rmytears

[rmytears]

when I'm trying to solve a 'specially heinous crime but alex cabot and her lethal face card is solving me instead

[rmytears]

RESERVATION FOR DISASTER. calex one-shot.

Summary: Alex and Casey have been trying (and failing) to have a proper date night for weeks. Between their insane caseloads, Olivia Benson’s tendency to call them in at all hours, and their own competitive natures, every attempt has ended in chaos.

Tonight, Alex has finally made dinner reservations at an exclusive restaurant, and Casey has sworn she won’t let anything interfere. But, of course, things don’t go as planned.

6:30 PM

Alex's apartment was a study in controlled chaos. Steam billowed from the bathroom, carrying the scent of her jasmine shampoo through the hallway as she meticulously applied her makeup. Every detail had been planned with the precision she usually reserved for closing arguments.

The reservation at Lumière hadn't just been made three weeks in advance – it had been strategically timed for a Wednesday evening when the restaurant was slightly less crowded, specifically requested to be in the quieter back section, and confirmed not twice but three times. The last confirmation had been accompanied by a subtle name-drop of a judge who owed her a favor, just to ensure everything would be perfect.

Her navy blue Guy Laroche dress hung on the closet door like a promise of elegance, and she'd even gone so far as to have it professionally pressed. This wasn't just dinner – this was a tactical operation, and Alexandra Cabot never lost a tactical operation.

At least, that's what she kept telling herself.

"You know," Casey's voice drifted in from the bedroom, accompanied by the sound of drawers opening and closing with increasing urgency, "some people just call their favorite restaurant and show up."

Alex applied her mascara with surgical precision. "Some people also think pleather is acceptable courtroom attire."

"That was one time," Casey protested. "And in my defense, I was first chair on the Matthews case and my dry cleaning hadn't—" A loud thud followed by muttered cursing interrupted her justification.

Alex closed her eyes, counted to three, and stepped into the bedroom. "What are you doing?"

Casey was on her knees, half-buried in their shared closet, one earring already in place and the other clutched between her teeth. Her red hair was falling out of its careful updo, and she'd somehow managed to put her dress on backwards. "I can't find my other shoe," she mumbled around the earring.

"The black Louboutins?"

"No, the—"

"The navy pumps?"

"No, I—"

"Please tell me you're not looking for those horrific comfort sandals you tried to wear to the DA's dinner."

Casey emerged from the closet, hair thoroughly disheveled, to fix Alex with an indignant look. "Those sandals are orthopedically approved and—"

"Are banned from any restaurant that requires a reservation," Alex finished, already moving to her side of the closet. She reached up to the top shelf, pulled down a dust bag, and extracted a pair of elegant silver heels. "Here. These will match your dress, assuming you put it on correctly at some point."

Casey glanced down at her backwards dress and grinned. "I was wondering why the neckline felt weird." She stood, pressing a quick kiss to Alex's cheek. "This is why I keep you around. Well, this and your exceptional cross-examination skills."

"Flattery will not excuse tardiness," Alex replied, but she was fighting a smile. "Now, about tonight..."

Casey groaned, flopping dramatically onto their bed. "Please tell me this isn't another detailed itinerary."

"This is a simple request for one normal, uninterrupted date night." Alex perched on the edge of the bed, careful not to wrinkle her dress. "Just one evening where we don't get called away for work, or run into opposing counsel, or end up discussing case law over appetizers."

"That last one is entirely your fault. You're the one who brought up Miranda during the soup course."

"The waiter misquoted it! I couldn't just let that stand."

Casey sat up, laughing. "Only you would fact-check a waiter's legal knowledge." She reached for her other earring, her expression turning suspicious. "Wait a minute. Is this why you promised me chocolate soufflé? Are you bribing me?"

"I prefer to think of it as incentivizing good behavior," Alex replied primly, smoothing a nonexistent wrinkle from her dress. "We are going to have one uninterrupted, romantic date night. Just one. No distractions, no emergencies, no—"

The opening notes of "Bad Boys" – Casey's ringtone for work calls – filled the room.

Alex closed her eyes and exhaled slowly through her nose, wondering if it was possible to sue the universe for intentional infliction of emotional distress.

7:00 PM.

"You manifested that," Casey said, pointing at her with mock seriousness. Her silver dress – now properly oriented – caught the light as she moved, and Alex was momentarily distracted by how beautiful she looked, even with her hair still slightly askew.

