the wrong thing. And it upset her.” She clears her throat, picking her fork back up, if only to give her hands something to do. “That’s why she’s been a bit off.”

Clare studies her, like she’s trying to figure out what Catherine isn’t saying. She must find something in her face, because after a moment, her expression softens, her worry shifting into something quieter.

“Well,” Clare says, gentler now, “if you feel bad about it, you should go talk to her.”

Catherine lets out a small, dry laugh, shaking her head, not quite meeting Clare’s eyes. “Yeah.” Like it’s that easy. Like trying to talk to Ann had fixed anything in the last few weeks.

“It’s not gonna fix itself, is it?” Clare asks, still watching her, still reading her in that way she’s always been able to. “You’re both stubborn as granite, you two. One of you’s got to make the first step.”

Catherine exhales sharply, pressing her tongue against her teeth. There’s an ache in her chest, a knot of something too tight, too tangled. She knows Clare means well—of course she does—but she doesn’t understand. Not really. “This—” Catherine gestures vaguely, setting her fork down again. “It’s not that easy, Clare.”

Clare frowns, brow furrowing. “Why not?”

Catherine presses her lips together, trying to find a way to explain without actually explaining. “Because it just isn’t.” She leans back in her chair, crosses her arms over her chest. “I—” She hesitates, then sighs, shaking her head again. “I don’t wanna make it worse.”

“Yeah, but—” Clare goes silent, and watches her for a long moment. Catherine can see the gears turning, can see her come to a conclusion. A conclusion Catherine’s not sure she’s gonna like.

Clare leans a bit closer. “I know she means a lot to you.”

Something in Catherine twists, sharp and sudden. She looks down at her plate, at the pasta she’s barely touched, at the way her fingers have curled against her own arms. Yeah. Ann means a lot to her. More than she’s let herself think about, more than she’s ever said out loud.

She swallows. Doesn’t look up. “Yeah, course she does.”

Clare exhales, shifting slightly in her chair. There’s a calculated patience in the way she’s looking at Catherine, like she knows there’s more to say but isn’t going to force it out of her. Instead, she just picks up her glass of water, takes a slow sip, then sets it back down.

“She thinks a lot of you too, you know,” Clare says, her voice softer now. “Always has.”

Catherine frowns, shaking her head slightly. “She thinks I’m a pain in the arse.”

It’s Clare’s turn to frown. She gives Catherine a look that seems to ask whether she’s lost her mind. “She thinks you’re fantastic,” Clare says eventually, her voice firm but kind. “She’s said it, more than once.”

Catherine doesn’t know what to do with that. She’s never known what to do with praise, least of all when it comes from someone like Ann. Someone who knows exactly what kind of person Catherine is, has seen all her sharp edges, and some of her worst moments.

She exhales, rubbing a hand over her face. “Yeah, well.” It’s all she can manage.

Clare watches her for another moment, then says, “Then don’t let whatever this is just sit there. She’s not gonna come to you, not if she’s hurt. You know that.”

Catherine does know that. Ann had stood there tonight, looking at her like something inside her was breaking, voice raw when she’d said, It’s still fucking here, Catherine.

And Catherine had left her there.

She exhales, rubbing a hand over her face, fingers pressing into her eyes like she can push the whole thing out of her head. Like she can push away the gnawing, guilty weight in her chest.

Then, finally, she nods. “Yeah.” Softer, this time.

Clare doesn’t push her any further. She just nods back, as if to say, Good. Then, after a beat, she tilts her head towards Catherine’s plate, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“Eat your pasta before it goes cold.”

Catherine lets out a breath—something that isn’t quite a laugh, but isn’t quite anything else either. And, with a slow shake of her head, she picks up her fork.

The pasta’s cold. Of course it is. Oh, piss.

Clare eventually migrates to the living room, something about catching up on her favourite drama before bed. Catherine barely hears her, her own thoughts too loud to pay attention to anything else.

It’s not until she’s alone, standing in the dim light of the kitchen, her plate rinsed and left drying by the sink, that the restlessness settles into her bones. The same awful, gnawing feeling that drove her to chase after Ann earlier. Except now it’s worse, because nothing can silence the nagging thought that’s been looping through her mind since she left Ann standing there, eyes wide and pained and so in love it made Catherine want to scream.

You matter to me, Ann.

It’s true. It’s so fucking true, but Catherine knows it’s not enough. Not the way Ann wants it to be. And that’s the problem, isn’t it?

Catherine presses her palms against the counter, fingers curling against the cold surface. Her jaw clenches. Ann is—she’s young. She’s got her whole life ahead of her. What the fuck does she want with someone like Catherine? Someone divorced, pushing fifty, with a body that aches when she gets out of bed, and a past littered with more mistakes than she cares to count. Someone who’s spent so long taking care of everyone else, holding everything together, she’s forgotten how to even think about what she wants.

She’s spent the last few weeks trying not to think about it, trying to ignore the way Ann looks at her sometimes—like she’s hung the bloody moon. Trying to ignore the way her own stomach twists when Ann smiles, or the way her breath hitches when Ann says her name, quiet and steady, like she’s the only thing in the world that matters.

And it’s fucking ridiculous.

Because Catherine’s not—she’s not soft. Not like that. Not in the way Ann deserves.

Catherine knows she’s not perfect, but she’s a good sister, most days. A good mum and grandma. And a good friend. And she used to be that last one for Ann. Now, she’s not so sure. She handled this whole thing with all the grace of a two-legged giraffe, and now she doesn’t know how to be what Ann needs. Doesn’t even know how to be honest with herself. She’s tired and worn and stitched together by sheer force of will, and Ann—Ann has seen all of it. Has seen Catherine at her absolute worst, bloodied and broken, barely standing.

Catherine swallows hard, forcing her thoughts back into line. It doesn’t matter. It can’t matter.

Ann deserves something better. Someone who isn’t her superior officer, who isn’t old and stubborn and utterly incapable of knowing what to do with something as fragile as love.

But then, Ann stood there tonight, her voice shaking, her hands balled into fists, and she said, It’s still fucking here, Catherine.

And Catherine left her there.

She exhales, rubs a hand over her face, frustration clawing at the edges of her ribs. She needs to fix this. Or try, at least. She owes Ann that much.

Before she can overthink it, Catherine grabs her keys from the counter and heads for the door. She doesn’t even bother to tell Clare where she’s going. The words are locked too tight in her chest, and Clare would only ask more questions Catherine doesn’t want to answer.

Chapter Text

Her car feels cold, the engine’s rumble almost too loud in the quiet of the night. The drive to Ann’s place is a blur of streetlights and stop signs and the distant hum of traffic. Her fingers keep clenching around the steering wheel, like her grip on it is the only thing keeping her from falling apart.

The whole time, her stomach is twisted into painful knots, her thoughts circling endlessly like a dog chasing its own tail. She doesn’t know what the right thing is. She doesn't even know what the hell she's doing, not even when she parks the car by the kerb.

Ann loves her. That’s what this is. What tonight was about. Ann loves her, and it’s breaking her, and Catherine is just... here. Standing outside Ann’s door, barely four steps away, feeling like she’s stuck in the eye of a storm she never even saw coming.

She should have seen it coming. Looking back, it’s all there, isn’t it? The way Ann looks at her, the way she gets quiet sometimes when Catherine’s being—well, herself. The little reactions, the moments Catherine never thought too much about before. How much of it did she ignore? How much did she chalk up to friendship, to caring, to something that didn’t demand a closer look? And how much of her own behaviour is the same?

Her chest feels tight, her skin too aware of the memory of Ann clinging to her, like her warmth still lingers there. It’s a lot. Too much. A tangled mess of feelings and words left unsaid.

Before she can second-guess herself, Catherine knocks. The sound is too loud in the quiet corridor, and for a moment, she thinks about leaving, turning around and pretending this was never a good idea.

But then there are footsteps, and the door opens, and Ann is there. She doesn’t look angry. She doesn’t roll her eyes or scowl or immediately tell Catherine to piss off. She just looks... tired. And maybe a little sad.

Catherine doesn’t know what to do with that. She can handle Ann being pissed off—can weather a snide remark, a biting comment—but this? This is worse. This is something she can’t joke her way around or pretend isn’t there.

So she says the first neutral thing she can think of. “Downstairs door wasn’t locked.”

Ann just looks at her for a long moment before sighing. “What are you doing?”

Catherine’s throat is dry, but she’s here now, and she’s not about to bottle it. “I didn’t wanna leave it like that.”

Ann lets out a breathy, humourless laugh, shaking her head. “Yeah, well. Not sure what else there is to say.”

She’s not telling her to leave. That has to mean something.

“Can I come in?”

Ann hesitates, her gaze searching Catherine’s face for something Catherine isn’t sure she can give. But then Ann steps back, allowing her inside. Catherine steps over the threshold, the door closing behind her with a quiet click.

Ann doesn’t move beyond that, just stands there, arms loosely crossed, expression unreadable.

Catherine doesn’t know what to do with her hands. Shoves them in her jacket pockets, then pulls them out again, rubbing her palms together like she’s cold. She isn’t. She just feels... wrong. Out of place in a way she never has before, not with Ann.

The silence between them stretches, heavy but not sharp, like they’ve both run out of words but neither of them is ready to walk away.

Ann finally breaks it. “Why are you really here?”

Catherine exhales, slow and shaky. “I told you. I didn’t wanna leave it like that.”

Ann huffs, her gaze flicking away like she doesn’t quite believe her. “And how exactly did you wanna leave it?”

Catherine doesn’t have an answer for that. Not one that feels right. She just knows she couldn’t walk away. Not for real.

Ann’s eyes meet hers again, sharp but exhausted. “So what, you came here to talk, and now you’re quiet?”

Catherine doesn’t know what to say. Every option feels either too much or not enough, and there’s no in-between. Some part of her wants to believe they can just rewind, go back to how things were before, when Ann’s eyes didn’t hold this layer of pain. But the rest of her knows that’s impossible.

“I don’t know what you want me to say.” The words fall out of her, too blunt, too helpless.

Ann laughs, short and bitter. “Yeah. That makes two of us.”

She brushes past Catherine, heading for the small kitchen. Catherine hesitates before following, watching as Ann pulls a glass from the cupboard, fills it with water, and takes a long, slow sip. Her fingers grip the rim too tightly, like it’s the only thing keeping her hands steady.

“I don’t wanna fight with you,” Catherine says, the words almost too quiet.

Ann sets the glass down with a dull thud. “We’re not fighting.”

Catherine raises an eyebrow. “We’re not exactly having a nice chat, either.”

Ann scoffs, rubbing a hand over her face. “No, Catherine. We’re not. Because there’s nothing to say, alright? You don’t feel the same. I get it. I knew that already.” Her voice wavers just enough to make Catherine’s chest tighten. “You don’t need to keep trying to make me feel better about it.”

“That’s not—” Catherine cuts herself off, the words tripping over each other. She tries again. “I’m not trying to make you feel better. I just—” She drags a hand over her jaw, frustration curling in her gut. Frustration at herself, at Ann’s distance, at this whole fucking situation. “I don’t want to lose you over this.”

Ann’s expression softens, just a little. Her shoulders sag against the counter, like she’s been holding herself together too tightly for too long. “You’re not gonna lose me.”

Catherine searches Ann’s face, her eyes combing over every detail, trying to figure out if the reassurance is real or just something Ann’s saying to make this easier. To make her feel better.

“You sure?”

Ann’s lips press together, something uncertain flickering in her expression. It lasts only a second before she nods. “Yeah.”

Catherine should feel relieved. Ann’s still here, still talking to her, still willing to let this be something . But the knot in her chest doesn’t loosen. It just settles in a different way, heavier now that she has no reason to keep pushing.

Ann exhales and pushes away from the counter, running a hand through her hair. “Look, Catherine, I get it. You don’t wanna hurt me.” Her voice is quiet, something raw underneath it. She’s trying to make it sound normal, like saying it out loud doesn’t mean anything. “But that doesn’t change anything.”

Catherine swallows, shifts her weight. “Doesn’t it?”

Ann gives a humourless half-laugh. “No. It doesn’t. Because at the end of the day, you still don’t—” She stops short, just for a second, like she has to force herself to say it. “You don’t feel the same way.”

Catherine almost tells her she’s wrong. That it’s not that simple. But she stops herself before the words can make it past her teeth, because what’s the point? Ann’s already hurting, and if Catherine admits— if she admits—that it’s not just that she doesn’t , but that she can’t , not the way Ann wants, then what? That’s worse, isn’t it?

Ann looks at her like she’s waiting for something, and Catherine has no idea what she’s supposed to give. So she does what she always does: she deflects. “Right. So I’m just an arsehole who showed up at your door to make myself feel better.”

Ann exhales, shaking her head. “I didn’t say that.”

“No, but you were thinking it.”

Ann doesn’t argue, just watches her, gaze sharp but not unkind.

Catherine scrubs a hand over her face. “Jesus.”

The silence stretches, jagged and painful.

Ann runs her finger along the edge of her glass, refusing to meet Catherine’s eyes as she breaks the silence. “That wasn’t fair of me. ‘Cause I don’t think that.”

Catherine exhales sharply, dragging a hand through her hair. “You’d be well within your right to think that. I don’t even know why I came.” It’s a lie, and they both know it, but it’s easier than saying the truth out loud.

Ann watches her, quiet for a beat. Then, softer, “Yeah, you do.”

Catherine shakes her head, but there’s no real conviction in it. She does know. She came because Ann matters to her. Because she couldn’t stand the thought of Ann hurting. And even less the thought that she was the cause of Ann’s pain.

Ann sighs, crossing her arms, but there’s no frustration in the movement, only weariness. “I don’t think you came for yourself. You may be an arsehole at times, but not like that.” Her gaze is steady, certain. “I know you care.”

The words land heavier than they should. Catherine looks away, pressing her lips together.

Ann shifts, the tension in her shoulders easing just slightly. “I meant what I said. You’re not gonna lose me.”

Catherine glances back at her, searching her face, looking for doubt. She doesn’t find any.

Ann’s voice is tight when she continues, strained around the edges, like every word costs her something. She lifts a hand and waves it vaguely, the gesture as aimless as her words. “It’s just—hard. Right now?”

Catherine nods slowly, her own chest tightening in response. She understands that much, even if she’s only seeing the surface of it. Ann is hurting, and she doesn’t want to make it worse. But Catherine’s never been good at leaving things alone. Not when something feels wrong. Not when something feels broken. Not when she cares.

Her finger moves to the edge of her nail, brushing over the hard skin next to it, a restless, nervous movement she can’t quite control. “What do you need from me, then?”

Ann’s head jerks up, eyes narrowing like she wasn’t expecting the question. Like she’s not sure how to answer it.

Catherine tilts her head, her gaze steady. “Do you want space? You want me to pretend nothing happened? You want me to piss off and come back when you don’t feel like punching me in the face anymore?”

The corner of Ann’s mouth twitches, a reluctant smile struggling against the exhaustion on her face. It’s barely there, a tiny, flickering thing, but Catherine sees it. And somehow, it makes breathing a little easier.

Ann shakes her head, the gesture weary. “I don’t know.” The words come out on a sigh, resignation and frustration tangled up in her voice. “I’m not tryin’ to be difficult. I just... I really don’t know.”

Catherine nods again. “Okay.” Her fingers flex restlessly before she forces them to her sides, grounding herself. She glances at the clock on the wall, its hands creeping well past a reasonable hour. “You want me to go?”

Ann doesn’t respond right away.

There’s a flicker, a hesitation so brief most people would have missed it. But Catherine isn’t most people. Not when it comes to Ann. She catches the moment of indecision, the way Ann’s fingers tighten slightly around the edge of the counter, the way her eyes flick toward the door and then away again, like she’s torn between pushing Catherine out and keeping her right where she is.

The silence between them stretches, thick and uncertain.

Ann exhales slowly, like she’s bracing herself, like whatever she says next will cost her. She pushes herself off the counter, her movements slower than usual, like she’s carrying something heavy in her chest.

Then, barely above a murmur, “No.”

It’s quiet. Hesitant. Almost shy.

The word is small, but it lands like a weight between them, pressing against the tension in the air. Catherine hears it not just in Ann’s voice, but in the way her hands curl into loose fists at her sides, in the way she keeps her gaze lowered, not quite able to look Catherine in the eye.

And it’s more than just hesitation. There’s resignation there, too, like Ann already knows that letting Catherine stay will hurt, that it will make everything harder. Like she’s choosing to prolong the ache, even though she knows it’ll only get worse. But she still doesn’t ask her to leave.

Catherine watches her closely, her breath caught in her throat. And for a second—just a second—she thinks she sees something else. Something like… surrender. Like Ann would never deny her anything if she asked. And that thought, it makes something twist, sharp and painful, inside Catherine’s chest. Because Ann shouldn’t look at her like that. Like she’s helpless to her. Like she can’t say no, even when she should.

Ann must see something in Catherine’s face, because she huffs out a breath and forces a small, tired smile, like she’s trying to make Catherine feel less guilty. Like she’s trying to make this easier for both of them. “You can stay.” The words are steady this time, but there’s a softness underneath them, a quiet ache that she can’t quite hide. “If you want to.”

Catherine exhales, relief settling deep in her bones, even though she knows it shouldn’t. Even though staying means making everything more complicated. She doesn’t question it. Doesn’t pick at it or try to make sense of it. She just nods. “Alright.”

Ann doesn’t say anything else. She just turns, heading for the living room, her movements slow, like she’s suddenly feeling the weight of the night all at once. She doesn’t look back to see if Catherine is following, but Catherine does, keeping a step behind, like she’s wary of pushing too hard. She drops onto the small, overstuffed sofa with a tired huff, sinking into it like it’s the only thing holding her upright. She grabs the remote from the coffee table, flicks the TV on, but keeps the volume low. Background noise. Something to fill the silence. Something to make this feel normal when it isn’t.

Catherine hesitates, watching her for a moment before she moves to sit down at the other end of the sofa. There’s space between them. A polite distance. Catherine’s hands twitch in her lap, restless. She wants to say something—wants to fill the gap with words, anything to make this less suffocating—but she doesn’t know what would make things better, and she’s too afraid of making them worse.

The TV flickers in front of them, some late-night sitcom rerun playing to an audience of two people who aren’t really watching. The laugh track rings hollow in the room, an artificial sort of comfort that neither of them really buys into.

Catherine steals a glance at Ann. She’s curled up, legs tucked beneath her, arms crossed loosely over her chest. Her gaze is on the screen, but it’s clear she’s not taking any of it in. She’s somewhere else, somewhere far away.

Catherine shifts, clearing her throat softly. “D’you actually like this show?” she asks, voice quiet, careful.

Ann blinks, like she’s only just realising Catherine’s spoken. She glances over, expression unreadable, before turning back to the screen with a small shrug. “Not really.”

A pause. Catherine waits, but Ann doesn’t add anything else. “Then why’re we watchin’ it?”

Ann exhales, a slow, measured breath. “’Cause it’s easier than talkin’.”

Catherine’s stomach twists. She doesn’t know what to say to that, so she doesn’t say anything at all.

They fall into silence again, the soft hum of the TV filling the space between them. And maybe that’s good. Maybe this is what rebuilding something looks like. Not fixing everything in one night. Not pretending nothing happened. Just being here. Existing in the same space, even when everything feels fractured and raw. Still choosing to be here, even when it would be easier to walk away.

The night drags on. The TV flickers through episode after episode, the storylines blurring together, the laugh track feeling more and more distant.

At some point, Ann shifts, her body slumping slightly against the cushions. Her blinking slows, her breaths evening out.

Catherine turns her head slightly, watching as Ann’s body relaxes into sleep. Her head is tilted back against the sofa, her face softened in a way it never is anymore when she’s awake—like sleep is the only thing that can smooth out the exhaustion etched into her features. It makes her look younger. Less guarded.

Catherine stays where she is, just watching her for a moment. The weight in her chest feels strange—heavy, but not in a bad way. Just full.

She should leave. She knows that. But she doesn’t move just yet. Just a little longer, she tells herself. Just to make sure Ann’s alright. Just to convince herself that things aren’t broken beyond repair. That there’s something here worth holding onto.

Eventually, Catherine pushes herself to her feet, careful not to wake Ann as she moves. Her fingers brush against the blanket draped over the back of the sofa. She hesitates, then lifts it, gently covering Ann with it. Her hands linger for a second longer than they should, her fingers ghosting against the fabric before she pulls away.

She swallows hard, something thick lodged in her throat. Then, without another word, she slips out of the flat, the door clicking shut behind her.

Chapter Text

Catherine doesn’t think about it every day. Not consciously, at least. She’s got work to do, things to deal with, and Ann’s just there, same as always. It’s only when she catches herself watching Ann more than she used to, or when she notices little things she’d never paid attention to before—the way Ann worries at her bottom lip when she’s thinking, or the way her fingers twitch when she’s trying not to say something—that she realises she is thinking about it. All the time.

She doesn’t know what to do with it. Any of it. The memory of that night, still sitting heavy in her chest, refusing to shift. They don’t talk about it, neither of them. It’s like some unspoken agreement, the kind you make when there’s too much at stake to poke at what hurts.

Ann’s making an effort, acting like things are fine, her smile a little too quick, her laughter just a little too forced when they cross paths at work. Catherine figures she should do the same. Smile, joke, pretend nothing’s different, even when everything feels off-kilter. And mostly, it works. They settle into something that feels close enough to normal that Catherine can almost pretend it never happened. That Ann’s over it, or at least shoving it down hard enough that it doesn’t matter.

Until the night Ann turns up at her door.

It’s late. Catherine’s already in a t-shirt and joggers, her hair damp from the shower, cradling a mug of tea she doesn’t even want. She was drinking it for something to do with her hands, something to keep her mind occupied while the quiet house presses down on her. And now the thing’s cold, so she’s not drinking it out of principle alone. Ryan’s asleep upstairs, and Clare’s gone to the cinema with a friend, so the house is silent, the kind of stillness that only happens when she’s the only one left awake.

She’s not expecting anyone, so when the knock comes, sharp and sudden, she frowns. Another knock, more insistent this time.

Catherine sighs, muttering under her breath as she drags herself up, setting her mostly untouched mug of tea aside. Her socked feet are silent against the floor as she crosses the dimly lit hallway. She rubs a hand over her face, trying to shake off the exhaustion that’s settled deep in her bones. The last thing she needs is a doorstep visitor at this hour.

She unlocks the door and pulls it open, and Ann is standing there on the doorstep, her shoulders hunched against the chill, eyes dark and tired. She looks wrecked. Not drunk, not like she’s in any real trouble—just worn out. Like she’s been holding something too heavy for too long and has finally run out of strength to carry it.

Catherine’s stomach twists, worry flaring up before she can tamp it down. “Jesus. What’s happened?”

Ann exhales sharply, a sound that’s half a laugh and half something bitter. “Nothing. I just—” She cuts herself off, swallowing hard, her throat working around whatever it is she can’t say. Her gaze flickers past Catherine, like she’s thinking about turning around and leaving, like she’s regretting knocking in the first place.

Catherine can’t help but frown as worry courses through her. She takes a step back, opening the door wider without even thinking. “Alright then, come on in.”

Ann hesitates, her jaw working like she’s chewing over something she can’t quite swallow. There’s a beat where Catherine thinks she might actually say no—that she might shake her head, make up some excuse, and disappear back into the night. But then, finally, she nods, stepping over the threshold.

The air changes as soon as Catherine’s back inside, the warmth of the house brushing against her skin, chasing away the damp chill that clings to her clothes. Catherine shuts the door behind her, the quiet click of the lock somehow louder than it should be in the hush of the house.

Ann doesn’t move further in. She just stands there, hands shoved deep in her coat pockets, gaze fixed on a point somewhere just past Catherine’s shoulder. Her breathing is even, but too controlled, like she’s trying to keep herself steady. Her coat is zipped up to her throat, her shoulders drawn tight, like she hasn’t quite convinced herself she belongs here yet.

“You alright?” Catherine asks carefully, keeping her voice low, like anything louder might shatter whatever’s holding Ann together.

Ann laughs, but the sound is hollow, scraped thin. “Yeah. Great.”

Catherine studies her, eyes searching her face for something, some clue to what’s brought her here so bloody late at night. Up close, Ann looks worse—exhausted in a way that goes deeper than just lack of sleep. There’s something raw about her, like she’s been sanded down to nothing but nerves.

“Ann—”

“I don’t know.” Ann’s voice cracks around the words, and she looks away, her shoulders curling in like she’s bracing for something. “I just—I didn’t wanna be at home. And I didn’t—I couldn’t—” Her words tangle up, frustration bleeding into her tone. She presses her lips together, shaking her head like she’s annoyed with herself for even trying to explain.

Catherine watches her for a long moment. Then, without thinking too hard about it, she says, “I’m gonna make you a cuppa.”

Ann blinks at her, brows knitting in confusion. “What?”

“A cuppa,” Catherine repeats, already turning toward the kitchen. “I was havin’ one. Might as well make another.”

Ann stares at her, like she’s trying to work out if Catherine’s taking the piss or if this is something else entirely. But Catherine doesn’t look back, just busies herself with flicking the kettle on, grabbing mugs, sugar, and milk. Keeping her hands moving, giving Ann time to either leave or stay.

There’s a long, stretched-out moment where neither of them speaks. The only sound is the quiet hum of the kettle as it starts to heat, a soft, low murmur that fills the space between them. Catherine can feel Ann’s eyes on her, heavy with something unreadable, but she doesn’t turn around.

After a long, tense moment, Ann lets out a breath. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Do what?” Catherine asks. The kettle clicks off. She picks it up, pouring steaming water over the teabags, watching as the rich brown colour begins to seep into the water. The scent of it fills the kitchen, warm and familiar. The mundane, familiar action soothes something restless inside her.

Ann’s voice is low, tight. “This. Act like I’m not bein’ a dick.”

“You’re not bein’ a dick. You’re just a miserable bastard,” Catherine shrugs.

Ann’s mouth twitches, the faintest hint of a smile breaking through her miserable expression. “Right.”

Catherine glances at her, expression calm, measured. “I mean, so’m I most days. Makes us even.”

This time, Ann’s laugh is softer, the rough edges smoothing out a little. And she doesn’t argue.

Catherine sets a mug down in front of Ann, then lowers herself into one of the kitchen chairs. Ann hesitates before joining her, her hands curling around the mug like she’s trying to draw warmth from it. They sit there, the quiet settling between them like a blanket, heavy but not entirely unwelcome.

Ann stares down at her tea like it holds some answer she can’t find, her hands curled tight around the mug, fingers pressing into the ceramic like she’s trying to ground herself with the heat. Catherine watches her without really watching her, gaze drifting somewhere just over Ann’s shoulder, giving her space. It’s easier that way, letting the quiet fill the room instead of trying to force words neither of them is ready for. The only sounds are the faint hum of the refrigerator and the soft tick of the clock on the wall. The kind of sounds you only notice when everything else falls away.

The air between them feels brittle, like a thread stretched too tight, ready to snap if either of them pulls too hard. Catherine doesn’t pull. She lets the moment settle, lets Ann exist in the silence without expectation. After a while, Catherine tosses both of their tea bags in the bin, and puts the bottle of milk in front of Ann, before she adds sugar to her own tea. Ann accepts the milk in silence, her movements careful and deliberate as she stirs her tea with a thoughtful expression, her lips pressing into a thin line. Catherine adds milk to her own tea and stirs it slowly, the clink of the spoon against the ceramic breaking the stillness.

It feels like they’ve been sitting here for hours, but it hasn't been more than a few minutes. Time stretches itself out in the silence, pulling taut like a thread on the verge of snapping. Catherine’s fingers tap idly against the side of her mug, the warmth of the tea seeping into her skin, grounding her. She thinks about saying something—something small, something easy—but every time she opens her mouth, the words stick in her throat.

Ann’s shoulders are still hunched, her face still drawn, but there’s something in the way she keeps glancing toward Catherine that makes it clear she didn’t come here just to sit in silence. She came here because she didn’t want to be alone.

Finally, Ann exhales, the sound heavy and worn out. Her shoulders slump, some of the rigidity bleeding out of her posture. “I don’t know what I’m doin’.” The admission sounds torn out of her, dragged from somewhere deep and painful.

Catherine raises an eyebrow, her voice deliberately casual when she answers, trying not to make a big deal of it. “Generally, or just tonight?”

Ann huffs a laugh, but it’s a weak, half-formed thing. More of a twitch of her mouth than anything else. “Either.”

“Right.” Catherine studies her for a moment, her fingers stilling against the mug’s smooth surface. Ann looks like she’s one wrong word away from bolting, and Catherine doesn’t want to be the one to tip her over that edge. So she keeps her tone light, shrugging like it’s all nothing. “You don’t have to, you know. Know what you’re doin’, I mean.”

Ann’s gaze flicks up, surprise mingling with wariness in her eyes. Catherine holds her gaze, calm and steady, letting her see that she means it. That there’s no pressure here, nothing to live up to.

“You can just—sit here. Drink your tea. Be miserable. It’s fine.”

Ann’s lips twitch, the faintest hint of something almost like a smile. It’s brittle, barely there, but it’s something. “That your grand solution?”

“Yeah. Simple, but effective,” Catherine says, her voice softening. And she means it. This might be all she has to offer, but it’s better than nothing. Maybe better than trying to offer more.

Ann shakes her head, her gaze dropping back to her tea. But her shoulders aren’t quite so hunched now, something easing under her skin. The silence settles between them again, but it feels different this time—less strained, less fragile.

Her tea’s lukewarm, somewhat forgotten. Catherine takes a sip anyway, mostly for something to do with her hands, something to keep her from saying the wrong thing. She’s never been good at just sitting with people’s pain, but she’s trying. She has to believe that counts for something.

Ann shifts slightly, running her finger along the rim of her mug. Her voice is rough around the edges when she finally speaks again, but not as tight as it was when she walked through the door. “So, how’s work been?”

Catherine snorts. “Oh, you know. Same old shite. One third of the time I’m chasin’ down the usual idiots, another third I’m buried under paperwork, and the last third I’m busy running after people for their paperwork. You’re lucky you’ve only got the first two to deal with.”

Ann’s mouth twitches again, more of a genuine smile this time. “Yeah, well. Give it a couple of years. I’ll be just as miserable and buried in forms as you.”

“True. It’s all downhill from here,” Catherine says with mock seriousness, raising her mug like she’s making a toast to shared misery.

Ann laughs, the sound slipping out before she can swallow it down. It’s not a big laugh, but it’s real.

The quiet that follows isn’t uncomfortable. It stretches, but doesn’t press. Catherine studies Ann out of the corner of her eye, noting the way her fingers have loosened around the mug, the way she's actually relaxed enough to drink her tea now.

“Where’s Clare?” Ann asks, her tone careful, like she’s testing how much of a conversation they can manage.

“She’s gone to the cinema with a friend, so it’s just me and Ryan.” Catherine pauses, a fond smile tugging at her lips. “He’s got a mouth on him, gettin’ cheekier by the day.”

Ann’s smile is faint but genuine. “I wonder where he gets that from,” she says quietly, looking down into her mug for a while before she takes another sip.

“I have no idea what you mean.” Catherine groans quietly, but her tone is laced with affection. “He’s nothing like me. I’ll be surprised if he makes it through school with half his bones still intact, the way he’s always runnin’ about.”

They trade a few more remarks like that, light and aimless, neither of them willing to touch anything too real just yet. But the words come easier, the pauses between them growing shorter.

Until they aren’t. Until Ann’s fingers start picking at the edge of her mug, her gaze sinking back down to the tabletop.

“About the things I said,” Ann starts, her voice thick and rough, like the words are being scraped out of her. “You know… recently? I was horrible. I said some really awful things. That was pretty shit of me.”

Catherine’s eyes narrow slightly, but her expression stays calm, her fingers cradling the cooling mug. “It’s okay,” she says, because she’s too old to hold grudges. And because she’s heard worse, even from people who still matter to her.

“No.” Ann’s voice sharpens, the intensity of it catching Catherine off guard. “It’s not okay. You didn’t deserve that. It’s not your fault. None of it was your fault, but I acted like—like if I pushed hard enough, you’d just... disappear. And that wasn’t fair.”

The words hang in the air, raw and trembling. Catherine looks at her properly then, takes in the way Ann’s hands shake just a little where they rest on the table.

“Thanks,” Catherine says after a long moment, her voice low. “For sayin’ it.”

Ann nods, her eyes flicking away like she can’t quite handle Catherine’s gaze. “I don’t hate you, you know.” Her voice is quiet and frail, and it makes Catherine’s chest tighten.

She waits for Ann to look up before she responds. “I know.”

They fall into silence again, but it’s different this time. Less of a void and more of a space. Something waiting to be filled. Neither of them knows how to do it just yet, but at least they’re both still sitting here, trying.

Chapter Text

They’re out on a call together, for the first time since the kiss and everything that followed. Neighbours complaining about noise, then turning it into some petty squabble about a fence that’s apparently a whole eleven centimetres too far to the left. Just another day of dealing with the worst of humanity’s small grievances. 

Catherine stands there, arms crossed, trying to keep the irritation from sharpening her voice as she talks down two middle-aged men who really ought to have better things to do. Ann’s beside her, looking about as fed up as Catherine feels, but keeping it together. Professional. Patient. Everything Catherine usually isn’t, but finds herself appreciating more and more when Ann’s around. 

Eventually, the blokes stomp off to their respective houses, still muttering but at least not throwing fists. Catherine watches them go, her patience all but threadbare. “Bloody muppets,” she mutters, shaking her head.

Ann huffs out a laugh. “Think that’s the most ridiculous call I’ve been on all month.”

“All month?” Catherine raises an eyebrow. “And here I thought you've been workin’ overtime. How's this one even made it to the top three?”

Ann grins, and it’s the first real smile Catherine’s seen from her in days. Weeks, even. Something twists in her chest at the sight. She misses this. Misses Ann laughing and giving her shit like she used to, before things got all tangled up and awkward. Before Ann confessed, and Catherine tried to pretend it didn’t change a damn thing. 

“Alright,” Ann says, glancing back at the houses like she’s making sure neither of the blokes is about to come charging back out. “Guess I’d better get back to the station. There’s about six hours worth of paperwork waitin’ for me.”

“Six hours?” Catherine snorts, eyebrows shooting up as she rocks back on her heels. “You’re doing it wrong if it’s takin’ you that long.”

Ann narrows her eyes, a challenge sparking in them. “Maybe I’m just more thorough than you.”

“Or you’re just crap at it.” Catherine doesn't manage to hide her smirk, and the way Ann’s mouth twitches at the corner feels like a tiny victory. Not much, but something.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Sergeant.” Ann’s voice is dry, but there’s a warmth beneath it, buried under layers of fatigue and something Catherine can’t quite name.

“Cheeky sod.” Catherine shakes her head, her smile tugging wider, as if Ann’s managed to pluck something loose from the knot of awkwardness that’s been clinging to their interactions like cobwebs. The sort that no amount of scrubbing can really clear away.

And then she hears herself say, “You fancy some lunch?” The words drop between them like loose change, clinking against the pavement.

Ann blinks, surprise shifting through her expression so quickly Catherine almost misses it. Her gaze flicks over Catherine’s face like she’s searching for some sort of trap. “What, now?”

“Yeah.” Catherine’s tone goes defensive, chin tilting as if she’s daring Ann to refuse. “Unless you’ve got somewhere better to be.”

Ann hesitates, shoulders tensing as she looks away, like she’s weighing her options, trying to decide if this is worth the trouble. Catherine waits, eyes steady on her. She probably shouldn’t have asked, not when things are still so fragile, and not when it feels like Ann should be the one to decide when she wants to reach out. But something about the lines etched into Ann’s face makes her want to try.

“Yeah. Alright.” Ann’s shoulders lower, some of the rigidness bleeding out of her posture. “Lunch sounds good.”

They end up at a small café just off the main street, the sort of place that smells like toast and fresh coffee, where the clink of cutlery and low chatter forms a backdrop that’s almost comforting. Catherine orders a fish finger butty and tea, predictably. Ann usually gets something similar, but today she orders some kind of salad that looks far too green and underwhelming. Catherine wisely keeps her mouth shut.

They settle into a corner booth, the awkwardness stretching between them but not pulling them apart. Not really. If anything, there’s a sort of mutual acceptance in it. The idea that this is strange for both of them, and maybe that’s okay.

For a while, they eat in relative silence. The only sounds between them are the scrape of forks and the shuffle of plates. Catherine watches Ann out of the corner of her eye.

Ann’s fingers drum against the side of her mug like they can’t find rest. It’s the same restless rhythm Catherine’s seen her play out a hundred times—usually when she’s wound too tight for her own good. Maybe it’s just nerves, Catherine tells herself. Or maybe it’s something more. Something that’s been building and fraying at the edges ever since she'd found Ann on her terrace, like a woman half-drowned.

They haven’t really talked about anything, at least not anything that matters. But Catherine knows progress when she sees it. Knows the weight of effort in the fact that Ann’s actually here, in this café, choosing to be around her instead of making another flimsy excuse to stay away. And there’s a warmth in that, stubborn and steady, that Catherine can’t seem to shake.

Ann sighs, and stabs at her salad like it’s offended her somehow.

“Y’know, if I’d known you were this fond of sufferin’, I’d have just asked the waitress to bring you a plate of wet cardboard,” Catherine says, taking a hefty bite of her butty with something like exaggerated glee.

Ann’s lips quirk. “Healthy eating’s not sufferin’. And I like vegetables, it’s not a crime.”

“Could be. They’re basically rabbit food.” Catherine grins, wiping grease from her fingers with a paper napkin. “Besides, look at you. You’ve barely touched the bloody thing.”

“Just not that hungry,” Ann mutters, gaze dropping back to her plate, shoulders curling inward. “Been like that lately.”

Catherine watches her quietly, pretending she’s only half-interested in the biscuit she’s breaking into smaller and smaller pieces on her plate. But her gaze keeps drifting back to Ann’s shoulders, hunched like they’re trying to shield her from some invisible assault. Her smile fades but doesn’t disappear entirely. “You look knackered.” Subtlety’s never been her strong suit, and she can’t seem to help herself today.

Ann rolls her eyes, but the gesture lacks bite. “Cheers.”

“Just stating facts. You sleepin’ alright?”

Ann’s fingers curl around her mug, tracing the rim. It’s something Catherine’s noticed her do before, a fidgety sort of comfort-seeking. “Not really. But that’s nothing new.”

“Yeah, I know,” Catherine says slowly. “But you look like you haven’t slept a decent night since the turn of the bloody century.”

Ann snorts, though the sound is brittle, cracking at the edges. “That bad, huh?”

“Didn’t say you were bad lookin’. Just look like you’ve been to hell and back.”

Ann’s eyes dart up, as if startled by the soft sincerity in Catherine’s voice. It’s there, unguarded, and Catherine doesn’t bother hiding it. Because she means it. Ann looks worn down but never less than sharp, like a knife that’s taken too much abuse but hasn’t forgotten how to cut.

“Yeah, well. I’ve had worse.” Something like embarrassment passes over Ann’s face.

“Anything I can do?” Catherine asks, the words gentle but direct. She's offered before, and it's not something she offers lightly, but there’s something about the way Ann keeps herself wound up so bloody tight that makes her want to... she doesn’t know. Help, maybe. Just do something.

“What, like sing me a lullaby?” Ann tries for sarcasm, but it’s a weak attempt. There’s something softer behind her eyes now, though. Something that looks almost like appreciation.

“You’d be so lucky.” Catherine’s grin is quick and crooked. “Nah, I mean... I dunno. Just... if you need anything. Let me know.”

Ann’s gaze lowers, her fingers finally stilling. For a moment, she looks like she’s wrestling with something, teeth worrying her lower lip before she lets out a soft, resigned breath. “Yeah. Alright.”

The silence that follows is easier. Less like a barricade and more like a pause, a quiet space they can both share. Catherine watches Ann drink her tea, the way her fingers drum against the mug now and then, restless but not entirely uncomfortable.

And for some reason, Catherine finds herself talking, words tumbling out with an ease that surprises even her. She tells Ann about Ryan’s obsession with football, and that since he made the team, he refuses to take off the bloody uniform. Pretty much sleeps in the damn thing. It's nothing important, not in the grand scheme of things, but it's something that makes her smile. It’s ridiculous and stupid and good. Good in a way that makes her chest feel too tight.

Ann listens, her eyes growing softer the longer Catherine speaks. Not smiling exactly, but... something close. Something that almost feels like hope.

Eventually, Ann says, “I should get back. Like I said, paperwork.”

“Right.” Catherine nods but makes no move to leave. Just watches as Ann gathers her things, shoulders heavy with whatever she’s been carrying all this time.

“Thanks for this,” Ann says, awkward and sincere in a way that makes Catherine’s chest tighten. “Lunch, I mean.”

“Any time.” She means it. And she hopes Ann knows that.

There’s a quiet “Yeah,” and then Ann hovers for a moment like she wants to say something more, but never finds the words.

“Wait outside? I’m gonna go to the loo before we leave,” Catherine says, if only to buy herself a minute or two.

Ann nods, and then she’s gone, the door jangling behind her.

Catherine watches her leave, something aching and uncertain twisting in her gut. It’s something, she thinks. Something fragile and imperfect but real.

Chapter Text

They’re both on lates, the sort of night that drags on with a handful of petty calls, a lot of sitting around, and too much time to think. The station is a skeleton of itself at this hour, hollow and echoing with the hum of fluorescent lights. Most of the others have cleared out, leaving the air thick with the kind of stillness that feels more haunted than peaceful. Catherine’s in her office pretending to care about emails, her eyes burning from staring at the screen too long. She’s about two seconds from shoving it all in the too-difficult pile and calling it a night when there’s a knock on her door.

Ann stands there, looking like she’s been stitched together with thread that’s unravelling at the edges. Her hair’s pulled back, her uniform just shy of immaculate, but the weariness in her eyes gives her away. There’s a mug in her hand, held like she’s not entirely sure why she brought it. Like maybe she only half-meant to.

“Thought you’d gone home,” Catherine says, the words slipping out before she even thinks about them. The surprise is real, but the warmth underlying it catches her off guard. She didn’t expect to see Ann again tonight. Didn’t expect her to seek her out.

“Still here.” Ann shrugs, trying for casual, but missing by a mile. “Wouldn't be able to sleep, anyway.”

“Right.” Catherine nods, eyes narrowing as she takes in the slump of Ann’s shoulders, the hollowness under her eyes. “Still, you look like you could do with some sleep.”

“Says you.” There’s a faint twitch of Ann’s lips, a shadow of a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. The words are meant to be a jab, but they land too softly, stripped of their usual edge.

Catherine leans back in her chair, eyeing her. “Is that for me?”

Ann glances down at the mug like she’s only just remembered she’s holding it. “Oh. Yeah. Figured you could use it.”

“Cheers.” Catherine takes the mug, the warmth seeping into her hands in a way that feels absurdly comforting. It’s a small gesture, but the simplicity of it makes her chest ache. She can’t remember the last time someone brought her tea without her asking. And the fact that it’s Ann of all people makes it feel like something important. Ann, who’s spent the better part of the past three months looking like she wants to bolt every time Catherine so much as says her name. So tea? That's something.

Ann hovers in the doorway, arms crossed tight over her chest. The tension in her stance is obvious, but she doesn’t leave. Like she’s waiting for Catherine to say something. Or maybe just working up the nerve to walk away.

“You eaten yet?” Catherine asks, letting her voice drop to something gentler. Less accusing, more inviting.

Ann blinks, like she hadn’t expected the question. “Uh. Not really. Grabbed a cereal bar earlier.”

“Cereal bar’s not food.”

“Says you,” Ann mutters, but again the ghost of a smile is there, tugging at the corners of her mouth. It’s fragile, barely noticeable, but Catherine clings to it like it’s the most precious thing in the world.

“I was gonna nip out. Grab something half-decent. You want in?” Catherine’s tone is casual, almost dismissive. Like she wouldn’t be disappointed if Ann said no. But the truth is, she would be. She knows she would be.

Ann shifts on her feet, her eyes darting away as if searching for a polite way to refuse. She looks tired. More than tired. Worn down to the bone. But then she nods, a reluctant sort of acceptance. “Yeah. Alright.”

“Good. I’ll drive.” Catherine’s already shrugging her coat on, like this is something they’ve planned rather than something she’s just yanked into existence. Because anything that gets Ann to stick around is worth the effort.

They drive in a comfortable enough silence, and Catherine doesn’t try to fill it with useless small talk. She just lets Ann be. The thing that’s eating her, that’s kept her from looking Catherine in the eye properly for months, it’s clearly still there. But at least she’s here. That has to count for something.

The chippy’s still open, the air thick with the smell of grease and salt that clings to their skin the moment they walk through the door. Catherine places their order, tossing a casual “You want vinegar, yeah?” over her shoulder like she’s done it a hundred times before. Ann only nods, gaze flicking around the place like she’s half expecting someone to jump out at her.

They eat in the car, food spread out across the dashboard like a makeshift picnic. Neither of them has the patience for plates, so they just dig in, fingers greasy and mouths full. It’s simple, almost stupid in its normalcy, but it feels good.

“So,” Catherine says eventually, breaking the quiet with the soft crunch of chips between her teeth. “You gonna tell me what’s been keeping you up at night?”

She keeps her voice casual, eyes on the chips she’s fishing out of the greasy wrapper instead of on Ann. Because if she looks at her—really looks at her—she might give herself away. And she can’t do that. Not when she’s only just starting to make sense of the mess in her own head.

But she has to ask. Even if she’s pretty sure she already knows the answer. Or at least, the part of her that’s a little too hopeful, a little too aware of Ann’s quiet glances and careful distance, knows. But it can’t still be her, can it? Can’t still be whatever Ann feels for her—whatever Ann won’t say out loud. Not after all these weeks of things being awkward and strained. And even now, when it’s... not as bad, it’s still not the way it was.

Maybe that’s the point. It’s not the way it was because it can’t be. Not anymore.

Ann’s fingers still their restless fidgeting, the crumpled napkin in her lap now shredded to useless scraps. Her gaze stays firmly fixed on the dashboard. “Wasn’t aware this was an interrogation.”

“Just makin’ conversation.” Catherine’s tone is light, but she keeps her gaze steady, refusing to let Ann slip away behind sarcasm and deflection. It’s what Ann does best, after all. Erecting walls so high and so fast that Catherine’s head spins just trying to see over them. “So?”

Ann’s fingers are worrying the tattered napkin in her lap again, her shoulders drawn in like she’s trying to make herself smaller. “Dunno,” she mumbles, the shrug that follows almost defensive. “Just... too much rattling around in my head, I guess.”

“Work?” Catherine suggests, grasping for something concrete. Something that feels easier to address than... whatever’s hanging between them now. The way Ann’s been looking lately, worn out and frayed at the edges, like she’s running on willpower alone—it’s not all for show. “You’ve been picking up more shifts than anyone with a healthy survival instinct should.” 

Ann huffs a faint, humourless laugh. “Yeah. That’s part of it.” She sounds almost relieved that Catherine’s given her an out. But not entirely. “Just... everything piling up. Gets a bit much.”

And Catherine knows it’s true. Knows that Ann’s been running herself ragged, throwing herself into work like it’s some kind of punishment or salvation, or maybe both. But she also knows that’s not the whole of it. Whatever’s been dragging Ann’s shoulders down and leaving shadows under her eyes, that's something else.

“The rest of it, then?” Catherine asks, her voice quieter now. Not as pushy. More like she’s genuinely asking, not demanding. “The stuff you’re not sayin’.”

Ann’s jaw tightens. Her fingers are shaking slightly as they tear at the paper, shredding it to even tinier bits. And Catherine hates herself a little for pushing. But more than that, she hates the thought that Ann might just walk away from this conversation and shut her out all over again.

“It’s stupid,” Ann says finally. “I’m just... makin’ things worse for myself, probably.”

“Why?” Catherine asks, her throat feeling uncomfortably tight. “What’s so bad it’s keeping you awake?”

Ann’s gaze flicks to her, just for a second, and the rawness there makes Catherine’s chest ache. Because she knows. Of course she knows. She’s known for ages, ever since that kiss, and that awkward, angry confession Ann had tried to laugh off like it was nothing. Only it wasn’t nothing. It was everything. And Catherine’s been trying to pretend she’s not holding onto it just as tightly as Ann is.

Ann looks down again, her voice so quiet Catherine almost misses it. “Because I ruined things. And I don’t know how to fix it.”

There’s a guilt there that Catherine doesn’t know how to reach. And something about the way Ann’s holding herself, all closed off and desperate to hide whatever she’s feeling, makes Catherine’s own guilt crawl up her spine. Because she let things go on like this. She let Ann believe she’d broken something that maybe—if Catherine was honest with herself—didn’t need to be broken in the first place.

“With who?” Catherine asks, like she doesn’t already know. But she has to hear it. She has to make Ann say it, because otherwise she’ll just keep pretending it’s not what she thinks it is.

“With... you,” Ann admits, the words so strained and reluctant that Catherine feels something in her chest twist. “Obviously. You know that.”

And of course she does. They both know it. They’ve been dancing around it for weeks, pretending like it’s not the reason they’ve been holding themselves at arm’s length.

Catherine takes a breath, her fingers twitching where they rest against the steering wheel. Because she wants to reach out. Wants to just... make it easier. Let Ann know she doesn’t have to keep punishing herself for something that never should’ve been seen as a mistake in the first place.

“Look,” Catherine starts, her voice gruff, stumbling over the words. “You haven’t ruined anything, alright? It’s just... a mess. And I’m bloody useless at handling this kind of thing.”

Ann’s mouth twitches, but the smile doesn’t quite make it. “So, what, we’re both useless?”

“Pretty much.” Catherine lets out a short, humourless laugh. “But useless or not, I’m still here, aren’t I?”

Ann’s gaze softens, something hesitant but hopeful flickering there. And God, it would be so easy to just reach out and take her hand, to show her instead of trying to find the right words. But Catherine doesn’t. Because that would mean admitting something to herself she’s not ready to face.

So instead, she says, “You don’t have to keep tiptoeing around me, you know. It’s not... it’s not gonna help.”

“Yeah,” Ann says, though she doesn’t sound convinced. “I’ll try.”

And Catherine knows that’s the best she’s going to get. But it’s something. And the fact that Ann’s here at all, sitting in her car, eating chips and letting herself admit even a little bit of what’s been haunting her—that’s progress.

Catherine clears her throat, tries to ease the tightness that’s settled there. “I’d say bringing me tea’s a pretty decent start, anyway. Doesn’t exactly scream ‘you’ve ruined things,’ does it?”

Ann’s laugh is softer this time, real. “Maybe not. Just figured you looked like you needed it.”

“Probably did,” Catherine admits. “So... cheers for that.”

Ann’s gaze lingers on her a moment longer than it should, her expression almost shy. And it’s ridiculous how much warmth Catherine feels from something so small.

They lapse into silence after that, the quiet somehow gentler now. Catherine shifts the car into gear, the growl of the engine filling the awkward spaces between them. The drive back to the station is short, the greasy chip wrappers and half-empty cans rattling with every turn. Catherine keeps her eyes on the road, but her attention keeps drifting sideways. To Ann, who’s sitting with her arms folded tight, gaze fixed out the window like the night scenery has something to offer her besides the blur of passing streetlights.

By the time they pull into the station’s car park, Catherine’s hands are gripping the wheel a little too hard. It feels like something fragile has settled between them, and she doesn’t want to be the one to break it.

Ann reaches for the door handle, but she pauses. Doesn’t look at Catherine when she says, “Anyway. I should probably get back. Got a report to finish before the morning.”

“Right.” Catherine nods, but she doesn’t move. Because some part of her wants to tell Ann to stay. That she doesn’t need to leave just because she’s admitted something Catherine’s been trying not to acknowledge herself. But the words stick in her throat.

“Yeah. See you around,” Ann mumbles, her voice too careful, too brittle. And then she’s gone, shutting the car door behind her and heading back toward the station with her shoulders drawn tight.

Catherine watches her go, her chest heavy with everything she’s left unsaid.

Chapter Text

Catherine isn’t entirely sure why she calls Ann.

It’s a Saturday, and she’s finally got a day off. A rare one, the sort that had originally been earmarked for staying in her pyjamas till noon and doing as little as humanly possible. But the house is too quiet. Ryan’s off at some mate’s in Leeds for the weekend, Clare’s disappeared to wherever Neil’s decided to whisk her away, and it’s left Catherine with nothing but the ticking of the kitchen clock and the dull hum of the telly in the background.

And when it’s this quiet, it’s too easy to think. Too easy to let her mind wander into places she’s been trying to avoid for weeks.

She’s lying on the sofa, one leg dangling off the side, remote perched on her stomach. The telly’s on—some daytime rerun of a programme she couldn’t care less about—but she’s not really watching. Not really doing anything. Just floating in that aimless, listless state that makes her feel more exhausted than if she’d worked a double shift.

Her phone’s on the coffee table. Within reach, but not something she’s been planning to use. At least not until she finds herself glancing at it again, and again, and again—until her hand moves on its own, almost without thinking, and her thumb is hovering over Ann’s name.

Maybe it’s boredom. Maybe it’s curiosity. Or maybe it’s just that she can’t remember the last time she properly laughed at something that wasn’t tangled up in bitterness. And Ann—when she’s not walking around like the world’s about to end—is still good for a laugh. Still knows how to cut through Catherine’s worst moods like nobody else can.

More than anything, she’s just sick of the silence. Sick of the half-finished sentences and awkward moments. Sick of the way they’ve been orbiting each other for weeks now, never quite colliding, never quite finding their rhythm again. Things used to be simple. Used to be easy. Phone calls late at night. Laughing until they couldn’t breathe. Falling asleep on each other’s sofas with some godawful film still playing in the background.

Now it’s like all of that’s been shoved to the back of a drawer neither of them wants to open.

So she calls.

And Ann answers.

“Uh. Hi?” Ann sounds completely thrown, like Catherine’s just rung to tell her she’s outside with a marching band.

“Hi.” Catherine clears her throat, suddenly aware of how ridiculous this might seem. “You busy?”

There’s a pause, just long enough for Catherine to want to hang up. Then: “Not particularly. Why?”

She fumbles, half-ready to back out. “Just thought… it’s nice out. I was thinkin’ of going for a walk.”

Another pause. A longer one this time.

“Could use the company,” she adds quickly, before she loses her nerve.

Ann doesn’t answer right away. When she does, her voice is cautious. “You’re asking me to go on a walk?”

“Yeah. You’re still capable of walkin’, aren’t you?”

There’s a huff of laughter, more startled than amused. “I think so. Where were you thinking?”

“Todmorden. Along the canal.”

“Alright,” Ann says, after another beat. Then, almost hesitantly, “Meet you there?”

“I’ll pick you up,” Catherine says immediately, maybe a little too fast. She knows if she gives Ann a chance to back out, she’ll take it. Better to eliminate the option entirely.

Another moment of silence, and a little later: “Yeah. Okay.”

The drive isn’t long, but it feels longer than it is. The sky’s bright, cloudless, and everything looks like it’s been scrubbed clean by last night’s rain. Ann’s sitting in the passenger seat, arms folded, staring out the window like she’s trying to memorise every tree and hedgerow.

“Nice day for it,” Catherine says, not because she really thinks it matters, but because she needs to say something.

“Suppose,” Ann replies. Her voice is flat, her posture rigid, like she’s been dropped into something she doesn’t know how to navigate.

Catherine tries to fill the silence with casual nonsense. A story about work. A bit about Ryan’s latest crisis—something to do with shoes or his gaming console, she’s not really sure. She throws in a rant about a van driver who nearly sideswiped her after work last week, gesturing animatedly with one hand while the other grips the wheel.

Ann listens, mostly. She gives the occasional nod, a grunt of acknowledgement here and there, but her jaw stays tight, her gaze resolutely turned to the window. It’s not that she’s angry, exactly. Just wary. Guarded in that way Catherine’s been seeing more and more lately.

And maybe that’s fair. Maybe Catherine’s earned that distance. But she hates it. Hates the way it feels like they’re pretending to be acquaintances again, like months—years—of closeness have been reduced to cautious small talk.

She parks near the canal. The path stretches out ahead, glinting faintly under the sun, framed by tall grasses and old trees that lean out over the water like they’re eavesdropping.

“Thought it might be a bit more interesting than sittin’ on your arse all day,” Catherine says as they get out, hands shoved into her coat pockets.

“Could’ve just said you were bored,” Ann replies. Her tone’s not sharp, but it’s not quite playful either. There’s an edge to it, dulled but still present.

Catherine gives her a look. “Didn’t figure you’d come.”

Ann doesn’t meet her eyes. “I would’ve. It’s… nice. Out here. Peaceful.”

“That’s one word for it.” Catherine jerks her chin at a young couple dragging a screaming toddler and a wilful-looking spaniel down the path. “Or chaotic. Depends where you’re looking.”

Ann’s mouth twitches. A flicker of amusement, or something like it. “Fair point.”

They fall into step beside each other. Catherine makes a game of pointing out the canal boats as they pass—some with ridiculous names painted in bold, curly letters, others covered in flowerpots and prayer flags and kitsch garden gnomes. One’s blasting a Bob Dylan track from a tinny speaker. Another smells unmistakably of weed and burnt toast.

It’s enough to draw out a few dry comments from Ann. Nothing too warm, nothing too familiar, but her shoulders are loosening. She’s still quiet, still stiff, but not like before. Like maybe she’s trying, too. Maybe she wants this to work just as much as Catherine does.

They reach a bench overlooking the water and settle in. Catherine leans back, tipping her face to the sun, her whole body soaking up the warmth like it’s the first time she’s felt it in weeks.

Ann sits more stiffly. Arms crossed. Feet planted firmly on the ground like she’s not quite ready to relax, like part of her is still ready to bolt.

“So, this your usual thing, then?” she asks. “Forcing people out of their houses for strolls by the water?”

“Only the ones I think need it.” Catherine doesn’t mean for her voice to come out so rough, but there it is.

Ann turns to look at her, brows raised. “And you reckon I needed it?”

“Didn’t seem like you had anything better to do.”

Ann snorts. “Suppose not.”

They don’t talk for a while, and that’s alright. Catherine watches the wind stir the trees across the canal and lets her mind drift. She can feel the quiet between them settling in, shifting from strained to easy, even if only just. Beside her, Ann stretches her legs out with a low sigh, like the tension’s starting to ease from her bones as well.

Eventually, Catherine nods toward a narrowboat painted in lopsided flowers and cartoonish birds. “That one’s new,” she says. “Don’t remember seeing it last time.”

Ann squints at it. “It looks like someone let a toddler loose with a paintbrush.”

“Yeah, well. Maybe they did. Could be some poor parent’s idea of a creative outlet.”

Ann huffs something that might almost be a laugh. “Bit of an eyesore.”

Catherine grins. “At least it’s got character.”

They lapse into silence again, but it’s more comfortable now, like something's unlocked and allowed them to just be. It occurs to Catherine that it’s been weeks—months, maybe—since they’ve done anything this simple together. No case, no pub, no drama. Just a bench, a canal, and space to breathe.

She glances sideways at Ann. “You pick up drawing again?”

Ann blinks like she hadn’t expected the question, then shrugs, almost embarrassed. “Not really. Just a bit here and there.”

“You should give it another go. You’re good.”

Ann turns her face away, but Catherine catches the faint pink rising in her cheeks. “You’ve never even seen anything I’ve done.”

“I’ve seen the stuff you have hanging and lying around your flat,” Catherine says, nudging her gently with her elbow. “The little ones in the sketchbook. You think I’m not gonna have a nosy?”

Ann groans. “You went through my sketchbook?”

“No! I didn’t go through it, I just... noticed it was open. On your desk. I looked. That’s different.”

Ann’s quiet for a moment, then says, “They’re not exactly masterpieces.”

“Don’t have to be,” Catherine replies, softer now. “They’re yours.”

Something flickers across Ann’s face—surprise, maybe. Or gratitude. But she doesn’t say anything more, and Catherine doesn’t push.

After a while, they get up and start walking again. The path stretches on ahead, winding past trees and over tiny stone bridges, everything smelling faintly of damp earth and moss. They fall into a rhythm, footsteps matching without thought.

They pass an elderly couple sitting outside a café with steaming cups of tea and two enormous scones between them. Catherine glances at Ann, arches a brow. “You hungry?”

Ann looks like she wants to say no, but then her stomach makes a quiet, traitorous sound. She sighs. “A bit.”

Catherine’s already veering toward the café. “We’ll grab somethin’. Sit outside if it’s not too chilly.”

They end up with tea and cake and a view of the canal, the sun still hanging on above the rooftops. Ann picks at her slice of Victoria sponge like it’s a puzzle she hasn’t figured out how to eat yet.

“So,” Catherine says eventually, tearing a piece off her own and popping it into her mouth. “You still seeing that therapist?”

Ann stiffens, fork pausing halfway to her mouth.

“Not tryin’ to pry,” Catherine adds quickly, holding up a hand. “Just—if you’re still goin’. I think it’s good. You were doing better. I mean… I thought you were.”

Ann doesn’t look at her, but her voice is calm when she replies. “Yeah. Still going. Thursdays, mostly.”

Catherine nods, trying not to make a big deal out of it. “Good.”

Ann makes a small sound, clinking her fork against the plate. “You realise that’s pretty funny comin’ out of your mouth, yeah?”

“I know, I—”

“What with how you behaved that time when they made you go,” Ann says, not at all caring about what Catherine’s trying to say.

Fair enough. “Yeah, I know. Maybe you were right, and it wasn’t all bad.”

Another pause, and this time Ann looks at her, brows furrowed. “Yeah. Maybe.”

“Either way, we were talking about you, not me.”

Ann gives her a disbelieving look, but seems to decide to just let it go. “My therapist says I need to... reconnect with people,” Ann mutters, as if the words taste weird in her mouth. “Build some structure. Routine. That kind of thing.”

“Sounds reasonable.”

Ann snorts. “She also said I should think about getting a cat.”

Catherine laughs, genuine and sharp. “God, could you imagine? You, with a cat?”

“I said the same thing. I think she just got sick of me talking about my flat being too quiet.”

Catherine smiles around the rim of her cup. “You’re always welcome at mine, but you know how loud Ryan can be. Might just hate it.”

Ann hums, then finally, tentatively, “Wouldn’t mind the noise. Or the company.”

It’s a small admission, but it lands heavy. Catherine doesn’t say anything, just lets the moment hang there, unchallenged.

They sit a bit longer, finishing their tea and picking crumbs off their plates. Then Catherine wipes her fingers on a napkin and leans back with a content sigh. “Alright. You ready to keep walking, or you want to head back?”

Ann eyes the canal, the trees bending gently in the breeze. “Let’s walk a bit more.”

Catherine stands and offers a hand out without thinking. Ann takes it after the briefest of hesitations, and the contact is warm and grounding as Ann gets up, just before they both let go.

The path ahead is quiet, most of the early-afternoon crowd already thinned out. They walk slower now, more relaxed, the earlier awkwardness having melted into something gentler. Catherine finds herself watching Ann’s profile out of the corner of her eye—how the sunlight catches in her hair, how her brows furrow when she’s deep in thought.

There’s so much she still wants to say. Things that don’t fit neatly into a quiet afternoon in Todmorden. But maybe she doesn’t have to say them all now. Maybe today’s not about fixing everything. Maybe it’s just about showing up.

They reach a bend in the path, where the trees thicken and the canal narrows. Catherine pauses, nudging Ann lightly with her elbow.

“Thanks for comin’,” she says.

Ann looks at her, really looks this time, and there’s a softness there that wasn’t there at the start of the day. “Thanks for askin’.”

And that, Catherine thinks, is enough for today. They keep walking, side by side, the path stretching out in front of them: quiet, winding, and open.

Chapter Text

Catherine doesn’t plan on seeing Ann. Not today, anyway. She’s been up since the crack of dawn, dealing with drunks and numpties and paperwork that only ever seems to grow no matter how much of it she gets through. By the time she finally clocks off, it’s pushing nine, and she’s knackered in that bone-deep way that makes her limbs feel like they’re strung together with lead.

She stops by the shop on her way home because Clare texted, saying she didn't check the fridge before making a brew, and if Catherine wanted milk in hers, she'd have to get some. She figures she’ll pick up something quick for tea while she’s at it, because God knows she’s not cooking a proper meal when her eyelids feel like sandpaper.

She’s at the checkout, waiting behind a woman who’s arguing over the price of cat food like it’s a matter of life and death, when she spots her. Ann, over by the shelves of spirits, cradling a bottle of cheap vodka in one hand and scanning the labels with a blank sort of focus, like she’s trying to justify it to herself. Catherine hesitates, her first instinct to duck her head and pretend she hasn’t seen her, because she doesn't think Ann would appreciate her butting in, and she doesn't have the energy for company, really. But something warm and stubborn lodges itself under her ribs, and before she can stop to think, her feet are already carrying her over. Her legs feel lighter than they have all day, her chest not quite so tight.

“Didn’t have you down as a Tuesday night vodka connoisseur,” Catherine says, setting her basket down like she’s digging in for a longer visit than she has any right to.

Ann startles, shoulders jerking slightly before she turns to scowl. “Jesus. You sneakin’ up on people now?”

“Just you,” Catherine replies, dry as anything. “Can’t have you gettin’ too comfortable.”

Ann rolls her eyes, but there’s no real venom in it. She glances at the bottle in her hand, then sets it back down like it’s suddenly too heavy to carry. “Didn’t fancy anything else.”

Catherine doesn’t say anything at first, just watches her. There’s a tension in Ann’s shoulders she recognises too well, a slump in her posture that makes her look smaller than usual, like the weight of everything she isn’t saying has finally managed to pin her in place.

“You eat yet?” Catherine asks, trying for casual, but it lands soft instead. Careful.

Ann shrugs. “Was gonna grab something. Or not. Doesn’t really matter.”

Catherine’s gaze drops to the half-empty shelf behind her, the neat line of dusty bottles and branded regret. Her jaw tightens slightly, but she doesn’t push. Not yet. Instead, she shifts the weight on her feet and says, “Well, if you change your mind, they’ve got them sad little pasta pots on offer. Three for two quid, probably enough salt to embalm a horse.”

Ann lets out a faint huff of a laugh, and for just a second, something eases in her face. But it’s gone as quick as it came, replaced by that careful mask she’s got too good at wearing.

Catherine tilts her head, watching her a moment longer. “There she is,” she murmurs, soft enough that it’s almost to herself.

Ann shakes her head, gaze fixed somewhere over Catherine’s shoulder. “Wasn’t really hungry.”

“Still not a reason to skip it,” Catherine says, voice low, steady. She doesn’t say what she’s thinking: that Ann looks like she’s running on fumes, that the last thing she needs is to spend the night alone with a bottle and nothing else, but she lets the weight of it hang there between them.

Ann doesn't say anything. Just stares at the bottle she put down, her jaw tight, like she’s waiting to argue with herself.

Catherine watches Ann for another beat, long enough to make it clear she’s not just gonna drop it. Then she rolls her eyes, more exasperated than annoyed. “Right. Well, you’re not spendin’ your night with that shite,” she says, nodding toward the vodka like it personally offended her. She picks up her basket again, and tilts her head toward the door. “Come on.”

Ann frowns. “What?”

“You’re comin’ back to mine.” Catherine says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. No ceremony, no fuss, and the thought that she doesn't want to cook a distant memory. “I’ve got food. Proper food.”

Ann blinks, clearly caught off guard, like the suggestion doesn’t quite fit with whatever version of this night she’d already committed to in her head. Her gaze flicks between Catherine and the exit, back to the vodka, then to Catherine again. “You don’t have to—”

“I know I don’t,” Catherine cuts in gently, but firm. “But I am.”

There’s a pause. A flicker of resistance ghosts across Ann’s face. Her jaw tightens, lips pressing into a thin line, like she’s about to spit out a retort just for the sake of having the last word. That old, familiar self-sabotage. But then something shifts. Her shoulders sag a little, some of the fight leaking out of her like air from a punctured tyre.

She sighs. “Alright. Whatever.”

Catherine takes that as a win, even if it’s delivered with all the enthusiasm of a truce in a war no one wanted to be fighting in the first place.

She pays for her things in silence, quick and routine, and they step out into the cold together. It’s only a few metres to the car, but Ann shivers anyway, wrapping her arms around herself in a reflex she doesn't try to hide. Catherine reaches out and gives her arm a brisk rub, more practical than affectionate, but there’s a flicker of warmth behind the gesture.

“Christ, you’re a radiator,” Ann mutters, like she's trying to cover the fact she almost leaned into it.

Catherine snorts. “You’re just made of bad decisions and goosebumps.”

The corner of Ann’s mouth twitches into what could almost count as a smile, and they get in the car without another word.

The drive’s quiet, but not the awkward, stifling kind it’s been lately. Ann fidgets with her sleeves, glancing out the window with a restlessness that doesn’t quite match the steady thrum of the engine. Catherine keeps her own gaze fixed on the road, filling the silence with some story about an absolute muppet who nearly crashed into a bus on Market Street, all while keeping her tone light, conversational. She throws in a few swears for colour, a dramatic impression of the guy’s wild hand gestures, and lets the humour carry the air between them.

Ann doesn’t exactly laugh, but her mouth quirks, and there’s a sound that might’ve been the start of one if she’d let it go. Catherine catches it and doesn’t comment, just lets the story trail off and settles into the quiet again.

By the time they pull up outside the house, Ann’s posture has eased a little. Her head’s resting against the window, and her expression’s unreadable, but it doesn’t look like a mask now, just tired. Real.

Catherine kills the engine and glances over. “You want tea or wine?”

Ann considers. “That depends.”

“On?”

“Which one means I won’t have to talk about anything.”

Catherine shrugs. “Both. Neither. I do have a nice red that Daniel's given me, though.”

Ann huffs again, but there’s no real resistance in it. “All right.”

The house is dark and quiet when they step inside, the only sound the low hum of the fridge and the faint creak of the floorboards beneath their feet. Ryan’s in bed at this hour anyway, and Catherine finds a note on the kitchen table, telling her that Clare turned in early, so they’ve pretty much got the place to themselves. The silence feels thick, but not unbearable. Catherine’s never been one to fuss about company, but right now, she’s glad for it. Even if the company in question is Ann, prickly and defensive and more vulnerable than she’ll ever admit.

Catherine dumps the shopping on the counter and nods towards the table. “Sit, before you collapse,” she orders. “I’ll sort us out.”

Ann doesn’t argue, just drops into a chair and watches her move around the kitchen. Catherine’s back’s turned to her, but she’s acutely aware of Ann’s presence, the way her gaze seems to follow Catherine’s movements with a curious sort of intensity.

“You always this bossy?” Ann asks, her voice not quite sharp, but threaded with something closer to amusement than irritation.

“You know I am. And especially when I’m right,” Catherine shoots back. “Which, by the way, is most of the time.”

Ann huffs out a laugh. It’s quiet and quick, but it’s real. And it settles something in Catherine’s chest, something that’s been twisted up for far too long.

Without a word, she reaches into the cupboard for two wine glasses, and rinses the dust off the bottle of red that she grabs from the highest shelf. She pours slowly, the murmur of liquid the only sound for a moment, then carries both glasses to the table.

Ann eyes hers warily, like she’s not sure if it’s a peace offering or a trap, but she takes it all the same. Their fingers brush briefly as Catherine sets the glass down in front of her, and the contact, light as it is, lingers somewhere under the surface.

Catherine sits across from her for a minute, their knees almost touching beneath the table. She takes a sip from her own glass, watching Ann over the rim with a look that’s a little too open, a little too patient.

They sit there for a beat longer, not talking, just letting the warmth of the wine and the hush of the house fill the gaps. It’s the kind of silence that doesn’t demand anything. A peaceful lull.

Then Catherine gets up, drains the last of her wine, and moves to the counter.

It’s then, as she’s chopping veg and pretending she’s not glancing at Ann every other second, that Catherine realises she’s not just doing this out of habit. Not just because it’s the right thing to do or because she’s feeling some misplaced sense of duty.

She’s doing it because she wants to. Because seeing Ann like this, even a little bit less guarded, feels like a victory she didn’t know she needed.

And because, somewhere along the line, it’s stopped being about making amends and started being about something else entirely.

“You don’t have to go to the trouble,” Ann says eventually, voice strained like she’s still not sure why she’s here, sitting in Catherine’s kitchen like she belongs there.

Catherine shoots her a look over her shoulder, eyebrow raised. “I’m not. It’s spaghetti. Hardly a five-course meal.”

Ann huffs a laugh, the sound low and almost startled out of her. “Fair enough.”

It’s quiet again, the radio murmuring from the corner of the kitchen, some old rock song crackling through the speakers like it’s travelled a long way just to reach them. Catherine busies herself with the chopping board, knife thudding against wood as she dices onions with a precision that speaks more of habit than enthusiasm. Browning mince in the pan next, the sizzle and smell of it filling the space, thick and warm and almost comforting.

Ann’s presence feels solid and lingering, even though she’s just sitting there, slumped in one of the chairs like she’s not sure if it’s okay to relax. Her fingers pick absently at a frayed thread on her sleeve, her gaze occasionally lifting to watch Catherine’s movements with an intensity that feels like it should be unnerving but somehow isn’t.

Catherine clears her throat, something about the silence between them making her restless. “You always this bloody miserable on your nights off?”

Ann pulls a face, but the corners of her mouth twitch, like there’s a real smile buried somewhere beneath the weariness. “Just tired.”

“Yeah?” Catherine glances over her shoulder, giving her more attention than the food.

Ann’s gaze drops to the table, her fingers working at that same thread, pulling and twisting. “Didn’t sleep much.”

Catherine doesn’t push. There’s something in the way Ann’s shoulders are hunched, tension coiled up like a spring waiting to snap. She lets the radio fill the space between them, its music low and familiar, the sort of sound that carries memories rather than lyrics.

“You cook often?” Ann asks eventually, nodding at the pan with something that almost resembles curiosity.

“When I can be arsed.” Catherine shrugs, stirring the sauce, the rich smell of tomatoes and herbs curling through the air. “Clare usually takes over, cause otherwise it’s either burnt to a crisp or swimming in grease. There’s no in-between.”

“Should I be worried, then?” Ann’s smile is a shadow of a thing, but it’s there, genuine and warm enough to leave Catherine feeling oddly pleased with herself.

“I think you’ll live.” Catherine’s lips quirk up, her tone fond despite the exasperation woven through her words.

Ann watches her, eyes sharp but not unkind. There’s a softness there, hesitant and fleeting, that Catherine’s not sure has ever been meant for her. And something about it makes her chest feel tight, like she’s only just realised how much she’s been holding her breath around Ann.

The pasta’s boiling away, the occasional bubble breaking the surface, and Catherine finds herself turning back to the stove with a little too much urgency, like movement alone can chase off whatever’s curling under her skin.

When the food’s done, she heaps the spaghetti onto two plates and shoves one in front of Ann, who looks almost embarrassed to be handed something hot and homemade. Catherine slides into the seat opposite her and digs in without ceremony, shovelling food into her mouth like the act of eating might erase the ridiculous flutter in her chest.

Ann hesitates, her fork hovering over her plate like she’s expecting a trap, some punchline about to be delivered at her expense. But Catherine’s too busy chewing to bother with sarcasm, so Ann finally takes a tentative bite.

They eat in silence for a while, but it’s not the awkward, fractured sort they’ve fallen into so many times before. It’s something easier, unhurried. Catherine keeps glancing at Ann more than she needs to, just brief flickers of her gaze that catch the way Ann’s hair falls messily around her face, the faint crease in her brow that’s slowly easing away the more she eats.

“This is good,” Ann says eventually, and there’s something almost cautious in her voice, like the admission costs her something.

Catherine snorts. “Don’t sound so surprised.”

“It’s just—” Ann falters, her fork pausing midair before she shrugs and lowers her gaze. “Wasn’t expectin’ it.”

“What, that I can cook?”

“That you’d… bother,” Ann admits, her words quiet, raw in a way Catherine’s not used to hearing from her. There’s a hint of embarrassment there, like she feels guilty for even voicing it.

Catherine stills, her fork clinking softly against the edge of her plate. She hadn’t really meant to admit it, but now the words are tumbling out, careless and true. “I wasn’t gonna, to be honest. I was bloody knackered and ready to just chuck something in the microwave and call it a night.” She pauses, catching the way Ann’s gaze sharpens, like she’s bracing herself for the inevitable ‘but’. “But then I saw you lookin’ at that sad excuse for supper, and… I dunno. It just felt worth the effort, I guess. Having something decent. With you.”

Ann’s shoulders twitch in a half-hearted shrug before they drop. “Didn’t mean to… make you feel like you had to, or anything.”

It’s not that she had to, Catherine wants to say. Because sure, she’s rubbish at showing how much she cares through words. But actions? Actions she can do. And if cooking a decent meal is what it takes to show that she gives a damn about Ann, then so be it.

But she finds herself shrugging instead, the corners of her mouth pulling up in a grin she doesn’t quite fight down. “You’re daft.”

Ann’s smile is small and a little uncertain, but it’s there, her gaze lingering on Catherine in a way that feels almost reverent. It reminds her of that night about a year ago, when Ann was terribly drunk, telling her she embodies God or something or other. And it’s enough to make Catherine feel like she’s done something right. Like maybe she’s managed to get through, even just a little.

The plates are empty before long, pushed aside with little ceremony. Catherine tops off both their glasses with the last of the wine, the bottle making that hollow glug-glug as it empties.

“This is dangerously drinkable,” Ann mutters, swirling the glass like she knows what she’s doing.

Catherine raises a brow. “That your polite way of sayin’ you’re tipsy?”

“M’not tipsy,” Ann says, with all the dignity of someone who very much is. “I’m… relaxed.”

Catherine grins. “Right. You’re one cheese cube away from singin’ Bonnie Tyler.”

Ann scoffs, but her cheeks go a little pink, and she doesn’t deny it. She leans back in her chair, shoulders looser now, her smile softer. That tension she always carries with her—the kind that lives in her jaw and her spine and her voice—is starting to unravel, thread by thread.

They sit in that quiet, wine-soaked stillness for a few seconds longer than necessary.

Then, gently, like she’s afraid of ruining the moment, Ann says, “I didn’t think I’d still be in your life, y’know.”

Catherine glances over. “What?”

Ann’s eyes stay on her wineglass. She turns it slowly between her fingers, watching the light catch the red. “Back then. When we met. Or even after. I didn’t think I’d stick.” A small, breathy laugh escapes her, and there’s no real humour in it. “Didn’t think you’d… keep me. Around, I mean.”

The words land heavier than the silence that follows, and Catherine doesn’t answer right away. Doesn’t know how to. She just watches Ann, really watches her—the way her posture folds inward like she’s bracing for something, the way she won’t meet her eyes.

Ann shrugs, like she’s trying to make the moment smaller than it is. “You just seemed like someone who wouldn’t have time for someone like me. I mean… look at you.”

Catherine’s brow furrows. “Look at me what?”

“You’ve got your shit together.”

Catherine laughs, dry and incredulous. “No, I really don’t.”

Ann finally looks up. Her eyes are a little glassy. But there’s something behind them, something raw. “Maybe not. But you pretend better than I do.”

That quiet settles again, this time warmer.

Catherine shifts in her seat. Her voice, when she speaks, is softer than she means it to be. “I didn’t keep you around, you know. You stayed.”

Ann looks down again, but this time, there’s a ghost of a smile on her lips.

And for a little while, neither of them says anything. Catherine stands, gathering the dishes and heading for the sink, her hands working automatically as she turns on the tap and starts scrubbing at stubborn bits of sauce. The air between them is thick with everything they haven’t said, and when the hot water stings her fingers, Catherine finds it’s a familiar kind of discomfort, something to focus on other than the fact that Ann’s still standing there, too close and too quiet.

Catherine feels her breath catch when Ann steps up beside her, intent on setting her own glass in the sink. Ann reaches past her, a little clumsy from the wine, and her hand steadies on Catherine’s lower back—just for balance, maybe, just for a second longer than necessary. It’s light, almost nothing, but Catherine still feels it like a held breath in her chest. She freezes, suddenly hyper-aware of how close Ann is, of the heat radiating off her even through layers of fabric.

“You okay?” Ann asks, voice soft, low, like she’s not even sure she wants an answer.

“Yeah,” Catherine forces out, her voice rougher than she’d like. “Just—yeah. Fine.”

Ann’s gaze lingers on her for a beat too long before she nods, folding her arms defensively from whatever this is. Whatever they are.

“Thanks. For… dinner.” The words sound awkward and sincere at once, and something about that, about her hesitance and the way her gaze won’t quite meet Catherine’s, makes Catherine’s chest tighten.

Catherine nods, not trusting herself to speak. Because the truth is, something’s shifting between them. And she’s starting to wonder if she even wants to stop it.

Ann hovers there for a second, fingers fiddling with the frayed hem of her sleeve. Like she’s waiting for something. Like she wants to say more but can’t quite bring herself to. “I’ll see you at work,” she mumbles, the words so quiet Catherine almost misses them.

“Yeah,” Catherine manages, her voice rougher than intended. “See you at work.”

Ann nods, a quick jerk of her head that feels too final, and then she’s slipping out the door like she’s running from something. Catherine stands there, her hand gripping the edge of the sink like it’s the only thing keeping her upright. It’s stupid, really. It’s not like they’ve had some great, life-changing conversation. But something about it feels important. Feels like it’s carved out a little space in her chest and decided to settle there.

And then it hits her—she’s the one who drove Ann here.

“Shit,” Catherine mutters under her breath, pushing the door open and stepping into the cool night air. Ann’s not far down the street, shoulders hunched, coat pulled tight around her like it’s not doing much good.

“Oi!” Catherine stage whispers after Ann, her voice cutting through the quiet night as she walks towards her. “Where the hell do you think you’re goin’?”

Ann stops, visibly sighs, then turns halfway back, phone in hand. “Home,” she says, flatly.

“And how exactly are you planning to get there?” Catherine stops a couple yards away and folds her arms, brows already halfway up her forehead. “You plannin’ to walk the whole bloody way? It’s half eleven.”

“I was gonna get an Uber.” Ann holds up her phone like it proves something. “They’re not exactly growin’ on trees, but I’ll figure it out.”

Catherine hesitates. The words sit on her tongue, awkward and unwanted, but she says them anyway. “I’ll drive you, if you want.” She doesn’t mean it to sound reluctant, but it comes out stiff. Not because she wants Ann to go—quite the bloody opposite—but because it feels like Ann wants to. Or maybe needs to. And Catherine doesn’t want to make it worse.

Ann’s brow creases. She studies Catherine for a second, then looks away, like she’s decided something. “It’s fine. You don’t have to do that.”

“I don’t have to,” Catherine says, voice lower now, a bit more careful. “Just figured you’d want to get home.”

Ann doesn’t answer right away. She wraps her arms around herself, eyes back on the pavement. “Right. Well. Thanks.”

Something in Catherine’s chest pulls tight. She could let her go. It’d be easy. Just step back inside, close the door, and forget the whole thing. But she doesn’t move. Can’t.

Because somewhere deep under the quiet and the wine and the half-buried guilt, she knows that Ann’s not leaving because she’s tired, or because she’s got something urgent in the morning. She’s leaving because of that moment in the kitchen. Leaving because of her. Because of the way Catherine froze up, stupid and automatic, like something small had bitten her, when all it was— all it was —was Ann’s hand on her back. It wasn’t even anything. Barely a touch, really. But it had meant something. Catherine had felt it. And worse, Ann had seen her reaction. And Catherine knows, without having to say it, that she fucked it.

So she exhales, steady but slow, trying to ignore the way her chest feels too tight.

“Look,” she says, rougher than she intends, “I’d rather you stayed. Bit longer, if that’s alright.”

Ann looks up, caught off guard by the shift in tone. Her brows draw together, but she doesn’t speak, not yet.

Catherine shrugs, trying to look casual and failing. “You don’t have to, obviously. I just… I didn’t mean to—” She stops herself. Tries again. “Didn’t mean for the night to end like this.”

The words hang there, awkward and raw. Not quite an apology, but not far from it either. She’s sidestepping it, but only just. Trying to be honest without pretending it never happened.

Ann watches her for a long moment. There’s something unreadable in her eyes, something softer, but it’s guarded. Careful. She glances down at her phone, thumb hovering over the screen.

“I still need to get home, though,” she says quietly. “And it’s already late. I’m not gonna get an Uber if I wait much longer.”

Catherine frowns. “Then I’ll drive you.”

Ann looks up again, sceptical. “You don’t have to—”

“I said I’ll drive you,” Catherine cuts in, firmer now. “Don’t act like I’m just being polite. I’m not.” That comes out sharper than she meant it to, but she doesn’t take it back. Because it’s the truth. The offer wasn’t performative, wasn’t just some half-hearted gesture meant to smooth things over. She doesn’t want Ann to go, and the idea that Ann’s already decided Catherine doesn’t mean what she says makes something twist and sour in her gut.

She exhales hard, jaw tight, trying to push the edge out of her voice. That clipped, no-nonsense tone that means she’s two seconds from grabbing Ann by the elbow and dragging her back inside just to stop her from looking so bloody hurt.

“Look,” she says, trying for something softer. “I’ll drive you home later if you’re desperate, alright? But I’m not havin’ you stompin’ around in the dark like some daft teenager lookin’ to get pneumonia.”

The joke lands, sort of, but it’s threadbare. Ann lets out a sound that’s half snort, half sigh, but it’s tired more than amused. Her gaze drops, her arms folding around herself like she’s trying to disappear into her coat. She looks smaller like that. Not physically, but in presence. Quieter. More vulnerable than Catherine’s used to seeing, and she hates it. Hates how easily Ann can make herself seem so breakable. Because she’s anything but.

But still, seeing her like that just makes Catherine want to be even softer with her.

“Just come back inside,” she says. No joke this time. No bravado.

There’s a pause that’s long enough to stretch tight between them, where Ann seems to be weighing something behind her eyes. Measuring the distance between what Catherine said and what she meant.

“You want me to stay?”

“I just said that, didn’t I?” Catherine mutters, already turning back toward the door. She throws the line over her shoulder like it’s no big deal, like she hasn’t just admitted something that’s been chewing at her since the moment Ann stepped out into the cold. “Come on. Before the neighbours think I’ve lost the plot, shoutin’ into the street like some sad bastard off a Channel 4 drama.”

She doesn’t wait for a reply. Just walks back up the path, keeping her pace even, steady. But her ears are straining for the sound of footsteps behind her, and when she hears them, slow and reluctant, the knot in her stomach finally eases.

Ann follows, not saying anything. Her phone disappears into her coat pocket, but she still holds herself like she’s bracing for something. Like the cold’s got into her bones and won’t shake loose.

Catherine steps aside to let her in. Ann brushes past her without a word, and Catherine closes the door behind them with a soft, deliberate click. The sound is solid and final, sitting heavy in the silence between them.

“You’re ridiculous,” Ann mutters, shrugging off her coat. Her voice has less bite than before. It sounds worn thin around the edges.

“Yeah, well. Newsflash—so are you.” Catherine breezes past her, already halfway to the kitchen. She flicks the kettle on like it’s nothing, like the routine of it might stop her hands from fidgeting. “You want tea?”

She doesn’t wait for an answer. “Actually, never mind. I’m makin’ tea. You look like you’ve been cold since you got here.”

Ann lingers in the doorway, arms still wrapped around herself, like she’s not sure what to do with her body now that she’s back inside. Her eyes track Catherine’s every movement, wary and quiet.

“You don’t have to—” she starts, then cuts herself off. Her voice is low. Awkward. “I didn’t come back in to be looked after.”

“Well, tough shit,” Catherine says, glancing over her shoulder with a pointed look. “You’re bein’ looked after. Sit down before I make it an official order.”

That gets a breath of a laugh from Ann. It’s faint, surprised out of her, but it’s something. She sinks into the nearest chair with a kind of slow, reluctant gravity, like her body’s still deciding whether it’s allowed to be tired.

Catherine doesn’t comment. She turns back to the mugs, keeping her hands busy. She pulls down her favourite tea, the one she only makes when it’s needed, and sets to work like it’s a task that matters. Like it’s something solid to stand on.

The silence stretches, but it doesn’t feel like a void. It feels like space. Like a waiting room for something unspoken.

She doesn’t look at Ann, but she can feel her. Every second. The way Ann’s gaze presses into her back, cautious and expectant, like she’s waiting for Catherine to flinch or joke her way out of it. Like she’s bracing for a door to slam in her face, even if it already shut behind them.

Catherine swallows hard, her throat dry despite the steam curling from the kettle. She pours the water with steady hands, pretending she doesn’t notice the tightness in her chest or the way her fingers want to shake.

When she finally turns around, two mugs in hand, Ann’s still watching her. That same look in her eyes—like she’s seeing everything Catherine doesn’t say.

She sets one mug in front of her, fingers brushing Ann’s just briefly.  It’s nothing, really. A flicker of contact. But it leaves her feeling off-kilter all the same.

“Here,” she says, voice gruff to cover the fact that her chest feels too tight. “Tea. Milk, no sugar.”

Ann nods, curling her hands around the mug like it’s something more than warm. “Thanks.”

They sit in a silence that’s not quite comfortable, but not tense either. It breathes. It’s alive, somehow. Heavy with things that haven’t found their shape yet.

“Didn’t think you’d try to stop me,” Ann says eventually, her voice barely above a murmur. She doesn’t look up when she says it.

Catherine’s voice is quieter now too, like anything louder would be the wrong size for the room. “Didn’t think you’d leave.”

Ann goes quiet again, her gaze dropping to the table, like she’s trying to hide from whatever she might find in Catherine’s face. The silence that stretches between them isn’t tense exactly, but it’s weighted—thick with the ache of everything they haven’t figured out how to say. Like fog rolling in off the sea, it settles and clings.

Catherine cradles her mug like it’s the only thing keeping her steady, the warmth seeping into her hands, grounding her. But it’s the look Ann’s giving her that really unsettles her. It’s too direct, too bloody earnest, like she’s trying to see straight through her, through all the rough edges Catherine’s spent years sharpening to keep people out.

“You’re too nice,” Ann says finally, like the words have been clawing their way up her throat for hours.

Catherine raises an eyebrow, incredulous. “Cheers.”

“No, I mean…” Ann fumbles, her thumb running slow circles along the rim of her mug like she’s stalling for time. “You’re kind. Even when people don’t earn it. Even when they don’t know what to do with it.”

Catherine scoffs, sharp and automatic, like she’s trying to swat the words away before they can properly land. “Oh, piss off.”

Ann rolls her eyes but doesn’t back down. “I’m serious. You’ve got this… I dunno. Habit doing stuff like this for people. Feedin’ me, drivin’ me home, not lettin’ me walk off in the dark like a moron…”

Catherine’s jaw tightens, the irritation only partly real. “Just doin’ what anyone would.”

“No, it’s not.” Ann’s gaze is sharp, eyes steady and unyielding. Her voice doesn’t rise, but it hits harder anyway. “You pretend it is, but it’s not. Most people aren’t like that. Not most of ‘em, anyway.”

Catherine’s mouth opens, then closes again as she scrambles for something clever to say. The truth is, she’s not quite sure what to do with the creeping discomfort that comes with Ann seeing through her so bloody easily. It’s not unpleasant. Not exactly.

“This is depressing,” she mutters, pushing back her chair with a scrape. “Hang on.”

She digs through one of the high cupboards and comes back down with a dusty bottle of red, still half-covered in Joyce’s passive-aggressive post-it.

Ann watches, surprised. “Thought we were out.”

“We were. This is Joyce’s ‘do-not-touch-unless-it’s-an-emergency’ stash. Which I’ve decided is now mine.”

Ann arches a brow. “That feels morally questionable. It’s not an emergency.”

“Yeah, well, so does most of my job.” Catherine pours uneven glasses and hands one over without fanfare. “And who says it’s not? Might as well be.”

“It’s your funeral,” Ann says, looking down into her wine.

Catherine shrugs. “I can live with that.”

They drink in silence for a few moments, the air between them settling into something thicker.

“What would you be doing now if you were home?” Catherine asks abruptly, like the question’s been rattling around her skull for too long.

Ann’s brow furrows. “What?”

“At home. You know, when you’re not workin’. What do you do for fun?”

The question catches Ann off guard, her expression one of vague horror, like Catherine’s just asked her to define the meaning of life. “Dunno. Drink. Watch telly. Try not to think too hard.”

Catherine hums, the sound full of unimpressed judgement. “Thrilling.”

“Yeah, well, not all of us are busy runnin’ about arrestin’ people every five minutes.”

Catherine grins, the edge of it softened by something warmer. “Could’ve fooled me. You’ve been glued to that desk like it’s got the cure for mortality.”

Ann shrugs. Her gaze dips to her wine, and something flickers across her face, something guarded and tired and painfully familiar.

“Better than goin’ home, most days.” The admission is blunt, almost careless in the way it drops between them.

The words hit harder than they should. Catherine flinches, barely, and stares down into her own glass like she might find something to say at the bottom of it. Then she glances up.

“You do this often?” Ann asks, watching her carefully.

“What?”

“Bring people home. Feed ‘em. Save ‘em.”

Catherine’s jaw tightens. “No.”

Ann’s gaze doesn’t budge. “Just me, then.”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

Catherine doesn’t answer. Just pours another splash of wine—too loud in the silence—and sets the bottle down with a dull clunk. The sound hangs there, awkward and final.

Catherine feels something twist painfully inside her, something that’s far too close to pity. And she knows Ann would hate that, would take it like a slap to the face. But it’s not pity, really. It’s something else, something warmer and rougher around the edges. Something like understanding.

“Well, that’s just bloody tragic,” Catherine says, her voice rough. “No hobbies, no interests. You’re practically a pensioner already.”

Ann’s mouth twitches like she’s fighting off a smile. “Like you’re any better.”

“Hey, I’ve got hobbies. Important ones.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

Catherine opens her mouth, frowns. Comes up empty. “... All right, fair point.”

Ann laughs. It’s quiet and worn thin at the edges, but it’s real. And it goes through Catherine like a warm current, loosening something that’s been wound tight too long. It rolls through her chest, warm and unwieldy, like it doesn’t quite know where to go.

“What do you even do when you’re not workin’?” Ann asks, her tone still laced with amusement. “Sit around shoutin’ at telly programs?”

“Mostly,” Catherine says with a smirk. “Bit of gardening when the weather’s not utter shite. Reading. Lookin’ after Ryan. That lad’s a full-time job by himself.”

Ann nods. “But you love him.”

The words aren’t a question. Catherine swallows. Her throat feels suddenly tight.