"Answer it, Novak. But if it's work—"

Casey held up a finger as she answered, her face shifting into what Alex privately called her "ADA mode." "Hey, Liv. What's up?"

Alex crossed her arms, deploying the look that had once made a mob enforcer cry on the witness stand. Casey, predictably, just winked at her.

"Uh-huh," Casey said into the phone, pacing their bedroom in her stocking feet, the borrowed silver heels still waiting by the bed. "Uh-huh. Liv, I—" She glanced at Alex, winced, then tried again. "Okay, I really can't right now, but—"

Alex tapped her watch, which she'd specifically coordinated with her outfit. She'd learned early in their relationship that Casey operated on what she called "Novak Time," which was consistently twenty minutes behind the rest of the world.

Casey mouthed, One minute, while making the puppy dog eyes that had gotten her out of trouble more times than Alex cared to admit.

"That's a lie, and you know it," Alex muttered, walking to their dresser where she'd left a glass of wine for exactly this type of situation. She took a slow sip, glaring at Casey over the rim.

Casey, demonstrating the selective hearing that made her both an excellent prosecutor and an infuriating girlfriend, ignored her. "Look, just email me the details, and I'll—" She stopped, sighed, then rolled her eyes toward the ceiling as if seeking divine intervention. "Fine. But you owe Alex a very expensive bottle of wine."

Alex arched an eyebrow, already mentally upgrading her wine requirements from "expensive" to "requires a separate insurance policy."

Casey hung up and turned to her with the smile that usually preceded either brilliant legal strategy or complete chaos. "Small favor. I swear, it won't interfere with dinner."

Alex took another long sip of wine, letting the silence speak for her.

"It's tiny," Casey insisted, finally stepping into the heels. "Microscopic. Barely worth mentioning. Liv just needs me to stop by the precinct for two minutes to sign something."

"The precinct," Alex repeated flatly, "which is in the opposite direction of the restaurant."

"Yes, but—"

"During rush hour."

"Well—"

"On the night I specifically asked for no work interruptions."

Casey approached her with the careful steps of someone approaching a particularly irritated judge. "I will make it up to you," she promised, wrapping her arms around Alex's waist. "And I already have a plan."

"Does this plan involve being on time to our reservation?"

"It involves calling a cab right now, stopping at the precinct for exactly two minutes, and then taking the shortcut I know through Little Italy to get to the restaurant." She pressed a kiss to Alex's neck, right below her ear. "Trust me?"

Alex sighed, melting slightly despite her best efforts to maintain her annoyance. "The last time you said that, we ended up in contempt of court."

"That was one time! And the judge totally deserved it."

"He did," Alex admitted, then pulled back to fix Casey with a stern look. "Two minutes. Not a second more."

Casey's grin was bright enough to power Manhattan. "Scout's honor."

"You were never a scout."

"Details, details. Now come on, our chariot awaits!"

7:45 PM.

Their yellow cab crawled through Manhattan traffic like a particularly unmotivated snail. Alex watched the minutes tick by on her watch, calculating and recalculating their estimated arrival time with increasing despair. The leather seats squeaked every time she shifted, which was often, because Casey couldn't sit still to save her life.

By some miracle (and possibly several traffic laws bent beyond recognition), they were only fifteen minutes behind schedule. Alex, channeling the optimism she usually reserved for particularly difficult jury selections, decided to consider it a win.

That feeling of tentative victory lasted exactly three blocks.

"Hold up a second," their driver said, his eyes meeting Alex's in the rearview mirror. The cab swerved slightly as he turned to get a better look, causing Casey to grab Alex's arm. "I know you! You're that prosecutor, right? The one from that huge mob case!"

Alex stiffened, her spine straightening automatically into what Casey called her "courtroom posture." "I don't discuss work outside of the office."

"That was you!" He grinned, completely missing – or choosing to ignore – her arctic tone. "Man, that trial was something else. What was that guy's name? Sal... Sal something-or-other?"

Casey, because she had apparently made it her life's mission to be both the love of Alex's life and her personal tormentor, leaned forward with an eager grin. "Salvatore Giordano."

Alex turned to her with a look that had once made a defense attorney switch careers to accounting.

The cabbie snapped his fingers, the car drifting dangerously close to a parked SUV. "Yeah, that's him! You absolutely destroyed that guy! I watched every single day of that trial on Court TV. Even called out sick from work for the closing arguments."

Casey chuckled, clearly warming to her role as Alex's personal antagonist. "Oh, she destroys people for a living. It's her favorite hobby. Well, that and organizing her legal briefs by color-coding and subspecies."

"They're organized by jurisdiction and precedential value," Alex muttered, then immediately regretted engaging.

The cabbie laughed, taking another corner so sharply that Casey slid into Alex's side. "So, how dangerous was that whole thing? Did you get threats? Witness tampering? I heard the mob tried to bug your office!"

Alex pinched the bridge of her nose, wondering if it was possible to get motion sickness from emotional whiplash.

"Funny you should ask," Casey said, her voice dropping into what Alex recognized as her storytelling tone. She used the same voice to charm juries and convince judges to grant continuances. "There was this one time—"

"Novak."

"What? I'm just making conversation. Besides, the statute of limitations has definitely expired on—"

Alex fixed her with the look that had once convinced the entire Manhattan DA's office to switch from Starbucks to her preferred coffee shop. "Casey."

Casey grinned but held up her hands in surrender, her silver bracelet catching the streetlights. "Fine, fine. No war stories. Though I still think the one about the wire in the cannoli is hilarious."

The cabbie, undeterred by their exchange, launched into his own thoroughly unnecessary analysis of the trial. "The way you handled that cross-examination of the restaurant owner? Brilliant! And when you got that witness to crack on the stand—"

"Take the next left," Alex interrupted, her voice clipped. "It's faster."

"But the GPS says—"

"The GPS doesn't have to preside over motion hearings tomorrow morning."

Casey bit her lip, clearly trying not to laugh. "She knows every shortcut in Manhattan," she stage-whispered to the driver. "It's because she's pathologically early to everything."

"It's called being professional," Alex corrected, then checked her watch again. "And we're now twenty minutes behind schedule."

"See what I mean?" Casey said to the driver. "Pathological."

The cabbie nodded sagely. "My wife's the same way. Speaking of wives, are you two—"

"Left turn," Alex said sharply. "Now."

As the cab finally turned, Alex stared out the window, mentally reviewing New York's justifiable homicide statutes. She was fairly certain she could convince a jury that both Casey and the cabbie had it coming. After all, she had an excellent track record with difficult cases.

Casey, reading her mind as she often did, leaned over to whisper, "You know you love me."

"That remains to be seen," Alex replied, but she couldn't quite hide her smile when Casey kissed her cheek.

The cabbie, watching in the rearview mirror, beamed. "You two remind me of me and the missus. Hey, did I ever tell you about how we met? It's actually a funny story—"

Alex closed her eyes and began silently reciting the Model Penal Code. She'd gotten through three sections when Casey's hand found hers, squeezing gently.

"Almost there," Casey murmured. "And I promise, the soufflé will be worth it."

8:10 PM.

They finally made it to Lumière, only slightly disheveled and moderately behind schedule. The restaurant's elegant facade gleamed with warm lighting, promising an evening of sophistication that Alex desperately hoped they might still salvage. The maître d' recognized her name immediately – perhaps that third confirmation call hadn't been entirely paranoid – and led them to a perfectly positioned corner table.

Alex relaxed incrementally as they settled in, taking in the ambient lighting, the soft jazz playing in the background, and the way Casey's eyes lit up at the wine list. Maybe, just maybe, the universe would grant them this one evening.

Their waiter had just finished pouring their wine – a particularly good vintage that Alex had been saving for a special occasion – when she saw him. Samuel Jeffries, their newest junior ADA, was weaving through the tables toward them with the panicked expression of someone about to confess to a capital crime.

"Oh, come on," Alex muttered into her wine glass.

Casey followed her gaze and winced. "Maybe he's just here for dinner?"

"With that look on his face? He's either committed a felony or lost crucial evidence. Possibly both."

Jeffries reached their table, his tie askew and his normally neat hair looking like he'd been running his hands through it repeatedly. "Casey! Alex! I am so sorry to interrupt, but I—I accidentally sent the wrong case file to the DA's office and—"

Alex pinched the bridge of her nose, wondering if it was too late to transfer to the civil division. Or maybe Montana.