“Yeah. I do.”

The silence that follows doesn’t ache. It settles. Catherine watches Ann fidget with her glass, fingers making small, nervous patterns. Normally, this kind of stillness would make her itch—but here, with Ann, it’s bearable. Even good.

“Do you…” Catherine hesitates, the words sticking in her throat before she forces them out. “D’you wanna watch somethin’? Whatever's on, or… I’ve probably got somethin’ other than shite police dramas recorded.”

Ann looks up, surprised. But the look shifts quickly—into something softer. Something like relief. “Yeah. Yeah, alright.”

Catherine’s grin is crooked and unguarded. It feels raw, but she lets it happen. Lets the warmth creep in and stay a while.

She stands before she can second-guess it. “Come on, then. Living room’s slightly less of a dump.”

Ann trails behind her, quiet, still carrying that unsure weight like she’s not entirely convinced she’s allowed to be here. Catherine doesn’t overthink it. She flicks on the telly, grabs the remote from under a pile of old newspapers, and drops onto the sofa like she’s trying to set the tone. Casual. Normal.

She gestures with a nod for Ann to join her, and Ann does, carefully, like she’s expecting the couch to reject her on principle. She sits at the far edge, stiff-backed, clutching her wine like a shield. The space between them feels too wide.

Catherine doesn’t mention it. Just flicks through channels, pretending not to notice how wrong the distance feels.

“Christ, you’re bad at relaxin’, you know that?” Ann says, but her tone holds something almost playful, like she’s trying to ease the knot of tension neither of them wants to acknowledge.

Catherine snorts, eyes fixed on the telly as she scrolls through the channels with the kind of ruthless efficiency only a seasoned insomniac can master. “You’re one to talk.”

Ann’s lips twitch, the smallest curve that still manages to let a tightness creep into Catherine’s chest before she can shove it away. She focuses harder on the remote, her thumb jabbing at the buttons with more force than necessary.

“Right. What crap d’you wanna watch, then?” Catherine grumbles.

Ann shrugs, her gaze sliding to the screen, as if the flickering images hold the answer. “Dunno. Something stupid.”

“I can do stupid.”

“Good. Since ‘watching shite telly’ is apparently your only hobby.”

The words hang there, softer and more raw than Catherine expected. And suddenly, it’s not about the telly or the awkwardness or anything else. It’s about the fact that Ann looks bloody exhausted. Worn thin in a way that has nothing to do with work and everything to do with the world chewing her up and spitting her out.

Catherine clears her throat, forcing herself to focus on the task at hand. “Stupid it is.”

She settles on some brainless reality show where everyone’s too pretty and too loud, their problems petty and ridiculous, and utterly detached from anything that actually matters. It’s the sort of rubbish Catherine would normally turn off within seconds, but tonight she leaves it on. Because Ann’s expression shifts just a little, the tension around her eyes easing as the meaningless noise of other people’s lives fills the room.

Catherine leans back against the lumpy cushions, arms folded loosely across her chest, trying to pretend she’s actually interested in the show. But her attention keeps straying sideways, stealing glances at Ann, as if she’s worried the woman might vanish if she looks away for too long.

Ann sits hunched forward, elbows on her knees, eyes on the screen but fingers tracing restless patterns along the rim of her glass. The nervous energy practically hums off her, even when she’s pretending she’s relaxed. Catherine’s fingers itch to do something about it—to say something or do something to make that tension bleed away. But nowadays, with Ann, she's shit at that sort of thing.

They watch in silence for a while, Catherine throwing out the occasional snide comment about the show’s ridiculousness. Ann chuckles at some of them, soft and genuine, but mostly she just watches, her expression shifting between mild amusement and something like quiet relief, because it’s easier to care about someone else’s mess than clean up your own.

Eventually, Catherine sets her empty glass down on the coffee table and stretches her legs out, crossing her ankles. It’s late, and she was knackered hours ago, but there’s a low hum of energy beneath her skin, something restless and sharp that has nothing to do with the telly.

“You’re really into this crap, aren’t you?” Catherine asks, nodding at the screen where some bloke’s shouting about betrayal or stolen mascara or whatever other nonsense the producers have cooked up.

Ann huffs a quiet laugh, eyes still on the chaos unfolding in front of them. “It’s a distraction, isn’t it? Something that doesn’t matter. Makes it easier to shut your brain off.”

Catherine nods, feeling the weight of the words settle between them. “Suppose I can see the appeal.”

“Yeah, well.” Ann’s shoulders lift in a half-hearted shrug, like she’s trying to deflect her own admission. “Don’t exactly have a lot else goin’ on, do I?”

“Doesn’t have to be like that.” The words slip out before Catherine can catch them, a quiet challenge laced with concern. “Find something you actually enjoy. Not just… this.” She gestures vaguely at the telly, suddenly all too aware of her own hypocrisy.

Ann gives her a look, brow raised in amusement. “What, like gardening?”

“Gardening’s perfectly respectable,” Catherine argues, tone light but not entirely joking. “Good for the soul, that. Gettin’ your hands dirty, makin’ something grow. It’s… nice.”

Ann’s lips quirk into something almost resembling a smile. “Yeah, I bet you’re a right ray of sunshine out there. Singin’ to the flowers and all that.”

“Bloody lovely, me. Magical, even. Could charm weeds into bloody roses.” Catherine snorts, but there’s a warmth in her voice that feels both unfamiliar and strangely comfortable. “But I’m serious. You can’t just—Bit of enjoyment now and again wouldn’t kill you.”

Ann’s gaze drops to her glass, fingers tracing the rim in slow, restless circles. “Maybe. Just… hard to care about stuff, sometimes.”

There’s a heaviness to the words that makes Catherine’s chest ache, some raw honesty spilling out between them like a secret meant to be kept. And Catherine feels the urge to say something and fix it, but she doesn’t have the words. So she just watches Ann, her gaze searching for something she can’t quite name.

“Yeah, well.” Catherine clears her throat, the roughness of her voice betraying more than she wants it to. “Maybe you just haven’t found the right thing yet.”

Ann looks up then, her eyes meeting Catherine’s with something like surprise, a flicker of something vulnerable and uncertain flashing between them. For a moment, neither of them says anything. The television continues to drone on in the background, voices raised in artificial outrage over problems so small and petty they barely register. It’s all white noise, really. Completely unimportant.

“But maybe I have,” Ann says quietly, the words slipping out before she can catch them. They sound fragile and exposed, like something that slipped out before she could stop it.

Catherine’s breath catches just slightly. It would be so easy for her to pretend she didn’t hear it. To let it pass by, ignored and unacknowledged. But it echoes in the air between them, the words soft and low, twisting sharp beneath her ribs. Her eyes drop to her own hands, fingers curled tight around her glass like it’s the only thing keeping her steady.

“If you have,” she says slowly, “don’t ignore it.”

Ann’s gaze flicks up again, sharper this time. Like she’s trying to decide whether Catherine’s giving her permission or just stating the obvious. Maybe both. And the longer the look lasts, the more exposed Catherine feels, like Ann’s peeling back every carefully placed layer without even trying.

The silence that follows is heavy. Not uncomfortable, but charged. Like something has shifted and neither of them’s quite brave enough to name it.

“Maybe,” Ann replies eventually, her voice softer now. There’s something unspoken sitting just beneath the word. A question, maybe. A challenge.

Catherine clears her throat again, needing something to do with her hands before the quiet swallows her whole. “You want another tea? Or more wine? Can’t have been the only bottle in Joyce’s stash.”

Ann raises an eyebrow, but there’s a glint behind it now: something amused, curious, maybe even hopeful. “Are you tryin’ to get me drunk, Catherine?”

“Wouldn’t have to try very hard, would I?” Catherine shoots back, her grin wobbling at the edges. It doesn’t land quite like it used to. Not because the joke’s off, but because the stakes are higher now and both of them can feel it.

Ann rolls her eyes, but the warmth in them is impossible to miss. “Tea’s fine. Don’t need you dealin’ with me drunk again. You’ve put up with enough of that already.”

Catherine just shrugs, like it’s nothing. Like it’s not something that’s lodged itself in her chest and refused to leave. “Wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.”

Because it’s true. She’s seen Ann at her worst, the anger and the misery and the sharp edges, and she’s still here. Still letting her in. Still letting her stay. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Pushing herself to her feet, Catherine takes Ann’s glass from her hands before she can protest. Their fingers brush again, and it’s ridiculous, the way it jolts through her like static, sudden and alive. How it feels like the warmth of it travels all the way down to her bones, a shiver she tries and fails to ignore. She pretends she doesn’t feel it, turning her back and heading toward the kitchen. She’s pouring hot water into fresh mugs when Ann speaks up, her voice carrying a rawness that feels both unexpected and inevitable. She leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, teeth worrying at her bottom lip. Then:

“Why do you bother, anyway?”

Catherine looks up, frowning. “What?”

“With me.” Ann shifts her weight, arms folded tight across her chest like she’s trying to protect herself from something. “Why do you bother? You could’ve just let me walk off tonight. Could’ve left me alone ages ago, but you keep… I dunno. Showin’ up.”

Catherine’s fingers tighten around the handle of the kettle, the cool metal biting into her skin. Because the thing is, she doesn’t have a good answer for that. Or she does, but it’s tangled up in all the things she’s not willing to say. All the things she’s barely willing to think.

“I dunno,” Catherine says, turning her attention back to the mugs, her movements a little too deliberate. “Maybe I just like havin’ someone to argue with.”

Ann’s quiet for a moment, her expression guarded, like she’s bracing herself for the usual half-arsed deflections and sarcasm. But there’s something softer there, too. Something like a question she doesn’t know how to ask.

“Could’ve picked anyone for that.”

Catherine’s lips twitch into something almost like a smile. “Maybe you’re just my favourite miserable bastard.”

A laugh breaks out of Ann, unexpected and rough around the edges, but real. The sound of it sparks something warm and unfamiliar beneath Catherine’s ribs, something she really doesn’t want to examine any closer, but knows all too well.

“Yeah. Right. Sure.” Ann shakes her head, but the smile lingers, loosening some of the tension from her shoulders.

Catherine carries the mugs back over and sets one down in front of Ann before sinking back onto the sofa. Ann takes hers with careful hands, fingers curling around the ceramic like it’s something precious. Like it matters.

They go back to watching the telly, the glow of the screen painting soft shadows over their faces. But the air between them feels different now, quieter but not uncomfortable. Catherine feels that restless hum in her chest again, the kind that feels too much like longing, too much like something she’s not supposed to want.

But Ann’s still here. And Catherine’s still letting her be. And maybe that’s enough for now.

They’re both drinking their tea slowly, the television still droning on with more nonsense than either of them can be bothered to follow. Catherine’s hardly looking at the screen anymore. She’s watching the edges of things instead: the curve of Ann’s shoulder, the rise and fall of her breath, the way her thumb circles the mug like she’s tracing something only she can see. The small space between them feels more like a choice than an accident.

She tries not to look too much, to let her eyes linger on the little things. Like how Ann’s fingers keep fidgeting with her mug, restless even now. Like how her hair’s all mussed from where she’s been running her hands through it, and how there’s something about the way she’s sitting there, soft and tired, that makes Catherine’s chest feel tight.

But Ann’s starting to look worn down, her movements slower, gaze unfocused. Catherine’s been watching her long enough to recognise the signs of someone struggling to keep it together. And the longer Ann stays here, the more she’s letting her guard down, leaving all her sharp edges dulled and her usual defensiveness peeling away bit by bit.

“You’re knackered,” Catherine says, cutting through the quiet, her voice rougher than she intended.

Ann lets out a short, humourless laugh. “Yeah, well. Long day.”

“You should get some proper sleep.” The words are gentle, but they still feel clumsy on Catherine’s tongue.

Ann gives her a sideways glance, one eyebrow raised. “What, you tryin’ to get rid of me now?”

“No.” The word comes out too fast, too sharp. Catherine feels something twist uncomfortably in her gut. “Just—don’t want you fallin’ asleep and droolin’ on me sofa, is all.”

Ann’s mouth twitches. “Can’t make any promises.”

But then she looks away, her expression tightening again, like the moment’s slipping away before either of them can catch it.

The conversation between them quiets, words giving way to long stretches of silence that somehow don’t feel as uncomfortable as they probably should. They talk a little, now and again, fragments of conversation slipping out between sips of tea and the occasional poorly made joke. But for the most part, they sit in their own sort of stillness, the kind that grows between people when all the necessary things have already been said and what’s left is simply being.

Neither of them mentions Ann needing to go home. Catherine keeps waiting for her to stand up, to make some excuse about having to leave, but it never comes. And with every minute that passes, it feels more like Ann might stay. Like the ticking of the clock somehow matters less than the quiet comfort of sitting here, side by side.

Ann’s eyes are heavy-lidded, the exhaustion pulling at her, dragging her down. And Catherine can see it happening in real-time—how Ann’s shoulders slump, how her head tips forward before she jerks herself back awake, more than once.

But at some point, even the effort of fighting sleep becomes too much. And Ann gives in. She curls up on her side, her knees drawn up and her head resting against the sofa’s worn arm, the fabric creasing beneath her weight. Her feet brush against Catherine’s side, the contact soft and unintentional, but it roots her there like an anchor.

Catherine stays still, hardly daring to breathe. Watching as Ann’s breathing evens out, slow and deep, her features relaxed in sleep in a way they never seem to be anymore when she’s awake. That constant edge of guardedness slipping away, the worry lines softening, leaving her looking somehow younger and so bloody tired, it twists something in Catherine’s chest. Something fierce and protective and entirely, terrifyingly hers.

She leaves her there for a while, unable to bring herself to disturb her. There’s something almost peaceful about it, Ann resting in her home like it’s a safe place. Like she’s finally let herself trust Catherine enough to be this vulnerable again. It makes her feel like she’s holding something fragile and irreplaceable just by being in the same room. It’s almost too much to hold, the way her stomach twists with something warm and aching and not altogether welcome.

But then Catherine notices her own eyes drooping, the fatigue of the day catching up with her all at once. That’s when she tells herself to get a grip, her fingers tightening around her mug like it might anchor her to the present. She forces herself to move, setting the empty mug down with a quiet clink before standing up.

Carefully, with a hesitance she can’t quite shake, she reaches out and touches Ann’s shoulder, her fingers brushing over the worn fabric of her shirt. The warmth of her skin seeps through the material, making Catherine’s throat feel tight.

“Ann,” she whispers, her voice low and soft. “Come on, love. Can’t stay asleep like that. You’ll wreck your neck.” The word slips out without her permission, ‘ love’ , like it used to do back when things were simpler. Back when it was a casual sort of affection, a fondness never questioned. But now it feels like something else, like she’s offering up too much of herself without meaning to.

Ann stirs, her face twitching with the grogginess of being dragged out of sleep. Her eyes flutter open, blinking against the dim light of the room. Confusion flickers across her face before it fades into embarrassment, her cheeks flushing as if she’s been caught doing something she shouldn’t.

“I—sorry. Didn’t mean to fall asleep.” Her voice is thick with sleep, her words tumbling over themselves. Her gaze darts away, looking anywhere but at Catherine’s face.

Catherine feels herself smile, small and uncertain. “Looked like you needed it.”

Ann huffs out a laugh that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Maybe.” She shifts, pulling herself upright, shoulders hunched and gaze still averted.

“Look…” Catherine hesitates, the words feeling clumsy even before she speaks them. “You’re dead on your feet. If you wanna stay here, you can have my bed. I’ll take the conservatory.”

Ann’s head snaps up, eyes wide with something like panic. “No. No, it’s… it’s fine. I’ll call an Uber.”

“What, you’d rather go home and collapse on your own sofa instead of getting a proper sleep here?” Catherine’s trying for casual, but there’s an edge to her voice she can’t quite smooth out. Because Ann’s sitting here like she’s ready to bolt, like she’s already halfway out the door in her head, and Catherine’s not sure how to keep her from doing just that.

Ann’s lips press into a tight line, her hands curling into fists against her thighs. “I’d rather sleep at home.” Her voice is firmer now, more controlled. But there’s something else there too, something tangled up in her tone that Catherine can’t quite unravel.

Catherine sighs, frustration simmering just beneath her skin. “You can barely keep your eyes open, Ann. And if you’re that determined to leave, at least let me drive you.” She pauses, eyes flicking toward the dark window. “Because let’s be real, there’s no bloody way you’re getting an Uber out here at this hour. It’s past two in the morning—half the drivers are asleep, and the other half aren’t coming this far out for a fare.”

Ann’s jaw tightens, the fight draining out of her shoulders as if she’s too tired to hold onto it. “I’m fine. I can take a taxi, then.”

“Either I drive you,” Catherine insists, voice low and stubborn, “or you’re taking my bed. Those are your options.”

Ann’s mouth opens like she’s ready to argue, but whatever words she was about to throw back die on her tongue. Her eyes are slits now, exhaustion pulling her under even as she tries to stand her ground. She looks away, gaze dropping to the floor. “Fine. Drive me, then.”

It shouldn’t feel like a victory, but it does. And not the good kind. And it stings all the same. Because part of Catherine wishes she could convince Ann to stay, to let herself sleep here and wake up in the morning and not have to pretend she’s fine when she’s so clearly not. But Ann’s made her choice, and Catherine has to respect that.

“Alright,” Catherine says, softer now, her voice losing some of its sharpness. “Let’s get you home.”

Chapter Text

They gather their things in silence. Ann’s movements are stiff and reluctant, her hands fumbling more than they should as she snatches up her jacket and tugs it around her shoulders like it might hold her together. Catherine pretends not to notice, pretends she’s not feeling the loss of Ann’s presence even though she’s still right there, only a few feet away. But already, it feels like the distance between them has opened back up, wide and treacherous.

The drive is quiet, the kind of quiet that feels dangerous. Fragile. Like it could shatter with the wrong word. Catherine’s fingers clench too tight around the steering wheel, her knuckles white as her gaze stays locked on the road ahead. Her mind is tangled in a mess of half-formed thoughts and words she doesn’t have the courage to say.

Beside her, Ann stares out the passenger window, her eyes tracing the blurry lights of the town. Her fingers twitch against her knee, restless and agitated, like she’s fighting the urge to fidget more openly. The glow from the streetlamps streaks shadows across her face, sharp and unforgiving.

It feels like a lifetime before they pull up outside Ann’s place. The car engine hums low between them, the only sound breaking the silence. Ann’s hand is already on the door handle, ready to bolt, when Catherine’s voice cuts through the air.

“So,” Catherine says, her voice rougher than she means for it to be. “You gonna be alright?”

Ann’s hand stills, her shoulders tensing. “I’m fine, Catherine.”

It’s too quick. Too automatic. The kind of response Catherine’s heard from every miserable bastard who thinks admitting anything else would be a weakness. But there’s a flicker of something real underneath the words. Something raw and fragile that Ann’s not ready to show.

Catherine swallows, her mouth dry. “Right.”

Ann’s gaze drops, her fingers flexing against the door handle like she’s trying to convince herself to just get out of the car and walk away. But she doesn’t move. Not yet.

“Thanks. For… the tea. And… just. Everything.” The words stumble out of her, clumsy and awkward, like they’ve caught on something jagged on their way out.

“Anytime. You know that.” Catherine’s voice is quiet, and she means it. Probably too much. Because what she really wants to say is something much bigger, something she doesn’t even know how to name.

Ann hesitates, the silence stretching out between them. Then, without looking back, she pushes the door open and steps out. Catherine watches her go, watches the way she moves like every step costs her something.

And Catherine knows she should just drive off. Let Ann go and pretend the night’s already over. It would be easier that way. Safer. But she can’t make herself do it. Instead, her fingers fumble over the button to roll down the window. And before she’s even fully thought it through, a word spills out of her mouth. “Ann?”

Ann pauses on the pavement, her shoulders stiffening before she turns to look back. Her eyes are shadowed and wary, like she’s expecting another fight, another reason to push Catherine away. “Yeah?”

Catherine’s heart beats too fast, her own hesitation making her feel clumsy and stupid. She forces herself to speak, even though every word feels like a stumble over broken glass. “Can I—” She clears her throat, the sound too loud in the tense quiet. “Can I come up for a bit?”

Ann blinks, like she’s trying to work out if she heard that right. Her expression twists into suspicion, her eyes narrowing in a way that makes Catherine’s stomach clench. “What for?” She asks, her voice cautious and guarded, like she’s bracing herself for something she won’t like.

And maybe Catherine deserves that. Maybe it’s her own damn fault for asking when she knows she shouldn’t. It’s late, they’re both tired, and this is a bad idea. But she can’t make herself take it back. She flounders for a second, her mind scrambling for some kind of reason that doesn’t sound desperate or pathetic or like she’s trying to cling to something already slipping away. “Just… a bit of company,” Catherine says, the words softer than she means for them to be. “If you’re not sick of me already.”

Ann’s face does something complicated. Like she’s torn between telling Catherine to piss off and letting her in. And for a long moment, Catherine’s convinced she’s about to get a metaphorical door slammed in her face. But then Ann’s shoulders relax, just slightly, and she jerks her head toward the building. “Yeah. Alright. Come on, then.”

The knot in Catherine’s chest loosens, just a little. The tension in her own body unwinds enough that she almost feels like herself again. She cuts the engine and climbs out of the car, following Ann up the steps and through the creaky old door that leads into her flat.

Ann moves around the space like she’s not sure what to do with herself, shoving her keys down on the counter and glancing at Catherine with that same unease she wore like a shield earlier. Her shoulders are too stiff, her movements sharp and unsteady.

Catherine watches her, trying not to seem as out of place as she feels. “Sorry, I know you’re tired, I shouldn’t—”

“Well, you’re here now, and I’m honestly not tired anymore.” Ann’s voice is tight, like she’s waiting for Catherine to mock her for it. Like she’s expecting some kind of cruelty Catherine has no intention of giving.

Catherine sighs, stepping further into the small living room and letting her eyes wander over the furniture she knows better than she wants to admit.

Ann lingers by the door, arms crossed like she’s trying to hold herself together. “You want another tea, or are you done with your tea quota for the night?”

Catherine meets her eyes, something like a smile tugging at her lips. “I could go for another.”

Ann snorts softly, like she’s not sure whether to be amused or exasperated. “Right. Coming up, then.”

Catherine watches her disappear into the tiny kitchen, hears the clinking of mugs and the familiar sound of the kettle being filled. She should probably offer to help, but her feet stay glued to the spot, her gaze drifting over the room instead.

The kettle clicks off with a soft, final-sounding click. Ann moves toward it with a carefulness that’s almost too deliberate. The way she handles the tea, pouring it with an exactness that borders on obsessive, feels like she’s holding herself together with the weight of routine. Catherine can’t help but notice the way Ann’s shoulders are hunched, how she’s wrapped tight in her own space, like she’s been carrying something heavy and doesn’t know how to set it down. The air between them thickens, each second stretching out under the quiet pressure of things unsaid.

When Ann finally brings the tea back, she hands Catherine a mug without meeting her gaze. For the third time tonight, their fingers brush briefly in the transfer, and this time Catherine almost drops the damn thing. The sudden shock of contact—so brief, yet so much—sends a jolt straight through her, and she nearly fumbles the mug in a way that makes her feel clumsy. But she manages to keep hold of it, even though her heart’s racing in her chest like it’s trying to escape.

Ann hesitates before sitting down, opting for the armchair over the sofa, and Catherine feels it, like the distance between them has grown by miles in just that small choice. Ann’s pulling away, even if it’s just a fraction, and Catherine can’t shake the feeling that she’s somehow responsible for it. For making things weird. For pushing them to this awkward edge they can’t seem to step back from.

The silence between them is thick, the only sound the quiet, rhythmic slurp of tea as Catherine takes a cautious sip. She focuses on the heat of the mug in her hands, the way it burns just enough to make her feel grounded. It’s a small comfort, but it’s all she can hold onto right now.

Ann’s gaze is fixed somewhere over Catherine’s shoulder, like she’s not quite ready to look at her. Her eyes dart back and forth, flickering with the weight of whatever thoughts she’s trying to keep hidden. It’s a dance they’ve done before, this trying-not-to-say-what-everyone’s-thinking routine. And it’s exhausting.

Catherine knows she should be the one to break the silence, but her tongue feels too heavy to move, and her chest is tight in a way that she hasn’t let herself acknowledge. She doesn’t trust herself not to screw it all up.

And Ann, after what feels like a lifetime of tension, is the one who finally speaks. “You didn’t have to come up, you know.”

Catherine exhales sharply, something caught between a laugh and a sigh. “Yeah. I know.”

Ann glances at her, but her eyes quickly drop again, as if she’s checking to see if Catherine’s going to get defensive or bite back. “Then why did you?” There’s an edge to her voice now, carefully hidden but definitely there.

Catherine feels the weight of the question, the unspoken challenge in it. She doesn’t look at Ann; she keeps her eyes fixed on the mug in her hands, trying to find a way to make her words sound less like a confession. “Dunno,” she says, and the lie tastes bitter in her mouth. “Just didn’t feel right leaving you to it.”

Ann’s jaw tightens at that, her lips pulling thin in a way that makes Catherine’s stomach twist. “Right.”

The way Ann says it makes Catherine’s chest tighten, like the world’s shifted under her feet without warning. It’s a small thing, a subtle change in tone, but it makes Catherine want to ask, ‘What’s going on in your head?’ But the words never come. She just takes another sip of her tea instead, hoping it will fill the space between them.

Ann shifts in her seat, setting her mug down on the floor beside the armchair, and the movement is like a signal. A shift in the air that tells Catherine the distance between them is only going to get wider unless someone takes the first step. Ann’s voice breaks through the quiet again. “You’ve been weird lately.”

Catherine’s eyebrows rise, surprise flickering through her. “Have I?”

“Yeah.” Ann’s gaze finally meets hers, and there’s something sharp in her eyes—guarded, like she’s trying to make sense of what she’s about to say. “Don’t know how to explain it. Just… weird. Different.”

The words stoke something hot inside Catherine. Her immediate reaction is defensive, a sharp edge to her voice. “Right, and you’ve been a picture of normality, have you?”

Ann almost smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. The flicker of humour fades too quickly, leaving a quiet tension in its wake. “Touché.”

Catherine sighs, setting her mug on the coffee table, the sound of it clicking against the surface breaking the spell of the moment. “I’m not tryin’ to be weird. Just… lookin’ out for you.”

Ann doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Instead, she leans back in the chair, folding her arms across her chest like she’s trying to protect herself from something. It feels like a wall, solid and unyielding, and Catherine feels the distance between them grow even wider.

“You don’t have to, you know,” Ann says quietly, her voice almost a whisper.

“Maybe I want to,” Catherine says, before she can stop herself.

Ann’s eyes snap to hers, startled, wide, and for a moment, Catherine wishes she could take the words back. Wishes she could swallow them before they spill out and shift everything between them. But Ann doesn’t look away, and something in her expression softens, just a little, like she’s letting herself believe it for a moment.

The air feels thick with unspoken things. They’re staring at each other now, and Catherine feels the weight of it all. It's too much. She feels like she’s standing on the edge of something, like if she moves too quickly or says the wrong thing, it’ll all come crashing down.

Ann swallows, breaking the tension with a soft, almost resigned laugh. “You don’t make it easy, you know.”

Catherine doesn’t know how to respond. She wants to argue, wants to tell Ann that she does care—'just not in the way you want me to’—but that feels wrong somehow.

“It’s not—” Her voice cracks, rough. “It’s not about making it easy. Just… don’t like seein’ you like this.”

Ann’s mouth twists into a bitter smile, a little more than a grimace. “Yeah, well. Not much you can do about that.”

Catherine hesitates, her heart tight in her chest. She almost tells Ann that maybe there is something she can do, but she swallows the words just in time. It's a spectacularly shit idea, sleeping with a close friend who's in love with her, and it's probably not even what Ann wants, anyway.

But a part of Catherine lingers on that thought, because what if one night—no strings, no expectations—makes Ann realise that Catherine really is just a cranky old bitch?

A shiver runs down her spine, and Catherine shakes her head at herself. Ann deserves better than a half-drunk shag, and… and maybe Catherine doesn't want a shag. Not like this. But she can't say that. The words feel too big, too exposed. She doesn’t know how to bridge the gap between them, and doesn't know how to open up without losing something in the process.

The silence settles again, thick and uncomfortable, and Catherine shifts in her seat, wishing she were better at this. Better at talking without giving herself away. Ann’s posture is still rigid, her gaze still locked on the floor, and Catherine’s fingers itch with the urge to reach out... to touch her, to offer something to ground them both. But she doesn’t. Can’t. So she just breathes out slowly, trying to keep the tension from strangling her.

“You can hate me if it helps,” Catherine says lightly, trying to keep her tone casual. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone’s hated me for giving a shit.”

Ann’s lips quirk, just barely, and Catherine can’t decide if it’s a sign of something softer or just another defence. “Don’t hate you. I think that’s the problem.”

And just like that, Catherine’s heart stutters. The words sit heavy in her chest, like they belong there. She tries to ignore the way they twist inside her, but it’s useless. She doesn’t know what to do with any of it. Doesn’t know how to admit that the way Ann’s looking at her makes her feel like her skin’s too tight. She clears her throat, her voice suddenly rough. “Maybe that’s good, then. One less person who hates me.”

Ann shakes her head, but there’s something softer about her expression now. Like she’s letting herself relax, just a little. And Catherine doesn’t know what that means, doesn’t know whether it’s a good sign or just another way for her to stumble over herself. She doesn’t move. She just stays still, letting the tension simmer between them, because for the first time in what feels like forever, neither of them is running away.

The TV drones on, forgotten, its background noise fading into oblivion as Catherine feels the weight of the air between them settle heavily. They're balanced on the edge of something Catherine can't quite name. The silence hangs like a thick fog, and Catherine's chest tightens with the anticipation of whatever may come next. It’s like they’re both waiting for a spark to ignite, but neither knows how to start the fire without burning everything down in the process.

Ann’s gaze flicks to her again, brief but deliberate, like she’s trying to decide whether to speak or not. It’s not the first time it’s happened tonight, but each time it feels like a new layer of the unspoken tension between them is laid bare. Catherine’s attention drifts back to the screen, though the images playing out are nothing more than a blur of actors trying too hard. She doesn’t care about the TV, doesn’t even notice it anymore. Her eyes keep straying back to Ann, tracing the way her shoulders are stiff, the slight tapping of her fingers against the mug in her hand. It’s like Ann’s wrestling with a thought too sharp to voice, too complicated to break down into words. The air feels thick with whatever it is she’s holding back.

It’s absurd, really, how acutely Catherine’s become aware of every movement Ann makes. The way her breath catches, the way she shifts slightly in her seat as she puts the mug down, the smallest shifts in her expression—everything seems amplified, pressed under a magnifying glass that Catherine can't pull away from. Even worse, Catherine starts to realize that Ann probably knows she’s watching. Knows that Catherine is paying attention to every little detail. And that thought unsettles her more than she’d care to admit.

Ann huffs out a breath, a sharp exhale, and leans down to pick up her mug again, as if it’s the only thing left to occupy her hands. The movement is deliberate, almost too careful, like she's trying to distract herself. “You’re staring,” Ann says, her voice strained, a slight edge to it.

Catherine’s response is almost automatic. “Am not,” she shoots back, too quick, too defensive. The words stumble out without thought, and the instant regret hits her like a punch in the gut.

Ann quirks an eyebrow, raising it just enough to challenge her. “Right. So you just happened to be looking directly at me for—what, a solid minute or two?”

Catherine opens her mouth, then closes it again, the words caught in her throat. She’s not sure how to recover, but the need to keep things light pushes her to speak. “Just makin' sure you’re still alive,” she says, aiming for nonchalance, trying to mask the tightness in her chest. “You look like you’re about to keel over half the time.”

Ann’s lips twitch, but it’s the first sign of a smile she’s shown in what feels like hours. “Could say the same about you, you know.”

The unexpected jab catches Catherine off guard, and she doesn’t have a snappy comeback. She takes a sip of her tea, grimacing at how cold and bitter it’s got, but she swallows it anyway. It feels like a small act of defiance against the way her throat tightens in discomfort. “Well, I’m not dead yet. Cheers for the concern,” she says, trying to sound flippant, though the words feel hollow the moment they leave her mouth.

Another silence. It’s not the worst they’ve had between them, but it’s far from comfortable. And for all her attempts to break the ice, Catherine doesn’t know how to fix this, how to untangle the knot in the air between them. If it can even be fixed at all.

Ann shifts in her seat, her gaze flicking over Catherine’s face like she’s searching for something. Some sign, some answer to whatever question’s playing behind her eyes. The weight of the moment presses on Catherine’s chest, making it harder to breathe, like the answer to whatever Ann needs is somewhere in her, just waiting to be pulled out.

“You know, you really didn’t have to do this,” Ann says quietly, the words falling from her mouth with a softness Catherine isn’t prepared for. “The whole... giving a shit thing.”

Catherine scoffs, unable to stop herself. “You said that already.”

Ann’s voice lowers, a new tone slipping through the sarcasm, something rougher, softer, maybe even vulnerable. “Yeah, well, you didn’t seem to get it the first time.” She pauses, her gaze dropping to her mug, and for a moment, Catherine wonders if Ann is pulling back into herself, guarding whatever soft thing is left. “I mean it. You could’ve just let me get on with things.”

The words settle on Catherine’s chest, heavy, and she exhales slowly, wondering just how much of what Ann said is true. “Guess I’m not good at letting things go,” she admits, her voice quieter now, more genuine. “Call it a gift.”

Ann flinches, just slightly, but she doesn’t snap back. Instead, her eyes remain fixed on the mug, her shoulders slumping with the weight of something heavy. “Maybe you should,” she says, barely more than a whisper.

The words feel like a knife between Catherine’s ribs. She wants to fix this, to make things right, but everything she says feels like it’s making things worse. And she hates herself for not knowing how to put the pieces back together. “Ann... I’m just trying to help.”

Ann’s response is barely audible, but it’s there. “I know.”

And somehow, that’s enough to make Catherine’s heart stutter. The simple acknowledgment feels like the most honest thing they’ve shared all night, maybe all week. She shifts on the couch, her fingers twitching against the fabric like they’re searching for something to hold onto, something solid to anchor her in this strange, fragile space they’re occupying.

Ann breaks the silence. “But maybe you shouldn’t.”

Catherine blinks. “Shouldn’t what?”

“Help. Stick around.” Ann’s voice is low, brittle. Her grip on the mug tightens again, so tight Catherine’s half afraid it’ll shatter. “You shouldn’t… waste your time on this. On me.”

It’s the way she says ‘me’ that cuts deepest. Flat, final, like she’s already resigned to being the thing not worth choosing.

Catherine leans forward without meaning to, elbows on her knees. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“That,” Catherine snaps, sharper now, the words cutting out before she can blunt them. “Talk like you’re—like you’re nothing. Like I’m some daft idiot who doesn't know how lucky I am to have you in my life.”

Ann’s gaze whips to hers, defensive walls rising fast. “I didn’t say—”

“You didn’t have to,” Catherine interrupts. Her voice is rising now, words tumbling too fast for her to rein them in. “You think I don’t see it? You think I don’t—” She breaks off, jaw clenched tight, because saying it out loud feels too dangerous.

But Ann doesn’t let it go. Her voice is sharp, almost desperate. “Don’t what?”

Catherine’s chest is heaving now, her pulse hammering in her throat. She can feel the moment tilting, spinning, but she can’t stop. “Don’t care,” she blurts, the words raw, ragged. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t, alright? I wouldn’t—” She cuts herself off, dragging a hand over her face, trying to force herself back under control.

Ann is staring at her, wide-eyed, like Catherine just pulled the rug out from under her. For a long, excruciating moment, neither of them speaks. The air between them is too thick, stretched taut, ready to snap.

Finally Ann shakes her head, voice unsteady. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”

“Why not?” Catherine’s voice cracks, and she doesn't care.

“Because you don’t mean them,” Ann shoots back.

Catherine leans back, sinking into the cushions, her eyes locked on Ann’s. “What if I do?”

The question hangs there, raw and unguarded. It terrifies her to leave it in the air, but she doesn’t take it back.

Ann freezes, staring at her like she’s been struck. Her fingers flex around the mug, restless, like she doesn’t know whether to hold on tighter or throw it against the wall. “Then that’s worse,” she whispers.

Catherine frowns, chest tightening. “Worse how?”

“Because then…” Ann trails off, swallowing hard. Her eyes dart away, fixing on the floor, the table, anywhere but Catherine. “Because then I don’t know what the hell to do with that.”

Catherine wants to tell her to just take it for what it is. That she's often told Ann that she cares about her, that she's important to her, and that nothing's gonna change that.

But she doesn't. She doesn't tell her that. She just sits there, silently staring at Ann, who looks more and more uncomfortable.

“Right. Well, I guess you'd know,” Ann says, her tone dry.

“Never said I would.”

Ann lets out a sad little snort. “Yeah well, didn't have to.”

Catherine knows Ann is hurt, but that doesn't stop her from flinching at the force behind those words.

“You want me to go?” The words tumble out before she can stop them, and she curses herself immediately for how they sound: too vulnerable, too exposed. But once they’re out, Catherine doesn’t know how to take them back.

Ann’s eyes snap to hers, startled. “What?”

Catherine’s breath catches, her heart thudding painfully in her chest. She opens her mouth to respond, but the words get tangled up in her throat. “I mean—” She stumbles over herself, struggling to find the right thing to say. “You keep sayin’ I didn’t have to come up. Didn’t have to stick around. And I feel like you'd rather be alone, so, if you really want me to go, I'll go.”

Ann inhales sharply, like Catherine just punched the air out of her. Her hand twitches, like she’s about to reach out, but she doesn’t. She holds still, too still, her entire body wound tight as a wire.

It’s a lie. She knows it, Ann probably knows it too. But she needs to know whether that's what Ann wants.

The silence stretches, long enough that Catherine almost wishes she could take the words back.

“Don’t.”

The single word cracks in the middle, and Catherine feels it like a strike straight to the chest. Her breath catches, heart hammering.

“Then stop pushing me away,” she says, her voice hoarse.

Ann’s face twists, caught between anger and sadness, and something that looks a hell of a lot like fear. “I don’t know how,” she admits, the words tearing out of her like they cost her everything.

Catherine exhales shakily, her heart hammering so loud it drowns out everything else. She doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to fix this.

“I just… It’s complicated,” Ann adds.

Catherine looks down, breaking eye contact. There's too much going on in Ann's dark eyes, too much she doesn't understand, and too much she worries she does.

Ann’s hand stays curled tight around the mug, her knuckles pale against the ceramic. She doesn’t drink, not really. Just cradles it like the warmth might hold her together. Her eyes fix on a blank patch of wall over Catherine’s shoulder, as if it can steady her better than Catherine’s face.

“I don’t know how to do this,” she says finally, her voice low and rough, like gravel scraped over stone.

Catherine blinks. The words make her throat tighten. “Do what?”

Ann’s hand jerks slightly as she gestures between them, the motion sharp and awkward, a parody of casualness. “This. You. Me. Whatever the hell we’re doing here.”

Catherine tries to laugh, but it comes out thin. “We’re just talkin’.”

The protest doesn’t even sound convincing to her own ears.

“Yeah. Talkin’.” Ann shrugs, but her shoulders don’t lift properly. It’s the sort of shrug you do when you’re already crushed down. The sight of it twists something in Catherine’s chest. She has to fight the urge to get up, cross the space between them, and put her arms around her.

But she doesn’t. Instead, she sinks further back into the sofa, putting deliberate distance between herself and the rawness in Ann’s voice. It feels wrong, cowardly even, but she doesn’t know what else to do with the ache in her ribs. She wants to make it better, but she’s terrified of saying the wrong thing, terrified of tipping them into a place they can’t come back from.

She clears her throat, tries for lightness, though it comes out brittle. “You’re overthinking it, you know. Doesn’t have to be complicated.”

Ann’s eyes flick to her, sharp and wounded at once. “Oh, and you’re the expert, are you?”

The words sting, sharper than Catherine expects. She hadn’t meant to sound dismissive, but Ann’s tone makes it feel as though she’s been careless. Catherine looks down at her hands, flexes them against her knees. “Didn’t mean it like that,” she mutters, softer now. “I just meant—well, we don’t need to tie ourselves into knots, do we?”

“Then why are you still here?”

Ann doesn’t raise her voice. She doesn’t even look at Catherine when she says it. Just delivers it flat, almost off-hand, as if the question means nothing. But it’s laced with something sharper, an edge that makes Catherine flinch all the same.

For a beat she says nothing. Her instinct is to leave, to give Ann what she’s clearly asking for—space, silence, anything that isn’t her. But that feels wrong too. Her chest aches with the thought of walking out the door and leaving Ann to sit here, hunched around her mug like she’s got nothing else to hold on to.

So instead, Catherine pushes herself up. “I’ll put the kettle on,” she says, forcing her voice into something steady. “I think we could both use a cuppa.”

Ann doesn’t answer straight away. Just hums vaguely, her eyes still glued to that patch of wall. It isn’t permission, not exactly, but it isn’t refusal either. Catherine takes it as enough.

The kitchen is only a few steps away, but the distance feels like a reprieve. Catherine flicks the switch on the kettle and leans against the counter, closing her eyes. She draws in a breath, lets it out slowly, then another. The sharpness of Ann’s words still pricks at her, but beneath the sting there’s something stubborn and unshakable. She doesn’t want to leave. Not like this.

While the kettle begins to rumble, Catherine busies herself with mugs, milk, teabags; looks for the sugar, just for herself, her hands slightly steadier now that they have something to do. She opens a cupboard, rummages until she finds an orange packet. Jaffa Cakes. Half of it gone already. She smiles faintly despite herself, tears open the packaging, and wonders whether this is the same pack she gave Ann all those months ago.

Before she heads back in, she calls over her shoulder, voice gentle. “Stealing your Jaffa Cakes. You want some?”

There’s a pause. She almost thinks Ann won’t answer. Then, softer than before: “Yeah. Ta.”

Catherine brings the mugs and Jaffa Cakes and sets them on the low table. She hands Ann her mug without a word, then sits back on the sofa with her own. Ann takes one of the cakes and chews slowly. Catherine has one too, and it feels good to put something other than a liquid inside of her.

The telly flickers in the background, all bright adverts and canned laughter. The sound fills the space, but neither of them pays it much mind. Ann eats her Jaffa Cake like it’s a task to get through. Catherine sips her tea, and lets the silence spool out.

Time drifts. The flat feels suspended, neither of them moving much, the air heavy but not unbearable. Catherine watches the way Ann’s thumb rubs absently at the rim of her mug, a restless little motion, as though she’s trying to anchor herself.

Eventually Catherine sets her tea down and clears her throat. “I should get going,” she says, keeping her tone even, casual. “It’s late.”

Ann’s head snaps up, faster than Catherine expects. “Why?” The word comes out sharp, almost too quick, like it surprises Ann as much as it does Catherine. A beat later, her voice drops. “I mean, stay. Please.”

Catherine freezes, half-risen from the sofa. She stares at Ann, caught completely off guard by the raw honesty in her voice. This is the second time tonight that Ann's asked her to stay, and Catherine doesn't have it in her not to listen. She just lowers herself back down, quiet and steady, heart thudding in her chest.

It takes a moment for her to process that she'll be staying at Ann’s, and once she does, she digs out her phone. She sends Clare a text, just so she won't be worried in the morning when she sees Catherine hasn't been to bed, and then she sets an alarm for her shift, which is in so few hours she might as well stay awake. 

When she drops her phone on the table and drinks the last bit of her tea, she realises that the silence is heavier than before, but not suffocating. Catherine studies Ann’s face in the flicker of the television. Her jaw is tight, her lashes lower too quickly, and her lips twitch in a way that makes Catherine’s chest ache. Catherine feels the fierce, almost desperate urge to protect her, to fold her into safety, even if it means breaking herself open to do it.

After a long stretch she speaks, voice gentler now. “Why d’you want me to stay? Won’t it just make things harder?”

Ann lets out a breath, long and uneven. Her shoulders twitch in a half-shrug. She keeps her gaze fixed on the television. “Yeah. Maybe. But I don’t want to be on my own tonight. I… I miss it. You and me. The way it used to be, before all this. Just mates, you know? Before everything got complicated.”

The admission lands between them like something fragile, delicate enough to break if touched too roughly. Catherine’s throat tightens. She misses it too, with a sharpness that makes her chest ache. But she swallows the words back. Instead, she nods, the smallest movement. “Alright then.” A pause. “What d’you need?”

Ann shakes her head quickly, embarrassed, eyes darting anywhere but Catherine’s. “I don’t know. Nothing. Forget I said anything.”

But Catherine can see the shine in her eyes, the way her jaw clamps shut like she’s holding back more than words. She waits a beat, then says softly, “Come sit here, then. On the sofa. With me.”

Ann lets out a small, uneven laugh. “What for?”

“Because you’re wound up like a spring, and you're gonna end up making me tense.” Catherine pats the cushion beside her. “Come on. Or I’ll wedge myself into that chair with you, and then you really will have something to complain about.”

That earns the faintest flicker of a smile, reluctant but real. Ann hesitates, mug still clutched in her hands, then sets it down on the table. She rises slowly and crosses to the sofa, her movements cautious, like every step is a decision. She sits down, not close enough to touch, but near enough that the space between them hums with a restless sort of energy. Her shoulders are tight, her back straight, hands twisted together in her lap as though she needs them anchored.

Catherine watches her for a beat, chest aching. Then she makes the smallest move, just a gentle nudge of her shoulder against Ann’s. A bump, light and deliberate.

Ann goes rigid. Not the cold stiffness of rejection, but the bracing tension of someone barely holding it together. Her breath catches in her throat, and she doesn’t lean away. If anything, there’s the faintest tilt of her body, the briefest shift towards Catherine before she stills again. Catherine can feel the trembling effort it takes for Ann not to simply give in.

The air feels charged, fragile. Catherine swallows, then thinks, to hell with it. She slides her arm around Ann’s shoulders, slow but steady, pulling her in with a firmness that leaves no room for retreat. And that’s it: the last thread snaps. Ann makes a broken sound in her throat, half-breath, half-sob, and collapses into her side. All the brittle resistance melts away at once, leaving only the rawness beneath.

Her forehead presses against Catherine’s neck, hot and damp with sudden tears. Her hands, useless in her lap a moment ago, clutch now at Catherine’s jumper, holding on like she’ll drown if she lets go. Her shoulders shake, sharp little tremors that turn into full shudders as the dam bursts. Catherine gathers her close, both arms around her now, steadying her, anchoring her.

“Shh,” she murmurs, cheek against Ann’s hair, voice low and certain. “It’s alright. I’m here.”

Ann doesn’t answer, but the sound of her crying is muffled against Catherine’s skin, raw and unguarded. For the first time all night, she stops fighting herself. She sinks in fully, pressing against Catherine’s side, her face tucked into the hollow beneath her jaw. Catherine can feel the heat of her breath through the fabric of her jumper, the dampness spreading where Ann doesn’t bother to hide her tears anymore.

So Catherine just holds her. One hand stroking absently along her arm, the other firm across her back, keeping her there, giving her the steadiness she so clearly needs. Minutes slip past, blurred by the rhythm of Ann’s ragged breathing and the steady rise and fall of Catherine’s chest.

Eventually, the shaking slows. Ann grows heavier against her, exhausted by the storm. Catherine stays still, even when her own muscles begin to complain, unwilling to disturb her. But at last, pins and needles prickle along her hip, and she shifts slightly, trying to ease it.