Casey, demonstrating the unflappable calm that made her so effective with victims, reached for a breadstick. "Which case?"

Jeffries shifted his weight from foot to foot, looking like he might actually faint. "Uh... Harrison v. State?"

Alex's groan was almost drowned out by Casey choking on her breadstick.

"That's a high-profile appeal," Alex said, her voice carrying the same deadly calm she used right before destroying a witness on cross. "What exactly did you do?"

"I might have..." Jeffries tugged at his collar. "I might have sent the defense our internal notes instead of the motions brief."

Casey's coughing fit got worse. Alex actually dropped her fork, the clatter drawing looks from nearby tables.

"Oh my God," Casey said when she could breathe again, her face flushed from coughing and suppressed laughter. "That is so much worse than I expected. Like, monumentally worse. Like, 'start updating your resume' worse."

"Please tell me you recalled the email," Alex said, her voice carrying the kind of calm that usually preceded hurricanes.

Jeffries gave her a look of pure terror. "I tried. But they... they already opened it."

Casey took a large sip of wine, then immediately reached for the bottle to pour more. "Yeah, no. You're dead. It was nice knowing you. I'll send flowers to your funeral."

Jeffries looked between them, his face cycling through various stages of panic. "What do I do? Should I call the defense? Maybe if I explain—"

"No," Alex and Casey said in unison.

"Sit down," Alex commanded, pointing to an empty chair. "Do not speak to anyone. Do not call anyone. Do not even think about calling anyone." She pulled out her phone, already scrolling through her contacts. "I'll fix it. But you owe me a favor, and I will collect."

Casey shook her head, torn between amusement and sympathy. "It's honestly impressive how quickly this night has derailed. I think this might be a new record."

Alex shot her a withering look while pressing her phone to her ear. "Judge Harrison? Yes, I know it's after hours. I apologize for interrupting your evening, but we have a situation that requires immediate attention..."

9:00 PM.

Alex had just managed to salvage the evening through a combination of legal maneuvering, three very apologetic phone calls, and what might have technically qualified as blackmail in some jurisdictions. Jeffries had been dispatched with strict instructions to go directly home and touch absolutely nothing work-related until Monday. The wine had been replenished, their entrees had finally arrived, and Casey had solemnly sworn on her bar license to behave.

The universe, apparently, took this as a personal challenge.

The fire alarm's shriek cut through the restaurant's carefully cultivated atmosphere like a defendant's outburst in a quiet courtroom. The elegant dining room froze for a moment, then erupted into confused murmuring as the sprinkler system began to whir ominously overhead.

They both looked up at the flashing lights, then at each other.

"You have got to be kidding me," Alex muttered, her perfectly cooked steak going untouched. "This isn't happening."

Casey set down her wine glass with exaggerated care. "Well, look on the bright side."

"There is no bright side."

"At least it wasn't my fault this time."

Alex's retort was cut off by the maître d's smooth voice announcing that everyone needed to evacuate immediately. The restaurant staff moved through the tables with practiced efficiency, helping diners gather their belongings and herding them toward the exits.

"Should we grab the wine?" Casey asked, eyeing their half-full bottle. "It seems shame to waste it."

"That would be theft," Alex pointed out, even as she cast a longing look at the vintage she'd specially requested.

"I prefer to think of it as evidence preservation."

Despite herself, Alex laughed. It was either that or cry at this point. "Come on, counselor. Before we add 'arrested for grand larceny' to this evening's highlights."

They joined the stream of displaced diners flowing onto the sidewalk, the cool evening air raising goosebumps on their arms. Casey immediately shed her heels, holding them by their straps as she stood barefoot on the concrete.

"That cannot be sanitary," Alex said, watching her with fond exasperation.

"Neither is third-degree burns from these torture devices you call shoes." Casey wiggled her toes. "Besides, we've got bigger problems. I'm starving."

As if on cue, several fire trucks rounded the corner, sirens wailing. Their red lights painted the gathering crowd in surreal flashes of color, turning evening gowns and suit jackets into a bizarre light show.

"I don't suppose they'll let us back in anytime soon," Casey mused, watching as firefighters deployed from their trucks with practiced efficiency.

Alex sighed, already pulling out her phone. "I'm ordering pizza."

"I love you," Casey said with such genuine affection that Alex felt her frustration start to melt. "Even if you did curse this entire evening by tempting fate."

"I did not tempt fate. I made dinner reservations."

"You specifically said, and I quote, 'no distractions, no emergencies.' That's basically daring the universe to mess with us."

"The universe is not a spiteful entity that—" Alex stopped as smoke began visibly curling from one of the restaurant's upper windows. "You know what? Never mind. I rescind my objection."

Casey grinned, wrapping an arm around her waist. "Wise decision, counselor. Now, about that pizza..."

10:30 PM.

Their apartment felt like a sanctuary after the chaos of the evening. They'd changed into comfortable clothes – Alex in silk pajamas that probably cost more than some suits, Casey in worn Harvard Law sweats that had seen better decades. The coffee table was covered in an impressive spread: one large pizza (half margherita for Alex, half "everything but anchovies" for Casey), garlic knots that would guarantee they both had terrible breath tomorrow, and a bottle of wine they'd rescued from Alex's impressive home collection.

"All I'm saying," Casey argued, gesturing with a slice of pizza in a way that made Alex nervously eye her white couch, "is that the Fourth Amendment issues in People v. Reddington were so obvious that a first-year law student could have spotted them."

"No, they weren't," Alex countered, reaching over to steal a bite of Casey's slice before it could become a projectile. "The expectation of privacy in shared cloud storage is still evolving case law."

Casey gasped with theatrical outrage. "You pizza thief! And don't try to distract me with technological semantics. The warrant was clearly overbroad."

"The warrant was perfectly reasonable given the circumstances." Alex settled more comfortably into the couch, tucking her feet under Casey's thigh. "The scope was limited to the specific folder structure identified by the witness."

"Oh please, they accessed his entire drive history!"

"Which was necessary to establish pattern and practice."

Casey narrowed her eyes, reaching for another slice. "You're just arguing with me because you can."

"I'm arguing with you because you're wrong," Alex corrected primly, but she couldn't hide her smile. "And because you're cute when you're outraged about constitutional issues."

"Flattery will not win you this argument." Casey paused, considering. "Though it might win you another piece of pizza."

They settled into a comfortable silence, broken only by the soft music playing from Alex's carefully curated playlist and the distant sounds of the city below. The chaos of the evening felt far away now, replaced by something warmer and more genuine than any fancy restaurant could have provided.

Casey squinted at her, a thoughtful expression crossing her face. "Admit it – this is better than some overpriced steak at Lumière."

Alex paused, taking in the scene: Casey's disheveled hair and bright eyes, the way her old sweatshirt had a small sauce stain already (because some things never changed), the comfortable weight of her feet under Alex's legs, the simple pleasure of arguing case law over pizza.

She rolled her eyes but couldn't suppress her smile. "Fine. But don't expect me to say it out loud."

Casey's answering grin was brighter than all the candles at Lumière combined. "Oh, I know you love this. You love me. You probably even love that I derailed your perfectly planned evening."

"That's a stretch."

"Is it, though?"

Alex sighed, shook her head fondly, and leaned in to kiss her. Casey tasted like garlic and wine and happiness, and Alex couldn't imagine wanting to be anywhere else.

Even the universe, it seemed, sometimes knew exactly what they needed.

"We're still going back to Lumière though," Alex murmured against Casey's lips. "I refuse to let that reservation deposit go to waste."

Casey laughed. "Whatever you say, counselor. But maybe next time we shouldn't tempt fate by announcing our plans."

"Next time," Alex said, pulling back to fix Casey with her best courtroom stare, "we're ordering in."

"Objection noted and sustained," Casey agreed, pulling her back in for another kiss.

The pizza got cold, the wine ran out, and somewhere in Manhattan, Jeffries was probably still having a panic attack about the Harrison case. But here, in their apartment with their terrible takeout and their endless legal arguments, everything was exactly as it should be.

Even if Alex would never admit it out loud.

[rmytears]

Rewatching Alex’s and Casey’s SVU seasons make me feral. So… here comes a long winded worm vomit about them.

Alex’s first episode where she calls Uncle Bill and her politics talk with Cragen clearly establishes her as an ambitious privileged ADA.

Casey, right from the start, coming from a different bureau and only vouched for by Branch, clearly establishes her as an underdog.

Alex wears suits in muted colors.

Casey wears bright as fuck random outfits (her long skirts with thigh high boots makes me shake my head and feel feral at the same time).