Ann stirs, mumbling something incoherent against her neck, but she doesn’t move away. If anything, she clings tighter. Catherine huffs a soft, almost pained laugh and tilts them sideways, guiding Ann gently down with her. The sofa’s back cushions catch her shoulders, and Ann ends up curled into her, her face buried against Catherine’s chest and jumper, her arms wrapped around her middle as though the idea of letting go is unbearable.

“Better,” Catherine whispers, adjusting just enough to stretch her legs. She keeps one hand at the back of Ann’s head, fingers threaded lightly through her hair, grounding her.

Ann gives no reply, no protest. Just a small, shaky exhale against her, the kind that speaks more than words. She’s tucked close now, her body curved naturally into Catherine’s, as if they’ve always fit this way. The telly murmurs in the background, forgotten, but neither of them moves to turn it off.

For the first time in months, maybe longer, Catherine feels Ann stop bracing. The tension hasn’t gone, but here, like this, Ann lets herself rest.

Catherine stays still, careful, the weight of Ann against her both grounding and unbearably tender. The damp patch on her jumper cools as Ann’s tears dry, and Catherine can hear the hitch in her breathing ease into something slower, steadier.

She risks a glance down. Ann’s face is mostly hidden against her chest, but the perpetual frown is gone, and she looks less guarded. The sight knocks something loose inside Catherine, a tenderness so sharp it almost hurts.

Catherine exhales through her nose, long and quiet, and lets her hand drift once through Ann’s hair, slow enough not to disturb her. The strands catch against her fingers, fine and familiar. Ann doesn’t stir, just shifts faintly closer, a small unconscious burrow like she’s found the safest place left to her.

Catherine’s eyes close. She presses her cheek against the top of Ann’s head, and lets the quiet of the room settle around them—the faint drone of the telly, the rhythm of Ann’s breath, the steady thud of her own heart where Ann’s ear must rest.

Sleep won’t come easy. Catherine knows her mind will keep working, circling, chewing over things she won’t say aloud. But Ann is warm against her, and maybe that alone will be enough to lull her to sleep, even if only for a few hours.

Chapter Text

Catherine wakes to the sound of her alarm, and the moment she turns it off, it's quiet. For a moment, she thinks Ann must still be asleep, tucked up on the sofa beside her. But the cushions are cold, and there's a blanket draped over her. Two mugs sit washed and drying on the rack. Catherine’s mug. Ann’s mug. She’s gone.

It shouldn’t sting. But it does.

Catherine sits up, rubbing at the knot in her neck where she’d fallen asleep slumped sideways. Ann's flat is small, but it feels too big, too empty, without the sound of Ann’s breathing in the background. She forces herself upright, muttering at her stiff back, and puts the kettle on.

She tells herself it was nothing. Just one of those nights, Ann breaking down after too much weight on her shoulders, Catherine being decent enough to hold her till it passed. Anyone would’ve done the same. That’s all.

But the warmth lingers in her chest, sharper than she’d like.

*

The station is humming when Catherine walks in, chatter bouncing off the tiled floor, phones ringing like they’ve been cursed. She’s halfway to her office when Joyce hollers from the front desk.

“Oi! Grumpy. Over here.”

Catherine detours with a sigh, though she can’t hide the tug at her mouth. Joyce has that bright-eyed look, ready to pounce.

“What’s up?” Catherine leans on the counter.

“What’s up is, how’s Ann getting home tonight? Or is she just kipping at yours again?”

Catherine blinks. “What?”

Joyce raises her brows. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.”

“Forgotten what?”

“The pub. Tonight. Me, you, Ann. You swore blind you’d come, weeks ago.”

Catherine stares at her, trying to dig through the clutter in her brain. Then it lands. Right. That bloody night out Joyce’s been on about since what feels like 1995. Catherine groans, scrubbing a hand down her face. “Christ almighty.”

Joyce smirks. “You’ve forgotten.”

“I hadn’t forgotten, I just…” Catherine gestures vaguely. “Temporarily misplaced the information.”

“Mm.” Joyce tilts her head. “So what’s the plan? She going home, or back to yours?”

It takes Catherine a second too long to process whom Joyce means. “Ann?”

“Do you have another woman staying at yours regular as clockwork?”

Catherine narrows her eyes. “You’re a menace.”

Joyce grins, satisfied, and swivels back to her computer. “Sort it, Catherine.”

Catherine mutters something rude under her breath, pushing away from the desk. She heads down the corridor, boots loud on the lino. She knows Joyce will be sat there smirking to herself all morning.

Ann’s in the little meeting room off the main corridor, a file open in front of her. She looks up when Catherine taps on the frame.

“Alright?” Ann says.

“Yeah. You?”

“Fine.” She gestures at the folder. “Trying to make sense of this mess.”

Catherine nods, steps inside. For a moment she just stands there, hand on her hip, before blurting, “Listen. About tonight.”

Ann blinks. “Tonight?”

Catherine huffs. “Apparently, we’ve agreed to go to the pub with Joyce. Weeks ago. And I’ve only just remembered.”

Something flickers across Ann’s face. Amusement, maybe. “Right.”

“So,” Catherine goes on, shifting her weight. “D’you want to go home after, or… come back to mine?”

The words sound clumsy even as she says them. She clears her throat. “I mean, saves you getting a taxi, doesn’t it?”

Ann tilts her head, lips twitching. “You’re asking if I’d rather sleep at yours.”

“Well, yeah.” Catherine scratches at the back of her neck. “Not the first time.”

There’s a beat. Then Ann says lightly, “Sure. Whatever’s easiest.”

“Right. Good.” Catherine nods too fast. “Mine, then.”

Ann’s smile lingers, small and knowing, before she turns back to her folder. Catherine stands there another second, entirely too warm, then retreats with a muttered excuse.

*

By evening, the three of them are wedged into a corner table at a noisy pub in Hebden Bridge. Half the force seems to drift through here at one point or another, even the ones pretending they’ve better things to do. Today, the place is half-full, voices raised over music and clinking glasses. Joyce has already bullied Catherine into buying the first round, and now sits smug with her gin and tonic.

“You’re slow,” Joyce says as Catherine finally settles with her pint.

“Go to hell,” Catherine mutters, but her mouth quirks.

Ann laughs quietly, lifting her glass of red wine. The sound warms Catherine more than the alcohol does.

They talk shop, the way they always do when they’re out. Joyce demands stories, gleeful at the chaos. Catherine supplies them: chases, daft excuses from suspects, the lot—with Ann stepping in to fill the gaps.

By the third round, Joyce is rosy-cheeked, leaning back with a satisfied sigh. “You two are bloody good, you know that?”

Ann arches a brow. “Good?”

“At your jobs.” Joyce waves her glass. “Proper team. Like bloody Batman and Robin.”

Catherine snorts. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not wrong,” Joyce insists. “Ask anyone. Half the station says you’re the best pair they’ve had in years.”

Ann laughs again, shaking her head. “I think you’re overselling it.”

“Not at all.” Joyce points at her. “You’re sharp as a tack, you. And Catherine—” she gestures the other way “—you’re a nightmare, but you get things done.”

Catherine raises her pint in mock salute. “Cheers.”

It’s easy. Too easy. Catherine finds herself watching Ann when she’s not looking, the way her eyes crinkle when she smiles, the curve of her mouth. She drinks too fast, laughs too loud, but Ann doesn’t seem to mind.

Later, when Joyce heads to the bar again, Ann leans closer across the table. Her voice is softer now, half lost in the pub’s noise.

“You know,” she says, “she’s not wrong.”

Catherine frowns. “What d’you mean?”

“You are good. At what you do. People trust you.” Ann’s gaze is steady, unguarded in a way Catherine rarely sees. “Even when they think you’re a nightmare.”

Catherine feels heat rise to her face. She covers it with a scoff. “That’s the drink talking.”

Ann smiles faintly. “Maybe.”

Her cheeks are flushed, whether from drink or from the heat of the room Catherine can’t tell, and Joyce returns then, clattering fresh glasses on the table.

The moment shifts, and pretty soon Joyce is in her element, regaling them both with one of her endless supply of stories from her years in uniform.

“I’m tellin’ you,” Joyce says, leaning forward with relish, “this lad, barely out of nappies, thinkin’ he’s hard ‘cause he torched his ex-girlfriend’s Corsa. Bright orange thing, went up like a bloody bonfire. He’s sat there in the station with me for two hours while they’re sorting his paperwork, droning on about how women are impossible, how none of us know what we want.”

Ann snorts into her wine. Catherine, already smiling, shakes her head.

“Two hours,” Joyce continues, “and I ignored him, best I could, but then he goes, ‘reckon you should be glad you only have to deal with blokes. Women—too much drama.’”

Her expression is all mock-serious now, eyes flicking between them, and Catherine can see the punchline coming.

“So I says to him—‘Aye, son, you’re right. Women are complicated. Which is exactly why you can’t manage ‘em, and I can.’”

Ann bursts out laughing, almost choking. Catherine chuckles, lifting her pint.

Joyce isn’t finished. “And then, cheeky bugger, he leans forward like he’s caught me out, and asks if I’ve ever even been with a woman. So, naturally, I gave him what he deserved. Didn’t answer, didn’t argue, just winked at him… and slapped Catherine’s arse as she was walking past.”

Ann lets out a proper laugh, loud and delighted, smacking her hand on the table. Catherine nearly spits her drink.

“Hang on—” she sets her glass down with a thud, staring at Joyce. “That’s why you slapped my arse that day?!”

Joyce sits back with all the satisfaction of someone who knows she’s landed it. “Course it was. He nearly swallowed his own tongue.”

Ann is doubled over now, laughter spilling out, one hand gripping the table edge. “Oh, God—that’s brilliant.”

Catherine narrows her eyes, but she’s grinning despite herself. “I thought you’d just gone mad.”

“Not yet, love,” Joyce says, smug. “Give it time.”

The three of them collapse into laughter again, drawing a few curious glances from neighbouring tables, but none of them care. The warmth of it lingers, even when the conversation drifts on to other things: anecdotes from jobs, disasters on patrol, the kind of stories only coppers can tell without flinching.

By the time Joyce excuses herself to step outside and phone her lift, Ann is leaning heavily on the table, propping her chin in her hand and watching Catherine with bleary fondness. Her face is flushed, eyes glassy but bright. She’s been talking too much—words spilling without her usual caution—and Catherine’s been letting her, only half trying to keep up.

“You know what it is about you,” Ann says suddenly, her finger wagging in Catherine’s vague direction, “you don’t flinch.”

Catherine frowns. “What?”

“You don’t. Other people, when things get ugly, when folk are messy, or… or falling apart, you don’t pull back. You just… stay. Like it’s the most normal thing in the world.”

Catherine shifts, uneasy under the weight of that. “Well. Somebody’s got to.”

Ann smiles, slow and sloppy, but there’s heat in her eyes. “That’s what I mean. You think it’s nothing, just… part of the job. But it isn’t. Most people can’t do that. Most people… look away.”

Catherine can’t think of an answer, so she reaches for her drink instead, takes a swallow that does nothing to stop the tightness in her throat.

Ann leans closer, voice dropping. “And you’ve got that laugh.”

Catherine glances at her sidelong. “What laugh?”

“That laugh that fills a room. You don't laugh enough, but when you do, it’s like—it makes other people want to, too. Like it gives them permission. Makes people feel… I dunno, safe? Makes ‘em feel like they belong.” Ann swirls the dregs of her glass, staring into it for a beat. “When you laugh, it’s like… like you’re saying everything’s alright, even when it isn’t.”

Catherine huffs. “Well. That’s poetic.”

Ann ignores the jab, her gaze flicking to Catherine’s hands where they rest on the table. “And your hands.”

“Not this again,” Catherine mutters.

Ann ignores her, drifting on. “You've got good hands. Big, strong hands. I like ‘em.”

That makes Catherine splutter. “Alright, steady on.”

“I’m serious! They’re good hands. Strong. Capable. You don’t know how much comfort’s in them.” She blinks, the seriousness of it making her more sober for half a breath. “You’ve held me up more times than you’ll ever realise.”

Catherine clears her throat, tries to steady herself with another sip. Then, casually, “Speaking of. You disappeared this morning.”

Ann freezes, her glass halfway to her lips.

“I mean, I got up and you were gone,” Catherine presses, trying to keep it light, as though it isn’t lodged in her chest. “Didn’t even leave a note.”

Ann looks down, setting the glass aside. “Didn’t want to wake you.”

“You were alright, though?”

A shrug, but there’s tension in her shoulders. “Had to be. What else would I be?”

“Ann.” Catherine’s tone softens, too much for her own comfort.

Ann finally looks up, her smile a little crooked. “You can’t keep rescuing me, Catherine.”

Catherine shrugs, feigning casual. “Maybe I want to.”

That earns her a laugh, rough and fond. “You’re impossible.”

There’s a beat of silence, Ann leaning her head more heavily against her hand, studying Catherine openly, like she’s searching for something. Then, almost to herself, she murmurs, “You don’t even know how good you are, do you?”

Her voice dips softer at the end, almost lost under the noise surrounding them, but Catherine hears it.

And she has no idea what to do with that. She can feel her ears heating, so she ducks her head, trying not to smile too much, but Ann’s gaze is so open, so unguarded, it’s impossible not to be affected.

Joyce reappears, tugging her coat on. “Car’ll be here in a tick.”

The three of them drift outside, the cool night air a relief after the stuffy pub. Ann sways slightly as they wait, leaning into Catherine without seeming to notice. Catherine steadies her with a hand at her waist, pretending it’s nothing, but her pulse jumps all the same.

Joyce is glued to her phone, squinting at the screen to make sure she doesn’t miss a text. Ann mutters something under her breath and then looks up at Catherine, eyes glassy and soft. “You’re really, really pretty, you know that?”

Catherine laughs nervously. “You’re pissed.”

“Doesn’t make it less true.” Ann sighs, letting more of her weight sink against her. “Bet you walk around every day not realising you’re just… brilliant.”

Joyce looks up briefly, eyebrow raised, but she doesn’t comment, only shakes her head with a faint smile.

A car pulls up at the kerb, headlights sweeping over them. Joyce’s ride. She gives them both a once-over, clearly considering whether to insist they pile in with her, but Catherine waves it off.

“It’s the opposite way. We’ll walk. Fresh air’ll do us good.”

Joyce doesn’t argue. She just smirks, pulling her door open. “Don’t get into trouble, you two.”

“Us?” Catherine says, all mock-offence.

Joyce only laughs, sliding into the passenger seat. Then she’s gone, and the street is quieter, leaving just Catherine and Ann under the yellow wash of a streetlamp.

Ann clutches her arm as they set off, more stumbling than walking, her laugh bubbling up every few steps. “You’re very… solid.”

“That’s flattering, that is,” Catherine says dryly, keeping an arm firmly around her to stop her toppling into the gutter.

“No, it is,” Ann insists, tugging at her sleeve. “Like—if everything else fell apart, you’d still be there.”

Catherine shakes her head, but her throat feels tight. She tries to keep it light. “You’re full of compliments tonight.”

Ann giggles, the sound warm and ridiculous. “Well, you’re my favourite person. Did you not know that?”

Catherine freezes for just a second, then laughs it off, adjusting her grip as Ann nearly trips over a loose paving stone. “Alright, come on. Nearly home.”

They make a crooked path down the street, Catherine half-carrying her at points, Ann nattering on with half-drunk confessions and nonsense, all of it directed at her. And Catherine, for all her attempts at brushing it off, can’t quite hide the way she leans in, the way her hand lingers a moment longer on Ann’s back, steadying her.

When they finally reach Catherine’s door, Ann’s still smiling up at her as if she’s the only person in the world who matters. She’s leaning on her properly, legs unsteady, muttering under her breath about uneven pavements. Catherine wrestles the key into the lock, trying not to laugh, then shoulders them both inside.

They stumble through the front door, Ann’s arm heavy across Catherine’s shoulders.

“Right. Come on, let’s get you settled.” Catherine says, kicking the door shut and shrugging her coat off one-handed, careful not to let Ann topple. 

“Sit down before you fall down,” she orders, steering Ann onto the sofa.

Ann drops heavily, head tipping back, hair tumbling loose, coat still half-on. Catherine shakes her head, crouches, and starts working the sleeves free. “Arms,” she instructs.

Ann laughs faintly, trying and failing to help. “Bossy.”

“Efficient,” Catherine corrects. She tugs one sleeve down, then the other, her hands brushing Ann’s shoulders and sides more than they strictly need to. She lingers a second longer than she should, smoothing the fabric from Ann’s arm, steadying her when Ann sways.

Ann tilts her head towards her, their faces suddenly close. Her voice drops to a whisper, warm against Catherine’s ear. “Bit handsy, aren’t you?”

Catherine pulls back, cheeks colouring. “Just getting your coat off.”

“Mm,” Ann hums, clearly unconvinced, but she doesn’t press. She leans back, eyes half-shut, as if pleased to have got under Catherine’s skin.

Catherine straightens, hands on hips. “Shoes next.”

“They’ll be fine,” Ann mutters.

“They’re half undone, you’ll trip when you stagger to the loo in the dark.” Catherine kneels, reaching for the zip of Ann’s boot.

Ann shifts her leg away. “Oi. I can—”

“You can barely keep your eyes open.” Catherine catches her ankle firmly, not unkindly, and tugs the boot free. She sets it neatly aside and works on the other.

Ann huffs, but when Catherine looks up she’s smirking faintly, something softer behind it. “You enjoy this, don’t you? Playing nursemaid.”

“I enjoy not scraping you off the floor tomorrow,” Catherine retorts, sliding the second boot free.

Ann lets her, quiet now, and Catherine notices the way her shoulders ease once her feet are bare.

“Water,” Catherine says briskly, rising and fetching a glass from the kitchen. She presses it into Ann’s hand. “All of it. Now.”

Ann groans but obeys, sipping, then drinking more steadily under Catherine’s watchful eye. She hands back the empty glass with a rueful smile. “You’ll make someone a very strict wife one day.”

Catherine arches a brow. “One day?”

Ann chuckles, voice low. “Alright. Already are.”

Catherine ignores the heat in her chest at that, setting the glass aside. “Anything else you want off?” she asks dryly, more to distract herself than anything.

Ann’s smile goes sly, but her eyelids are heavy. “Depends what you’re offerin’.”

Catherine rolls her eyes, though her lips twitch. “My bed. That’s it.”

She bends to help Ann up, who shakes her head weakly.

“Tempting, but don’t fuss like I’m broken. I just want sleep. Here's fine.”

“On this old thing?” Catherine asks quietly. “It'll fall apart if you breathe wrong.”

“S'fine,” Ann mutters, letting her body slide down along the backrest until she almost looks comfortable, all curled up.

“Stubborn girl, you are.” Catherine sighs and shrugs helplessly. “I'm gettin’ you a proper blanket, at least. That one won't keep you warm,” she says, rummaging through one of the drawers nearby.

“Give it ‘ere, then,” Ann concedes, softer now, “but you better sleep in your bed. You’ll wake up with a bad back out there, and I’ll feel guilty.”

Catherine hesitates. Ann doesn’t look at her when she says it, but her tone has that rough edge, like it’s hiding something gentler underneath. Not quite pleading, but vulnerable in a way that makes Catherine ache.

“Fine,” Catherine relents softly. “But if you freeze your arse off—”

“I won’t.”

She leaves it at that, though unease prickles at her. Half an hour later, sleep won’t come. Catherine lies flat on her back staring at the ceiling, sheets twisted, thoughts circling. Every time she shuts her eyes, she sees Ann on the sofa: proud and careless when she’s awake, small and fragile the moment sleep claimed her. It needles at her until finally she swings her legs out of bed with a muttered curse, pulls on her jumper, and pads downstairs under the pretence of needing water.

The living room is dim, streetlight spilling through the curtains. Ann is curled tight on the sofa, blanket slipping down around her waist, shoulders drawn up like she’s bracing even in sleep. Catherine lingers in the doorway for a moment, watching her chest rise and fall, uneven at first, then settling. Something in her softens.

She crosses the room, crouches beside her, and tucks the blanket more securely over her. Without thinking, she brushes a strand of hair back from Ann’s face, fingertips grazing her temple.

“See,” Ann mumbles suddenly, voice thick with sleep, eyes still shut. “You’re fussing.”

Catherine startles, breath catching. “Go to sleep,” she whispers, low, almost scolding to cover how her heart’s racing.

Ann’s hand flutters out blindly, clumsy, searching. It catches Catherine’s and holds on for a second too long before letting go, the warmth of it lingering in Catherine’s palm.

Catherine stays crouched by the sofa a moment longer, pulse rattling in her chest, then forces herself upright. She tells herself she’s done enough—blanket tucked in, water drunk, coat off—and heads for the stairs. But the sound of Ann shifting behind her, restless even in her half-asleep state, pulls her up short. She looks back. Ann’s curled too tightly, her shoulders hunched, breath uneven, face pressed into the cushion as though she’s bracing for something. Catherine hesitates, jaw tight, then blows out a slow sigh.

“You’ll do yourself in on there,” she mutters, more to herself than anything.

She crosses back, crouches again, and touches Ann’s shoulder gently. “Ann.”

A muffled groan. Ann turns her head just enough to squint up at her, hair in her face, eyes bleary and unfocused.

“You’ll wake up in bits,” Catherine says, tone gruff but quiet. “Neck’ll be killing you. Come upstairs.”

Ann blinks, clearly trying to piece the words together. “Eh?”

“My bed. You can kip there. Sofas aren’t for sleepin’ on.”

For a moment, Ann just stares. Then, slowly, a crooked smile spreads across her face. “You invitin’ me to bed, Sergeant?” Her voice is thick, heavy with drink, but her eyes glint with something looser, unguarded.

Heat climbs Catherine’s neck, and she covers it with a scowl. “Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m doin’. I’m not havin’ you cripple yourself for the sake of pride.”

Ann chuckles, low and tipsy, and pushes herself upright with effort. “You’re very persuasive, you know that?”

“Yeah, well, I’ve had practice.” Catherine offers her arm again, steadying her as she staggers upright. Ann leans in closer than she needs to, shoulder pressed into Catherine’s, warm and heavy. She smells of wine and perfume, sweet and sharp all at once. Catherine keeps her face set, but her chest tightens with the weight of it.

The climb is slow, Ann clinging to the banister with one hand and Catherine with the other, blanket trailing behind like some ridiculous cape. By the time they reach the landing, Ann’s laughing breathlessly at her own clumsiness.

“Shh,” Catherine mutters in a low hiss, eyes flicking towards the doors on either side. “Ryan and Clare are sleeping.”

Ann bites down on her laugh, eyes widening, then softens into something else entirely—half guilt, half tenderness. “Oh,” she whispers, quiet now. “Right.” For a moment she looks younger, caught off guard by the reminder that this isn’t just their own little world. Catherine feels the tug in her chest and looks away too quick.

At her bedroom door, she tightens her hold as Ann fumbles, and Ann leans in close, lips grazing Catherine’s ear. “Bet you’ve smuggled folk upstairs before.” The tease is unsteady but wicked, drunk but intentional.

Catherine freezes just a second too long, door handle still in her hand. Heat creeps up her throat before she forces a scoff. “Don’t talk daft.”

Ann grins, slow and sly, watching her. “Not daft. You’ve got that look… like you’ve done this before.”

“I’ve dragged drunk mates ‘round my home before, aye,” Catherine mutters, pushing the door open sharper than she means to. “Doesn’t mean owt.”

Ann lets herself be steered inside, but her eyes linger on Catherine’s face, curious, soft around the edges. “Could mean summat,” she murmurs, a little singsong in her slur. “You’ve got secrets, Sergeant.”

“Everyone’s got secrets,” Catherine shoots back, too quick, yanking the duvet back with unnecessary force. “In you get. And stop callin’ me that.”

Ann collapses onto the mattress, still half-draped in the blanket, but there’s a glint in her eye as she wriggles into place. “Wouldn’t mind bein’ one of yours.”

Catherine’s heart stutters. She covers it with a snort, brisk and scolding. “Christ, you talk some rubbish when you’ve had a drink.”

Ann chuckles, low and rough with tiredness, then tilts her head, peering up at her through heavy lids. “Funny though,” she says, voice almost lazy, “how flustered you get. For someone who reckons she’s not got any feelings that way.”

The words hit sharper than they should. Catherine’s breath catches, just a flicker, before she folds her arms across her chest. “You’re half-cut, Ann. You don’t know what you’re on about.”

But her voice is softer now, defensive in a way that betrays her more than she wants.

Ann hums at that, not pushing further, but her faint smile says she’s noticed. She sinks back into the pillows with a satisfied little sigh.

“Comfier than the sofa already,” she mutters.

“Course it is. It’s a bed.” Catherine tugs the blanket free, shaking her head. “Shift up.”

Ann wriggles obligingly, sprawling across more space than she ought. Catherine rolls her eyes but doesn’t comment, just pulls the duvet over her. She’s turning to leave when Ann’s hand catches her wrist, clumsy but insistent.

“You’re not… you’re not going back downstairs, are you?”

Catherine stills, looks down at her. Ann’s eyes are wide, not sharp anymore, just open in a way that makes something twist in Catherine’s chest.

“‘Cause you’ll be cold in the conservatory,” Ann adds, softer now, her words slurring but earnest.

Catherine swallows. She should pull away, make a joke, something. Instead she sighs, tugging the jumper tighter around herself. “Shift over, then.”

Ann blinks, then grins faintly. “Didn’t think that’d work.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. It’s practicality.” Catherine toes her boots off, shrugs out of her jumper, and slides in beside her with a muttered, “Mind your elbows.”

The mattress dips with their combined weight. For a moment neither of them moves. Ann’s still grinning, eyes slipping shut, but her body is tense, as if she’s bracing for Catherine to pull away. Catherine lies on her back, staring at the ceiling, willing her pulse to steady.

Then Ann shifts, rolling onto her side. Her hand brushes against Catherine’s arm, light, tentative. She doesn’t push it further, just lets the contact linger, almost like a question.

Catherine exhales slowly, the sound heavy in the quiet. She doesn’t move away.

“You’re warm,” Ann mumbles, drifting already. “Knew you would be.”

Catherine shuts her eyes. “Go to sleep.”

But Ann edges a little closer, breath warm against Catherine’s shoulder. The faint weight of her arm drapes over Catherine’s own, loose but certain. It’s not a grab this time, not a drunken mistake—it’s deliberate, however fogged her mind is.

Catherine’s throat works. She tells herself to shift, to break the contact. She doesn’t. She lies still, every sense sharpened to the presence of the woman beside her, the rise and fall of her chest, the softness that seeps into her when she finally, finally relaxes.

Catherine stays awake long after Ann’s breathing steadies, her own arm hovering just short of curling back around hers. She never lets it, but the ache of wanting to lingers, heavy, all through the night.

*

Catherine wakes slowly, the kind of thick, reluctant waking that comes from too few hours of sleep. For a long moment she doesn’t move, eyes still closed, mind fogged. There’s weight in the bed beside her, the faint warmth of another body. It takes her a few seconds to place it, and then she remembers: Ann, the pub, the sofa, the blanket slipping, the soft hand on hers, the way she’d finally given in and brought her upstairs.

Her chest tightens.

She opens her eyes. The faintest grey is seeping around the edges of the curtains, early morning dragging itself in. The room is hushed, only the sound of breathing breaking it. But Ann is not curled against her like before. She’s shifted to the very edge of the mattress, back turned, blanket wrapped around herself like armour. Only the crown of her head shows, hair a dark tangle against the pillow.

Catherine pushes herself up on one elbow, careful not to jolt the bed. Ann’s shoulders are stiff, not the loose slump of sleep. Awake, then. And keeping distance.

“Morning,” Catherine says quietly, her voice low, rough with sleep.

Ann doesn’t answer at first. There’s a hesitation, just long enough to sting, before she says, “Didn’t mean to crowd you last night.” Her voice is soft, careful, the faint rasp of a hangover threading through it.

Catherine frowns. “You didn’t.”

Ann gives a small huff of breath that might be a laugh, but there’s no humour in it. “I did. Was a bit much. Sorry.”

The memory of her—sleep-heavy smile, the cling of her hand at Catherine’s wrist, the way she’d tucked herself in like it was the most natural thing in the world—burns bright and immediate in Catherine’s chest. But now Ann is coiled tight on the far side of the bed, blanket clutched, making herself small.

“You were drunk,” Catherine says simply.

“Exactly.” Ann shifts, as if to make her point clearer. “Said daft things. Don’t want you thinking I—” She cuts herself off, jaw tightening. “Don’t want you uncomfortable.”

Catherine lets the silence stretch for a beat, weighing her words. She could brush it off, make light of it, but the raw edge in Ann’s tone keeps her steady.

“You didn’t make me uncomfortable,” she says at last.

Ann stills, but doesn’t look back. “You’re kind,” she murmurs, so quiet Catherine nearly misses it.

Something twists in Catherine’s chest. She runs a hand over her face, exhales slowly. “Ann—” She breaks off, shakes her head. There’s too much she could say, none of it safe. “You’re freezing over there. Get under the duvet.”

Ann gives a soft laugh this time, brittle at the edges. “Think I’d better stay put.”

Catherine studies the curve of her back, the rigid set of her shoulders. Last night, Ann had melted into her with a trust that had felt almost like a confession. Now she’s pulled it all back, as if ashamed of it.

“You don’t have to do this,” Catherine says, quieter now. “Pretend it didn’t happen.”

Ann finally shifts, glancing at her over her shoulder. Her eyes are tired, shadowed, but there’s something fierce in them too. “Doesn’t mean it should happen again.”

Ann’s voice lingers in the still air, sharp as the snap of frost. Doesn’t mean it should happen again.

Catherine doesn’t answer straight away. She lies there, head propped slightly against the pillow, watching the thin line of Ann’s shoulders drawn taut beneath the blanket. The words had weight, but they’d also trembled, as if Ann had spoken them less to convince Catherine and more to convince herself.

Outside, the faintest song of the birds is beginning, cautious, the first call before dawn properly takes hold. The room is steeped in the half-light of morning, the kind that makes edges soft and indistinct. Catherine stares at that line of Ann’s back and feels the distance stretch between them, heavy, unwanted.

Finally, she says, low and even, “Who says it will?”

Ann doesn’t reply. She only shifts further toward the edge, pulling the blanket tight round her frame, as if to wrap herself away from the world.

Catherine exhales through her nose. Stubborn bloody woman. She swings her legs a little under the duvet, stretching out the stiffness in her calves, and lets the silence hang. There’s no point pushing Ann with words, she’ll only retreat further. Catherine knows her well enough to know that. Words make her cautious, defensive. It’s action that cuts through with Ann. Simple, undeniable action.

She rolls slightly closer across the mattress, careful not to crowd, just enough that the warmth of her body brushes against Ann’s cocooned form.

“You’re shivering,” Catherine mutters, voice firm, practical, nothing tender in tone though her chest aches with it.

Ann’s reply is muffled. “I’m not.”

“You are. Blanket’s thin as paper, you’ll freeze.” Catherine tugs lightly at the edge where it’s wrapped round Ann’s shoulder. Ann clutches tighter.

“Catherine, don’t—” Her voice is sharp, but there’s a quaver beneath it.

Catherine stops tugging. Instead, she rests a hand gently against Ann’s arm through the blanket. The contact is light, tentative, though her pulse drums hard in her throat. “Cold?” she asks softly.

Ann shifts, a stiff shrug, refusing to turn. “I’m fine.”

She doesn’t sound it.

Catherine draws a breath, slow and deliberate, steadying herself. Stop overthinking. She’s cold, she’s hurting, she won’t ask. That’s all that matters. She slides closer, careful but sure, fitting herself along Ann’s back. Her arm moves almost of its own accord, looping across the narrow space of Ann’s middle, the blanket crinkling beneath her hand.

Ann tenses instantly. “Catherine—” Her name lands like a warning, half desperate, half pleading.

“Shh.” Catherine’s voice is quiet, but firm, the tone she uses when she won’t brook nonsense. “Just sleep.”

The stillness stretches, sharp and taut. Catherine braces, heart hammering, waiting for Ann to pull away, to throw up the wall of distance again. But slowly, painfully slowly, she feels the tension drain out of Ann’s frame. Not entirely, not surrender, but enough that her rigid shoulders ease, her breath falling less uneven.

Catherine doesn’t move her arm. She leaves it there, curved gentle across Ann’s middle, hand splayed light against her stomach. The warmth seeps through thin fabric. It feels dangerous, this closeness, but she cannot bring herself to undo it.

A moment later, she feels it: Ann’s hand shifting, hesitant, then settling over hers. Not gripping, not holding, just resting there. A fragile, wordless admission.

Catherine closes her eyes. She tells herself—fiercely, stubbornly—that it’s only comfort, only warmth, nothing more. But Ann’s scent is tangled in her hair, faint sweetness beneath the dull tang of last night’s drink, and Ann’s body is pressed close enough that Catherine feels every breath she takes. It’s a lie too thin to believe.

Ann sighs, soft and tired, and Catherine feels it ripple against her palm more than she hears it. The sound slips straight into her chest, loosening something she’s kept locked down far too long.

For a while, neither of them speaks. The house holds them in its quiet, the kind of silence that makes every shift of breath feel heavy. Catherine stays very still, though her mind will not still at all. She watches the faint shape of Ann in the dim light, the rise and fall beneath her hand, and commits it all to memory as if afraid it might be taken away by morning.

Ann shifts faintly against her, as though even in half-sleep she’s resisting the comfort. Yet her body relaxes despite itself, breathing steady now, her hand still resting reluctantly over Catherine’s.

Then, almost too quiet to catch, Ann murmurs, blurred with exhaustion, “Don’t… let go.”

Catherine stills. The words slice straight through her, sharp as glass. She doesn’t think Ann is awake. Her voice is thick with fatigue, heavy and unguarded, but that almost makes it worse. Or better. Honest.

Her throat is dry. She doesn’t answer aloud. Instead, she tightens her arm the barest fraction, not enough to wake her, just enough to promise silently that she won’t.

Ann breathes out, a sound like surrender, and drifts fully into sleep.

Catherine lies awake, staring at the ceiling she can barely see in the greyness, heart aching with a warmth she can’t name. It feels unfair, this moment—Ann fighting herself to keep distance, Catherine giving her the closeness she secretly wants. If she were cruel, she’d call it taking advantage. But Catherine knows the truth. She feels it in the soft press of Ann’s hand, in the murmur she let slip. This is not just Ann’s burden. Catherine wants it just as much. Maybe more.

Time drags slowly. Dawn brightens by degrees, blue-grey seeping through the curtains, painting Ann’s hair in a faint sheen. Catherine dares not move, unwilling to break the fragile peace. The weight of Ann in her arms is grounding, solid in a way she hasn’t felt for years.

Her mind drifts. To the pub last night, Ann flushed with drink, laughter too loud, eyes too bright. To the way she’d stubbornly insisted on the sofa, only to be coaxed upstairs with a grumble and a teasing lilt. To the feel of Ann clutching her arm like she never wanted to let go.

And now here she is, trying to be good, to be distant, to protect something neither of them will name. Catherine almost smiles, weary and pained. Daft woman. You don’t fool me.

She shifts slightly, enough to press her cheek against the back of Ann’s shoulder, a quiet gesture of presence more than affection. Ann stirs but doesn’t wake. Catherine breathes her in, eyes closing, letting the warmth soak into her bones.

She knows she won’t sleep again, but she doesn’t mind. Holding Ann is enough. It has to be.

Chapter Text

The morning after Ann had stayed over, things ended with more silence than words—Ann careful, almost distant, Catherine pretending not to notice. She’s replayed it since: that odd weight in the kitchen, the smile that didn’t quite reach Ann’s eyes. She told herself it were for the best. Cleaner. Simpler. Friends.

Nothing to it. Worked well enough these past few weeks. But that was with work to distract her. And now?

Now Catherine’s wrist is bloody useless.

Two weeks back she’d gone arse-over-tit down a set of metal steps, chasing some scrote in the pissing rain. Slipped on the bottom flight, him going down with her, and she’d stuck both hands out like an idiot to break the fall. Spent a fortnight convincing herself it were nowt worse than a sprain, trying to rest it when she could, but it never settled. And then today, mid-tussle with another tosser, it’d gone off like firework. Mike’d packed her straight to A&E, no argument.

Turned out she’d knacked a ligament; not torn, thank Christ, but close enough to make the doctor deadly serious. Splint on, strict orders not to take it off, no matter what she thought. Catherine’d asked, hopeful, if she could slip it off now and then to shower, but the look she got told her everything. The only reason she's currently not in plaster is the swelling.

Now she’s pacing between kitchen and front door, phone wedged awkwardly against her shoulder, trying to herd Ryan from a distance while attempting to sound calm on the line to Richard.

“No, it’s fine, I’m fine, it’s not—well, it is painful, yeah, but I’ll manage. Just… I might need him off me hands for a couple o’ days, that’s all. Till I work out how much I can do one-handed. Nurse reckoned two weeks before I can even think about driving. So if you could just—”

From upstairs Ryan is hollering: “Gran! Which hoodie am I supposed to take?”

“Hang on,” Catherine tells Richard, voice already rising. “The blue one!” she shouts upstairs, then winces at the way it jars her wrist.

On the phone Richard’s sigh rattles down the line. “You should’ve said before if you’re struggling—”

“I’m not struggling,” she cuts him off, sharp. “I just can’t drive him to school or pick him up, can I? So unless you fancy him walking seven miles o’ moorland every morning—”

“It's not seven miles of—”

“It might as well be!” Catherine fumes. She knows it’s not Richard’s fault, she knows this is all her own doing, but she doesn’t have the patience right now to deal with his common sense.

There's a knock on the door.

“Hang on,” she mutters, juggling phone, wrist, and door handle. She yanks it open with her good hand, doesn’t even look, just shifts aside and keeps the phone pinned against her shoulder. “Yeah, come in. Bags on t’counter.” Then she’s climbing the stairs, barking upwards again: “Ryan, have you brushed your teeth yet?!”

There’s a faint voice from the hallway: “Hi.”

She doesn’t clock it. She’s busy unloading her irritation into the phone, explaining to Richard how he can actually help, if he’d just take the boy for a few nights; no, she doesn’t mind, no, she’s not going to lose a limb, no, she doesn't want his help other than that, she just wants a bit of space.

By the time she’s hung up, her wrist is throbbing and she can feel the start of a tension headache pressing behind her eyes. She pushes into the kitchen, intent on sticking the kettle on before Ryan comes down demanding God knows what.

And stops dead.

Ann is standing at her counter.

She’s almost through unpacking the shopping—the shopping Catherine had asked Daniel for, not Ann—and the sight of her here, sleeves pushed up, moving with quiet efficiency like she belongs, hits Catherine square in the chest. The fridge is shut already, tins stacked neat on the side, the table cleared. She’s even rinsed the plates that had been sitting in the sink from last night, left them to dry by the drainer.

Ann looks at her, faintly sheepish, though her hands don’t stop. “You’d a few things left to do, so I thought… well.” She shrugs, small. “Didn’t seem right, you straining wi’ that wrist.”

For once Catherine’s got no words. She stands there in the doorway, floored, her whole world tilting at the quiet domesticity of it—someone here, doing that for her, unasked.

Finally she clears her throat. “You're not Daniel.”

“I should think not,” Ann smiles slightly, but something in Catherine’s face makes her swallow and start anew. “He rang. Said he were held up. Asked if I’d mind.” Ann offers it matter-of-fact, though Catherine can see the flicker of nerves in her eyes, the way her mouth presses thin like she’s bracing for a rebuff.

Something prickles in Catherine. A mix of surprise, wariness, and a knee-jerk defensiveness she can’t swallow down fast enough.

Ryan barrels in before she can answer. “Gran, I can’t find me trainers—oh. Hi, Ann.” He pauses, frowns. “What’re you doin’ ‘ere?”

“Helpin’ your gran.” Ann’s voice is soft but steady. She glances at Catherine as if to ask if that’s all right.

Catherine exhales, rubs her temple with her good hand. “Go check under your bed, love. And don’t forget your toothbrush this time.”

He clatters away again, leaving silence in his wake.

Catherine sees it then—the way Ann’s shoulders hitch slightly, the shadow of uncertainty in her face. And instantly regrets the sharpness of her own reaction. She never meant to make her feel unwelcome. Bloody Daniel—asking Ann without telling her, leaving Ann to walk into this like she’s trespassing. Catherine feels the guilt coil, hot and sour.

She steps forward, softer now. “You know you’re welcome here. Any time. Daft sod should’ve told me he’d asked you.” The words come out gruff, but Catherine’s usual brand of affection only barely manages to hide under the complaint.

Ann’s eyes flicker at that, the tension in her shoulders easing a fraction. She nods, almost tentative, before busying herself with a tea towel.

Catherine moves toward the kettle, then realises she can’t manage filling it one-handed without making a mess, and swears under her breath. Before she can bark about managing fine, Ann’s already stepping in, taking the kettle from her, filling it under the tap. The movement’s quick, natural, no fuss.

Catherine watches, bristling half out of habit, half out of something she doesn’t want to name. “I can manage.”

“You can’t, though.” Ann sets the kettle back, switches it on, and looks her square in the eye. Not patronising, not pitying. Just steady. “Not wi’ that hand.”

Catherine huffs, but doesn’t argue. She drops herself onto a chair instead, cradling her sore wrist against her chest. She feels foolish, exposed. She’s always the one holding others up, never the one being fussed over.

Ann sits opposite her. Not crowding, not making a big deal. Just there.

There’s a minute of quiet, broken only by the soft rumble of the kettle. Catherine studies Ann, who is busying herself with mugs, teabags. There’s something oddly careful in the way she moves, like she doesn’t want to overstep.

“Why didn’t you say?” Ann asks eventually, not looking up.

“About what?”

“That you were hurt.” She glances then, quick, her gaze sharp. “I had to hear it from Daniel.”

Catherine shrugs, uncomfortable. “Didn’t seem worth makin’ a song and dance.”

Ann presses her lips thin. She doesn’t answer, but Catherine can feel that Ann feels left out. Maybe even hurt.

The kettle clicks off. Ann pours the tea, sets a mug gently in front of Catherine. Her hands are steady, but her eyes linger, soft with something like worry.

Catherine wraps her good hand round the mug, letting the warmth seep in. The silence between them is thick, not awkward, but heavy with things unsaid.

“Thanks,” she mutters at last.

Ann gives the smallest smile. “Someone’s got to look after you. Can’t do it all yourself.”

Catherine snorts, though it comes out softer than she means. “Been managing this long.”

“Doesn’t mean you’ve to keep on.”

That lands heavier than Ann probably intended. Catherine looks away, sipping her tea, throat tight. She feels suddenly, startlingly seen—and it rattles her more than she’d ever admit.

Upstairs, Ryan yells again. Catherine groans, pushes up from the chair, then winces when pain shoots up her side.

Ann is on her feet before she can stop her. “I’ll sort him,” she says quietly.

Catherine sinks back down, too weary to argue. She listens to Ann’s voice drifting upstairs, calm and firm, coaxing Ryan into finding his shoes, zipping his bag. Catherine sits there, staring at the empty doorway, heart hammering.

It’s nothing. Just kindness. Just Ann being decent.

Ann’s voice carries down the stairs, gentler than Catherine manages most days. There’s the sound of drawers opening, Ryan grumbling, then Ann laughing, amused and warm.

When they come down, Ryan’s backpack is properly zipped, his trainers tied. Ann’s smoothed the edge off his usual fluster without him even noticing.

“See? Not so hard,” she says as she steers him toward the hallway. “You’re all set.”

Ryan ducks his head, mutters a thanks, and Catherine clocks the way he’s easier, lighter round Ann. She ought to feel relieved, but instead something curls low in her stomach.

“When did you two become friends?” Catherine asks, voice a little rougher than she intends. She studies Ann, curious but prickly, noticing the way Ann’s shoulders stiffen for a fraction of a second.

Ann freezes, glancing up at her with a faint flush creeping across her cheeks. “Friends?” She lets out a breath, softens a touch, but not much, like she’s bracing for a telling-off. “I mean… he's a good kid, mostly. He’s not been talkin’ about—” she cuts herself short, her jaw tightening. “About that bastard. Not as much. So it's easier to be around him without making things awkward. I'm just… tryin’ to help, that's it.”

Catherine notices the edge beneath Ann’s words, the way she’s bracing herself, like she’s waiting for a lecture or a shove away. She can see the flicker of insecurity in her eyes, the subtle way she’s measuring Catherine’s reaction.

“Ann—” Ryan’s footsteps thunder down the hall and out the door before Catherine can say more.

Richard’s car pulls up outside, tyres crunching on the tarmac. Catherine hauls herself up from the table, ignoring the twinge in her wrist, and goes to the door.

“Don’t forget your bag,” she calls. Ryan groans, doubles back, and grabs it. Typical.

Richard’s out of the car, leaning on the roof. “You all right?”

Catherine gives him the sort of look that says ‘obviously not but don’t you dare comment’. “Fine. Just a sprain. You’ll have him a few days?”

“As long as you need.” His tone’s too smooth, too obliging, but she hasn’t the energy to spar.

Ryan hugs her, quick, awkward. “See you, gran.”

“Be good,” she says, ruffling his hair with her good hand. “Don’t give your grandad grief.”

He rolls his eyes but smiles, then clambers into the passenger seat. Richard waves, gets back in, and they’re gone.

The quiet that follows is thick. Catherine stands in the doorway longer than she needs to, staring at the empty street, then turns back inside.

When she enters the kitchen, the change hits her instantly. Ann is at the counter, putting away the last of the shopping, but her movements are sharper, less fluid. Her shoulders are a little tighter, and Catherine realises she’s still chewing over their earlier exchange.

“Oi,” Catherine says, perching on the stool with a half-grumble, half-sigh. “Don’t take it like I don’t want you helpin’ him. I'm glad you did. Made it look easy. If I'd gone up, he and I'd probably still be arguin’ over which trousers he should pack.” She jabs a finger lightly at Ann’s arm, gruff but not unkind. “You’re not oversteppin’.”

Ann tilts her head, lips twitching, eyes sparkling with a thread of mischief. “Made it look easy, eh? Maybe I’ve just got some kind of Cawood charm.”

Catherine snorts, ruffling the edge of her sleeve. “Cawood charm, my arse. You’ve got Daniel mooning after you, Ryan hangin’ on your every word, Richard thinks you're great… seems like all the Cawoods are half-smitten, but don’t go thinkin’ I’m joinin’ that club.”

Ann hums, smirk tugging at her mouth, leaning a fraction closer as she sets a tin aside. “Didn’t say you had to. But you don’t half get flustered for someone who’s not smitten.”

Catherine’s chest tightens, though she grunts instead of answering. She steadies herself against the counter, fingers brushing Ann’s arm as she does. “Don’t let it go to your head,” she mutters.

Ann chuckles, the sound low. “Yeah, yeah, bossy Sergeant,” she teases, but the words are softened, the space between them warming despite the rough edges.

“You’re a nuisance, you are,” Catherine says, shooting her a harmless glare. “But at least you’re helpin’.”

Ann hums again, smirking faintly, leaning closer when she reaches for another jar. “Well, I like helpin’… and maybe I like annoying you a bit too,” she murmurs, playful but careful.

“You don’t have to, you know,” Catherine says, voice rougher than she expected.

Ann glances at her. “I don’t mind.”

The quiet that follows is heavier than it should be. Catherine drops back into her chair, bone-deep tired in a way that has nothing to do with her wrist.

Ann comes back to the table, sits opposite again. She doesn’t press, doesn’t chatter. Just sits, steady and calm, and that unnerves Catherine more than fussing would.

“You should rest.”

Catherine lets out a short, derisive snort, slumping back in her chair. “Rest? Ryan’s barely out the door. Can’t exactly put me feet up when there’s still the rest of life crackin’ on, can I?”

Ann doesn’t answer straight away. She smooths down the last empty shopping bag, eyes flicking over Catherine like she’s cataloguing damage. Catherine feels it—the weight of her gaze—like a physical touch.

“Ryan’ll be fine with Richard for a few days,” Ann says at last, voice quiet but steady. “He’ll enjoy it, and you’ll have time to get your head down. You don’t have to do everything all at once. And you don't have to do it alone.”

Catherine grunts, shifting in her seat. “Clare's off with Neil, Daniel's… Daniel. So yeah, that leaves me.”

“And me.” Ann says it plainly, without hesitation, like it’s obvious.

That pulls Catherine’s eyes up. The way Ann says it makes her chest tighten. She covers it with a crooked smirk. “You’ve got a job, Ann. Last thing you need’s me clingin’ on.”

Ann steps closer, tilts her head, almost smiling. “Doesn’t look much like I’m complainin’, does it?”

Catherine looks away, muttering into her tea. “You should be.”

She doesn’t get far with the deflection. Ann’s gaze has dropped, narrowing on the edge of Catherine’s collar. Before Catherine can stop her, Ann reaches forward, brushing the neckline of her shirt aside.

“Christ, Catherine—look at that.” Her voice sharpens.

Catherine stiffens but doesn’t pull back. Across her collarbone, purple bruising blooms, angry and mottled where she’d slammed into an elbow earlier. There’s also a thin graze near the base of her throat, dried blood at the edge. It looks worse than it is, but Ann’s eyes are wide, her hand hovering near it like she wants to touch but doesn’t dare.

“It’s nothing,” Catherine says flatly, though her cheeks feel hot. “Bit of a scuffle, that’s all. I’ve had worse off a bloody cat.”

Ann’s mouth tightens. “That’s not ‘nothing’. You’ve been knocked about.”

“Part of the job.” Catherine forces her tone into something hard, dismissive. “Lad lashed out. He came off worse.”

“You really gonna give me the ‘you should see t’other bloke’-routine? I don't care how the other bloke looks.” Ann gets up and walks around the table, softer now. “You can’t just… carry on like you’re made of stone. You’re hurt.”

Catherine lets out a low laugh, though it catches in her throat. “Don’t you start. I’ve no patience for fussing. I’m sat here, aren’t I? Drinkin’ me tea, wrist strapped. I’m not about to keel over.”

But Ann doesn’t move back. Her hand finally makes contact, the lightest touch near the graze. Catherine goes very still. The pressure is barely there, careful, but it makes her heart jolt like she’s been winded.

Ann seems to notice—she hesitates, fingers drawing away—but Catherine hears her own voice before she can stop it. “It looks worse than it feels.”

Ann’s eyes flick up, searching hers, quiet but intense. “I hope so.”

Catherine clears her throat, breaks eye contact, and nudges her mug with her good hand. “Clare’ll be livid she’s not here to fuss.”

Ann raises an eyebrow. “You’d let her fuss?”

“’Course not. But she’d do it anyway.” Catherine smirks despite herself.

Ann gives the smallest smile, though it’s touched with worry. “So you’ll let me fuss instead, then?”

Catherine huffs. “Hardly gave me a choice, did you?”

The corner of Ann’s mouth lifts, amused, but she doesn’t push further. She just sits opposite again, steady as ever. The kitchen feels different with her here—warmer, fuller—and Catherine hates how much she notices.

For a moment neither speaks. The clock ticks in the hallway. Catherine takes a slow sip of tea, pretending it doesn’t sting to move her wrist, pretending her chest isn’t tight from Ann’s touch.

Ann folds her hands on the table, tilts her head. “So. You gonna do as you’re told and rest, or am I gonna have to park myself here till you do?”

Catherine quirks a brow, leaning back, voice dry. “When do I ever listen to anyone?”

Ann huffs a laugh, shaking her head. “Rarely. But that doesn’t mean I’ll stop trying.”

Catherine looks away, lips twitching. “You’d be wasting your time.”

“Don’t think I am,” Ann says softly. She clears her throat, then adds more firmly, “And if I have to be a nuisance to keep you in one piece, I’m prepared to be the worst nuisance you’ve ever had.”

Catherine lets out a low laugh, eyes crinkling. “You’re a bloody menace, you know that?”

Ann smiles back, calm and certain. “You like me that way.”

Catherine blinks, caught off guard. A flush creeps up her neck, and she’s suddenly too aware of how close Ann is, of the quiet weight in her voice. She shakes her head quickly, as if to dispel it, and props her arm up on the table, half-admitting defeat. “Fine. But don’t think this is going to be a regular arrangement.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Ann answers, though the way she lingers suggests otherwise. Her eyes trace over Catherine’s shoulder, catching on the dark bloom above her collar. Her hand hovers, not quite touching. “That one’s still giving you grief, isn’t it?”

Catherine groans, rolling her eyes. “Oh, for God’s sake, Ann.”

Ann doesn’t flinch. “At least let me do something about it.”

Catherine waves her off with her good hand, irritation covering the flicker of warmth she feels at the concern. “It’s a bruise, Ann. I’ve had bruises since I could walk. It’ll fade.”

“That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt,” Ann presses, her brows knitting. “And you shouldn’t just shrug it off.”

Catherine gives a sharp laugh, one that’s more defensive than amused. “That’s rich, coming from you. You’d do exactly the same.”

“Maybe,” Ann admits, tilting her head, refusing to let her off. “But I’d still want someone to tell me not to.”

Catherine meets her eyes, and for a second, neither of them looks away. There’s a charge there, subtle but insistent, like the air thickening between them. Catherine swallows, shifts back in her chair, clears her throat. “You’re fussing too much.”

Ann smiles faintly, but there’s no retreat in her expression. “And you’re pretending you don’t like it.”

Catherine’s mouth opens, then shuts again. She fumbles for her mug, mutters something under her breath, and stares hard into the dregs of her tea as if they might provide an escape.

Ann doesn’t let it slide. She leans forward, elbows on the table, her voice quiet but steady. “You let everyone think you’re invincible, Catherine. But you’re not. You get hurt like everyone else. And you don’t have to patch yourself up on your own, not all the time.”

Catherine’s lips twitch, the start of a scoff, but it falters. She sets her mug down with more force than necessary. “I’ve done all right so far.”

Ann raises an eyebrow. “Have you, though? I mean, look at you. Wrist strapped up, bruise the size of Yorkshire on your collarbone, cuts on your neck you’ve been pretending I can’t see—”

“They’re scratches.” Catherine cuts in quickly, voice sharp, almost embarrassed.

“Scratches that bled,” Ann counters. “Scratches that’ll sting every time you wash your hair, if you even manage to.”

Catherine exhales through her nose, stubbornness tightening her jaw. “You don’t have to mother me.”

“I’m not.” Ann’s voice gentles, though the steel beneath it doesn’t shift. “I just care.”

Catherine blinks at her, something flickering across her face she doesn’t want read. She pushes her chair back a fraction, a shield of distance. “You don’t have to do this.”

Ann doesn’t move, doesn’t press further into that crack. Instead, she folds her arms lightly on the table, letting the quiet stretch before speaking again, softer. “Let me help. That’s all I’m askin’.”

Catherine exhales, a sigh caught between resignation and defence. “There’s nothing to help with.”

Ann stands before Catherine can protest again, her chair scraping back softly. She crosses to the cupboard where she knows Catherine keeps the first aid tin. Catherine half-turns in her chair, glaring at her back. “Ann—”

“Sit,” Ann interrupts, calm but unarguable, the tone Catherine herself uses on Ryan when he’s pushing his luck.

Catherine scowls, but she doesn’t get up. Her pride bristles, but a treacherous part of her doesn’t really want to stop Ann either.

Ann brings the tin back, sets it on the table, and flips the latch open. She rifles through, pulling out antiseptic wipes, cotton pads, and a small tube of arnica cream. She lines them up with quiet efficiency, as though daring Catherine to challenge her.

Catherine crosses her arms, glaring at the arrangement like it’s betrayed her. “You’ve no idea how bloody ridiculous this is.”

Ann’s mouth twitches, not quite a smile. “Humour me, then.”

“I’ve better things to be doin’ than sittin’ here like a patient.”

“Like what? Laundry? Hoovering? Chasin’ down suspects with one hand tied behind your back?” Ann’s eyes lift to hers, pointed but warm. “None of that needs doing right now. But this does.”

Catherine shakes her head, but her protest feels thin even to her own ears. She mutters, “You don’t give up, do you?”

“No,” Ann says simply. “Not on things that matter.”

The words stick in Catherine’s throat, and before she can spit back something to deflect, Ann pulls a chair closer, sitting beside her. She holds out her hand. “Show me.”

“Show you what?”

Ann gives her a look, eyebrows raised, as if the question itself is absurd. Her voice is steady. “All the spots that hurt.”

Catherine lets out a short incredulous laugh. “All of them?”

“All of them,” Ann repeats, unflinching.

Catherine hesitates, stubbornness rising in her chest like armour. The idea of laying herself bare, even in something as small as a bruise, grates against every instinct she has. But Ann’s gaze doesn’t waver. It isn’t pushy, isn’t demanding—it just waits, calm and certain, until resistance feels more foolish than giving in.

With a roll of her eyes that doesn’t quite hide her capitulation, Catherine lifts her good arm and pushes her sleeve up to reveal the darkening bruise near the elbow.

Ann’s breath catches quietly. “That looks sore.”

“It’s old. It’s nothing.” Catherine tries to pull her arm back, but Ann’s hand closes lightly around her wrist—not tight, not trapping, just steady enough to keep her there.

“Let me see,” Ann murmurs. She takes the cream, squeezes a small line of it onto her finger, and begins to brush gently at the edges of the bruise.

Catherine watches her fingers, deft and careful, avoiding Ann’s eyes. The touch is clinical, almost detached, but not quite—there’s something in the gentleness that unsettles her more than the bruise itself. Her skin warms under Ann’s hand, heat creeping up her neck despite the coolness of the cream.

Ann glances up once, briefly, catching the flicker in Catherine’s expression. She doesn’t comment. Instead, she murmurs, “Tell me if it’s too much.”

Catherine snorts softly, though her voice comes out low. “I’ve had worse.”

“That’s not what I asked.” Ann’s eyes hold hers a fraction longer than necessary before she looks back down, continuing her work.

The silence stretches, filled with the quiet sounds of the house—the hum of the fridge, the clock ticking steadily in the hall. Catherine shifts in her chair, restless under the weight of Ann’s attention.

When Ann finishes with the bruise, she reaches for the wipes.

Catherine frowns. “What now?”

Ann tilts her head. “Neck.”

Catherine touches it automatically, fingers brushing over the small cut near her collarbone, just visible where her shirt gapes open. “It’s barely anything.”

“It’s red,” Ann counters. “And bloody.”

Catherine rolls her eyes but doesn’t stop her as Ann leans closer. Ann tears open the wipe, the sharp scent of antiseptic cutting through the warmth of the kitchen. She cups Catherine’s shoulder lightly, steadying her as she dabs at the cut.

The sting makes Catherine flinch, just slightly, and Ann’s hand tightens in a quiet reassurance. “Sorry.”

“Doesn’t bother me,” Catherine lies, jaw clenched.

Ann’s smile ghosts across her lips. “You’re a terrible liar.”

Catherine huffs, but she doesn’t move. The closeness is impossible to ignore—Ann’s breath brushing her skin, the brush of fingers at her collar. Catherine focuses on a crack in the wall, anywhere but Ann’s face. Her chest feels tight, a pressure that has nothing to do with bruises or cuts.

When Ann pulls back, discarding the wipe, she doesn’t immediately retreat. Her hand lingers a moment too long on Catherine’s shoulder, thumb brushing unconsciously against the fabric. Catherine notices—God, she notices—and her throat tightens.

Ann clears her throat finally, leaning back with studied casualness. “That’s better.”

Catherine exhales slowly, like she’s been holding her breath. “Happy now?”

“Not yet.” Ann’s eyes flicker, and before Catherine can stop her, she reaches for her face, brushing a strand of hair aside. The movement is careful, unhurried, her fingers grazing Catherine’s temple before stilling on the edge of the scrape.

Catherine tenses, jaw tightening. “Bloody hell, you’re like a terrier with a bone.”

Ann doesn’t flinch, her thumb ghosting close to the wound without quite touching it. A faint smile curves her lips. “And you’re hopeless at hiding things.”

Catherine holds her glare, but it falters under the weight of Ann’s quiet focus. Every dab of the cotton feels sharper than it should, not from pain but from the nearness of her, from the fact that Catherine can feel the warmth of Ann’s hand hovering against her skin. It’s intimate in a way she can’t dismiss, unsettling precisely because she wants to.

She keeps still, though her chest feels tight, as if moving might give something away. Ann’s concentration doesn’t break, her touch gentle but insistent, and Catherine finds herself watching her, memorising the shape of her mouth, the crease of her brow. It’s far too close, far too much, and yet she doesn’t pull back.

When Ann finally leans back, she doesn’t put the kit away. Instead, she studies Catherine in silence, her expression unreadable. “Anywhere else?”

Catherine raises an eyebrow. “What, you planning on a full survey?”

Ann doesn’t blink. “If that’s what it takes.”

The dryness in her tone almost makes Catherine laugh, but the steadiness in her eyes pins the sound in her throat. She shifts in her chair, then shakes her head. “No.”

Ann just keeps looking at her, quiet and unyielding. It’s the kind of look Catherine can’t quite hold. Her shoulders tense. “What?”

“You said that like it was a yes.”

Catherine scowls, but it’s half-hearted. The back of her neck prickles. “For God’s sake, Ann.” She hesitates, then sighs through her nose. “There might be one on my side. Took a hit that knocked the wind out of me.”

Ann’s gaze sharpens. “Which side?”

Catherine waves vaguely at her ribs. “Doesn’t matter. I’ll live.”

Ann leans forward a fraction. “If it’s bad, I should look.”

The words snag on something in Catherine. She barks out a laugh that comes out too sharp, too defensive. “What, you expect me to strip off in my bloody kitchen? If you want me topless, you’ll have to make more of an effort than waving a tube of cream at me.”

The silence that follows is immediate and heavy. Ann’s eyes widen before colour rushes to her cheeks. She looks down quickly, the set of her mouth faltering.

Catherine realises too late what she’s said. Heat creeps up her own neck, and she scrambles for cover. She grabs her mug, muttering into it, “Point is, you’ll have to take my word for it.”

Ann clears her throat, still pink, and nods, her voice a touch unsteady. “All right. For now.”

Catherine keeps her eyes fixed firmly on her tea, pretending not to notice the way Ann can’t quite look at her yet.

The quiet settles again, more weighted. Ann doesn’t move away, her chair still close, and Catherine feels the pull of it, the warmth threading through the air between them.

She tells herself it’s nothing, that it’s only Ann being Ann. But the echo of her touch lingers, and Catherine knows pretending is only going to get harder. She looks away, unsettled by the warmth between them, by how much it stirs.

After a long pause she mutters, “Thanks. For… all this.”

Ann shakes her head and smiles softly. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s not.” Catherine meets her eyes then, brief but fierce. “It’s not nothing.”

Ann swallows, looks down at her hands. They’re steady, but Catherine can still see the faint flush creeping up her neck.

At last Ann clears her throat. “I should—” She gestures vaguely toward the door.

“Stay,” Catherine blurts, before she can think better. Then, softer, embarrassed: “If you want. No sense in me rattlin’ round here on me own.”

Ann’s eyes lift, startled. Then she nods, small, almost shy. “All right.”

Catherine feels something settle, low and steady. Not relief, but the sense of not being entirely alone. She leans back in her chair, cradling her mug, watching Ann. For once, she lets herself just sit.

And Ann, bless her, doesn’t push. She just stays close, doesn’t move to leave. She sits across from Catherine as though she’s got all the time in the world, the light from the kitchen window catching the edge of her hair. Catherine pretends not to notice, busying herself with what’s left of her tea.

Her wrist throbs, a dull reminder every time she shifts, and she curses herself for being daft enough to fall wrong in the first place, as well as letting that lad get the jump on her today. She’d told everyone at the station it was nothing, but now, with the house quiet and Ann sitting there, she can’t keep up the same front.

“Have you eaten?” Ann asks, breaking the silence.

“Had a bit at work.”

“This morning?” Ann’s look says she doesn’t believe that for a second. “A bit of what? Half a biscuit?”

Catherine grunts, noncommittal.

“Right,” Ann says, pushing her chair back. “I’ll put something on.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Sit still.” Ann’s tone is firm but not sharp, the same one Catherine’s used on Ann whenever she was being stubborn. The irony isn’t lost on her.

Catherine watches as Ann moves round the kitchen, opening cupboards like she belongs there. She finds bread, eggs, digs butter out of the fridge. There’s something unsettling about the ease of it, how quickly she takes up the space.

“How come you know your way round my kitchen better than I do,” Catherine mutters.

Ann glances over her shoulder, a faint smile tugging at her mouth. “You realise I've been here before, yeah?”

She sets the pan on, cracks eggs with an efficiency that makes Catherine oddly self-conscious. Watching Ann cook in her kitchen feels like stepping into an unfamiliar room in her own house.

“You don’t have to,” Catherine says again, quieter this time.

Ann doesn’t turn around. “I want to.”

Catherine swallows whatever reply rises and sits in silence while the smell of frying fills the room.

When Ann sets the plate down in front of her—toast, scrambled eggs, nothing fancy—Catherine feels a ridiculous lump in her throat. She stares at it for a moment, then at Ann, who sits down with her own plate, calm as you like.

“Go on,” Ann says.

Catherine picks up her fork, tries to act normal. The first bite is hot, buttery, exactly what she hadn’t realised she needed. She clears her throat. “I've had worse.”

Ann smirks. “You're welcome.”

They eat in companionable silence, broken only by the scrape of cutlery and the hum of the fridge. Catherine keeps sneaking glances at Ann, struck by how natural she looks sitting there, how steady. She tells herself it’s nothing, just gratitude, but the warmth low in her chest disagrees.

Ann shifts slightly, resting her chin on her hand between bites. “You glad Ryan's out of the house for a few days?”

Catherine nods, though the thought tugs at her chest. “He’ll have a good time. Bit of fresh air, bit of spoiling. And I can get a breather, I suppose.”

“But you’ll miss him,” Ann says, not as a question.

Catherine doesn’t bother denying it. “Course I will.”

Ann studies her for a long moment, then smiles faintly. “He’s lucky, you know. To have you.”

Catherine feels her throat tighten again, and she scoffs, trying to shake it off. “You don’t know what you’re on about.”

“Don’t I?”

Catherine shifts in her chair, uneasy with how much Ann can get past her armour with just a few words. She wants to change the subject, wants to shove the moment aside, but she doesn’t. Not yet.

Instead, she lets out a slow breath and mutters, “You make things complicated, you do.”

Ann smiles, almost amused. “Or maybe I just make you admit things you’d rather not.”

Catherine’s eyes snap to hers, sharp, but Ann doesn’t flinch. There’s warmth there, steady and unyielding, and Catherine feels the ground shift beneath her just a fraction. It’s too much, and she pushes back the only way she knows how. “You’re far too bloody smug.”

Ann laughs, shaking her head, but she doesn’t argue. She just smiles, and that somehow makes it harder for Catherine to pretend she feels nothing at all.

When they’ve finished, Ann stands to clear the plates. Catherine makes a noise of protest, but Ann ignores it, rinsing the dishes, and loading them neatly onto the rack. Catherine leans back, watching her, torn between irritation at being fussed over and a bone-deep relief she’d never admit.

Eventually Ann wipes her hands and glances at the back door. “It’s decent out. Want to sit outside a bit?”

Catherine snorts. “What, like a pair of old biddies?”

“Exactly like that,” Ann says.

Catherine huffs, but she lets Ann shepherd her out. The camping chairs are still set up from the weekend, and Catherine lowers herself carefully into one, cradling her wrist against her chest. Ann drops into the other, stretching her legs out, easy.

The cobbled street's quiet, the distant hum of traffic softened by the fog. A pigeon coos from somewhere, the air mild enough to almost feel like early summer. Catherine exhales, some of the tension in her shoulders loosening.

Ann sits with her eyes half-shut, face tipped toward the sky. Catherine finds herself staring, then forces her gaze away.

“You don’t have to spend your day off babysittin’ me,” she says, more gruff than she intends.

Ann cracks one eye open. “Who said anything about babysittin’?”

Catherine scowls, but there’s no heat in it.

“I wanted to come,” Ann says, softer now. “And I’m glad I did.”

The words land heavy and full of meaning. Catherine doesn’t argue, doesn't know what she could say to make that feeling inside of her go away.

They sit like that a while, the quiet between them not awkward but close, like a blanket pulled over both of them. Catherine’s aware of Ann’s every movement—the way she taps her fingers on the armrest, the steady rhythm of her breathing.

Eventually Catherine says, low, “Don’t get used to this. Me sat about while someone else does the work.”

Ann smiles without opening her eyes. “I know. It’s just for now.”

“Good,” Catherine mutters. But she doesn’t move, doesn’t break the spell.

The sun edges across the sky, shadows lengthening. Catherine dozes in the chair, half-asleep, lulled by the quiet. When she startles awake, Ann’s still there, watching her with an unreadable expression.

“What?” Catherine demands, embarrassed.

Ann shakes her head, a faint blush rising. “Nothing. Just… you don’t let people see you like that, you know? Properly at rest.”

Catherine bristles, then deflates. “Not much to see.”

Ann’s gaze softens. “I think there is.”

The moment that follows is sharp, charged. Catherine looks away, heart thudding harder than it should.

She gets up and clears her throat. “You’ll be wanting to get off. Don’t let me keep you.”

Ann hesitates, then nods slowly. “I’ll come back tomorrow. Make sure you’re not climbing ladders or summat daft.”

Catherine glares, but it lacks bite. “I’ll manage.”

“I know.” Ann stands, brushing off her jeans. “But I’ll come anyway.”

Catherine doesn’t argue. She just goes back inside with her, the silence between them deafening. She watches Ann go, a mix of relief and longing tangling in her chest.

When she finally shuts the door, Ann long out of sight, the house feels too quiet again, too big. Catherine sits a long time in the empty kitchen, wrist throbbing, heart unsettled.

She tells herself it’s just the injury, just the loneliness. But she knows better.

*

Catherine wakes to a dull ache in her wrist and the bruises stiff from a night’s sleep. She groans, shifting in the bed, every movement reminding her of yesterday’s tussle. It’s not just the wrist now—her elbow’s sore, her knees bark when she straightens them, and the bruise coming up on her side feels tender. Stupid bloody twat, fightin’ her like she's ten years younger. She's getting too old for this shit.

The morning light is thin and watery, leaking in through the curtains. For a few minutes she lies still, bargaining with herself about whether she can get up at all. Eventually she forces herself upright, muttering curses under her breath.

The shower feels like a battle. She manages to wash herself with her good hand, awkward and half-useful, but her hair’s another matter. She stands there staring at the shampoo bottle, weighing the effort against the prospect of greasy roots, and gives up with a growl. She’ll tie it back, no one’ll notice.

The bra’s worse. She wrangles with it one-handed for far too long, sweat prickling at her temples, wrist screaming every time she twists wrong, splint or no. Finally she gives up and yanks on a loose jumper, muttering, “Sod this for a game of soldiers.”

By the time she makes it downstairs she’s already worn out. The kitchen feels too quiet, kettle glaring at her from the counter. She picks up her phone and finds a message waiting. It’s from Ann.

< Left you something at the door. Thought you might fancy it. Don’t argue. >

Catherine frowns at the screen, lips twitching despite herself. She opens the door and there it is: a paper bag on the step, neatly folded at the top.

She carries it inside and sets it on the counter. Inside she finds a cheese and onion pasty, an apple, a small strawberry cake the size of her palm, a carton of fresh orange juice, and—she blinks—a paperback book, a novel she’d mentioned once in passing but hadn’t got round to buying. There’s also a packet of ibuprofen tucked down the side. Thoughtful sod.

She mutters to the empty kitchen, “She’s not daft, is she?”

The pasty smells heavenly. She heats it quickly in the oven, eats it standing at the counter, washing it down with the orange juice. Warm, buttery pastry, sharp onion, salty cheese… if Ann worked for her, she'd deserve a raise. She takes two of the painkillers and sets the carton of orange juice down, full in a way that feels more than physical.

The book sits there staring at her. She runs her good hand over the cover, then sets it aside for later.

She tries to keep busy. Laundry’s piled up, so she wrestles a load into the machine, cursing when her wrist twinges. She waters a few plants on the windowsill, though one slips from her grip and she nearly drops the whole bloody pot.

The strawberry cake is consumed in frustration, and afterwards Catherine regrets eating it while still riled up, ‘cause that meant she didn't even get to enjoy the damned thing.

She looks over at the apple and feels a pang of guilt for eating the cake the way she did, even though Ann doesn't know, and never has to know.

Sighing, Catherine sinks into the sofa, apple in hand, feeling defeated. The telly murmurs low in the background as she eats the apple, and she can't help the spread of warmth in her chest every time she thinks of the fact that Ann picked all of these items up just for her.

Once the apple's also gone, and with it all signs of Ann except for some of the orange juice in the fridge, Catherine picks up the book Ann brought.

Time slips past easier than she expects. The bruises ache, but the story keeps her distracted. She’s almost at the halfway mark when a knock sounds at the door.

Catherine frowns, checks the clock. Mid-afternoon. She pushes herself up with a groan and shuffles to the door. When she opens it, Ann stands there with two bags of shopping in her hands.

“Alright?” Ann says, calm as anything.

“What’re you doin’ here?” Catherine asks, scowl automatic.

“Brought some bits. Thought I’d make tea.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“No. I know. But I said I’d come by, didn’t I? So here I am.”

Catherine rolls her eyes but steps aside. “Get in then, before I change my mind.”

Ann smiles faintly, shoulders easing as she comes through and sets the bags on the counter. She starts unpacking—chicken, carrots, onions, fresh bread, even a tub of posh soup from the deli in town. Catherine leans on the doorway, arms folded, caught somewhere between irritation and a reluctant warmth in her chest.

“You didn’t need to,” she says eventually.

Ann glances over. “I know. But I wanted to.”

Catherine huffs and drops into a chair, wrist resting on the table. She watches Ann move around the kitchen, sleeves pushed up, hair falling loose around her face. She looks at home here, which unsettles Catherine more than she’d like to admit.

Ann’s halfway through chopping an onion when she glances over her shoulder. “Did you get through what I left this morning?”

Catherine shifts in the chair, pretending she’s more interested in the grain of the table. “Pasty was good.” She clears her throat. “Book too. Not read anything proper in a while.”

Ann’s mouth lifts at one corner. “Glad it was the right one.”

“It was,” Catherine mutters, quick to add, “Don’t get smug.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

There’s a beat. Catherine fiddles with the cuff of her jumper, scowling at nothing in particular. “The cake was… fine.”

“Fine?” Ann’s eyebrow goes up, but she keeps on with the knife, steady as anything.

“I was wound up,” Catherine admits, quiet. “Didn’t even get to enjoy it.” She huffs, shaking her head at herself. “Wouldn’t say no to another one.”

Ann doesn’t answer straight off, just tips the chopped onion into the pan. There’s a twitch at the corner of her mouth but she keeps her face turned away.

“Don’t go making a big project of it,” Catherine says, defensive.

“I won’t,” Ann replies easily.

Catherine narrows her eyes, not sure she believes her.

Ann continues like nothing's amiss. “You do anything else?”

“I did put a load on earlier,” Catherine says after a moment, tone offhand. “Laundry.”

Ann glances back. “Did you get it hung up?”

“Not yet,” Catherine admits, picking at the sleeve of her jumper. She notices Ann’s gaze flick down, just for a heartbeat, to where the jumper hangs loose against her chest. Catherine stiffens, suddenly aware she’d skipped the bra, but Ann looks away almost immediately, steadying herself back on the chopping board.

“Not easy, all that, with your wrist like it is.”

“No, it’s not,” Catherine mutters.

Ann’s voice is even, careful. “Would you like me to get you something easier? There are front-fastening ones, or—just softer things without clasps. Something practical.”

Catherine snorts. “God, listen to you. I’m not eighty.” But there’s no real bite in it, and she looks down, embarrassed by how touched she feels. “Don’t fuss.”

“That's my line,” Ann says, quiet but steady.

“The hell it is,” Catherine shoots back, gruff, though there’s a smirk tugging at her mouth.

Ann doesn’t turn around, but Catherine can hear the smile in her voice. “Fine. You can borrow it for now. I’m generous like that.”

“Generous?” Catherine scoffs. “That what we’re callin’ it?”

Ann turns with a raised brow. “I’m here cookin’ your tea, lettin’ you take the line. I’d say that’s generous enough.”

“You’re a right sod, you.”

“Maybe so.”

Ann gets on with it, moving round Catherine’s kitchen like she’s done it a hundred times, knife steady, veg going into the pan with a hiss of hot oil. Before long the place smells rich and comforting, and Catherine realises her shoulders have dropped, the tension easing out of her body.

When the stew’s done, Ann dishes it up: thick broth, tender chicken, big slices of fresh bread at the side. Catherine eats without a word at first, but the warmth in her chest spreads with every mouthful.

“You didn't have to,” she mutters eventually.

Ann smirks. “You're welcome.”

Catherine glares, but she doesn’t mean it.

Afterwards, Ann clears away without asking, sleeves still pushed up, moving about with that quiet efficiency that makes Catherine bristle and soften all at once. She sits watching, torn between telling her to leave it and just… letting it happen. Letting herself rest.

When the dishes are done, Ann leans against the counter. “You said you did laundry earlier.”

Catherine stiffens. “Mh.”

“Still in the machine?”

There’s a long pause. Catherine looks down at her lap. “Mh. And unless some bloke breaks in and steals it, it's likely to stay there.”

Ann raises an eyebrow. “Because?”

“Because it bloody hurts, alright?” Catherine snaps, then sighs, defeated.

Ann’s expression softens. “I’ll do it.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.”

For a moment Catherine considers arguing, then gives up. Ann hauls the basket out and takes it through to the back, stringing clothes up on the line with quick, practised motions. Catherine stands at the doorway watching, arms folded, heart too full.

When Ann’s finished she comes back inside, wiping her hands on her jeans. “There. Done.”

Catherine shakes her head. “You’re a bloody menace.”

Ann smiles, soft and steady. She leans in, her cheek almost brushing against Catherine's. “You’ll live.”

“Right,” Catherine says, for lack of anything better to say.

They sit in the living room after, Catherine in her armchair, Ann on the sofa. The telly’s on low, but neither of them’s really watching. The evening light slants golden through the window, painting Ann’s hair with fire.

Catherine feels it rising again—that pull, that aching want not just for touch but for closeness. To let Ann in, to keep her here. It unsettles her, makes her shift in her chair, restless.

Ann glances over, catches her looking. Their eyes meet, and for a heartbeat Catherine forgets to breathe. There’s something in Ann’s gaze—steady, warm, unflinching. Catherine’s stomach flips.

She clears her throat roughly, looking away. “You don’t half fuss.”

Ann doesn’t answer straight away. Then, softly, “Maybe you need it, just now.”

The words strike deeper than Catherine expects. She swallows hard, fighting the lump in her throat.

She wants to say something—thanks, maybe, or don’t go—but the words stick. Instead she leans back in her chair, closing her eyes against the warmth of the room and the pull in her chest.

Ann doesn’t press. She just sits there, like she belongs.

The evening drifts quietly, the telly humming with some programme neither of them is paying attention to. Catherine’s eyelids grow heavy, her body sinking deeper into the chair. She’s dimly aware of Ann shifting now and then, the sound of her breathing steady and close.

At some point, the cool air on Catherine’s arm vanishes beneath the weight of a blanket. She doesn’t stir, not fully, but the faint tug of fabric and the brush of fingers at her shoulder reaches her, even in this limbo she's in. For a fleeting second, Ann’s hand lingers there—warm, steady, too careful—before it jerks away as if the touch had burnt her. Catherine's eyes stay closed, her eyelids as heavy as lead, even though she wants to look.

Time blurs. There’s the faint rustle of Ann gathering her things, the soft tread of her feet toward the hall. Then the muted click of the front door closing, quiet but final, rouses Catherine fully. She blinks into the dim room, suddenly colder. The house feels emptier than it should, and when she drags herself upstairs, the faint scent of stew clings to the air like a memory. She tells herself not to be daft, but the ache of missing Ann follows her all the same.

Chapter Text

Catherine wakes long before the alarm, though she hasn’t bothered to set one. Sleep is patchy at best, little stints of drifting off, followed by long stretches of staring at the ceiling. The wrist throbs; her side aches whenever she turns wrong; her knee feels like someone has tied a knot inside it and pulled. That is what she tells herself, anyway, when she finally gives up and shuffles downstairs to put the kettle on. Not nerves, not thoughts that refuse to settle. Just bruises. Just age.

The house is quiet. The silence presses at her, makes every cupboard door sound louder when she opens it. She perches at the kitchen table with her tea and her laptop, telling herself she is just catching up. Old habits die hard. Police work is never tidy, even when you’re on leave. It doesn’t mean anything that the very first thing her eyes do is flick to the shift list. Doesn’t mean anything that she lingers when she sees Gallagher, Ann – RD.

Two rest days.

Her cursor hovers over the name for longer than necessary. Catherine’s mouth twists, irritation at herself more than anything else. Daft. As if Ann’s plans have anything to do with her. She shuts the lid of the laptop a bit too sharply, mutters, “Bloody fool,” under her breath, and goes to refill the kettle.

By the time her phone buzzes on the counter, she has half-convinced herself she isn’t thinking about Ann at all.

< Do you need anything picking up? I’m in town later. >

Catherine stares at the message. Her wrist aches just holding the phone. She types out ‘No ta, I’m fine’ and deletes it twice. Her pride itches against the truth: she wouldn't be able to carry the bloody shopping bags, not without feeling like her arm is going to give out. She tries again.

< Could do with milk. But don’t go out your way. >

It isn’t warm, exactly, but it isn’t shutting the door either. Within a minute, Ann replies with an ok-hand.

Catherine sets the phone down and swears softly to herself.

*

It's close to noon when the knock comes. Catherine makes her way stiffly to the door, bracing herself for the cheer she knows will be waiting there. Ann is loaded up with two bags from the store, cheeks pink from the cold breeze.

“You said milk,” Ann announces, stepping inside without hesitation, “but I thought you might fancy something proper. Got us bits for tea. And these were on offer.” She digs around and pulls out a packet of chocolate Hobnobs, triumphant.

Catherine rolls her eyes. “You’re spoilin’ me.”

“Someone has to,” Ann shoots back, and moves straight through to the kitchen like she lives here. She has a way of making herself at home without ever asking, and Catherine ought to find it cheeky. Instead it makes something in her chest unclench.

“You don’t need to cook every time you turn up here,” Catherine mutters, leaning on the doorway, trying not to look too fond.

Ann is already unloading things onto the counter. “Well, you can’t chop an onion right now, can you? So unless you fancy takeaway every night…”

Catherine scowls, but there isn’t much force in it. She sinks into the chair at the kitchen table, watching Ann bustle about. The girl has rolled her sleeves up, exposing slim wrists that are far stronger than they look. Her hair is loose, catching the light whenever she bends to reach into the bag. When she stretches up to shove something onto the top shelf, her jumper lifts just enough to show a stripe of pale skin above her jeans. Catherine’s eyes snag there before she drags them away, throat dry.

She busies herself tearing open the Hobnobs.

“How's Ryan doin’ at Richard's?” Ann asks over her shoulder.

“Probably bein’ stuffed full of biscuits, just like I am.” Catherine bites into one with too much force.

Ann chuckles. “With how much football he's gonna force Richard to play with him, I'd worry about him more than I'd worry about Ryan’s eating.”

Domesticity settles in around them, quiet and comfortable. The hiss of the pan, the scent of garlic. Catherine finds herself breathing easier, even with the steady pulse of awareness she can’t quite shake.

Soon, the kitchen smells rich and warm, and Catherine has given up pretending she isn’t enjoying herself. Ann insists she sit with her wrist propped up, only letting her pass the odd ingredient when it doesn’t require lifting.

When they sit down to eat, Catherine mutters something about how it’s ridiculous, a woman her age letting someone else cook for her in her own house.

Ann only grins and serves her a generous portion. “Clare not someone else, then?”

“That doesn't count,” Catherine grumbles. “She's me sister. And she lives here.”

“Right,” Ann says, the grin on her face so cheeky that Catherine's tempted to throw some of the food at her. And she would, if it didn't smell so good.

Afterwards, Catherine tries to uncork a bottle of red, managing only to fumble with the foil and curse at her useless hand. Ann reaches across gently.

“Here, let me.” She makes short work of it, pouring them both glasses. Their fingers brush when Ann sets hers down in front of her, light and casual, but Catherine feels it like a spark.

They end up in the living room, wine in hand, the telly quiet for once. Catherine means to keep her distance, but Ann slouches comfortably next to her on the sofa, and somehow they keep shifting closer, until their knees almost touch.

The conversation wanders—work gossip, some daft story about Ann’s neighbour’s dog, Catherine’s half-hearted complaints about her wrist. Ann laughs easily, head tilted back, hair brushing her shoulder. The sound wraps around Catherine, far warmer than the wine.

There is a moment, quiet, when Ann leans forward to grab her glass from the table. The faintest whiff of her shampoo reaches Catherine—something clean and citrusy, pulling at something in her chest. Catherine has to bite the inside of her cheek to stop her eyes following the curve of Ann’s neck, the little pulse there.

She catches herself almost saying it: ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you’. The words press against her teeth. She swallows them with a gulp of wine.

Ann glances at her then, eyes crinkled, and for one absurd moment Catherine thinks Ann can see what she is thinking. She turns her gaze to the window, heart thudding too hard.

Later, when she finally makes her way upstairs, the house feels too big. The sofa still holds the warmth of Ann’s body. The kitchen smells of garlic and tomatoes, lingering proof of her presence. Catherine lies in bed staring at the ceiling again, restless, the shape of Ann beside her refusing to leave her thoughts.

So maybe it isn't just the bruises keeping her awake. So what. She's handled worse. She can get over a little unhealthy attraction. 

*

Catherine’s awake before the alarm again. Shoulder aches, wrist stiff as a board, head foggy from broken sleep. She lies there staring at the ceiling, telling herself she doesn’t need anyone, that she’s not bloody helpless.

The shower proves otherwise. Again. She wrestles with the bag wrapped round her splinted wrist, every movement tugging at tender flesh and bruised muscle. By the time she’s managed to get properly under the water, she’s already breathless with irritation. Hair stays untouched—washing it means lifting her arm, means twisting and straining, and she hasn’t the patience. Not today. The water runs lukewarm over her scalp, and she tells herself it’s enough.

Getting dressed is no better. The bra sticks against her skin, damp from the shower, impossible to pull straight. She mutters curses under her breath, turning it backwards so she can hook the clasp at the front, then inch by inch twisting the whole contraption around her ribcage until it sits properly. One strap, then the other. By the end of it she’s sweating again, wrist throbbing like it’s mocking her.

She pauses, jaw clenched, the echo of Ann’s voice from yesterday floating back. ‘You’d be better off with a front-clasping bra, just while it heals,’ or something of that sort. Catherine’s lips twist. “Don’t need bloody front-clasping bras,” she mutters to the empty room, though she can feel the sting of truth in the words.

Downstairs, the next obstacle waits. The recycling boxes stand by the door, crammed with bottles and papers from the week. Not heavy, exactly, but bulky, awkward to lift one-handed without risking glass everywhere. She stands over them, staring like the sight alone might make them easier to shift. It doesn’t.

Phone in hand, she hesitates. Types, deletes. Tries again. Finally, with a sharp sigh: “Oh, sod it.” Her thumb hits send before she can think better of it.

< Can’t manage the recycling with one hand. Needs putting out. Any chance you’re about? >

It takes Ann all of five minutes to reply.

< On my way. >

Relief hits Catherine harder than she expects, sharp enough to make her sway. She swears at herself, furious for needing anyone, furious for how quick Ann said yes. But when the knock comes at the door, she’s already halfway there, heart thudding.

“Recycling, is it?” Ann says, calm as anything, like she hasn’t just legged it across half the town just for a bit of rubbish.

Catherine scowls, thrusts her chin at the door. “It's there. Mind you don’t cut yourself.”

Ann smiles faintly and hefts it up without effort. Catherine pretends not to watch her walk off down the path, shoulders square, sunlight catching in her hair.

Ann barely sets foot inside before she’s rolling up her sleeves. “You eaten?”

Catherine quirks a brow, tugging her jumper closer around herself. “Do I look like someone wasting away?”

“You look like someone who skipped breakfast,” Ann replies evenly, already heading into the kitchen. “Sit. I’ll sort it.”

The smell of butter soon fills the kitchen. Ann crosses the room to fetch plates, and Catherine notices her glance catch—just for a second—to where Catherine’s bra strap is peeking out. Ann doesn’t say a word, but Catherine clocks it, heat flickering in her chest before she can look away. A heartbeat later Ann asks, lightly, “Wrist giving you less trouble today?”

Catherine’s eyes narrow. “Not particularly.”

“Thought as much.” Ann sets the plates down, unbothered.

When Ann slides a plate in front of her, Catherine stares at it a moment, then picks up her fork. “You know you didn't have to.”

Ann sits opposite, lifting her tea. “You're welcome.”

Catherine eats, slowly at first, then with more hunger than she means to show. Halfway through she pauses, frowning. “I never gave you money.”

“For what?”

“For the shopping,” Catherine says. “The groceries. You’ll take something for it.”

Ann shakes her head, calm but firm. “No.”

“Don’t be daft. I’ll not have you paying for my—”

“You’re not.” Ann’s tone is steady, not sharp. “I’m eating here, aren’t I? Call it even.”

Catherine studies her, unsettled by the simplicity of it. “That’s not the point.”

Ann meets her gaze. “Maybe not. But I like it here. I wouldn’t keep showing up if I didn’t.”

Catherine blinks, unsure what to say. She busies herself with her fork, clearing the plate without quite meaning to.

When they’re finished, Ann rises to collect the dishes, and Catherine lets her, though she insists on putting away the dry dishes from earlier, muttering under her breath. By the time Ann sets the mugs in the sink, Catherine’s already moved on to the small pile of post on the counter. She flips through envelopes—bills, junk, one or two things worth reading—her wrist aching with the effort.

Ann hovers by the doorway, watching. “I should leave you to it.”

Catherine doesn’t look up. “You don’t have to go just to come back later.”

The words are out before she realises what she’s said. Her hand stills on the envelope, heat rising up her neck. She clears her throat sharply, trying to cover. “I mean—you don’t need to be running back and forth all day. Waste of petrol.”

Ann’s expression shifts, just slightly. A flicker of something warm, something she tries to school back into neutrality. “Right. Waste of petrol,” she echoes, voice softer than before.

Catherine risks a glance up. Ann’s eyes are steady, but there’s no mistaking the flicker she caught, the one Catherine wishes she hadn’t revealed with her words.

Catherine gives a little snort, turning back to the letters. “Well, don’t just stand there. Either sit, or go. You’re making me twitchy, loitering like that.”

Ann smiles faintly, hiding it in her sleeve as she sits back down. Neither of them says anything about the slip, but it lingers, unspoken, in the quiet between them.

The hours stretch in a way Catherine both resents and secretly savours. The post dealt with, she shuffles it into untidy stacks and declares she’ll deal with it properly later. Ann doesn’t press, doesn’t tidy up, just sits at the table with her mug, quiet and present.

The house feels fuller with her in it. Catherine tries not to notice. She taps her fingers against the arm of her chair, irritated with the restless energy under her skin. The wrist throbs steadily, and her shoulder stiffens if she sits too long, but she refuses to mention it.

Ann, of course, notices anyway. “You’ve gone quiet,” she says after a while, tone easy.

“I don’t have to provide a running commentary,” Catherine mutters, shifting in her seat.

“No,” Ann agrees, “but you do when something’s bothering you.”

That lands too close to the truth, and Catherine’s hackles rise. She leans back, eyes narrowing. “Don’t you have anything better to do on your day off than sit here staring at me?”

The words come sharper than she means, a lashing-out born of the uncomfortable warmth still lingering from her earlier slip. She regrets them as soon as they’re out.

Ann doesn’t bristle. Instead, she tilts her head, studying Catherine with a kind of calm patience that makes Catherine feel like she’s been caught out. “If I did,” Ann says simply, “I wouldn’t be here.”

Catherine blinks. No dramatics, no guilt, no lecture—just a plain truth. It disarms her more effectively than any argument could. She shifts in her chair, pretending to reach for the mug at her elbow.

“You make it sound like this is a treat,” Catherine mutters, half under her breath.

Ann only allows the corner of her mouth to twitch. “It is. Believe it or not.”

That unsettles Catherine enough to push herself up, muttering about needing to stretch her legs. Ann doesn’t follow, but when Catherine comes back ten minutes later she’s still there, leafing through a magazine left on the counter as though she belongs.

The clock edges towards noon, the air in the house growing warmer with the sun. Catherine finds herself easing, bit by bit. She grumbles about the bra strap digging in, curses her wrist when she fumbles a pen, sighs over the stiffness in her shoulder—but Ann takes it all in stride, neither fussing nor dismissing. Just steady, present.

It’s maddening. It’s comforting. It’s both at once.

And when Catherine catches Ann glancing up, the faintest smile curving her lips, she feels that treacherous warmth rise again, the one that keeps catching her unprepared.

*

Catherine sits at the table, posture deceptively relaxed, though her wrist aches from holding her mug and her shoulder pinches where the bruise is deepest. She pretends not to notice Ann’s gaze following her every shift.

Finally Ann speaks, voice even. “You’re stiff again.”

Catherine lowers her mug, eyes narrowing. “Observant, aren’t you?”

Ann doesn’t rise to the bait. Instead, she pushes her chair back a fraction. “Where is it worst today? The shoulder, or the wrist?”

Catherine scoffs. “You sound like a bloody doctor.”

“I’m not,” Ann replies calmly, “but I can help.”

Catherine knows what’s coming before Ann even stands. She shakes her head, muttering, “You’ve already played nurse once this week. I don’t need—”

Ann doesn’t argue, just walks to the cupboard and grabs the tin, lifting the arnica tube like she owns it. She turns back with a look that brooks no resistance.

“Ann,” Catherine warns.

Ann tilts her head, her voice gentle but immovable. “Elbow, collarbone, neck. And let me check that scrape on your face again.”

The sheer calm certainty of her tone makes Catherine’s pulse skip. She tries to smother it with bluster. “You make it sound like I’ve fallen down a flight of stairs.”

Ann raises an eyebrow. “Haven’t you?”

Catherine glares, but the corner of her mouth betrays her, twitching towards a smile. “That was two weeks ago. Besides, one stumble doesn’t count.”