Alex feels like she just comes and goes and crushes it at trials.

Casey quite literally inserts herself even during investigations.

The way judges keep berating Alex and call her “Alexandra” like a petulant child makes it feel like these judges have weekend lunches with the Cabots, headed by Uncle Bill.

Casey’s poker game interruption and sheepishness (and subsequent cringey dream admittance) makes it feel like she really was just a random lawyer to these people.

Alex may seethe at times but she always remains restrained.

Casey, on the other hand, fights just about everyone. The detectives, people at the DA’s office, the judges, and heck even the military.

Alex loses, too, but sometimes, she doesn’t mind doing so as long as she can move forward the case law.

Casey loses, too, but she always minds. Always.

Alex depends on Olivia a lot.

Casey depends on Elliot a lot.

Huang has both their hearts.

These two are so different and yet so alike. They are both intensely passionate and yet so many things about their attitude and actions make them different.

I love them so so much.

Also, these similarities and differences just make them all the more fated to be with each other.

CaLex, you will always have my heart.

[rmytears]

olivia is better than me I would've been on my knees for alex cabot every time she comes back to my life

[rmytears]

https://www.tumblr.com/rmytears/777303817443278848/a-little-hot-headed?source=share

Love reading it . It's such an amazing fics and teen reader who is not faced by alexia putellas.

Can't wait for more ❤️❤️❤️

Your kind words mean the world to me. Stay tuned for more updates! Sending lots of love your way! ❤️

[rmytears]

Can you put a keep easing of your fics your clogging up the tags

oh, I didn’t realize there was a limit on how much people can post! Maybe the platform should add a rule for that. Until then, I guess we’ll all just have to scroll a little more, right?

[rmytears]

(I hate the fact that in english everything sounds drier. The translator takes away all the flavor)

○ alexia putellas x teen reader (reader has a name in this)

↳ warnings: no warnings.

pt. 1

A LITTLE HOT-HEADED

The Barça B dressing room had that unmistakable sound of every training session: the dull thud of boots hitting the floor, the rustle of jerseys being hastily changed, the constant murmur of overlapping conversations. Some players laughed, others debated plays, and a few simply changed in silence.

Maya was in the second category. The silent one.

Sitting on the wooden bench in front of her locker, she slowly untied the laces of her boots, letting the sound of the loosening leather fill her head instead of everything else. Her jaw was tight. Lately, it had been like that almost all the time.

Because things at home weren’t going well. Because she wasn’t sleeping well. Because she was sick of hearing the same thing over and over again.

"It’s just ridiculous," Nuria Gómez’s voice cut through the general noise, clear as day. "She hooked up with him for one night, and now she acts like he doesn’t exist. Not a glance, not a ‘how are you.’ Nothing."

Maya didn’t lift her head, but her fingers tightened around the leather of her boots.

She knew exactly who Nuria was talking about. She knew who all that venom was meant for every time she opened her damn mouth.

It was for Helena.

Helena Ferrer, who was at the other end of the locker room, her back turned, stuffing her things into her backpack with too much concentration. Maya knew that gesture. That one that said, I’m pretending not to hear, but every word is scraping against my skin.

And Nuria, of course, knew it too. She knew it and wouldn’t stop.

"I don’t know, I couldn’t live with a clear conscience after doing something like that," she went on, letting out a nasal laugh that turned Maya’s stomach. "Playing with someone and then acting like it never happened. That’s just being a shitty person."

Maya closed her eyes for a second.

Breathe. It’s not your problem.

But that was a lie. Because she heard it every single day. Because Helena never defended herself. And because Nuria wasn’t talking out of some sense of justice or wounded pride. She was talking out of spite.

Maya unclenched her jaw just to grit her teeth even harder.

"Don’t you ever get tired?"

She didn’t say it loudly. She didn’t yell. But the locker room wasn’t that big. And Maya never had to raise her voice to be heard.

The murmur of conversation died down. Not completely, but enough for her to feel several people paying attention. Nuria stilled for a moment. Then she turned toward her with a forced smile, the kind that barely covered the thinly veiled hostility underneath.

"Excuse me?"

Maya took her time straightening up and closing her locker before turning to look at her. Her gaze was calm, but there was something dangerous flickering in her eyes.