“I think it counts, when you walk around with a bad sprain for two weeks before you go to have it looked at.” Ann pulls out the chair beside her and waits, arnica in hand.

Catherine stares at her, weighing stubbornness against… whatever this is. The heat in her skin isn’t only from the bruise. She mutters something unintelligible and rolls her eyes, tugging her sleeve up.

The dark mark near her elbow is less angry than it was two days ago, but it still looks sore.

Ann draws in a quiet breath, not pitying, just registering. She squeezes a line of cream onto her fingertips, and Catherine tenses the instant she touches her.

It’s light pressure, careful, no more than a soft glide across tender skin. Still, Catherine feels it far deeper than she should. The quiet concentration on Ann’s face, the warmth of her hand, the way her thumb steadies her arm—it all coils into something Catherine refuses to name.

“You’re too gentle,” Catherine mutters, low.

Ann glances up briefly, eyes steady. “Would you rather I pressed harder?”

Catherine swallows, her throat suddenly dry. “No.”

“Then hush.”

The word shouldn’t make her pulse leap. But it does.

Ann finishes at the elbow and straightens, waiting.

Catherine sighs heavily, as if the effort costs her, then leans back in her chair. She gestures at her collarbone with a flick of her fingers. “Get it over with.”

Ann moves closer, and Catherine instantly regrets giving permission. The bruise at her collarbone is newer, a spreading blotch half-hidden by her shirt. Ann brushes the fabric aside with careful fingers, the touch ghosting along Catherine’s skin.

Catherine’s breath catches, traitorous and sharp.

Ann doesn’t comment. She dabs the cream gently, her face so close Catherine can feel the warmth of her breath when she leans in. The silence grows heavy, filled with things Catherine refuses to acknowledge.

When Ann finally leans back, Catherine releases a slow exhale, far too loud to be casual.

“And the neck,” Ann says softly.

Catherine tilts her chin in defiance, baring the thin line of the scratch at the side of her throat. “Satisfied now?”

“Looks fine.” Ann leans back, her gaze soft.

Catherine tries for sarcasm, but it comes out ragged. “You treat me like I’m made of glass.”

Ann’s eyes flick to hers, lingering. “I know you’re not. That doesn’t mean I want to hurt you.”

The words are simple, honest. Too honest. Catherine feels heat crawl up her neck, a mixture of discomfort and something she refuses to look at directly.

Ann shifts to the side of her face next, brushing Catherine’s hair aside. The scrape is shallow, but her fingers linger at her temple, tucking the strand gently behind her ear. The intimacy of the gesture leaves Catherine still, her body locked between resisting and leaning in.

“Looks better,” Ann murmurs, inspecting the faint line.

“Then leave it,” Catherine snaps, sharper than intended.

Ann meets her glare steadily. “I already have.”

The quiet confidence in her voice unbalances Catherine more than any argument. She looks away, pretending to fuss with her sleeve. “You’re insufferable.”

Ann smirks faintly. “And you let me do it anyway.”

The silence that follows is thick, charged. Catherine flexes her fingers against the table, grounding herself.

Finally she clears her throat, trying to wrest back control. “You planning to hover all day, or do you have an actual purpose?”

Ann leans back, casual. “Lunch, maybe. Tea. Something to keep you from sulking.”

“I don’t sulk.”

“You brood, then,” Ann corrects, tone dry.

Catherine glares, but there’s no real bite in it. “And what would you make, if I let you?”

Ann shrugs. “You’ve got the chicken i brought, rice in the cupboard. I could do a pilaf, something proper. And there’s still some greens in the fridge, could make a salad, if you like?”

Catherine scoffs. “You sound like my mother.”

“Do I?” Ann asks lightly, though her eyes hold hers longer than expected. “Funny. I thought I sounded like someone who wanted you to eat.”

Catherine shifts, uncomfortable under the weight of it. She mutters, “You can do what you like, I suppose.”

Ann rises, heading for the kitchen cupboards with unhurried efficiency. “Good. Then I’ll make something you'll find edible.”

Catherine watches her move through the space as though she belongs there, every gesture unassuming but sure. It unsettles her, how natural it feels. She forces herself to focus on the mail again, though the words blur on the page, especially without Clare's glasses.

“You’re enjoying this,” she accuses after a while, voice rough.

Ann glances over her shoulder, lips twitching. “Enjoying what?”

“Taking over my house. Playing nurse. Fussing.”

Ann pauses, then turns back, expression steady. “I’m enjoying the company.”

Catherine blinks. The directness throws her off balance. She covers it quickly, grumbling, “Mine? You’re impossible.”

Ann smiles faintly, turning back to the stove. “And you’re predictable.”

Catherine mutters something under her breath, but she doesn’t tell her to stop.

The smell of garlic and spices soon drifts through the kitchen, rice simmering with chicken and vegetables, the pan hissing softly whenever Ann stirs. Catherine pretends to read, though her eyes keep drifting to Ann’s back, the way she moves, unhurried, confident. She tells herself it’s irritation.

But when Ann sets a plate in front of her—fragrant pilaf with a small side of crisp salad, colours bright against the plain dishes—Catherine feels that same warmth rise again—unbidden, unwanted, and yet not unpleasant.

*

Catherine hovers in the kitchen doorway, mug of tea cradled awkwardly in her good hand, watching Ann move about. Dishes stacked, counter wiped, kettle clicked on again. It’s all done without asking, and for once Catherine doesn’t feel the need to bristle. The sight settles something in her, a quiet ease she hadn’t expected.

“Sit down,” Ann says without looking round.

“I am sat down,” Catherine fires back, easing herself into the chair.

“You’re hovering,” Ann counters, flicking the tea towel across her shoulder.

“Am not.”

Ann gives her a look over her shoulder—patient, amused, not giving an inch. Catherine huffs, takes a sip of tea that’s gone lukewarm, and mutters something some might consider rude.

The quiet stretches, filled only by the click of dishes and the faint hum of the fridge. Catherine can't help fidgeting, not when it feels this… close. She fiddles with the rim of her mug, gaze sliding to the window, then back to Ann. She feels like her own hair is itching at the scalp, and even though it's probably just her imagination, the itch won't go away. She tells herself she can wait till Clare is back, but she knows that's a lie, cause that's a full week still.

“You don't wanna do your hair?” Ann asks suddenly, like she’s read her mind.

Catherine stiffens. “What’s it to you?”

“You mentioned it earlier. Said it was driving you mad.”

Catherine glares into her tea. “Well. It is. Can’t exactly manage it on me own, can I?”

“No.” Ann rinses her hands, dries them, and then says it as casual as you like: “I’ll help you.”

Catherine almost chokes. “You’ll what?”

“Help you wash it. Bathroom sink’ll do fine.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Catherine stands as if the movement might end the conversation. “I can wait.”

“You can’t.” Ann leans against the counter, arms folded. She doesn’t look smug, doesn’t look like she’s winding Catherine up.

Catherine narrows her eyes. “I’m not having you fussing round me like I’m an invalid. I can go a few days without—”

“You can,” Ann agrees. “A few. But Clare’s not back ‘til next week, and I think that's more than a few.” She shrugs. “But you could ask Daniel or Joyce, there's your options.”

The words are gentle, not sharp, but they land. Catherine’s jaw tightens. “Tell me why I bother with you.”

Ann shrugs. “Come on. You’ll feel better for it.”

There’s that tone again, the one Catherine can’t fight without feeling foolish. She grips her mug tighter, hoping the tea will steady her pulse. “I’ve managed fine all my life. Don’t need—”

“Did you manage fine with the recycling this morning?”

Catherine snaps her head up, ready to bite back, but Ann’s not smirking. Her face is open, calm, just waiting. The fight drains out of Catherine in a rush of irritation, directed mostly at herself.

“You don’t give in, do you?” she mutters.

“No,” Ann says simply.

Catherine slams her mug down harder than intended, sloshes tea on the table. She flinches, but pretends she doesn't mind. “Fine. But if you so much as laugh, I’ll have your guts for garters.”

Ann reaches for the roll of kitchen towel, tearing off a strip and blotting up the spill before Catherine can move. Her voice is even, but there’s a glint in her eye. “I won't be laughing.” She tosses the damp paper in the bin and straightens, softer now. “You don’t make it easy, you know. But you don’t really want me to stop, either.”

Catherine narrows her eyes, but the heat in her cheeks betrays her. “You’ve got a bloody nerve,” she mutters, pushing back her chair.

Ann only gestures toward the hall, unhurried. “Bathroom?”

Catherine grumbles under her breath but leads the way, cradling her mug like a shield. The small room feels tighter than usual once Ann steps in behind her, sleeves already rolled up. Catherine sets the mug on the shelf, glaring at it as though it’s responsible for everything.

Ann turns on the taps, testing the water with a practised flick of her fingers. “Sit. I’ll make it quick.”

“You boss everyone around like this?” Catherine asks, lowering herself onto the toilet lid with all the grace of someone preparing for surgery.

“Only the ones who pretend they don’t like it.”

Catherine lets out a sharp snort, but it dies quickly when Ann drapes a towel round her shoulders and tips her head back toward the basin. The closeness sends a pulse of heat through her chest, inconvenient and impossible to ignore. She tells herself to come out with something cutting, something to put Ann back in her place—but all that comes is a quiet, half-muttered, “Course you'd say that.”

Ann’s hand brushes her temple as she steadies her, gentler than it has any right to be. “I would.”

Ann tests the stream from the tap once more before guiding Catherine’s head back over the basin. Catherine goes with a stiff roll of her eyes, shoulders tense under the towel.

“Never thought I’d see the day,” she mutters. “Me, sat like some daft old biddy, gettin’ me hair done over the bathroom sink.”

“You’re not old,” Ann says, still adjusting the water.

Catherine snorts. “Tell that to me knees.”

The corners of Ann’s mouth twitch, but she doesn’t argue further. Instead, she lowers Catherine’s head the rest of the way, one hand braced lightly against her temple. The first rush of warm water runs through Catherine’s hair, and she lets out an involuntary sigh.

Then Ann’s fingers are in her hair, steady and sure, and Catherine goes utterly still. She tells herself she’s braced for cold water, for awkwardness, for something to justify the knot in her stomach. But the touch isn’t clumsy or clinical. It’s careful, deliberate—just enough pressure to soothe without smothering.

“You’ve done this before,” Catherine says after a beat, tone edged with suspicion she doesn’t really feel.

Ann’s voice stays quiet above her. “With me mum. When she was ill.” A pause, the sound of water rushing to fill the gap.

Catherine stills. The water runs warm across her scalp, but her chest feels tight. She wants to say something, but the words wedge in her throat. She settles for, “Well. You’ve got a knack for it.”

Ann’s fingers slow for a moment, then resume their steady rhythm. “She used to say the same.”

Catherine finds herself leaning into the touch without meaning to, her grip on the sink slackening as the tension eases from her shoulders.

For a long while neither of them speaks. The sound of water fills the small room, mingling with the faint rustle of Ann’s shirt against the sink and Catherine’s jumper. Catherine’s thoughts drift in directions she doesn’t want them to—towards the curve of Ann’s wrist, the steady pressure of her fingers, the way her body leans close without hesitation. She breathes through her nose, forces her jaw tight.

And yet by the time Ann tips her head back to rinse, Catherine is almost sorry it’s ending. The water cascades clean, carrying the last of the lather away. Ann shields her brow with one hand, as if the smallest slip would matter.

Ann towels her hair, and Catherine can’t quite look at her. The towel’s gentle against her scalp, the motion unhurried. She swallows hard, forcing the word out rough. “Ta.”

When it’s done, Ann presses the towel around Catherine’s hair, drawing it close with quiet efficiency. “Good as new.”

Catherine sits up slowly, the towel turbaned over her head, stray droplets cooling on her neck. She catches Ann’s gaze and finds a steady warmth that makes her pulse jump.

She clears her throat, reaching for the old familiar armour. “If I look like a drowned rat, I’ll hold you responsible.”

Ann’s smile curves, soft but certain. “You don’t.”

Catherine lets out a rough chuckle before she can stop herself. The sound feels foreign, loosening something in her chest. She glances up, and Ann’s looking at her with that same calm steadiness that undid her earlier.

Catherine pushes herself to her feet too quickly, brushing past like she’s got something urgent to do. She doesn’t. She just needs space, air, anything to stop the pounding in her chest. She mutters something about needing a dry jumper and ducks out of the bathroom, heart hammering like she’s just legged it from a crime scene.

For a while she rattles about the house, pointlessly shifting post on the table, flicking through the telly guide without watching, trying to pretend she’s not listening for Ann moving in the other room. But Ann doesn’t press, doesn’t follow.

After a bit, Catherine hears the soft thud of the washing machine door, the faint clatter of mugs being put away. Just normal sounds. Domestic. She hates how much she likes it.

When she finally slinks back into the kitchen, Catherine feels her pulse still drumming in her ears. Ann’s at the table with a file open in front of her, pen tapping a steady rhythm against her hand. She looks up, eyes calm, composed, and simply asks, “You all right?”

Catherine clears her throat, too sharp. “Fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Ann only smiles faintly, then goes back to her file. It disarms Catherine more than any pitying fuss would’ve. She hovers a moment, restless, then drops into the chair opposite, pulling her phone out like she’s got something pressing to check. She hasn’t. Her thumb slides pointlessly over the screen.

Time passes easier than she expects. Ann folds laundry at the table with neat, precise movements, stacking things like they belong in a shop window. Catherine mutters about how she folds socks, and isn't really surprised when Ann just arches an eyebrow, humour twitching at her mouth, without changing a thing. Before long they’re sat side by side, Catherine mulling over a crossword Ann’s pulled from the paper and didn't finish, and Ann reading something on her phone.

Catherine frowns at a corner of the grid, chewing the end of her pencil. “This one's bugging me. ‘A persistent ache for something absent.’ Eight letters.” She tries filling in the cross-clues instead, muttering to herself, rubbing out, rewriting. “Not ‘hunger.’ Too short. Not ‘desire’ either. Bloody hell.”

Ann leans closer to have a look, shoulder brushing Catherine’s. Probably nothing intentional, just her way of seeing the page properly, but Catherine feels the warmth like a live wire. The faint scent of Ann’s shampoo drifts up, clean and citrusy, cutting through the musty quiet of the room.

“Yearning,” Ann says quietly, almost like it’s obvious.

Catherine swallows, fingers tightening on the pencil. “…Yearning. Right.” She thrusts it toward Ann before she can second-guess herself. “Go on, you do it.”

Ann takes the pencil without fuss, bends a little nearer so she can angle it properly over the page. Her hair slips forward as she writes, strands brushing her cheek, and Catherine sits stiff as a board, too aware of how close they are.

The letters appear in Ann’s neat hand, filling the spaces Catherine couldn’t manage. When she pulls back, it’s only a fraction, their shoulders still touching.

“There,” Ann murmurs. “Fits, doesn’t it.”

Catherine forces herself to nod, though her chest is tight. “Yeah. Fits.”

The word sits on the page between them, louder than anything else in the room.

“All right, give that here, then,” Catherine says, voice rougher than she expected, holding out her hand for the pencil.

Ann holds it out to her, their fingers brushing as Catherine grabs hold of it.

She clears her throat. “I would've figured it out, you know. I just want the thing to be done now.”

Ann’s mouth tilts, faint, more thoughtful than smug. “Mm.” She returns to her phone, though Catherine feels the echo of the word between them.

By the time Ann suggests starting dinner, Catherine’s wrist aches, her cheeks ache from too much smiling, and something in her chest feels loose, dangerous.

Ann insists on cooking again, and this time Catherine doesn’t fight it. She slumps at the table, sipping at her tea, while Ann moves around the kitchen with an ease Catherine can’t help but watch. The steady rhythm of knife against board, the scrape of pans, the sleeves rolled neat up her forearms. Catherine’s gaze lingers too long, caught by the simple competence of her, by the way she hums faintly under her breath. When Ann glances up, Catherine jerks her eyes to the salt shaker like it’s the most fascinating thing she’s ever seen.

They eat together at the table, easy chatter filling the space between clinks of cutlery. Catherine pretends it’s nothing, just a meal. But it feels more than that. Domestic. Dangerous.

And less and less like friends.

*

Later, they drift to the sofa. Telly murmurs, wine in their glasses, the lamplight softening shadows. Catherine feels her body unclench, shoulders sinking back for the first time all day.

She doesn’t know how long they’ve sat in silence before it sneaks up on her—the peace of it. No noise, no pretence. Just them. She blurts before she can stop herself, voice low, rough-edged. “You’ve been… good. Proper good. Don’t know what I’d’ve done without you, these last couple days.”

Ann turns, steady as ever. “You’d’ve managed. You always do.”

“Aye, but…” Catherine swallows, forces herself not to look away. “Doesn’t mean I’m not grateful.”

The words hang there, heavier than she meant. She feels them in her throat, in the heat rising at the back of her neck. Ann’s gaze holds hers, calm, unreadable, and it needles Catherine—makes her want to shift, to fidget, to do anything but sit still under it. Instead she tips back her glass, swallows too fast, then coughs into her fist. Smooth.

Ann doesn’t laugh, doesn’t even smile. The air shifts, subtle as a change in weather, and Ann’s gaze flicks down, just for a second, to her mouth.

And that—bloody hell, that does her in.

She leans forward, grabs the bottle off the table, pretends she’s refilling though she barely splashes any into her glass. When she settles back, her thigh presses against Ann’s. She tells herself it’s the narrow sofa, but she doesn’t move. Ann doesn’t either.

“Reckon you like this,” Catherine mutters, half to herself, half challenge.

Ann tilts her head. “Like what?”

“This. Me all… sat still, quiet. Letting you fuss over me.” Catherine huffs a laugh, shaky round the edges. “Bet you never thought you’d see the day.”

Ann’s lips twitch, though not quite into a smile. “Maybe I did.”

Catherine blinks at her. The air between them feels different now, charged, like the pause before a storm breaks. She tries to look back at the telly, but the noise means nothing. Her eyes slide sideways, fix on Ann instead—the loose fall of her hair, the line of her nose, the steady rhythm of her breathing.

Her pulse kicks. She takes another drink, slower this time, buying seconds. But it doesn’t ease the pull. She shifts again, inching closer, shoulder brushing Ann’s now. She means to make a joke, something cutting to break the tension, but the words stick. All she manages is, “You’re… bloody relentless, you know that? Like you can see straight through all me daft carry-on.”

Ann doesn’t answer straight away. When she does, her voice is fond, warm with affection. “You’re not that hard to read.”

The air thickens. Catherine laughs under her breath, the sound catching. She sets her glass down too hard, the clink loud in the hush. Her hands twitch uselessly against her knees, restless, until she gives up and turns fully toward Ann.

She doesn’t hide her stare this time. Her eyes drop, linger far too long on Ann’s mouth. Catherine feels her pulse slam, lips parting before her brain catches up. She tilts forward, body betraying her, slow at first, then bolder, reckless.

Ann doesn’t flinch, but she doesn’t move in either—only holds still, waiting.

Catherine closes the gap, almost. Her breath brushes Ann’s cheek, her lips a heartbeat away, every nerve alight with the inevitability of it—

And then she jerks back, sharp, breaking it before it breaks her.

“Christ, Ann,” she mutters, voice low, rough. “You don’t know what you’re doin’.”

The hurt in Ann’s face is quick, controlled, but it lands all the same. Catherine sees it. Feels it. And she hates herself instantly for putting it there. She grips her glass too tight, fixes her gaze on the telly as if the noise might drown the silence.

They sit like that, side by side but miles apart. The easy closeness from earlier gone. Catherine wants to bridge it, say something, anything, but her throat won’t move. Ann doesn’t push.

Eventually Ann gathers the glasses, carries them to the sink. The sound of water running, the clink of glass, fills the kitchen. Catherine doesn’t follow. She stays rooted, furious with herself.

When Ann comes back she’s already tugging on her coat.

“You off, then?” Catherine asks, tone casual, careless.

Ann nods. “Early start tomorrow.”

Catherine knows it’s a lie. She's seen the schedule. She knows Ann's on nights. She wants to call her on it, wants to stop her, but all she says is, “Right. Drive careful.”

Ann’s smile is small, polite. “I always do.”

She moves toward the living room door, pausing with a hand on the frame. She doesn’t turn back, just steadies herself there, voice quiet but certain. “I’ve seen you lookin’, you know.”

The words lance through Catherine. Her mouth works before her brain can catch up. “That just means I have eyes.”

Ann slumps at that, her shoulders sagging like the words knocked something out of her. She doesn’t answer. Just leaves.

The door clicks shut, and the silence that follows is worse than anything Catherine’s ever sat in. She stares at the empty space Ann’s left behind, heart hammering, wanting nothing more than to drag her back—and hating herself for not moving.

She sits on the sofa long after the door shuts, staring at the patch of carpet Ann’s boots had scuffed, as if that will bring her back. It doesn’t. The only company she’s left with is the tick of the clock on the mantel, the hum of the fridge, the creak of the pipes. Everything sharp, everything loud. Her chest feels scraped out.

Chapter Text

You don’t know what you’re doin’.

The words echo, heavy and cruel.

She drags a hand down her face. Christ. Why did she say that? She could’ve just said it was daft, could’ve laughed it off. But no—she had to make it sound like Ann’s some daft kid chasing something she doesn’t understand. And Ann had looked at her, sharp, stung, like Catherine had pulled the rug out from under her.

The silence swells. She gets up, paces the room. Sits back down. Her body can’t decide what it wants. She ends up with her head in her hands, muttering, “Idiot. Bloody idiot.”

She thinks of Ann at the door, quiet but steady: I’ve seen you lookin’, you know.

Catherine had panicked. Shot back with, That just means I have eyes.

The second the words left her mouth, she’d seen Ann crumple. Not outwardly—not dramatic, not begging—but in her shoulders, the tiny slump, like Catherine had confirmed the worst thing she feared. And then she’d gone, polite, distant, shutting the door soft as you like, and Catherine had just sat there, useless.

The worst of it is—it’s not even true. Ann’s right. Catherine has been looking. Weeks, months maybe, she’s not even sure anymore. Little glances that lasted too long, shoulders brushing when they sat too close, that warmth in her chest when Ann’s laugh cut through the dark. And tonight… well. Tonight she’d nearly made it real.

Her hands clench into fists, and she's painfully reminded of her sprain. She wants to blame the wine, the long day, the quiet that got too thick. But no. Truth is, she wanted to kiss Ann. Plain and simple. Wanted it so badly her body gave her away.

And yet—she stopped it. She always bloody stops it.

Her body feels too tight, her chest wound up like a spring. She gets up, paces the room. Sits down again. Gets up. None of it helps. The silence presses heavier with every minute, and Ann’s absence gnaws like a missing tooth you can’t stop prodding.

It’s not just the almost-kiss. It’s everything around it. Years of friendship, built on steady ground, the one person who never flinched at her rough edges. What happens if she ruins that? She can already feel the loss, and it’s unbearable.

She moves to the window, cracks it open, the night air spilling in damp and cold. It smells faintly of rain. She leans against the frame and breathes deep, as if the cold might shock her out of the spiral. It doesn’t.

She leans there, arms braced on the frame, staring out at the empty street. She pictures Ann walking home, coat tight, head down, even though she knows she came by car. She wonders if Ann’s angry, or worse, hurt in that quiet way she won’t show.

Wonders if she’ll come back tomorrow, or if Catherine’s finally done it—pushed too hard, driven her off. The thought makes her throat close. She tries to tell herself it’d be better that way, easier, safer. But the lie rings hollow.

The truth is, she doesn’t want Ann to stop coming. She never has.

Catherine presses her forehead to the cold glass. She can’t stop replaying it. Ann, turning toward her. The space between them thinning. Catherine leaning in, without even thinking, her body giving her away. And then—her pulling back.

Ann’s face after that. Barely a flicker, but Catherine had seen it. The sting. The hurt. And she's the one who caused it.

What was she thinking? Or rather—why wasn’t she brave enough to stop thinking? For one second, she could have let herself have it. Could have given in. But no. She bottled it. Like always.

Because Ann doesn’t deserve this. Doesn’t deserve Catherine’s mess. She’s nearly fifty—aching joints, lined face, years of grief carved into her bones. Ann’s barely thirty. Fresh, open, full of a kind of energy Catherine lost long ago.

And at work? Christ, the rank alone makes it impossible. There are lines you don’t cross, and this would be one hell of a line. She’s meant to set an example, not blur the rules. It’s not illegal, not even against the regs, but you’re meant to report it. And once you do, half the time someone gets moved. That’s how it goes—no one’s supposed to be supervising the person they’re with. Catherine can’t risk that. Can’t risk losing Ann out of her team, out of her day-to-day. And the idea of marching into Mike’s office to tell him? She can’t picture it. Not because she’s ashamed, but because she knows what people are like. The whispers. The side looks. Some clever sod muttering Ann’s slept her way to favour. Catherine couldn’t stomach it—for Ann’s sake more than her own.

So she’s stuck. Trapped between what she wants, what she can’t admit, and the bloody rules she’s sworn to uphold.

And family. Always family. Clare, clinging to her hard-won sobriety. Ryan, bright and stubborn, carrying the shadow of Becky’s death with him every day, without really knowing it. Becky—gone, because of that same bastard who’d hurt Ann. It’s all knotted together, tangled and raw. Catherine knows she’s a mess, knows the weight she’s already dragging behind her. What right has she got to drag Ann into that? To ask her to shoulder even a fraction of it?

She shoves her good hand into her hair, pulling hard enough to sting her scalp. Because under all those reasons, all the barriers and the sense and the rank and the years, is the truth: she wanted it. Wanted Ann. Wanted her enough she almost let herself have it.

And the worst part—she’s not sure she’ll survive wanting and never having.

The minutes roll past. The street outside grows quieter, until there’s nothing but the occasional car swishing past. Catherine paces again, muttering curses under her breath, the words cycling round and round: “Idiot. Bloody coward. You’ve cocked it right up.”

She lights a lamp she doesn’t need. Fiddles with the paper Ann had pulled from a newspaper. The crossword sits open on the table. Catherine picks it up, stares at the neat handwriting cutting across her own messy scrawl. Yearning. The word Ann had filled in earlier. At the time it had been banter, a bit of fun. Now it feels like Ann had laid something bare without meaning to, and Catherine had slammed the door on it.

She presses her palm flat over the word, eyes shutting tight. Because that’s it, isn’t it? Yearning. For what she can’t let herself have.

The clock nudges past midnight. Catherine curls onto her side on the sofa, dragging the blanket up, but her mind won’t quiet.

The hours stretch. She gets back up. She paces, mutters, curses herself. Every excuse she leans on—age, rank, family—feels thinner the longer she repeats it. None of it changes the truth. That when she had leaned in, Catherine had wanted Ann to meet her halfway. She'd wanted Ann’s mouth on hers. Still does.

She sits again, head in her hands. Her chest twists tight, an ache that won’t ease. She presses the heels of her hands into her eyes until colours burst, but it doesn’t stop the reel of thoughts. She tells herself it’s better this way, safer. But the house feels wrong, gutted. Too quiet. Too empty. Ann’s absence sits heavy, unbearable.

*

By the time dawn edges grey through the curtains, she’s hollowed out, running on fumes, and she hasn’t slept. A cold mug of tea sweats on the table beside her. She stares at it, hollow, the word yearning still staring up at her from the crossword. She huffs out a sound, part laugh, part groan. Perfect bloody word. Perfect bloody word for this ache under her ribs that she can't shake, this pull she keeps trying to fight, this wanting she keeps shoving down. She can dress it up as caution, as sense, as professionalism. But when it comes down to it, she’s yearning. For Ann.

She presses her fingers to her temples, eyes shut, and feels the weight of it settle. She doesn’t know what she’ll do when she sees Ann next. Doesn’t know if Ann will even show up. But the thought of her not—of the silence stretching on, day after day, without her—feels unbearable.

For now, all Catherine can do is sit with it. The hurt she caused. The kiss that never happened. The truth she’s too much of a coward to admit.

And the certainty, buried deep, that she wants another chance.

Catherine gives up pretending she can sleep. She’s been half-dozing at best, jerking awake every time her body starts to settle. The sofa groans as she pushes herself upright, her wrist aching in its splint, shoulder stiff from lying twisted. She rubs her face, checks the clock. Too early for the world, but too late for her mind to switch off.

She carries the mug to the kitchen, dumps the content in the sink, and stares at the kettle for a minute, as if it might hold answers. It doesn't.

She fumbles with the box of teabags, her non-dominant hand not used to the task, and in frustration, she nearly drops the mug before she gets it steady. Carries it to the living room, and now the mug's exactly where it was before, cooling untouched on the table beside the crossword from yesterday. Yesterday, though it feels like another life. Her eyes linger on the neat letters Ann had written in the margins. Relentless, Catherine had called her. And now relentless is exactly what she feels: thoughts gnawing, circling, refusing to ease.

Ann’s absence presses heavy. Catherine can almost feel the space where she ought to be, the echo of her boots in the hall, her voice cutting through the quiet. She’d left with those words—I’ve seen you lookin’—and Catherine had thrown them back sharp enough to wound. She knows it. She knows Ann’s shoulders had dropped like she’d taken a blow. That look is branded on Catherine’s mind.

She grips her mug harder than she means to, jaw tight. She’s not the sort to grovel. Not the sort to chase. She’s spent too many years teaching herself not to. But this isn’t some daft row at work. This is Ann.

*

The hours crawl. Catherine keeps busy in ways that don’t need doing: rinses already-clean plates, tries folding laundry awkwardly with one hand, but only half of the items are complying, so it doesn't take long before she loses her patience and the shirt goes flying. She sweeps, but using the broom one-handed is a bother, and using both hands hurts, so she swears at it, heat prickling behind her eyes. The house’s too still, too empty.

She checks her phone. No new messages. Nothing from Ann. She stares at the blank screen longer than she should, thumb hovering. She could send something simple like ‘You alright’, but every word feels loaded. If she writes it, she’s admitting last night happened. Admitting she noticed. Admitting she was a twat. A cruel twat.

She locks the phone, throws it down on the sofa. Paces the length of the living room, restless, splint knocking clumsily against her thigh. The memory of Ann being so close won’t leave her. The almost-kiss. The breath between them. And Catherine, pulling back. Her own voice still rings in her ears: You don’t know what you’re doin’.

She wishes she could take it back. Wishes she could have swallowed the words, leaned that last inch. But wishing never changed a thing.

The doorbell jolts her. She freezes. For one ridiculous second her chest lifts, hope rising sharp and bright before she can crush it down. She hurries to the door and pulls it open.

Not Ann.

Postie, parcel in hand. She scrawls a signature awkwardly, pen clutched between splinted fingers, mutters thanks, shuts the door. The silence that follows feels heavier than before. She presses her forehead against the wood, breath leaking out rough. Idiot.

She tries the telly, flicks through channels, but nothing holds. Every corner of the house has Ann in it. On the sofa, laughing at some daft joke. In the kitchen, rolling her sleeves to wash up. Leaning over the crossword with that quiet concentration. Catherine can’t scrub her out no matter how she tries.

She gives in at last, sits with her phone again. Scrolls to Ann’s name. Doesn’t press call. Doesn’t type. Just stares, thumb resting on the glass, until the screen dims and reflects her own face back at her: tired, drawn, older than she wants to admit.

The urge comes sharp, like a stitch in her side. To send something. Anything. She could write sorry, though it feels too small, too thin for what she means. She could send a joke—something light, safe, pretending nothing happened. But her thumb hovers and won’t move. Because either way, it means opening the door. It means admitting she wants Ann to walk through it.

She scrolls back through their thread, half-hoping the answer’s tucked away somewhere. The little back-and-forths, Ann’s easy humour, her daft emojis. All of it feels like it belongs to another life. Catherine swallows hard. Types nothing, her hand numb.

The screen stays still for a long moment. And then—three grey dots blink into being at the bottom.

Her chest tightens like a fist. Ann is typing.

Catherine sits frozen, staring as if the dots might vanish if she looks away. She tries not to hope, but her pulse trips anyway. Maybe it’s a message that fixes everything. Maybe it’s the end. She doesn’t know which would be worse.

The dots vanish.

Catherine waits, breath snagging, but nothing comes through. The silence drags until it feels like the phone itself is mocking her. She tells herself fine, that’s fine, it was nothing. Just Ann thinking better of it. Best to leave it.

Despite that thought, she waits, gripping the phone harder than she should. The dots return, fluttering back to life. A jolt goes through her. Ann is still there, still on the other end, still—what? Struggling, second-guessing, thinking too much. Catherine can almost see her, thumb hovering the same way hers does now.

She wants to say something first, to take the weight off, but her courage falters every time her fingers edge near the keyboard. She can’t bear to press the words into existence if they’ll only wound more. So she waits, staring, heart knocking harder than she’d like.

The dots vanish again.

Catherine curses under her breath, thumb sliding up to lock the screen as if that could steady her. The dark glass shows her reflection again: taut mouth, haunted eyes. She wants Ann’s words, and she dreads them in the same breath.

She stays like that far too long, phone heavy in her lap, until the silence in the room feels deafening.

The crossword on the table almost seems to he mocking her, and Catherine can't stand it. She tosses her phone aside, places a random paper on the crossword, and then goes to the kitchen for good measure.

The kettle is mumbling quietly as she fumbles with the milk cap, swearing under her breath when the milk carton slips and bursts on the floor. She crouches to mop it up with the edge of a towel, wrist screaming, movements jerky.

And the whole time, Ann hovers in her thoughts. Not the mess on the tiles, but Ann’s hand steadying hers last night, sliding the crossword closer, shoulder brushing hers on the sofa. Ann looking at her lips, expectant. Not a mistake. She wanted it. Catherine had wanted it too. And still she’d pulled away. Not because she didn’t want it, but because she did. Too much.

She pictures all the reasons again: the age gap, the rank, the wreckage of her family trailing behind her like smoke. Each one true, each one solid. But beneath them all lurks the truth she finally can’t ignore anymore: she’s scared.

*

The phone buzzes. One message.

From Ann.

Her pulse spikes. She opens it straightaway, no hesitation.

< Left summat at yours. On the step. >

That’s all. No greeting, no sign-off. Caring, but held at arm’s length. Catherine reads it again and again, the short line taut with everything Ann won’t say.

She’s up before she realises it, crossing to the front door. The evening air spills in cool and damp, carrying the faint tang of rain. At her feet sits a little carrier bag, rain-speckled but carefully knotted at the top.

Inside are a pasty wrapped in brown paper, a carton of apple juice, and a palm-sized strawberry cake in clingfilm, soft sponge showing through. And folded between them, a crossword torn from some glossy magazine Catherine doesn’t read, half-filled with Ann’s clean handwriting.

Her throat tightens. She runs a thumb over the edge of the clipping, careful not to smudge the pencil.

Catherine stands there too long, the night pressing close, bag clutched to her chest. Ann’s words echo in her head—just enough care to pierce her, just enough distance to remind her what’s broken between them.

She locks the door slowly, sets the bag on the table. The telly hums on in the other room, untouched. Catherine sinks onto the sofa, strawberry cake in her lap, phone in her hand, staring at Ann’s message until the screen goes dark.

Catherine sits with the phone heavy in her palm, Ann’s message glowing at her like a thing alive.

< Left summat at yours. On the step. >

She reads it a fourth time, then checks the timestamp. 20:59. She feels the weight of that detail settle on her chest, subtle but undeniable. Ann sent it at the last possible moment, right before her shift started. Not earlier, when she’d been at home. Not while she might’ve had time to see Catherine’s reply.

No. Ann pressed send when she knew she’d be stepping into work, phone shoved in a locker or a pocket, no chance of Catherine’s words appearing back at her. A one-way message. A controlled distance.

Catherine doesn’t blame her. She knows why. She knows exactly why. Still, it lands sharp, as though Ann had said aloud: You don’t get to answer me. Not yet. Not until I’m safe from whatever it is you might say.

Her thumb hovers over the keyboard. ‘Thank you,’ she could write. Or, ‘You didn’t have to.’ Or even, ‘I’m sorry.’

But her chest knots up. She can’t bring herself to press the glass.

She places the phone on the coffee table instead, screen down, and looks at the carrier bag like it might explain something. It doesn’t, of course. It just sits there, quiet, offering its small comforts.

She hasn’t eaten all day, not properly. Only that pot of tea, gone cool on the table more than once. Hunger creeps up on her now, mixing with guilt until she can’t tell one from the other. She picks up the bag, sets it in her lap, and unties the knot.

The pasty first, still slightly warm. Brown paper, softened from the steam, faintly greasy. She breaks it open with one hand, clumsy thanks to the splint, and the smell rises—peppery, rich, meat and potato. Her stomach growls. She doesn’t even bother with a plate. Takes a bite, chews too quickly, but the taste rolls through her anyway, grounding. Something to do with her mouth, her teeth, her tongue. Something other than all the words she can’t say.

She eats most of it without looking up, just staring at the muted telly as though that will disguise her focus. Then the pasty's gone, and she’s back where she started, only fuller, more tired, and still carrying the ache.

She wipes her fingers, reaches again into the bag. The juice carton comes next. She pokes the straw through and sips, cold and sharp on her tongue. Childish, almost. Ann must’ve chosen it on purpose—something easy, something Catherine could open one-handed. That thought alone makes her eyes sting.

She sets it aside, carefully, then takes up the cake. The clingfilm clings, tacky, and she peels it back slowly. The sponge is pale, intersected by a layer of cream and strawberry. She breaks off a piece, smaller than she means to, and places it on her tongue. Sweet, tender.

She eats half before stopping, appetite and restraint pulling at her in equal measure. She can’t bring herself to finish it, not yet. She sets it down with care, as if it matters, and finally turns to the folded crossword.

It’s torn from some glossy women’s magazine, a puzzle half-solved, some clues scratched out and corrected. Ann’s handwriting runs through it—precise, sure, but with slips where she’s written too fast. Catherine traces a finger over the pencil marks, feeling the pressure grooves. Some answers are missing, the letters left blank. Spaces waiting to be filled.

She leans over, uncovers the crossword from yesterday, and stares at it. Her chest aches. She rubs at her forehead with her free hand, pushing back her hair, sighing hard.

The phone lies face down on the table, but its weight is still there, dragging at her. She flips it over, wakes the screen. Ann’s message sits silent, final. No dots. No follow-up. Just that short, careful line.

She checks the time. Half past nine now. Ann will be half an hour into her shift, probably busy. Technically unreachable. Catherine breathes out, long and slow, and tells herself she has time.

She could reply now. A simple thank you. That would be enough. But she imagines Ann on her break, reading it in the staffroom, her guard up, a wall around her. Catherine’s words would only echo against it. No chance to see her face, no way to soften the edges.

Better to wait. She convinces herself of that. Wait until morning, maybe. Then she can say it more clearly. Then Ann might actually hear it.

She leaves the phone untouched.

Instead, she clears the table, puts the half-eaten cake on a small plate, wraps it again. The pasty bag goes in the bin. She puts the new crossword beside her on the sofa, a pencil tucked in the fold where Ann must’ve left it. Catherine picks it up, tries one of the unsolved clues, but the answer won’t come. Her head’s too full.

She sets it aside, sinks back into the cushions, lets her eyes close.

But Ann is everywhere still. Her laugh. The warmth of her shoulder brushing Catherine’s when she’d leaned over the crossword. Her hair smelling faintly of something fresh and typically Ann. Catherine remembers the jolt in her chest, how vividly she’d felt it. All the things she’s denied.

The regret presses hard enough to keep her awake. She turns the telly off. The house falls into silence, thick and unrelenting.

She gets up again, restless. Moves to the kitchen, fills the kettle, then stops halfway. What’s the point? More tea won’t fix anything. She sets it down, leans against the counter with her head bowed.

The phone still waits in the living room. She can almost feel it buzzing though it hasn’t.

She goes back, sits, and finally lets herself type. Just a line. Nothing too much.

‘Got it. Thank you. Wasn’t necessary but… it means a lot.’

She reads it twice. Three times. Her thumb hovers. She imagines Ann opening it, eyes tired, hands tense from work. Maybe it would make her smile. Maybe it would only hurt.

The thought snags. Catherine deletes the message. Screen goes blank again.

She buries her face in her hand. She wants to do right, but every direction feels wrong. If she says too little, it’s ungrateful. Too much, it’s pressure Ann doesn’t need. So she does nothing. She tells herself she’s waiting for the right moment, but the truth is, she’s afraid. Afraid of showing how deep it goes. Afraid of Ann seeing it and stepping back again.

The hours slide on. Ten. Eleven. Midnight. Catherine dozes on the sofa, wakes with her neck stiff, the crossword slipped to the floor. She picks it up, smooths the creases, folds it back.

Her stomach twists. She hasn’t finished the cake. She eats another bite in the quiet, sweetness blooming, and tells herself it’s like sharing something Ann’s made, though she doesn’t know that for sure. She lets the idea comfort her anyway.

By the time she goes to bed, the phone still sits unanswered. Catherine plugs it in, sets it face down again, and tells herself she'll reply in the morning. She slides beneath the duvet, wrist aching, heart aching worse, and tries to sleep.

Sleep doesn’t come easy. Every shift of the sheets reminds her of Ann’s absence. Every creak of the house reminds her of the things unsaid. She closes her eyes and sees the blinking dots again, appearing, vanishing, returning. Ann typing, erasing, doubting, trying. Catherine feels each pause as though it had been carved into her.

*

When the morning sun finally filters through the curtains, Catherine wakes with her phone in hand, though she doesn’t remember reaching for it. The message is still there.

Catherine breathes in, long and rough. She doesn’t know what to say yet. But she knows she can’t stay silent forever. Not when Ann keeps leaving pieces of herself on Catherine’s doorstep.

Not when she loves her this much.

For a second she just stares at the word in her own head. Love. She’s been dodging it for weeks—months, if she’s honest with herself. Always chalking it up to loneliness, to lust, to the need for comfort in a house that’s been cold too long. Telling herself she just wanted Ann’s smile, Ann’s warmth, Ann’s kindness, like they were scraps to keep her going. But this? This is different. This is the whole bloody truth. She loves her. And it’s terrifying.

The thought cracks something open in her chest, clean through the middle. She clamps her hand to her mouth like she can shove it back down, but it doesn’t work. The sound escapes anyway, sharp and guttural. Tears burn her eyes before she even knows they’re coming.

She doesn’t cry often. Doesn’t let herself. But now it comes all at once, harsh and hot, dragging through her chest. Her shoulders shake, and she presses her forehead into her knees, the phone slipping onto the duvet. She can’t remember the last time she let it out like this—not after Richard, not even after Kirsten. Always holding it tight, buttoned up, carrying it like another weight.

Now, though, there’s no stopping it. Her chest heaves with it, raw, broken sobs she can’t catch in her throat. It’s love. That’s what it is. Love for Ann. Stupid, impossible, wrong by every measure she tries to stack against it, and still so bloody real it leaves her gasping.

For a few minutes she just cries, hard and fast, like the floodgates have been yanked wide open. She clutches the edge of the duvet, digs her face into it, doesn’t care that her nose is running, that her ribs hurt with the force of it. She cries for Ann. For herself. For all the time she's wasted, all the pain she's caused, being too afraid to want something this much.

Then, as quick as it came, it ebbs. Catherine pulls a jagged breath, wipes her face with the heel of her hand. Her eyes ache, her throat is raw, but the storm has passed. What’s left behind is the ache; hollow, steady, deep. The ache of knowing it now, of having no excuses left to hide behind.

Ann’s message sits where it has all night.

< Left summat at yours. On the step. >

Catherine glances at the clock on the phone. 07:23. Her stomach tightens. Ann’s shift officially ends at seven. Unless something’s kicked off, she’ll be leaving the station, heading home, phone finally in hand.

Catherine swallows, presses the side button to darken the screen, but as she does, she sees movement. Ann's online.

She unlocks the phone again and stares at it. Her breath goes sharp in her throat. For a second she can’t move. Just stares at it, horrified. Because she knows Ann will have looked at her phone in the cold air outside the station, tired from the night, and seen nothing. No reply. Not even a quick ‘Cheers.’

Ann goes offline.

Catherine imagines Ann’s face, the small drop in it. The set of her mouth. That careful way she carries herself when she’s bracing against hurt. Catherine feels it crack open inside her, a raw seam of panic.

“Shit. Christ.” She sits up too fast, duvet slipping. Her splinted wrist knocks the side table, and she winces, clutching it to her chest. But the worse pain is in her chest, beating hard.

She could send something. Now. But what? Not just ‘Thanks.’ That’s nothing. Too little, too late. Not ‘Sorry,’ either. Too big. Too loaded.

She waits for a minute, fully expecting Ann to come back online.

She doesn't.

Catherine’s thumb hovers, desperate, useless. She starts typing.

‘Got it, thank you, I appreciate it more than you know.’

She deletes it, her heart racing. Types again.

‘The food was lovely, you didn’t need to, but I’m glad you did.’

She erases that too.

Every line sounds wrong. Thin. Like pouring water into a crack and hoping it’ll hold.

She grips the phone in both hands, breathing fast, staring at Ann’s name on the screen. The panic prickles higher: what if Ann thinks she doesn’t care? What if she thinks Catherine just tossed the bag aside? What if she thinks the silence means Catherine regrets everything, including her?

The thought makes Catherine’s vision blur. She rubs at her eyes with the heel of her good hand, hair falling in her face.

She could call. The idea stabs through her, terrifying, but direct. Ann might not answer, not straightaway, but at least Catherine would have done something more than sit here like a coward. But then she pictures Ann walking home from the station, phone buzzing in her pocket, seeing Catherine’s name flash up after hours of silence. Would she pick it up? Or would she let it ring, too tired, too bruised?

Catherine sets the phone down, then snatches it up again, restless, like her body doesn’t know what to do with itself. Her heart is thudding so hard she can feel it in her temples.

She goes into the kitchen, phone still in her hand, and stares at the half-wrapped cake on the counter. The little folded crossword, still lying where she left it. Evidence of care Ann had given her, freely, despite everything. Catherine’s throat aches. She presses her fist against her mouth.

“Bloody coward,” she mutters to herself.

The silence answers back.

She unlocks the phone again. Opens the chat. Types three words.

‘I’m so sorry.’

She freezes. Her chest seizes up. Because if she sends that, it’s an admission. It lays bare everything she’s been holding back. It’s what Ann deserves, but it’s also what Catherine’s been too afraid to face.

Her thumb shakes over the send button. She deletes the words again.

She tries another line.

‘I ate the pasty. It was just what I needed. Thank you.’

It feels smaller, safer. But also pathetic, after a night of silence.

Her hands tremble. She puts the phone down on the counter, presses her palms flat against the cold laminate, and bows her head. Her breath comes hard, shallow.

Do something, Catherine. Do bloody something.

She picks the phone up again, scrolls to Ann’s name, and this time she hits call before she can think herself out of it. The dial tone thrums in her ear, every beat a hammer against her ribs.

One ring. Two. Three.

She nearly hangs up. Nearly throws the phone away. But then—

“Catherine?” Ann’s voice comes low through the speaker, softer than it had any right to be, wary and worn.

Catherine closes her eyes. Relief crashes through her, messy and overwhelming. She grips the phone tighter.

“Ann.” The name comes out rough, scratchy, like she’s swallowed gravel. She clears her throat, tries again. “I got your message. About the bag. I should’ve replied.” She swallows, long and hard.

There’s a pause on the line. Then Ann says, softer, “You sound… you all right?”

Catherine goes still. She knows exactly what Ann’s hearing—her voice thin, raw, the edge of the crying she hasn’t fully shaken. She forces herself to steady, keeps it flat. “I’m fine.”

She waits. Knows Ann doesn’t buy it. Knows it clear as day. Ann’s quiet stretches, not pressing, but not letting it slide, either.

Finally Ann asks, “Ryan’s all right?”

“Aye,” Catherine answers too quick. “He’s fine.”

“And Clare?”

“She’s fine as well.” Catherine shifts, pressing her fingers against her temple. She can feel Ann listening under the words, weighing them. Catherine adds, quieter, “They’re both fine.”

Another pause. Catherine holds her breath without meaning to. She’s grateful Ann hasn’t asked again, hasn’t forced it. She can almost feel her thinking it through, putting pieces together. Catherine’s gut twists. Ann’s probably guessed it’s about her. She can’t know it’s because Catherine finally admitted that she loves her, but… she’ll know enough.

Catherine drags in a breath. “You driving?” she blurts suddenly. There’s faint engine noise under Ann’s voice, steady, unmistakable. “If you are, I can hang up. Don’t want you on phone while—”

“I’m not driving.” Ann’s voice is calm, steady—but there’s a weight in her tone, enough to make it clear she isn’t on her own.

Catherine goes rigid where she sits. Her fingers tighten hard around the phone, knuckles whitening. Her throat works, trying to swallow it down, but the question still edges up, clumsy and heavy. “So… you wi—”

“No,” Ann cuts in, quick, quiet but firm. She leaves no space for it, doesn’t let the words shape. “Don’t worry about it.”

Catherine’s jaw locks. The half-formed question dies on her tongue, bitter and raw.

Silence again. A longer one this time. Catherine can hear the road noise faint and steady, Ann breathing on the other end. Every second presses down harder.

Finally, Ann shifts the weight of it. “Did you… like it? What I left.” Her tone’s gentler than before, careful. She doesn’t say food, doesn’t say pasty or cake. Just that.

Catherine blinks, relief loosening her chest by a bit. Something safe. Something she can answer. “I did.” Her voice comes out low. She clears her throat, tries again. “Ate the pasty straight off. Couldn’t help myself. Best thing I’ve had in days.”

There’s the faintest sound on the other end. Not quite a laugh, but close. Ann’s breathing changes, lighter for a moment.

“And the cake?” she asks.

“I’ve saved half,” Catherine admits. “Didn’t want it gone too quick.”

Another pause. Catherine pictures her sitting in the car, phone in hand, face blank to whoever's next to her, but her voice—her voice is soft.

“Glad you liked it,” Ann murmurs.

Catherine lets the silence stretch, too long again. Words clog in her throat, heavy with everything she can’t say. At last, almost whispering: “Thank you. For bringing it.”

“’S all right,” Ann says. Steady, but Catherine hears the effort behind it. Knows it cost her something to keep her voice like that.

The road hums in the background. Catherine grips the phone harder, her hand trembling against the casing.

After a while Ann speaks again. “I’m knackered, Catherine. Just on my way home. Maybe we can… you can talk to me later. When I’ve slept.”

Catherine nods, though Ann can’t see it. “Right. Rest first. We’ll… talk after.”

“Aye.”

The line clicks dead. Catherine lowers the phone, staring at the darkened screen. The ache in her chest doesn’t ease. If anything, it spreads, deep and raw, knowing Ann heard every crack in her voice, and still found a way to care for her.

And it sticks, that slip, ‘We can talk’ becoming ‘You can talk to me.’ Subtle, but different. Ann wasn’t promising herself, wasn’t offering more than she could bear. Just leaving the door open, barely, for Catherine to step through if she chose. A correction so small most wouldn’t notice. But Catherine does.

It twists in her chest, because even after all the ways she’s hurt her, Ann’s still holding that space for her. Still telling her, without saying it:

‘I’ll listen. I’ll be here.’

Chapter Text

Ten o’clock. She tries telly. Fails. Can’t focus on the screen. She keeps picking up the remote, flicking channels, putting it down again. Eventually turns it off and sits there in the silence, but that's even worse, so she gets up and turns on the radio. Just quiet enough so she doesn't feel so alone.

She tries to read the book she hasn't finished yet, but her thoughts spiral. That tone in Ann’s voice, when she’d said she wasn’t driving. The weight of it. Someone else behind the wheel. Who? Why? The question had burned out of her throat before she could stop it, and Ann had cut it off sharp, like she’d known exactly what Catherine was about to ask.

Catherine clenches her jaw, rubs at her splinted wrist. She’s got no right. No right to know, no right to even think it. Ann doesn’t owe her an explanation. But the not-knowing gnaws at her, bitter and green.

She gets up, paces the living room, restless as a caged dog.

By noon, she’s exhausted herself. Her wrist throbs, and she takes two painkillers, slightly admonishing herself for constantly trying to do things with her left hand. She drifts back to the sofa, forces herself down, lies flat and stares at the ceiling. Her body aches, her head's heavy, but she doesn’t sleep. Sleep feels impossible, not with her mind churning like this.

She thinks of Ann’s face when she’d seen that message read with no reply. Catherine can picture it too easily: the flicker of hurt, the way she’d tuck it away fast, bury it deep where no one could see.

The guilt gnaws.

Two o’clock. That’s when she gives in. She picks up her phone, thumb hovering over Ann’s name. Her chest thuds hard. Ann will have gone to bed after her shift, was maybe asleep by eight. Six hours in, she’ll still be dead to the world. Catherine knows better than to wake her, so she opens their chat instead. Stares at the blinking cursor. Types, deletes. Types again. Deletes.

Finally, she just writes:

< Hope you’re getting some rest. >

She hovers again. Wants to add more. Wants to say ‘I miss you.’ Wants to say ‘I’m sorry for everything, and I don’t know how to stop.’ But her thumb freezes. Too much. Too raw.

She tries again.

‘Didn’t mean to leave things like that.’

Deletes it.

Starts another.

< I’ll call. Later. >

Leaves it. Stares.

Adds, finally, almost as an afterthought:

< If you still want me to. >

Then she hits send before she can stop herself.

Catherine puts the phone down face-first, heart hammering like she’s just done something illicit. She gets up, starts pacing again, wrist throbbing, splint heavy.

She doesn’t know what to do with herself.

The afternoon drags. She tries cleaning, but it’s clumsy with one hand. The splint keeps catching, pulling, reminding her of everything she can’t do. She swears at it, swears at herself, swears at the silence of the house.

At half three, she makes another tea. Drinks half. Pours the rest away.

At three, she checks her phone again. Nothing.

She tells herself Ann’s asleep. She tells herself not to expect anything till later. She knows the rhythm of her, and night shifts leave Ann half-dead. Catherine knows that. Still, her chest twists.

She tries again with the telly. Puts on some crime show, but she doesn’t watch it. Her mind won’t let her. She barely makes it five minutes before she turns it off.

So she sits with her phone in her lap, staring at the screen, thumb tracing the edge of the case. She wants to ring again. Wants to hear her voice, even if it’s tired and short. Wants to know she hasn’t overstepped, that the call didn’t push her further away.

Catherine sets the phone down on the arm of the sofa. Not even down, exactly, more like she drops it and lets it slip softly onto the cushion beside her. Her hand feels empty without it, her wrist still aching in the splint, the pressure throbbing all the way to her elbow. She stares straight ahead, unseeing.

Her wrist aches worse now, throbbing dully under the splint. The doctor had said rest, ice during the first few days, keep it elevated. She’s done none of that. Not really.

She leans back and rubs her face with her good hand.

And then her phone buzzes.

Her heart jolts. She snatches it up too fast, nearly drops it. Ann’s name lights the screen. A message. Just one word:

< Awake. >

Catherine’s breath catches, ragged in her throat. She stares at it, fingers trembling. She wants to reply instantly, but her mind blanks. What does she say? Too much, and she’ll push. Too little, and she’ll waste it.

Finally, she types.

< You feeling rested? >

Three dots appear. Disappear. Reappear.

< Groggy. >

Catherine smiles despite herself, the first real smile all day. She stares at the message like it’s proof she’s not imagining things, proof Ann still bothers enough to answer at all.

Her thumb lingers over the keyboard. Anything more feels risky, so she keeps it small:

< That tracks. >

Her fingers hover. She’s tempted to press again, to add something light, but that feels dangerous now, like leaning on something fragile that could snap in her hands.

So she waits.

Turns on the telly again, sound muted. Catherine sits there, every nerve stretched taut, waiting for her phone to buzz again.

It doesn’t.

Five minutes. Ten. Fifteen. Her chest aches with the waiting. Every time the phone buzzes with some app notification she’s on it, heart leaping, only to drop again when it’s nothing.

Then the screen lights. Ann.

< What you up to? >

Catherine’s pulse jumps. She types quick:

< Nothing much. > 

The dots blink.

< You get out at all? >

Catherine replies almost instantly.

< Not with this thing. Takes me half an hour to get shoes on as it is. >

This time Ann takes longer.

< Bet you’re climbing the walls. >

Catherine snorts.

< You’ve no idea. >

Then, softer:

< Well. Maybe you do. >

She waits.

< Yeah. I do. >

The words hang heavy between them. Catherine reads them over and over, thumb brushing the screen. Ann's always seen her clearly, has known her patterns, her tempers, the way she rattled at her own skin when she couldn’t move.

She types, then deletes, then types again.

< You want me to ring? Or better I don’t? >

The reply comes after a long pause.

< Up to you. >

Catherine stares at it, jaw tight. It’s the sort of answer that could go either way: soft dismissal, or an opening. The coward’s answer, maybe. But it’s not nothing. It’s Ann’s way of saying she won’t stop her—but she won’t ask, either.

Her throat works. She’s too far gone to sit here second-guessing. She presses call before she can lose her nerve.

The line clicks. For a moment, just the faintest rustle, fabric against fabric. Then Ann’s voice, low, blurred at the edges with sleep, pours through the receiver. “Mm. That was quick.”

The sound guts her. Catherine closes her eyes, presses the phone close like she could crawl through it. She can hear the pillows in her voice, the drowsy heaviness. It feels too close, like she’s intruding into a space she’s no right to. And yet she can’t pull back. “Didn’t feel right waiting.”

Ann lets out a faint breath, half a sigh. “You don’t usually call this straight off. Thought maybe you’d leave it a bit. Let things settle.”

There’s another rustle. Ann shifting, sheets sliding. The thought makes Catherine’s voice drop without her meaning it to.

Her jaw works. She swallows, breathes out through her nose, rough. “Tried. Couldn’t.” She shifts against the sofa cushions, restless, her bad wrist knocking against the armrest. “Not after you said I could.”

Ann goes quiet again. Doesn’t rush to fill the space. Just breathes down the line—slow, uneven, still heavy with sleep. It makes Catherine’s throat ache, something raw and sharp under her ribs.

“Alright then,” Ann murmurs at last. “What’ve you been doing, since you can’t leave me be?”

The words nip at her, enough to sting. Catherine’s mouth tightens, a flash of guilt running through her, but she forces it down. “Not much worth saying. Telly’s rubbish. Tried the crossword you left—ended up staring at it more than solving it.”

“That right?” Ann’s voice is softer now, the faintest hint of humour threading through it. “Could’ve rung me. I’d have helped.”

“Well.” Catherine scratches at the arm of the sofa with her thumb. “Didn’t want to bother you.”

“You’re not bothering.” Ann says it quick, clear, before Catherine can backtrack.

The words hit harder than they should. Catherine swallows them down, voice smaller than she means. “I’m more often a bother than I mean to be.”

Another pause. Catherine imagines Ann shifting, tilting her head in that way she does when she’s weighing the truth of a thing. “You’re not,” Ann says again, quiet but firm.

The silence stretches. Catherine leans into it, desperate to keep her there, to hold onto the closeness. She can picture Ann, still curled in bed, hair mussed, eyes half-shut. The thought makes her chest ache.

Her mind wanders to earlier today, and the question she didn't get to ask. She blurts before she can stop herself. “You get home all right?”

There’s a pause, long enough that Catherine can almost see the look Ann must be giving, cautious, weighing. She shifts against the sofa, restless, pulse rising.

“Got home fine,” Ann says at last, steady but clipped.

Catherine licks her lips, tries to ease into it, careful. “Ann—”

“No.” Ann cuts in, gentle but sharp, the same tone she’d used in the car earlier today. “Don’t. Not that.”

Catherine’s mouth shuts. The words crumple in her throat.

“I wasn’t—” she tries, feeble.

“You were.” Ann’s voice softens again, but there’s no doubt in it. “Don’t.”

Catherine breathes out, shaky. Her grip tightens on the phone. She hates herself for it, for always pressing where she shouldn’t, for not knowing how to stop wanting. She whispers, “Sorry.”

Ann sighs, not angry. Just tired. “You don’t need to be.”

They sit in the quiet again, Ann’s steady breathing filling the space between them. Catherine clings to it like it’s a tether.

More words crawl up before she can block them.

“Ann—about the other day—”

Ann’s tone shifts in an instant. Alert, cautious. “What about it?”

The sharpness makes Catherine flinch, though she deserves worse. She rubs her brow hard, pressing the heel of her good hand against her forehead like she could scrub the memory out. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean it like that.”

Silence. Just the faint rasp of Ann’s breath, the soft shift of bedsheets. It makes Catherine picture her there, curled under the duvet, hair mussed, face soft with sleep. The intimacy of it claws at her chest.

She grips her knee with her good hand, digging in as if pain might steady her. “I didn’t mean—”

“You did,” Ann cuts in, softer now, though not forgiving. “Else you wouldn’t’ve said it.”

Catherine shuts her eyes. She deserves that. She deserves more than that. “I just… I don’t want you thinkin’ I…” She falters, the words backing up sharp in her throat. Can’t force them through. Can’t give them shape. Her throat burns.

The silence after is heavy. She thinks Ann’s about to hang up, the pause stretching too long, but then Ann sighs. Low, tired, and far too kind. “Catherine. Not like this. Not on the phone.”

Her chest squeezes. It sounds like rejection, even though it isn’t. She tries to steady her voice. “Right. Forget I said owt.”

Ann doesn’t let her retreat. “No. Don’t forget. Just… not when I’ve just woke up, my head’s not clear, and you’re sat there twisting yourself inside out.”

Catherine’s fingers tremble around the phone. She forces a laugh that comes out more brittle than amused. “I'm already inside out.”

Ann’s tone softens, almost fond despite everything. “Yeah. I know.”

It would be easier if Ann were cruel, if she told her to piss off, stop ringing, stop looking. But no—Ann’s gentle, even in hurt. And that cuts deeper.

“All right,” Catherine says finally, voice rough. “We’ll leave it, then.”

Another pause. She catches the faint creak of bedsprings, the soft shift of Ann’s breath. It’s so intimate Catherine feels it could undo her. Memories rise unbidden. Ann curled in her arms, sleeping deep; Ann half-asleep, murmuring not to let go; Ann clinging to her in tears. Just… Ann.

It feels like minutes pass, and she braces for the click of the call ending, the hollow emptiness after.

Instead, Ann says quietly, “I’ll come over before my shift.”

Catherine’s heart jolts. “What?”

“I don’t want this hanging over us while I’m at work. Better we talk proper.”

Her mouth goes dry. The idea of Ann here, in her living room, the air between them charged with everything unsaid… it terrifies her. She scrambles for excuses, any reason to put it off. “You don’t have to—”

“I know I don’t,” Ann interrupts, firm but calm. “I’m telling you I will.”

Catherine can’t form words. Panic claws up her ribs. She manages a weak, “Right. If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.”

And then Ann softens it, the way she always does, leaving Catherine aching. “Try not to wind yourself up too much, yeah?”

The line goes dead before Catherine can answer.

*

Catherine paces the room again, tugging at the sleeve of her jumper, restless as a cat in a storm. Instead of relief that Ann's coming over, Catherine’s been trying to undo that knot in her stomach. She’s tidied compulsively since: picked up papers, shoved mugs into the sink, even shoved the bloody crosswords under a pile of magazines on the kitchen table, though she keeps glancing at the heap like they’re glowing through the paper. She’s already replayed that call a dozen times in her head, chewing it over until her jaw aches.

Catherine runs her hand through her unwashed hair and grimaces. Christ. She hasn’t even showered. The thought of Ann seeing her like this makes her insides twist, though she knows she’s being ridiculous. Ann’s seen her worse. Still, it matters. Because Ann matters.

When the knock comes, it’s earlier than expected, barely an hour after the call. Catherine’s heart stumbles.

“Shit,” she mutters, running a hand through her unwashed hair. She hasn’t even tidied properly, not really. Just shoved things out of sight. Still feels like a mess.

She opens the door, and there Ann is, hair damp from a shower, cheeks flushed from the walk up. She’s in her work clothes already, jacket zipped, bag slung across her shoulder. Her eyes catch Catherine’s, and there’s that familiar pang—sharp, steady, unavoidable. She looks fresher than Catherine deserves.

“Hey,” Ann says, quiet but clear.

“You’re early,” Catherine blurts before she can stop herself.

Ann just gives a half-smile. “Thought I’d catch you before you found summat else to distract yourself with.” It’s gentler than it might’ve been. No accusation, not exactly. But Catherine feels the sting all the same.

Catherine steps back, lets her in.

Ann slips inside, the quiet weight of her presence filling the room. She shrugs out of her coat, hangs it on the hook like she’s done a hundred times. “Figured I might as well. Wasn’t gonna get back to sleep.”

Catherine huffs, tries for casual, but it sticks in her throat. “Right.”

Ann goes to the kitchen, and doesn’t sit straightaway. Her eyes travel over the kitchen table, the heap of magazines. Her hand reaches for the bloody crossword puzzle, the tiniest corner peeking out from under the magazine. She looks at it for a moment, and then sets it back where she found it. Catherine feels her cheeks heat but says nothing.

Ann doesn’t comment, just lifts her gaze back to Catherine, steady, unreadable. That’s worse.

She toes off her boots and moves into the living room, settling on the sofa with the ease of someone who belongs here, though Catherine knows that belonging’s more fragile than she’d like to admit.

“Tea?” Catherine asks, too loud.

Ann raises a brow, shrugs. “I’ll get it,” already half-rising, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“No.” The word comes out sharper than Catherine means it to. She clears her throat, softens her voice. “I’ll do it.”

Ann pauses, watching her. A beat of silence. Then, gently, “With one hand?” There’s no mockery in it—if anything, it’s almost tentative, like she’s testing Catherine’s mood.

“I’ll manage.” Catherine moves before Ann can argue, heading for the kitchen like retreat is victory.

The kettle rattles louder than it needs to. Mugs clink hard against the counter. She fumbles the teabags, nearly spills the sugar, but she keeps going, jaw tight, refusing to glance back.

From the living room, Ann doesn’t call out again. Just lets the silence stretch, patient but not indulgent, like she knows exactly what Catherine’s doing and won’t strip her of it.

When Catherine finally comes back, two steaming mugs in hand, Ann only shifts enough to take hers. Their fingers brush, and Catherine feels heat prickle under her skin.

Ann cradles the mug, eyes on her. Not a tease, not a scold—just a look that says she noticed everything, and she’s letting Catherine keep her pride.

Catherine lowers herself into the armchair opposite, her bad wrist resting awkwardly in her lap. The tea burns her tongue on the first sip, but she doesn’t let it show.

For a moment neither speaks. Catherine grips her mug like it might anchor her. Her throat tightens. She presses her hands together, knuckles whitening. “I’m bloody awful at this.”

“Ann huffs, quiet, not unkind. “Yeah. You are.”

The honesty lands heavier than if Ann had shouted. Catherine drags a hand down her face. “I’m sorry.”

Ann studies her, like she’s weighing how much that costs Catherine to say. Then she nods once. “All right.”

Just that. Not forgiveness. Not the warm comfort Catherine secretly hoped for. Just acknowledgement.

It leaves her scrambling. “I didn’t mean to make you feel—like you were… foolish. Or like I don’t—” Her jaw snaps shut before she can go further.

Ann’s eyes sharpen. “Like you don’t what?”

Catherine’s breath catches. She can’t. Not now. Not with Ann watching her so closely, as though she already knows.

Ann exhales slowly, lips pressed tight. She doesn’t push, not yet. Instead she says, “See, when you pull back like that, it makes me feel like I’m nothing to you. And I know I’m not nothing. You’ve made that clear plenty of times. So when you say things like that, it makes me feel daft for believing you meant it.”

The words lance straight through her. Catherine leans forward, elbows on her knees. “You’re not nothing. Christ, Ann. Don’t ever think that.”

Silence settles again, heavy but not unbearable. Ann shifts, leans her elbows on her knees, mirroring Catherine. “You’re bloody useless with words,” she says, no judgement in her voice. “Tie yourself in knots over every little thing. But I’m sat here, still. Even when it’s rough. That’s worth something, isn’t it?”

Catherine stares at her, throat thick. She can’t say what she wants to. “Yeah…”

Ann’s fingers worry at the edge of her sleeve. The silence stretches, not hostile but thick. Ann lets it stretch. She’s always been better at that—sitting still until Catherine cracks.

Eventually, Catherine clears her throat. “About t’other night—”

Ann looks up, steady, not letting her off the hook. “Yeah?” That steady patience again, like she’s not going to help Catherine along, not this time.

Catherine swallows. Christ. She hates this part; words catching, twisting in her throat. She can’t say it clean. “I shouldn’t’ve said what I said. T’other night.” She picks at the handle of her mug, eyes down.

Ann tilts her head, eyes narrowed just a fraction. “You mean when you told me I don’t know what I’m doing? Or when you said it’s just your eyes?”

The bluntness makes Catherine flinch. She looks down at her lap. “Both.”

“Right.” Ann’s voice isn’t sharp, but it’s not forgiving either. “’Cause both of those stung, Catherine. Properly.”

“I know.” It comes out rough, and Catherine hates how small she sounds.

Another pause. Ann leans back, arms folding across her chest. “So why’d you do it?”

Catherine’s mind goes blank. The real answer presses at her ribs. Because I wanted you so badly I panicked, because I’m terrified of what it means, because I can’t bear to lose you but I don’t know how to keep you either, but she can’t put it into words.

“I… I thought it were safer. If I pushed you away.”

Ann studies her, eyes narrowing slightly. “Safer for who?”

The question lands heavy. Catherine swallows. “For you. Maybe.”

“Maybe,” Ann echoes. She doesn’t sound convinced.

Catherine risks a glance up. Ann’s gaze is sharp, but not cruel. Just searching. Like she’s weighing the truth of it.

Catherine’s voice dips low. “I said some pretty shite things,” she admits, words reluctant, almost swallowed. “Didn’t mean ’em the way they came out.”

Ann folds her hands loosely in her lap. She’s quiet a long time, like she’s weighing whether to believe it. Catherine feels the silence like a blade on her skin, but she doesn’t rush to fill it. Not this time.

Finally Ann tilts her head. “Maybe not. But still felt like you meant ’em.”

Catherine nods, shame dragging her chin lower. “I know.”

Ann studies her. Not unkind, but not letting her off easy either. “Thing is, Catherine, it’s not just words. It’s the way you’ve been… sometimes. Close. Too close.” She takes a slow breath. “You don’t mean to hurt me, but it does, all the same.”

Catherine looks up, stricken. “I never tried to lead you on.”

“I know.” Ann’s voice is soft, and that’s worse somehow. “Doesn’t change how it felt.”

Catherine swallows hard. “Yeah.” It comes out strangled.

Ann tilts her head, eyes softening just a fraction. “I’m not sayin’ I blame you. I don’t. But it can’t keep happenin’.”

The clock ticks in the silence, echoing in the empty kitchen. Catherine grips her mug tighter. She wants to say I can’t help it, I love you, but the words choke her. “I’ve always been a bit… hands-on. With folk I’m close to. ‘S just how I am.”

Ann’s brows lift, sharp as a blade. “That so?” Her tone says she doesn’t buy it. She leans forward, like she’s about to cut right through Catherine’s excuse—then stops. Whatever she sees in Catherine’s face, the faint tremor in her voice, the way her shoulders hunch as if bracing… it makes her ease back instead. She lets it slide.

Ann lets out a breath that sounds like it’s been trapped in her chest for months. “And I like bein’ near you. Too much, probably. That’s why it hurts.”

The words land heavy, plain and sharp. Catherine feels them like stones in her stomach. She knows Ann can see straight through her, can see the lie she wrapped around her own desire to be close. And yet Ann lets it pass. A flicker of guilt pricks her chest. She wonders, briefly, if she deserves this leniency, or if it only makes her ache more.

Ann glances down at her hands. “I’m not askin’ you to fix it. Just… don’t act like it never happened. Don’t make me feel like I imagined it.”

Catherine’s eyes sting. “I’m not. I couldn’t.”

Ann nods, still not looking at her. Her hair falls forward, catching the lamplight. Catherine’s hand twitches with the urge to tuck it back, but she forces it still.

“I know you care about me,” Ann says finally. “But I’ve had to teach myself not to expect… more.” She looks up then, meeting Catherine’s eyes, gaze fierce and raw at once. “I can’t keep thinkin’ maybe one day you’ll change your mind. I’ll break myself waiting for that.”

Catherine’s chest tightens, air hard to draw. She wants to say I already changed my mind. I’ve loved you longer than I can bear. She wants to tell her that the thought of a future without Ann makes her sick, that she can’t sleep for want of her. But the words wedge in her throat. She can’t risk them. She’s too scared. Not when she’s sure she’ll ruin Ann with them.

So she says the half-truth. “I don’t want you waitin’ round for me.”

Ann’s face flickers. A flash of pain, quickly smoothed. “Don’t worry. I’m not.”

It should be a relief. It isn’t. It feels like a punishment Catherine’s brought on herself. Her chest aches.

“I don’t wanna lose you,” she blurts, not for the first time, voice thick. The words slip out before she can stop them. Raw, unguarded.

Something in Ann softens, not much, but enough to let breath move again. “I’m not going anywhere. Not unless you make it impossible for me to stay.”

Catherine presses her lips together, helpless. She nods, slow. It cuts, and she deserves it.

The silence after stretches, quieter this time. Less sharp, but thick with everything unsaid. Catherine stares at Ann’s hands folded neatly in her lap, fingers curling against each other like she’s holding something in.

“You're not nothing, you know,” Catherine says suddenly, because the silence is unbearable, and because she doesn't have any other way of telling Ann that she loves her.

Ann blinks, taken aback. Then she gives a faint smile, tired but real. “I know.”

Catherine feels her throat close up. She wants to reach across, to take Ann’s hand, to let herself fall. But she doesn’t. She just grips her mug until her knuckles ache.

Ann shifts, sits back against the sofa, and for the first time since she came in, she looks less guarded. Not relaxed, exactly, but… not braced for impact either.

Ann leans back again, as if the hardest bit is said. She picks up her mug, sips, then sets it down. “So. Where’s that leave us?”

The question hangs, heavy. Catherine looks away, thinks of the magazines on the kitchen table, the crossword hidden beneath. She thinks of that word: yearning.

“Dunno.”

Ann huffs a little laugh, without humour but without bite. “Mates?”

“Mates,” Catherine echoes, though the word tastes like ashes.

Ann gives her a look that makes Catherine’s skin prickle. Long, steady, like she knows exactly how that feels. Then she leans back again, almost casual now. “Mates, then.”

The word feels both like a reprieve and a sentence.

The moment eases, the worst of the storm having passed. The room feels different. Lighter.

Ann pulls her legs up under her, settles into the corner of the sofa. It’s so ordinary, so familiar, that for a moment Catherine can almost breathe. Ann reaches for the biscuits from the lower compartment of the coffee table, breaks one in half without asking, and passes the other half across. Catherine takes it, their fingers brushing for the second time today, and her heart stutters like a fool.

They eat in silence, not tense now, but companionable, the clock ticking soft in the background. Ann leans her head against the back cushion, eyes half-closed. “Y’know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you finish a crossword,” she murmurs.

Catherine snorts, the sound surprising her. “That’s cause you always start talkin’ halfway through.”

Ann cracks a smile, faint but real. “Well, can’t have you thinkin’ too much. Dangerous, that.”

The laugh that slips out of Catherine is small, unsteady, but genuine. It feels like a crack of light through a heavy cloud.

For a little while, they sit there as though nothing’s broken, as though the word ‘mates’ is enough to hold them. It’s fragile, but it’s theirs.

Chapter Text

By the time evening shadows creep through the curtains, Catherine’s body is taut with unspoken things. Ann stands, shrugs into her jacket, movements steady in the half-light.

“I’ll come by again after shift tomorrow,” she says, like it’s already settled. “Make sure you’re not starvin’.”

Catherine sighs. “You don’t have to—”

“I know,” Ann cuts in. Gentle, but firm, like she’s closing the door on Catherine’s protest before it can even gather speed.

Catherine frowns. “You’ll be knackered. Straight off a night shift.”

Ann only lifts a shoulder, gaze steady. “I’ll nap when I’m home. You can’t stop me.”

Catherine presses her lips together, unable to stop herself from doing the same song and dance they always do. “Ann—”

“Catherine.” Ann’s mouth tilts, like she means to make it cheeky, but the softness betrays her. “You’ve spent your whole life lookin’ after other people. Let someone else have a turn. I like doin’ it.”

The words drop heavy into the quiet. Something twists in Catherine’s chest, sharp and tender at once. She huffs, momentarily not sure what to do with that. “That’s different.”

“It’s not.” Ann’s voice is firmer now, but still laced with softness. “If I had a splint on, you’d tell me to shut up and let you do everything.”

Catherine narrows her eyes, doesn’t reply. Because Ann’s right. Because she has no answer that won’t sound like a confession.

Their eyes hold, the tension a wire stretched between them, humming. Catherine’s throat tightens. She wants to reach out, to close the space, to say something true. But she doesn’t.

Ann walks backwards towards the door, casual, almost teasing, though her eyes never leave Catherine’s. She opens it, leaves it wide, like she knows full well Catherine will follow to watch her go. When she gets to her car, Ann leans against the open door, lifts a hand in a half-wave, tucks it back into her pocket.

“Set an alarm, yeah?”

Catherine flusters, heat rising sharp. “Don’t need one.”

*

Turns out she bloody needed one.

“Bollocks.”

The knock rings out from downstairs, sharp and precise, not the drag of knuckles or the slap of a fist, but quick raps that slice through sleep. Catherine jerks upright in bed, heart hammering, wrist throbbing where she’s jarred it. The room’s bathed in hazy morning light, a pale strip of sun cutting through the curtains. She blinks, sways, tries to catch up with herself.

Too early for the post. Too early for neighbours. And most people don’t knock. They ring.

Her chest tightens as she stumbles out of bed, feet heavy against the carpet. She doesn’t stop to check the clock, doesn’t even reach for the dressing gown hanging limp on the back of the door. She’s halfway down the stairs before her brain catches up to the fact that she’s still in pyjamas—worn cotton bottoms and a tank top that’s seen better days, shoulder strap slipping low.

The knock comes again, firmer this time.

“In a bit!” Catherine croaks, staring down at herself: braless, dishevelled. She sighs, trudges back upstairs, ransacks a drawer for the first bra she can find and wrestles into it. She grabs the jumper from last night for good measure, shoving her head through the neck hole as she barrels back down the stairs. Nearly misses a step with her head still stuck inside the bloody thing.

Finally free, she twists the latch and yanks the door open.

There she is. Ann.

Hair pulled back loose this time, wisps softening her temples. A cardigan layered over her T-shirt, sleeves pushed up at the wrists. She looks warm, lived-in. How dare she look this good after a night shift. A carrier bag dangles from one hand. She holds it up like proof, like explanation.

“Brought you some bits. Groceries an’ that.”

Catherine stares. Words glue themselves to her tongue. She blinks once, twice, before managing a croaky: “You know you’re off duty, and I don’t need you doin’ community service.”

“You’re not old enough to get any such help,” Ann snorts. She steps past her with the ease of someone who’s been through this door a hundred times before. Which she has. “So this is all me, sergeant, no overtime required.”

The bag hits the kitchen counter with a rustle of plastic. She starts unpacking without waiting for an invitation.

She glances back, eyebrow raised. “Took you long enough to open the door. Didn’t set an alarm after all, did you?”

Catherine bristles, caught out. “Didn’t think I needed one. Been up early enough these last few mornings.”

“Funny that,” Ann says, smiling as she lines up a loaf of bread, a carton of milk, cheese, butter, eggs. “All them mornings you’ve nowt to do, you’re up with the bloody larks. The one morning I’m comin’ round, you’re dead to the world.”

Catherine mutters something that could be a curse, or a laugh. Her jumper hangs loose at the collar, exposing bare skin she suddenly feels far too aware of. Her hair’s a state, roots greasy, days blurring together. She ties it back most mornings and pretends it’s fine, but with Ann here, there’s no pretending. Ann’s noticed.

She doesn’t say a word about it. Just keeps unpacking, steady, efficient, like muscle memory.

A pause. Catherine clears her throat. “What time’d you finish?”

“Half past.”

“Shop straight after?”

Ann shrugs. “Was on the way.”

Catherine flushes, half defensive, half guilty. “Could’ve managed.”

“Maybe,” Ann says mildly, “but this way you don’t have to.”

Catherine has no answer to that except ‘thank you,’ and that feels too personal, too raw, too open. So she just nods.

“Just brought some basics,” Ann says at last, not looking over.

Catherine clears her throat. “Ta. Could use milk. Dropped a whole carton the other day. Floor got more of it than I did.”

That earns her a smile. Warm, even. Catherine feels it land somewhere low in her chest.

She wets her lips, uneasy. “You know you didn’t—”

Ann glances up, eyes meeting hers steady, unreadable but warm underneath. “I know.”

Catherine knows she’s hovering, but she can’t help it. She doesn’t know where to go, doesn’t know where to put her hands.

“Sit down,” Ann says after a beat, like she could hear every little word tumbling about in Catherine’s brain. “I’ll make tea.”

Catherine hovers anyway, until Ann nudges her toward the table with her hip. Reluctantly, Catherine obeys, lowering herself onto the chair, bad wrist resting on the table when Ann raises an eyebrow at it.

“I’m perfectly capable of makin’ tea,” Catherine mutters, leaning back against the chair.

“Well, it’s supposed to be drinkable, and I doubt you even remember how this thing works.” Ann flicks the switch with her knuckle, grins at the click.

“Cheek.” Catherine eyes her. “You reckon I’m that helpless?”

Ann doesn’t answer straight away, too busy pulling mugs from their hangers. She sets them down with a clink and says, calm as you like, “You’re wearin’ yesterday’s jumper back to front.”

Catherine looks down. Bollocks. She hadn’t noticed the v-neck dipping lower at the back. Heat pricks her ears. She tries to style it out with a snort. “Fashion. You wouldn’t understand.”

Ann shakes her head, smiling again, and goes back to the bags.

For a while the only sounds are cupboard doors opening, plastic rustling, the kettle rumbling to boil. Catherine watches her, torn between irritation at being mothered and a strange, guilty comfort at the sight of Ann moving round her kitchen like she belongs there.

Finally Catherine says, “You’ll be late for sleep, doin’ this.”

“Sleep’ll wait.” Ann grabs a pack of bacon, slides it into the fridge. “Can’t have you livin’ off Pot Noodles.”

“I don’t eat Pot Noodles.”

“Last week,” Ann says, without even looking up, “there were four empty pots in your bin.”

Catherine narrows her eyes. “You rummagin’ through my bin now?”

“I was takin’ the bags out.” Ann’s tone is level, like she’s talking about the weather, but her voice is soft with warmth.

“I should file a complaint.” But Catherine’s lip twitches, betraying her.

Ann catches it, smirks. “There. Knew I’d get a smile out of you.”

Catherine grumbles, but she doesn’t wipe the smile away.

The kettle clicks off. Ann pours, slides a mug across the table. Catherine takes it with her good hand, wraps her fingers round the warmth.

“So,” Ann says, sitting opposite, “you’ll never guess what Tekeli’s done now.”

Catherine groans. “Don’t tell me—”

“He’s cocked up t'rota,” Ann cuts in, too quick. “A while ago, he’s asked Sledge to take some of his nights—summat ‘bout his kid. So Sledge was with me on nights, but this mornin’, Tekeli just didn’t show up for t’early shift he was supposed to do.”

Catherine’s head jerks up. “Oh I’m sure Mike just loved that.”

“Exactly.” Ann stirs her tea like she’s grinding Tekeli’s face into the mug. “So he’s been in a shit mood all morning, cause we rang him out of bed when we couldn’t reach Tekeli.”

Catherine snorts. “Next time, tell Sledge to staple the rota to his forehead. Daft sod.”

“Staple won’t hold. Head’s too bloody empty.”

They both laugh, Catherine biting hers back too quickly, but it’s there. She busies herself with their tea bags, tosses them out, and grabs milk and sugar, fully aware of the grin on Ann’s face when she puts two cubes in her mug.

“What?”

Ann just grins, trying and failing to hide it behind her mug. “Nothing.”

“You’re a judgemental little twat, you are.”

“Who says I’m judgemental?” Ann’s grin widens, and Catherine can already see that she won’t like what Ann’s gonna follow that up with. “I’m just glad you’re still trying to improve on your sour mood.”

Catherine bristles, half on instinct. “Sour mood? I’ll give you sour mood.” She pulls a face, exaggerated scowl, then nearly ruins it by choking on her tea when Ann snorts. “Oi! Don’t you dare laugh.”

“Too late.” Ann’s shoulders are shaking, but she turns toward the counter before Catherine can throw more than a displeased look her way. She opens the bread bin. “Right. Toast’ll do, you think?”

“I’m not helpless,” Catherine mutters again, but quieter this time.

“No, but you’re injured and knackered and apparently incapable of fashion,” Ann says, slotting bread into the toaster. “So. Toast.”

Catherine leans back in the chair, watching her fuss with butter and cheese like she’s lived here all her life. The sight does something in her chest—tight and warm all at once. She covers it with sarcasm. “What’s this then, room service? You want a tip?”

Ann shoots her a look over her shoulder. “Yeah. You could try not moanin’ for five minutes straight.”

Catherine snorts, sets her mug down with a thunk. “I only moan when there’s a reason.”

Ann glances back, quick, casual. “Then it must be me givin’ you reasons.”

The words hang there—too sharp at the edges, too loaded. Ann’s eyes flicker, like she’s only just realised how that might’ve sounded. Catherine freezes, mug halfway to her mouth.

For a few seconds, silence thickens the kitchen. Catherine takes a long swallow of tea just to fill the gap. Ann turns back to the toaster, fiddles with the dial that doesn’t need fiddling, shoulders stiff with an effort at nonchalance.

The toaster pops, mercifully breaking the spell.

Ann plates up the toast, butter melted just so, cheese laid on thick. She sets it down in front of Catherine like a waitress who’s got no patience for nonsense.

“There.”

Catherine eyes it, then her. “What, no beans? No fried egg? What kinda chef d’you call yourself?”

Ann arches a brow. “An unpaid one.” She plonks her own plate down opposite, sits.

“You’re not unpaid,” Catherine shoots back automatically, before she’s thought it through. She stabs at her toast with the side of her knife. “I do pay you.”

“Oh aye?” Ann’s tone is light, but there’s curiosity under it, a genuine question. “With what, then?”

And Catherine’s brain, traitorous as ever, supplies the only answers that feel true: love. Affection. The quiet joy of having someone sit opposite her like this, looking after her without asking for anything in return. She swallows them down hard, because God help her if those ever made it past her lips.

“With me sparkling company,” she says instead, deadpan.

Ann lets out a laugh, head tipping back, and the tension eases. “That what you call it?”

“That’s what you’re stuck with,” Catherine mutters, but she hides the worst of her smile by biting into her toast.

For a moment they just eat, the crunch of toast filling the quiet. Catherine hates how good it tastes, how much better than whatever she would’ve made herself. She chews slowly, lets the silence stretch, and only when Ann glances up does she mutter, grudging, “Not bad, maybe there's a chance you'll be a decent chef one day.”

Ann smiles like she’s won a prize. “See? Improvement already.”

Catherine rolls her eyes but doesn’t bother arguing. She’s too busy finishing the last bite.

She’s just about to get up to wash the few things they’ve used, when Ann’s already on her feet, sweeping plates into the sink. “Leave it. I’ll wash.”

“You don’t have to—” Catherine rises to help, but freezes halfway, unsure whether she should be insistent or not.

“Sit down, Catherine.”

It’s not sharp, not really. Just firm enough that Catherine does as she’s told, biting back another protest.

She watches Ann at the sink, sleeves pushed up, water running. Her gaze clings to the sharp line of Ann’s jaw, the loose tendrils of hair at her temples, the curve of her shoulder under the cardigan.

The kitchen feels too full of things unsaid, and Catherine doesn’t know what to do with the weight of them.

All she can think is: when Clare and Neil get back tonight, this won’t feel the same. This little pocket of space that’s just theirs will vanish back into the everyday noise. And she’s not sure she’s ready for that.

*

Ann refills the kettle without asking, like she’s running the place, and Catherine can’t decide if it’s comforting or maddening. Probably both.

“You know,” Ann says, voice light, “Clare’ll be back tonight. You look like you’ve not tidied a thing since she left.”

Catherine scowls. “I have.”

Ann raises an eyebrow, all disbelief.

“All right. You have.” And, because she can’t stop herself: “You left recycling blowin’ about halfway down the street.”

Ann’s mouth makes a little O, same as when Catherine once tried to wheedle her nicknames out of her. Amused, but genuinely surprised. “That weren’t me!”

Catherine grins into her mug. “Neighbour’s dog knocked it over.”

Ann just gives her a look, the kind Clare usually reserves for when she knows Catherine’s talkin’ shite.

Catherine sighs, throws her good hand up. “Fine. I’ll behave.”

“That within your capabilities?”

Catherine’s silent for a moment. “Not really.”

Ann shakes her head, mutters something about hopeless cases, and starts wiping the counter like the toast crumbs are a public menace. Catherine watches, warmth stirring low in her chest. Ann doesn’t just perch for a brew and bugger off, she moves about like she belongs.

The thought sits heavy, and it keeps returning. Dangerous. Catherine clears her throat, trying to think of something else. “You asked if I’d rung Ryan.”

Ann doesn’t look up, but nods. “You have, yeah?”

“Not… exactly.” Catherine fiddles with her mug handle, eyes on the swirl at the bottom. “Richard’s sent a few messages. Letting me know how he’s doing. Ryan, I mean.”

Ann pauses mid-wipe, glances over. Asks a wordless question.

Catherine exhales, digs out her phone. “Fine. I’ll ring him now. That make you happy?”

Ann smirks. “Chuffed.” She turns back to the counter, but Catherine sees her shoulders ease, a little nod like she’s won.

Catherine finds Richard’s number, presses call. It only rings once.

“You could’ve texted me back,” Richard says, his voice a little strained.

Catherine shrugs. “Never been a big fan of those text things.”

“Is that gran?” Ryan’s voice rings out in the background, and then there’s loud creaks and stomps as he’s presumably running down the stairs.

“Doesn’t take long to send one text.” Richard’s voice is clipped, though he tries to hide it.

Catherine doesn't get to reply. There’s a shuffle, and then Ryan’s voice assaults her ears, loud like he’s stood right next to her. “Hi gran!”

The smile bursts before she can stop it. “Hiya love. You all right?”

Ryan’s off before she can take another breath. “Yeah! Yeah, I’m great! Guess what, we went to Uncle Daniel’s this weekend, and you know what, gran? He’s got a dog! Proper dog, like from t’shelter! Not a baby one, not like a tiny puppy, but she’s still proper fast and jumpy and young. She’s a…”

There’s a pause, and Richard’s voice can be heard in the background, sound coming through the speaker all muffled, like Ryan’s covering it. More crackling against her ear, so Catherine holds the phone a bit further away.

Ann raises an eyebrow at that: “Someone’s chuffed to bits.”

Catherine nods, just as Ryan’s voice is back, clear. “So she’s a cocker spaniel, like them long-ears ones, but mixed with, erm, a German shepherd. You should’ve seen her ears. Fluffy!”

Catherine chuckles. “That right? Bet she’s a handful.”

“No! She’s dead clever. Smarter than t’other dogs. She already knows how to sit, and yesterday, we were walkin’, an’ I was with me stick, and when I threw it, she went right after it! So fast! We were out for ages, gran, like two hours or somethin’, and she was just leggin’ it everywhere, never got tired. Faster than me, you know? Oh, and she brought the stick straight back! Tail waggin’ like mad. You’d’ve laughed.”

Catherine murmurs, “Mhm,” half listening, half watching Ann, who’s started reorganising her spice rack of all things. She’s not even doing it properly, just shuffling jars about, but it draws Catherine’s eyes anyway. Or maybe she’s alphabetising them, Catherine wonders, as she keeps watching. The way Ann’s fingers trail along the labels, her posture easy but tired, makes her chest tighten in a way she doesn’t want to examine.

“And, and did I say she already knows sit? Uncle Daniel only got her last week, and she just, like, plopped her bum down first try. I swear! She’s called Cora. D’you like that name? I think it’s ace.”

“Yeah, love, it’s nice.” Catherine realises she’s missed a bit, something he said between ‘sit’ and ‘Cora,’ but he doesn’t notice. He’s in full flow.

Ann tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, then bends to pick something off the floor. Catherine’s gaze snags on the line of her neck, the way her T-shirt shifts against her back, and she has to look away quick before her thoughts take a direction she really doesn’t want them to go.

Ryan keeps talking, words a happy tumble. “Uncle Daniel let me hold the lead! Nearly the whole walk. She was sniffin’ everything, and she didn’t pull or nothin’, just kept sniffin’ me and the grass and stuff.” He takes a deep breath, like he forgot to breathe during the entirety of his rant. “She’s dead pretty, too. Her fur’s like, all soft, and a bit scruffy, and she’s all black, and has this… this… like her chest’s all white, it’s so pretty! Maybe we can have her over maybe sometime, so you can stroke her loads. You’d like it.”

“That’s good, pet.” Catherine presses her thumb to her temple, trying to keep track. She’s genuinely glad he’s happy, buzzing even, but Ann’s moving about the kitchen like some kind of distraction designed to test her patience. Every clatter of a mug on the counter, every stretch up to a high shelf, it’s pulling Catherine’s attention sideways.

“An’ she’s faster than me! Proper faster. Bet she’s faster than Uncle Daniel, too, even though he reckons he can run.” Ryan laughs, wheezy and delighted. “You should see her when she does zoomies—Uncle Daniel says that’s what it’s called—she goes round in circles, like vroom vroom, an’ then she just flops on t'grass like she’s melted.”

Catherine smiles. “Sounds clever.” Her eyes drift to Ann checking jars and containers from the fridge for their contents, tossing out what needs tossing out. She’d hoped that Clare would do that once she’s back. Seeing Ann do it now feels almost too domestic.

Ann yawns quietly, trying to hide it, but Catherine catches it anyway.

She’s about to comment on it when Ryan prattles on, his voice dipping lower, almost thoughtful. “D’you think… maybe we could get a dog, sometime?”

Catherine blinks, jolts her focus back. “Eh? Oh. Well… might be a bit much just now, love.”

“Yeah, I know.” Ryan sighs, but only briefly before the excitement kicks back in. “But maybe one day. Anyway, Cora’s brilliant. I can’t wait to go back next weekend! I can, right? I’ll take pictures, promise. I’ll send you loads.”

Catherine hums in agreement, eyes still snagging on Ann as she moves. Ann’s wiping a tray in the fridge, a tired look on her face but determined, shoulders bent to the task. Catherine catches herself staring—at the flex of Ann’s wrist, the curve of her jaw when she pauses, the way her brow furrows when she concentrates. She swallows, heat rising, and drags her gaze back to the table.

Ryan doesn’t notice. He’s rattling on about how Daniel’s garden’s got this massive fence, perfect for the dog to run about. “She’s so fast! She was runnin’ ‘round with this shoe, Uncle Daniel said she likes chewin’ it, and she was carryin’ it everywhere! We should all go, gran. You’d love her. Honest, you’d love her.”

“I’m sure I would.” Catherine means it, though she’s distracted. A tug in her chest—pride, affection, relief—twists tight as she listens. He’s happy. That’s what matters. He’s happy, and it’s more than she could’ve hoped for, given everything.

But her eyes still wander, dragged by Ann’s presence. Ann yawns once more, quickly covered with the back of her hand, then shakes it off, going back to tidying. Catherine knows she’s exhausted, knows she’s on her feet too long, but Ann won’t stop, won’t sit. It’s not lost on her that Ann’s doing it for her, for Clare, for the house that isn’t even her own.

“Gran?” Ryan’s voice pulls her back sharp.

“Mm? Yeah, love, I’m here.”

“You weren’t listening.”

Catherine grimaces, caught. “I was. Sort of. Say it again.”

Ann raises an eyebrow at her, and Catherine makes a little shoo motion with her hand, motioning for her to look at something else. Ann grins, but does as she’s told.

Ryan huffs, but he’s too buoyant to stay annoyed. “I said, Cora’s got this trick where she tilts her head when you talk to her, like she understands every word. It’s dead funny.”

Catherine chuckles, genuine. “Sounds clever.”

“She is! I’ll send you pictures, yeah?”

“I’d like that.”

Ryan rattles on, already onto something else, his words bright and tumbling. Catherine nods along, offers the right noises when she can manage them, but her eyes drift back, again and again, to Ann. Her steady movements, the tired grace in them, the way her presence fills the kitchen more than any phone call ever could.

By the time Ryan finally winds down, Catherine’s chest is a tangle—half joy for her grandson, half something heavier, sharper, when she looks at Ann.

“Love you, Gran,” Ryan says, cheerful as ever.

“Love you too, pet.”

The call ends, and Catherine sets the phone down slow, letting the silence rush back in. Ann’s still at it, wiping the counter again like it wasn’t already spotless.

“You’ve done enough,” Catherine says, voice softer than she means it to be. “Sit down, eh?”

Ann glances over, eyes shadowed with tiredness, but there’s a small smile there too. She hesitates, then finally drops the cloth, pulling out a chair.

Catherine watches her sit, a knot in her throat she can’t quite swallow. Ann looks tired around the eyes, shadows etched deep, but her hands are steady on the mug she pulls toward her.

Ann tilts her head, eyes sparking with that tired amusement. “So, what was it then? Distractin’ enough you couldn’t listen to your own grandson? Must’ve been summat worth hearin’.”

Catherine’s ears go red. “Stay out of my private conversations, you—young lady.” She says it sharp, but it’s just a cover, her embarrassment spilling into mock severity.

Ann’s laugh bursts out, though it’s muted by fatigue. “Young lady, is it now?” She leans back in her chair, eyes dancing despite the shadows under them. “That’s rich. What does that make you then, eh? Elder stateswoman? Madam of the manor?”

Catherine huffs, but her mouth twitches. “Cheeky cow.”

“Better than old bat,” Ann shoots back, quick as anything.

Catherine’s laugh comes sharp and unwilling, but it sticks, shaking loose something tight in her chest.

The moment lingers, then Catherine sobers, looking at her more closely. “You’re knackered.”

“I’m fine.” Ann waves it off, though the slump of her shoulders betrays her.

“You’re not. Look at you.”

Ann smirks faintly, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes this time. “If you start tuckin’ me in, I’m leavin’.”

Catherine shakes her head, muttering, “Bloody stubborn.”

Ann doesn’t answer, only shrugs out of her cardigan, bundles it in front of her on the table. She props up her elbow, face resting in her hand like it’s a pillow, mug forgotten at her elbow.

Catherine watches her for a beat, then pushes herself up with a sigh, heading for the bathroom. She takes her time, splashes water on her face, straightens her jumper. By the time she returns, the kitchen’s quiet except for the faint tick of the clock.

Ann’s still at the table, but her head’s dropped onto her arms, hair falling across her face. The cardigan’s caught beneath her cheek, her arms wrapped around it like she’s guarding it.

Catherine stops in the doorway. Something about it stills her. The sight of Ann slumped like that, so unguarded, all edges smoothed by exhaustion. For a moment, she just stands, staring. The ache in her chest tightens.

Then she realises how that position must hurt after a while—the kinked neck, the stiff back she’ll be moaning about later. Catherine frowns, crosses the room, and lays her good hand on Ann’s shoulder.

“Ann,” she says softly. “Wake up, eh?”

Ann stirs faintly, but doesn’t lift her head. She mumbles something unintelligible into the cardigan.

Catherine huffs, half fond, half exasperated. Without thinking, she brushes her fingers lightly through Ann’s hair, shifting it out of her face. It’s softer than she expected, strands sliding against her skin.

“You need to get up, love,” she says, voice low. “Your back’s gonna thank you later.”

The endearment slips out before she can stop it. She freezes, breath caught. But Ann, half-dazed, doesn’t seem to notice—or if she does, she doesn’t call her on it.

Ann groans, eyes still closed, and shifts a little, but doesn’t move to sit properly.

Catherine’s hand lingers a moment too long in her hair before she snatches it back, heart thudding.

She clears her throat, trying for brisk. “Come on. Sofa’ll be kinder than that table.”

Ann cracks one eye open, just barely, gaze hazy with sleep but softened in a way that makes Catherine’s chest twist. “Bossy,” she murmurs.

“So I've been told,” Catherine grins.

Her hand is still hovering close, itching to touch again, to coax her upright.

Ann doesn’t open her eyes, but she stirs against the cardigan, her voice muffled, slurred with exhaustion.

“Felt nice.”

Catherine freezes. The words hit her like a jolt. There’s no mistaking what Ann means. She swallows, torn. Half of her wants to snap her hand back, to behave, to keep to the line they’ve drawn: mates, just mates. The other half, the half that remembers the softness of Ann’s hair beneath her fingers, the way she’d leaned into it, can’t bear to ignore what Ann just admitted.

She hovers there, lips pressed tight. Then she loses the battle. Slowly, carefully, she lets her hand drift back, fingers brushing through Ann’s hair again, gentler this time, more deliberate.

Ann exhales, long and low, like she’s been waiting for it. Her shoulders loosen, her head settling a little more against her arms.

“You’re encouragin’ bad habits,” Catherine mutters under her breath, but her hand doesn’t stop. It moves steady, combing through strands, brushing them away from Ann’s face.

Ann’s lips curve, faint but unmistakable. “Not a bad habit if it feels nice.”

Catherine huffs, trying for scorn, but it comes out softer than she intends. “Cheeky sod.”

The kitchen’s gone quiet around them. Only the faint tick of the clock and the low hum of the fridge fill the air. Catherine’s hand moves slowly, rhythmically, while Ann lies there with her eyes shut, utterly at ease. It’s intimate in a way that frightens Catherine if she thinks about it too much. So she doesn’t think. She just lets herself do it.

She studies Ann’s face in the silence; the lashes resting dark against her cheeks, the faint crease still lingering between her brows even in sleepiness. The sharp edges she carries all day softened down to something almost tender.

“You’ll regret it later,” Catherine murmurs, half to herself, cause she's too tall to stay in this position without her back punishing her for it later. “Neck’ll be stiff as a board.”

Ann hums, lazy, not lifting her head. “Worth it.”

Catherine stills for a beat, breath catching. Then she moves her hand again, slower now, fingers skimming over scalp, through hair.

“You’re ridiculous,” she mutters, the words almost fond.

Ann’s smile flickers wider, though her eyes stay shut. “Takes one to know one.”

Catherine nearly laughs, but it sticks in her throat. The sight of her, so unguarded, makes something ache deep in her chest. She swallows it down, keeps her hand steady.

Minutes slip by. Catherine doesn’t know how many. Her back aches faintly, but she ignores it, lost in the quiet, in the warmth of Ann’s presence. She tells herself she’s only doing it because Ann asked, because she’s knackered and this’ll settle her. But the truth gnaws at her edges: she likes it. She likes being allowed to do this, to give Ann something that makes her soften, makes her smile even half-asleep.

Finally, Catherine clears her throat, needing to break the heaviness pressing in. “You’ll be droolin’ on my table in a minute.”

Ann cracks one eye open, hazy and amused. “Better than on your sofa.”

Catherine snorts, shaking her head. “Not convinced.”

Ann closes her eye again, but the smile lingers. “Don’t stop, though.”

Catherine falters. For a second, her hand pauses, nerves firing sharp. Then—because Ann asked, because she can’t bring herself to deny her—she keeps going. Fingers sliding through, brushing gentle, steady.

“You’re impossible,” Catherine says softly.

Ann hums again, content, sinking back into stillness.

The silence that follows is thick, but not uncomfortable. Catherine feels it settle in her bones; the odd peace of sitting here with Ann half-asleep on her table, letting herself be close in a way she wouldn’t dare if Ann were fully awake.

Her mind flickers back to the last few days. The meals, the talks, the late-night company that teetered too close to the line. The moments she’d nearly said something true, then swallowed it back. All of it sitting heavy now, in the hush of this kitchen.

She leans down, just a fraction, enough to see Ann’s face more clearly. Enough to notice the faint freckles across her nose, the curve of her lips softened by sleep.

Her throat tightens. She pulls her gaze away, hand steady but her chest anything but.

After a long while, Ann shifts, not lifting her head but tilting it slightly toward Catherine’s hand, like she’s chasing the touch. “See?” she murmurs, voice barely there. “Told you it was nice.”

Catherine swallows hard. “Yeah, well. Don’t get used to it.”

But her hand doesn’t stop.

A beat later, Ann mutters, still blurry with sleep, “You’re softer than you think, Catherine.”

Catherine’s heart jolts. She stares at her, words caught in her throat. Ann’s so drowsy, maybe not even aware of what she said.

Catherine exhales slow, her chest tight. Her hand stays tangled in Ann’s hair, the strands soft under her fingers, warm against her palm.

Her legs ache from standing. She realises she’s been rooted in place all this time, leaning over like a daft statue. With a reluctant glance toward the chair beside Ann, she eases herself down, lowering carefully with her splinted hand braced against the table’s edge. The chair legs scrape faint against the tiles, and Ann stirs, shifting, but she doesn’t lift her head. If anything, she seems to settle deeper, angling almost imperceptibly toward Catherine’s touch, like that’s what’s keeping her tethered.

The closeness sharpens everything: Ann’s hair brushing against Catherine’s wrist, the steady rise and fall of her shoulders, the faint warmth radiating from her even though the cardigan’s bundled beneath her. Catherine’s hand keeps moving without thought, slow and steady, fingers sliding through, smoothing, tracing the shape of her head. It feels too much like a tenderness she’s not supposed to give, but she can’t bring herself to stop.

She knows she should. Knows she should stop. But she doesn’t.

The kitchen holds them in a cocoon of hush, the tick of the clock loud as a heartbeat. Catherine studies Ann’s face in profile, unguarded like this, and feels the slow burn of it seep through her chest. Every so often her fingers catch on a knot, and she works through it gently, careful not to tug. Ann makes a sound once, soft and contented, like she might if she’d just curled under a blanket after a long day.

Catherine’s throat tightens at the sound. She forces herself to look away, down at the wood grain of the table, her hand moving steadily all the while.

They’d said they’d do better. They’d said they’d draw a line and keep to it. Mates. Just mates.

This doesn’t feel like mates.

And it's made harder ‘cause Ann isn’t pulling away. She’s leaning in, chasing every stroke, letting Catherine give her this.

Minutes blur. Catherine can’t say how many have passed before her back starts to ache against the chair. Still she doesn’t stop. She feels ridiculous—like some besotted fool petting her cat. Except it’s not a cat. It’s Ann. And the thought alone makes her insides knot.

Finally, she sighs, low and reluctant. “You’ll be sorry later,” she says, her voice gentler than she means it. “Won’t thank me when your back seizes up.”

Ann mumbles into the cardigan, not opening her eyes. “Not bothered.” A beat, then softer, “This is better.”

Catherine’s breath catches. She sits frozen, her hand half-buried in Ann’s hair. The words are quiet, careless, probably half-asleep. They land even heavier for it.

She swallows. Shakes her head. “You daft woman.”

Her hand moves again, almost on instinct. But after another minute, she steels herself, shifting slightly in her chair. Enough of this. Ann’s going to regret it if she keeps on like this. Catherine can already picture her groaning when she gets up, stiff and sore. She can’t have that.

“Right,” Catherine says at last, firm but not unkind. She slides her hand away from Ann’s hair, lets it rest briefly against her shoulder instead. “Come on. Up. You’ll do yourself in.”

Ann stirs, mumbling, face still half-hidden. “’M fine here.”

“You’re not. Sofa’s two steps away. Better than my bloody kitchen table.” Catherine gives her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Up you get.”

Ann groans faintly, shifting like a sulky child. “Bossy sergeant.”

“I know. Now listen to your sergeant.” Catherine pushes herself upright, good hand braced against the table. She lingers close, not quite touching, but near enough that the offer’s there if Ann wants it. “Come on, love. You’ll thank me later.”

Catherine bites her lip. The word's slipped out again before she could stop it. It used to be nothing—easy, offhand. Now it hangs heavier, like it’s carrying more than it should. Catherine can’t tell if that weight’s only in her own chest, or if Ann feels it too.

She clears her throat, determined not to let Ann see how flustered her own words have made her.

Ann finally pushes herself up, sluggish but compliant. Catherine steadies her without thinking, fingertips brushing her elbow. Ann doesn’t pull away.

They shuffle into the living room together, the shift from the bright kitchen to the softer light of the lounge almost disorienting. Catherine guides more with presence than with touch, close enough to catch her if she wobbles, close enough to keep her from thinking too much about where she’s going.

At the sofa, Ann hesitates, blinking down at it like it’s a trap. “I’ve got a bed,” she mutters, not quite meeting Catherine’s eye. “Should go home.”

Catherine shakes her head, firm. “Not like this, you’re not. You’ll nod off behind the wheel before you hit the main road.”

Ann smirks faintly, though it’s thin, tired. “You saying your company’s that dull?”

Catherine huffs, exasperated. “I’m saying you’re bloody knackered. And since I can’t drive you, sofa’s the only option.” She fixes her with a look, brooking no argument. “Sit.”

For once, Ann doesn’t push too hard. She makes a token noise of protest, something about not being a stray to crash on someone’s furniture, but she slumps down all the same, cardigan still clutched in her arms like a shield. She stretches out halfway, then all the way, feet tucked up on one end.

Catherine hovers a moment, watching her adjust, trying not to let the ache in her chest show. Then, with a quiet sigh, she lowers herself to the other end, the small space Ann’s feet have left free.

The sofa dips under her weight. She reaches for the book Ann gave her last week, still sitting on the side table. Its spine creaks softly as she opens it.

Ann shifts again, settling deeper into the cushions. Her eyes are already half-shut, her breathing evening out.

Catherine glances down at the page but doesn’t see the words. Not really. Her gaze drifts back, again and again, to the figure stretched along the sofa. The looseness in Ann’s body, the quiet in her face, the way she looks here: safe.

It feels like something rare. Something Catherine knows she’ll remember long after Ann’s gone home again.

She swallows hard, lowers her eyes to the book, and forces herself to read.

The clock ticks. The room holds its hush. And Catherine, sitting with Ann’s presence warm against her legs, pretends she’s not counting every breath.

Chapter Text

Minutes blur into longer stretches. The house is quiet save for the familiar sounds usually drowned out by something else. But now, those sounds are all there is: the distant tick of the clock, the faint creak of pipes settling, the softened breath of the woman stretched out beside her.

‘The woman,’ Catherine thinks, amused by her own attempt at distancing herself. She ought to move. She ought to fetch herself a proper cup of tea, or go upstairs, or do anything but sit here like a fool letting her thoughts run in circles.

But she doesn’t move.

Every so often, Ann shifts, hugging her cardigan tighter, curling her toes gently against Catherine’s leg. Each small press is enough to tempt Catherine into reaching out.

At some point Catherine realises her splinted wrist is aching, and she flexes her fingers carefully, hissing under her breath.

The sound makes Ann stir. She shifts under the blanket, blinking heavy-lidded, and her feet press more firmly into Catherine’s thigh as she stretches. “You all right?”

“Fine,” Catherine says, too quick.

Ann frowns, still half-lidded. “Liar.” She pushes herself onto one elbow, her hair mussed from the cushion. With clumsy precision, she lifts the book off Catherine’s lap and sets it on the table, ignoring the cardigan sliding off her shoulders. Then, without ceremony, she nudges a cushion closer and guides Catherine’s injured arm onto it. “There. Better.”

Catherine stares at her, caught between protest and something softer, words lodged in her throat.

Ann doesn’t wait for thanks. She snuggles deeper into the sofa, her body going visibly limp. Within moments, her breathing starts to even out again, eyes already drifting closed.

Catherine leans forward, awkward and stiff, the kind of forward lean that strains her back and ribs, just to reach the blanket slung over the nearby armchair. She moves slowly, careful not to jostle Ann’s feet where they’re still settled against her thigh, and even more careful not to wake her fully. The effort pulls at her shoulder, sharp and uncomfortable, but she manages to grab the edge of the fabric, dragging it back with her good hand. She lays it clumsily over Ann, tucking it around her with a kind of brusque tenderness, all while pretending it isn’t tenderness at all.

Ann makes a small noise in her throat, something between a sigh and a hum, but she doesn’t open her eyes. Instead she sinks deeper into the cushions, the faintest hint of a smile ghosting across her lips.

She shifts in her sleep, the movement slow and heavy. Catherine feels it first as a weight against her thigh, solid and unmistakable. For a second she thinks Ann’s only turned over, but then her toes nudge higher, and before Catherine quite knows what’s happening, Ann’s feet are pressing properly into her lap, claiming the space as though it were hers by right.

Catherine goes very still. Her head turns, eyes darting to Ann’s face, braced for the twitch of awareness, the sly little smirk that would mean she’d done it on purpose. But Ann’s mouth is slack, her jaw loose in a way Catherine only ever sees when she's asleep. The shadows under her eyes are darker now that sleep’s taken her, her whole body slack with exhaustion. Her breathing’s gone even, soft, nothing guarded left in it.

Catherine swallows. They’d said mates. Drew that shaky line in the sand. And Ann—if she were awake—would never allow this. She’d shift away, keep her guard up, keep herself safe. But asleep, she can’t. Asleep, she gives herself away.

A pang hits Catherine, sharp and deep.

She should move. That’s what a decent person would do. Nudge Ann’s feet back down, wake her gently, and tell her to go home to bed proper. That would be the safe thing. The right thing.

Instead she stays.

And she’s watching. Breathing slower to match Ann’s without meaning to.

The sofa dips faintly under Ann’s weight, her ankles shifting heavier across Catherine’s lap. Catherine dares a breath, pressing the back of her splinted wrist into the cushion Ann had put there, while her other hand is holding onto her own thigh as if pinning herself in place. Her gaze catches on the little glass dangly Clare insists on keeping in the window—blurry colours spilling into the dim room, dancing lazy over Ann’s cheek.

The sharpness that always hangs about her is gone. Sleep’s stripped it all away. She looks bare. Armourless in a way that twists something in Catherine’s chest.

Longing. Guilt. A tangle of both.

She doesn’t let herself touch. She keeps her hands where they are. Just watches the slow rise and fall of Ann’s chest, the way her hand’s gone slack against her thigh, fingers twitching once before they still again.

It’s ridiculous, Catherine thinks. How much it matters. How much she wants just to sit here, doing nothing but being near. How much she wants to keep this fragile, stolen quiet, to guard it like it’s hers to protect.

The minutes creep on. A car hums past outside, tyres swishing over wet tarmac, then another. Somewhere up the street a dog barks once, sharp, before falling silent again. The world keeps moving, but here it’s only them. Catherine, wide awake, and Ann, surrendered to sleep.

She tells herself to look away. Focus on the clock, the book, anything else. Stop memorising the angle of Ann’s lashes against her cheek. But her eyes drag back, every time, like there’s a string tied between them.

And beneath it all the kiss they could’ve shared. It pulses like an old bruise. The weight of it, the breath before, the space between. The not-quite, sharp and vivid still, every second etched in memory. She wonders if Ann’s buried it, filed it under mistakes best left unnamed. Or if she remembers too, carries it hidden, same as Catherine does.

Catherine exhales slowly. She tells herself this is fine. Just mates. Just two mates, one knackered and asleep on the other’s sofa. That’s all. That’s safe.

But the weight of Ann’s feet doesn’t shift. They’re warm even through the fabric of Catherine’s pyjama's, a steady reminder that this isn’t safe at all. That something’s bleeding over the line they drew, again, and she’s letting it.

Her arm aches where it rests, splinted wrist perched at an awkward angle on the cushion Ann’s tucked there. The angle’s her own doing; when Ann drifted off and let her feet slide into her lap, Catherine had twisted herself up to keep from touching them, keeping her wrist just clear of her shins. But the strain of holding it like that grinds into her elbow and shoulder until she can’t bear it anymore.

Carefully, with a breath caught in her throat, she gives in. She lowers her arm, lets the splinted wrist settle against the curve of Ann’s ankles instead. The contact is light and steady, more like an anchor than a touch. Permission, she tells herself. If Ann stirs, if she shifts away, Catherine will let her. No questions. No words.

Her good hand stays well out of the way, fingers curled on her thigh. Not touching. Not on purpose. Though she can feel the nearness of Ann’s warmth, the faint heat that lingers in the air near her feet.

Ann shifts, one small roll of her foot, her heel pressing deeper into Catherine’s thigh. A soft hum escapes her, wordless, and Catherine’s heart thuds high and quick. But Ann doesn’t wake.

The sound wasn’t protest. It was contentment.

Catherine’s throat goes dry. She should move, should end this before it knots into something she can’t undo. But she doesn’t. She leans back into the sofa instead, letting the cushions take her weight, letting Ann’s feet stay where they are, her splinted wrist resting solid against them.

Ann only burrows deeper, tucking her chin, breath smoothing out into even tides of sleep.

Catherine’s chest aches. She lets her head tip back against the sofa, eyes closing just for a beat, surrendering to the hush around them. She lets herself imagine—for one stolen moment—that this isn’t borrowed, isn’t fragile, isn’t something she’ll have to give back when Ann wakes.

The thought feels dangerous.

*

Ann stirs after a while, a subtle twitch at first—her toes curling against Catherine’s leg, her knee shifting the tiniest bit. Catherine freezes, waking from her half-asleep state.

Another sound escapes Ann, low and muffled, not quite a word. Then, softer, half-breathed: “Mm… warm.”

Catherine’s breath hitches. She glances down. Ann’s still under, her eyes shut, but the murmur lingers like something said on purpose.

She tells herself not to answer. Not to read into it. But her throat works anyway. “Aye, well. That’s me. Human radiator.”

The silence that follows feels like it’s listening.

Ann shifts again, her heel pressing harder into Catherine’s thigh, then slackening like she’s gone boneless. Her head tips further to the side, lips parting. Catherine should take it as proof she’s out cold again. But then, just faintly, and slurred by sleep, Ann mumbles, “‘S nice.”

Catherine goes rigid. Her pulse spikes, heavy at her throat. She stares at Ann, fighting the urge to check whether those words were dream-deep or deliberate. But Ann doesn’t open her eyes. Doesn’t move. Just settles back, like she’s certain Catherine won’t dare shift away.

And she doesn’t. Her good hand—traitor that it is—finds Ann’s foot through the blanket, steady, cautious. She tells herself it’s only to ground her, to stop herself shaking. But her thumb drifts, a tiny arc over cotton.

Ann exhales slowly, the kind of sound that’s almost approval.

Catherine sighs, quiet and sharp at once, and calls herself an idiot. The word lands heavy. She can’t even pin down which part of this makes her one. Is it the way she keeps pretending she hasn’t got feelings, while every fibre of her body screams otherwise? Is it that she’s sitting here, letting Ann rest on her like this, knowing damn well it edges past the line they drew? Or is it worse—that she wants it too much, wants it enough to make excuses for herself?

Probably all of it. Probably more. Idiot covers the lot.

The thought loops, relentless. She should shift Ann’s feet off, reclaim her lap, reclaim the distance that’s supposed to keep them safe. She should laugh it off, make some crack about dead weight, push the moment back into the safe box where mateship belongs. She should.

But she doesn’t.

Instead she stays as she is, good hand resting warm and steady against the blanket, thumb still betraying her in tiny arcs she pretends not to notice. And slowly, almost against her will, she lets the weight of Ann’s presence settle into her lap as if it belongs there, as if it’s something she has a right to hold.

The room holds the silence around them, fragile and dangerous both.

*

Catherine keeps dozing, slipping in and out, losing time at a rate she’s not used to. It’s only the shifting shadows across the carpet that remind her how long she’s been sat still, light thinning outside as dusk settles.

Ann stirs again, clearer this time. A soft groan escapes her as she stretches, arms overhead, heels flexing right into Catherine’s lap. Then her eyes blink open, slow and hazy, unfocused at first.

Catherine snaps her gaze to the book on the table, wishing it were still in her lap so she could pretend she’d been buried in it, not caught watching her.

“Mm.” Ann’s voice is rough, thick with sleep. She squints at the ceiling before tilting her head enough to catch Catherine. “You still sat there?”

Catherine clears her throat, keeps her eyes down. “Didn’t fancy lugging you upstairs.”

Ann huffs, weak and amused. “Could’ve shoved me off at least.”

“Thought about it.” Catherine risks a glance and nearly regrets it. Ann’s smiling faintly, lids heavy, hair mussed flat from the cushion. The sight nearly undoes her.

“You’re soft sometimes,” Ann murmurs, rubbing sleep from her eyes.

The words rattle something in Catherine’s chest. She wants to deny it, to bite back something sharp that would cover the heat prickling at her ears. But before she can, Ann groans and mutters something about her bladder. She stretches like a cat, feet sliding from Catherine’s lap at last, and pushes herself upright with a tired grunt.

“Back in a sec.” She drops her cardigan on the sofa and shuffles toward the bathroom. Catherine watches her go, something tight in her chest she refuses to name. The room feels instantly emptier without her.

Catherine exhales and pushes herself upright, splinted wrist tucked carefully against her chest. She’s not about to sit there like some bloody lovesick teenager waiting for Ann to come back. That’s not her. She’s fine. Perfectly fine.

She heads into the kitchen, flicking on the light. Routine steadies her—kettle filled, mugs lined up, teabags in place. She moves with more noise than necessary, clinking ceramic against wood. It’s the splint, she tells herself. Just the splint. Not nerves, not longing. Just something to do with her hands.

There's faint movement in the living room. A rustle of papers. A soft clink, like something being stacked or straightened. Catherine’s jaw tightens. Of course Ann would. Can’t sit still for ten minutes without fussing.

She sighs and watches the teabags steep, colour blooming out in thin threads. It’s not her job to stop Ann, she tells herself. Not her responsibility to keep her from overdoing it. She’s not her keeper.

But when another shuffle comes from the living room, Catherine loses the battle. She sets the kettle down harder than necessary and strides out.

Ann stands by the mantle, hair ruffled where she’s run damp fingers through it, cheeks faintly flushed. She’s holding a small stack of magazines, steadying herself with her free hand. She looks caught, like a child with her hand in the biscuit tin.

There’s a silence, heavy with things unsaid. For a moment Catherine thinks Ann’s about to announce she’s off—that she’ll grab her coat, her keys, and drive home stubborn as ever.

Instead, Ann’s eyes flick around the room, landing on the vacuum cleaner tucked in the corner. Catherine sees the way her jaw shifts, the familiar battle lining her face.

“Don’t even think about it,” Catherine cuts in, sharper than she means to.

Ann blinks at her. “What?”

“You’ve been scrubbing and wiping and God knows what else all bloody day. You’re not lifting another finger in this house tonight. You’re gonna sit down.”

She makes space by stepping to the side, while still standing in the doorway, her body language clearly expecting Ann to move her arse and follow Catherine to the kitchen. “I made tea. Off you go.”

Ann’s mouth curves faintly, like she’d been expecting this. “You woke up cranky.” She scoops her cardigan off the sofa, slipping it on before squeezing past Catherine, front to front.

Standing in the door is a mistake. Catherine realises it too late. She’d expected Ann to wait, to let her step aside first. Instead Ann brushes by, close enough that Catherine feels it everywhere at once. Too close. Too much. By the time she thinks to move, it would only draw attention to the fact. And admitting this feels like too much is more than she can bear.

It used to be normal, this kind of proximity. They used to stand shoulder to shoulder without Catherine’s pulse jumping, used to crowd close without every fibre of her body lighting up like a warning.

Ann keeps walking, calm as anything, into the kitchen. Catherine follows, her thoughts a jumble of want and restraint, risks and rules colliding in her chest.

In the kitchen, Catherine gestures towards the table with her good hand, her voice slightly too rough, and even she can hear it. “Sit.”

Ann sits down without a word, but when Catherine turns away to fiddle with their mugs and toss the tea bags, she just about can make out a look on Ann’s face that’s calculating, processing, like she’s taking apart Catherine’s behaviour, and trying to make sense of it.

Catherine forces herself to ignore it, to knot herself tighter. “Could probably manage toast, if you don’t trust me with more.”

Ann shakes her head. “Don’t fuss.”

“I’m not fussin’.”

“You are.”

Catherine huffs, half defensive, half amused. “Fine. Sit there an’ starve then.”

That earns her a soft huff in return, closer to laughter than Catherine’s heard all day. She clings to it, a warm pulse under her ribs.

“You all right?” Ann's voice is thoughtful and far too soft.

Catherine’s glad she’s got her back towards Ann as she pours milk into their mugs. “Fine.”

Once she's put sugar into her tea, she turns around, preparing for that cautious look on Ann's face that she knows so well.

And there it is.

Catherine wants to wipe it away, make it better, but before she can figure out what to say, Ann digs into her cardigan pocket, pulls out a folded note, and drops it on the table.

“Joyce says hi.”

Catherine stares at it, already dreading. “God.”

Ann smirks faintly. “And she said, and I quote—‘tell her she’s not allowed to mope, cause if she does, I’ll come round and kick one of her legs out from under her.’”

Catherine can’t help the laugh that breaks out, sudden, sharp. “That sounds about right.”

“Also said to give you this.” Ann nudges the note closer. Catherine unfolds it. Inside is a cartoonish doodle of a mug of tea with arms and legs, speech bubble declaring ‘you’re useless, but I still love you’.

Catherine shakes her head, lips twitching. “Bloody menace.”

Ann’s smile lingers, soft this time. “Told me she’s been worried. Said you’d pretend you were fine ‘til the roof caved in.”

Catherine swallows, throat tight. She tucks the note under her mug like it’s safer hidden. “Yeah, well. That’s Joyce.”

A beat of quiet stretches. Then Catherine clears her throat, casual as she can manage. “So, that reminds me. Winnie asked me for summat. Said the little store where she used to get it has closed a while ago.”

Ann leans in, interested. “What is it?”

Catherine waves her hand vaguely. “Some sort of herbal tea. Comes in a bright yellow box. She swears it’s the only thing keeps her joints from seizing up.”

“Have you ordered it?”

“Was gonna. But I can’t find the thing anywhere.”

Ann’s eyes soften. “So you’ve just left poor Winnie without her joint tea?”

“She gave me until next week!” Catherine protests, though she’s already feeling guilty. “Thought you might know a few more sites I can check.”

Ann laughs, shakes her head. “Tell you what, I’ll order it. You can pay me back sometime.”

Catherine’s chest tightens. She sits straighter, sharp. “No.”

Ann blinks. “What do you mean, no?”

“I mean I don’t want you spendin’ more money on me… or her. It’s bad enough you keep rockin’ up with food like I’m some bloody orphan.”

Ann frowns, but her tone stays light. “It’s not—Catherine, it’s a box of tea. Hardly bankrupting me.”

“That’s not the point,” Catherine snaps, heat rising in her chest. She shoves her mug aside with her good hand. “I’ve already taken more from you than I’ve any right to. I can’t stand the thought of you payin’ for summat else, even if it’s just temporary.”

Ann regards her quietly, the humour drained now. She folds her arms, leaning back in her chair. “You’re making it sound like I’ve been draggin’ you out of debt collectors’ offices. All I’ve done is bring you a few groceries and offer to click ‘buy now’ on a teabag.”

“It’s not a few groceries,” Catherine mutters. “It’s bags every bloody day.”

“Because you can’t go yourself.”

“I would if I could.” Catherine’s voice spikes, sharper than she means. The air goes taut, her chest tight. She drags a hand through her hair, frustrated. “I don’t like it, Ann. Feels wrong.”

Ann studies her, gaze steady. “Feels like someone caring about you, you mean?”

That stops Catherine cold. She looks down, jaw clenched, because the truth of it burns too close.

Ann exhales, softer now. “Look. I don’t have to buy the tea. I could send you the link, you’d pay, Winnie’d get her box, the world keeps turnin’. That’s all.”

Catherine doesn’t answer, eyes fixed on the table. She feels stubborn and raw and ridiculous all at once.

After a long pause, Ann gets up, pulling the cardigan tighter. “Fine. I’ll drop it. But for the record, you make it bloody impossible to do something nice for you.”

The words are mild, but they hit anyway. Catherine feels her throat close. She wants to say she doesn’t mean it like that, that she knows Ann’s kindness isn’t charity, but the words stick.

Ann doesn’t say anything else, and instead walks off and starts cleaning in the living room, a bit more clattery than before. Catherine follows, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. She watches her move about, irritation and guilt tangling in her chest. She hates feeling like this. Cornered, indebted, defensive.

Finally, she blurts, “I don’t need more money out your pocket. I don’t.”

Ann sets a vase down, firm. “Fine. You don’t. So what do you need?”

The question hangs there, and Catherine feels it like a weight. She doesn’t answer straightaway, doesn’t even look at Ann. Instead she fiddles with the strap of her splint, tugging it too tight, then loosening it again.

‘What do you need?’

She could say nothing. She could say she’s fine. That’s her default. But Ann’s stood there with that level stare of hers, the one that won’t shift until you cough something up.

Catherine exhales, a sharp breath through her nose. “I need you to not spend your bloody wages on me. That’s what I need.”

Ann tilts her head. “That all?”

“That’s plenty.”

For a moment, Ann studies her, unreadable. Then her mouth quirks, the edge of a smile without the amusement. “All right. You win. No more groceries. No more tea orders. Nothing that makes you feel like you’re in my debt.”

Catherine narrows her eyes, suspicious. “You’re not gonna get all martyr about it, are you?”

“No,” Ann says, calm as anything. “Just making it clear I heard you.”

Something in her tone disarms Catherine. The matter-of-fact tone, no pushback, no sly way around it. Just… agreement. It throws her off balance, because she was braced for another round, for Ann wearing her down with logic and persistence. Instead Ann’s just let it go.

Catherine shifts against the doorframe, uncomfortable. “Good.”

“Good.” Ann gives a little nod, then wipes her hands on her trousers.

The quiet that follows isn’t strained, not exactly, but it’s close. Catherine hates it. Feels like she’s the one who’s pulled the plug on something. She tries to fill the space, muttering, “You make it sound like I’m some bloody charity case.”

“You’re not,” Ann says immediately. No hesitation, no soft-pedalling. “That’s not how I see you.”

Catherine’s throat goes tight, though she keeps her expression flat. She shrugs, makes a dismissive noise. “Yeah, well.”

Ann lets it lie. She busies herself wiping the coffee table, shoulders relaxed, as if the subject’s done. And maybe it is. Maybe Catherine’s actually been listened to for once. The thought sits strangely in her chest, like relief and guilt, both at once.

She stands there, watching Ann move around the living room, efficient and quiet. A little too quiet. Catherine fiddles with her splint again, restless. She doesn’t want to admit it, but she misses the banter already.

Then Ann turns back, leaning on the counter, casual. “So. Since I’m banned from playing grocery fairy… how about something else?”

Catherine squints, instantly wary. “What now?”

“Your hair.”

“No.”

Ann’s lips twitch like she’s trying not to laugh. “I could wash your hair again. No cost involved. Unless you start charging me for hot water.”

Catherine rolls her eyes, sharp and dismissive, though it lands weaker than she’d like. “Oh, give over.”

“You let me last time.”

“Under protest.”

“Under heavy protest,” Ann corrects, grin widening. “And then you admitted it felt better after.”

“I admitted no such thing.”

Ann gives her that look—eyebrows lifted, mouth just on the edge of a smirk, pure disbelief. The kind that says she remembers everything Catherine swore she didn’t say.

Catherine huffs, uncomfortable heat rising at the back of her neck. “Anyway, I’ve managed.”

“Managed,” Ann repeats, dragging the word out like she’s weighing it. “Mm. That’s one way of describing it.”

“Don’t start.”

“I’m not,” Ann says, maddeningly mild. “I’m just saying it’s no trouble. Ten minutes, shampoo, done. And you don’t have to wrestle your good hand into knots trying to scrub your scalp.”

Catherine glares at her, but it doesn’t land with the force she wants. Because she remembers last time, and how bloody awkward it had been at the start, sitting there like some daft kid while Ann worked the suds through her hair. But then… the way it had eased. The way the tension had drained from her shoulders, the relief of letting someone else take the strain for once. It had felt good. Too good. Better than she wanted to admit.

Ann’s fingers steady and gentle, the clean scent of shampoo, the quiet… The thought of having that again tugs at something in her chest she doesn’t want poked at.

She huffs and looks away, heat prickling up her skin. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Probably,” Ann agrees, voice light. “But you’ll thank me when you don’t look like you’ve dunked your head in a chip pan.”

Despite herself, Catherine barks a laugh, startled out of her sulk. It slips out before she can stop it.

Ann’s grin widens like she’s won something. “See? You’re already coming round to the idea.”

“I am not.”

“You are.”

“Ann.”

“Yes, Catherine?”

“Shut up.”

Ann only laughs, warm and unbothered, and for the first time since the tea argument started, the air between them eases.

Catherine sighs, adjusting her arms. “You’re determined, aren’t you.”

“Not determined. Just offering.” Ann’s voice is steady, easy. “Say no and I’ll drop it.”

And that’s what gets Catherine. Not the persistence, not the wheedling, but the way Ann makes it clear it’s her choice. That she can put the wall back up and Ann will respect it. And somehow that thought isn't a comforting one.

Catherine grumbles, shifting in the doorway. “Bloody ridiculous, this.”

Ann just waits.

“Fine. But if you start singin’ like last time—”

Ann’s eyebrows shoot up, and then she smirks. “Singing? In your bathroom?”

“You bloody were.”

“Oh, I’d love to know what you think you heard.” Ann leans a little closer, tea towel swaying in her hand, voice dipping, just on the edge of a whisper. “Because if you remember me singin’ in there, Catherine, then you’ve been daydreaming.”

Catherine blinks, heat rushing up her neck faster than she can bite back. She covers it with a scoff, shakes her head, hides the betraying flicker of a smile by walking towards the bathroom.

Ann doesn’t press, just follows her. She just laughs, bright and unbothered, and the sound lingers between them longer than it should.

Inside, though, Catherine feels the flicker of warmth she can’t quite push down. The truth she won’t admit out loud: she wants this. Wants Ann to do it again. And she’s almost glad Ann didn’t let it slide.

In the bathroom, Ann just tilts her head toward the toilet. “Sit.”

Catherine obeys, heart thudding, trying to school her face into indifference as Ann checks the water, fills the sink. The same routine as before. Only this time Catherine’s already braced for how close it’ll put them, for the way Ann’s fingers will move through her hair, firm but careful, for the way it’ll make her chest ache.

It’s quiet except for the sound of water and Ann’s low, practical instructions. “Tilt your head back a bit… there, that’s it.” Catherine’s eyes slide closed. She tells herself she’s only doing this because of the splint, because it’s easier, because Ann insisted. Not because she likes it. Not because it feels good to be cared for.

But Ann’s hands are gentle, sure, and Catherine feels each touch like it’s writing something she doesn’t dare read.

When it’s done, Ann towels her off briskly, steps back without ceremony. Catherine swallows hard, mutters, “Cheers.”

Ann only nods. She tosses the towel over the radiator to dry, then wipes her damp hands down her trousers. The silence stretches, not uncomfortable exactly, but edged with something Catherine doesn’t care to name. Water drips cold down the back of her shirt, and she resists the urge to fidget.

Ann breaks it first. Her eyes flick to the window, to the row of plants lined up there—Clare’s, really, though they’ve ended up Catherine’s problem whenever Clare’s away. “These are looking a bit sad,” Ann says lightly, reaching for the little watering can tucked by the sill.

Catherine frowns. “You’re not—”

But Ann’s already watering the plants, completely unbothered. Her voice is warm as she refills the can. “Can’t be lettin’ Clare’s lot go thirsty. She’d have your head. And I like your head.”

Catherine's cheeks warm, and she pushes herself up, bracing her good hand on the sink. “Oi. I said no more fussing.”

Ann glances at her then, and there’s that small, lopsided smile she gets when she knows she’s being cheeky. “Just making myself useful.”

“Ann.” Catherine’s voice sharpens despite herself. “Enough.”

Ann blinks at her, eyebrows lifting, and for a beat Catherine worries she’s pushed too hard.

Ann sets the little watering can back in its place with deliberate care, the faintest grin still tugging at her mouth. “All right, all right.” The words come with a softness that wasn’t there before, like she’s indulging Catherine more than obeying her.

The bathroom goes quiet again. Just the faint gurgle of the radiator and the drip of water from Catherine’s hair, sliding down the back of her neck. She shivers and resists the urge to rub at it.

Ann doesn’t move away. She leans one hip against the sink, arms loose at her sides, watching Catherine with that steady, unreadable look of hers. Her gaze isn’t heavy, but Catherine feels it all the same, a weight she’s not sure how to carry.

The bathroom is small, and Catherine can feel the closeness pressing in. The smell of shampoo lingers in the air, threaded through with the warm, familiar note of Ann’s cardigan, that faint smell Catherine’s begun to associate with her.

“You sure you're all right?” Ann asks at last, quiet, like she isn’t sure if she should.

Catherine swallows. “Fine,” she says again, and tries for brisk, but it comes out softer, betraying her.

Ann nods once. She doesn’t look away.

For a few moments they just stand there, letting the air thicken between them. Catherine’s skin prickles under it, restless, as if every inch of her body is suddenly aware of Ann’s nearness, of the way her damp hair is sticking to her collar, of the fact she can’t move without brushing against her.

It ought to feel awkward, or maybe even easy in the way of old friends, but it is neither. What settles between them is something taut, carrying a pull that unsettles Catherine even as it draws her in.

Ann is the one to break it. She shifts nervously, glancing first towards the wet sink, and then towards the radiator, where the damp towel hangs. “Might as well give that a wipe,” she mutters, half to herself. Her hand lifts before she even finishes the sentence, reaching for the towel.

Catherine reacts without thinking. “Don’t you dare.”

She steps forward, too fast, and her good hand shoots out. Her fingers close around Ann’s wrist before the towel is touched.

Warm. Solid. Real.

Ann freezes, eyes snapping to hers in surprise. The bathroom feels smaller all at once, the steam thicker, the tiles closing in. Catherine’s chest brushes Ann’s arm with every shallow breath, and she realises too late just how close she’s placed them.

She means to let go. She really does. But her hand doesn’t listen.

Ann tilts her head, brows lifting slightly. Her lips twitch into that crooked half-smile, but there’s a sharpness in her eyes that doesn’t match it. “You really gonna wrestle me over a towel?” Her voice is low, threaded with a rough humour that only makes Catherine’s pulse jump harder.

“Don’t tempt me,” Catherine fires back, but her throat is dry, and it doesn’t come out the way she wants. Too husky. Too real.

The silence after is fragile. Catherine feels every beat of Ann’s pulse against her fingers, steady and alive. It thrums through her skin, climbs her arm, settles in her chest like a second heartbeat.

She thinks about leaning in. She doesn’t mean to, doesn’t want to think it, but the thought is there anyway, crashing through her with dizzy force. She imagines what it would be like, and the thought is ridiculous, reckless, unwise… And yet the imagining alone is enough to steal her breath.

Ann must feel it too, because her smile fades. She stops tugging, stops teasing. She just looks at Catherine, intent and unflinching, as though she’s waiting to see which way she’ll break.

The bathroom hums with it. Catherine’s grip loosens—not much, just enough to give Ann the choice.

And Ann takes it. She twists her wrist gently, slides free with a smoothness that makes it seem casual, though her eyes linger too long for it to be nothing. She lifts that same hand to push her hair back, as if to cover the moment, but Catherine’s skin still tingles with the ghost of her pulse.

Ann clears her throat. Her voice is steady, but not cold. “Right. Well. Best be off, yeah?”

The words knock Catherine sideways. She blinks. “Already?”

Ann shrugs, softer than before. “Aye. Think I’ve gone all lopsided off your sofa. Better get back to my own bed, get a proper kip.”

She says it lightly, but there’s a weight beneath it, something Catherine feels even as Ann offers her the easy smile that comes with it.

Catherine wants to argue. Wants to tell her to stay, that it’s daft to leave when it’s late and she’s comfortable here, that she doesn’t want the night to end like this.

But she doesn’t say any of those things.

Because Ann’s gaze is still on her, steady and unreadable, and Catherine knows if she opens her mouth, too much will spill out.

So she only nods, stiff, pretending it doesn’t matter. “Right. Aye. Best not keep you.”

Ann’s mouth curves into a half-smile, faint but warm. “Don’t go sulkin’.”

“I’m not.” Catherine bristles, though the heat in her cheeks betrays her.

Ann chuckles under her breath, small and fond, before stepping back, giving Catherine the space she hadn’t realised she needed. She gathers her things in the hall, movements efficient but unhurried, as though leaving isn’t something she wants either, but something she’s decided is necessary.

Catherine stays rooted in the bathroom doorway, listening to the soft sounds of Ann getting ready. There’s the rustle of her cardigan, and the faint jingle of her keys. It all sounds too final, too empty.

When Ann appears again, bag slung over her shoulder, she looks the same as always: calm, composed, a little tired. But her eyes catch Catherine’s and hold them, warm and searching.

“Thanks for lettin’ me fuss over you,” she says, and it’s lighter than the air between them deserves.

Catherine swallows. “Cheers for doin’ it.”

For a heartbeat, neither of them moves. Then Ann steps closer, close enough that Catherine can smell the faint shampoo still clinging to her fingers. She reaches out—hesitates—then only touches Catherine’s good arm, light as a brush.

“Night, Catherine.”

And before Catherine can reply, she’s gone, slipping out into the hall, the front door shutting soft behind her.

Catherine lingers where she stands, her palm still tingling from where she’d held Ann’s wrist, from where Ann’s hand had brushed her arm. She lets out a breath and sinks onto the edge of the bath, the tiles cool beneath her.

She tells herself it’s fine. Safer this way. That Ann’s just a mate.

But the word makes her feel hollow and lonely.

And it doesn't feel like enough.