"I asked if you don’t get tired," she repeated, her voice low but clear. "Of saying the same shit every day."

Nuria narrowed her eyes, as if she couldn’t believe Maya was getting involved in this. "I didn’t know you had to approve my conversations now."

"I don’t care about your conversations," Maya replied, tilting her head slightly. "I care that you’ve been repeating the same thing for weeks, and honestly? It’s getting old."

Nuria let out a laugh, but there was no amusement in it.

"Right. Because defending Ferrer is your new favorite hobby, isn’t it?"

Maya felt Helena shift uncomfortably to her right, but she didn’t look at her.

"I don’t need to defend her. She didn’t do anything wrong."

"Oh, really? Nothing wrong?" Nuria crossed her arms, leaning forward slightly. "You’d be okay with someone using you for a one-night stand and then acting like you don’t exist? Just like that?"

There it was.

Maya sighed.

"This isn’t about what I would or wouldn’t do."

"Oh, it’s not?"

"No. This is about the fact that you keep bringing it up every chance you get, like you can’t let it go."

The locker room was almost completely silent now. Just the sound of a few bags zipping up, the distant echo of water running in the showers.

Nuria smiled without humor.

"I don’t know why you’re getting involved in this, Maya."

"Because it disgusts me." Maya didn’t blink. "It disgusts me to watch you walk around here, looking for her, waiting for an excuse to throw some snide remark her way. Like a damn dog."

Nuria’s face darkened, her hands clenching into fists.

"Eres una gilipollas."

"Y tú una resentida."

Silence.

Helena let out an almost imperceptible breath.

Maya ran a hand through her hair, not taking her eyes off Nuria.

"You hooked up. It didn’t work. Anyone else would move on. But you, Nuria…"

She took a step forward, just one, enough to lower her voice and make it sharper.

"You have to tear her down every single day because you can’t stand the fact that she used you for one night and never looked back."

The tension in the air was thick, almost suffocating. Nuria’s face was flushed red, but she had no words.

Maya leaned in slightly, her gaze unwavering.

"And if it weren’t for the trouble I’d get into, I’d smash your head against the wall."

Helena let out a breath. Not a gasp, not a 'Maya, stop'. A fucking breath. Like those words had been the only real shield anyone had given her in weeks.

Nuria said nothing.

She couldn’t say anything.

The entire locker room had frozen. No one moved, no one dared to step in.

Maya waited. She gave Nuria the space to respond, to say whatever she wanted. But she didn’t. So Maya shrugged, slung her backpack over her shoulder with the same usual calm.

Then she turned, not bothering to look at anyone else, and walked toward the door.

She left unhurriedly.

The door clicked shut behind her.

And for the first time in a long time, the dressing room was left in complete silence.

🫛🫛🫛

The hallway smelled of liniment and damp grass, filled with that muffled echo of footsteps and murmurs that only lingered after training sessions—when the team was scattered between showers, massages, and unexpected meetings. Maya walked with her jaw clenched, hands shoved into the pockets of her hoodie, and the distinct feeling that this meeting wasn’t going to bring her anything good.

She wasn’t entirely sure why she had been called in. Or maybe she was. The incident with Nuria in the locker room had been too public for it not to reach the coach’s ears.

She stopped in front of the office door and took a deep breath. Counted to three. Knocked twice with her knuckles before pushing the door open without waiting for a response.

The coach was sitting behind his desk, arms crossed, with an expression that didn’t foreshadow anything good. But it was the person sitting to his right that made her frown for a second.

Alexia Putellas.

Maya controlled her reaction. Just the slightest raise of her eyebrows before her face settled back into its usual neutral expression. Don’t get paranoid. Maybe Alexia was just there for something unrelated, maybe they had just finished discussing something before she arrived. Or maybe—and she liked this possibility less—it was about her.

She closed the door calmly and leaned against the wall, arms crossed over her chest, as if she were anywhere else and not in an office about to get a lecture.

"If this is about what happened with Nuria the other day," she said before anyone could speak, "I was just following the message you always give us: ‘personal issues don’t mix with football.’"

Silence.

The coach frowned.

"Excuse me?"

Maya didn’t move. Something didn’t add up.

"I had no idea anything happened with Nuria," he continued, looking at her with more interest than she liked. "But now I do want to know."

Shit.

Maya rolled her eyes. In trouble for talking too much.

"It was nothing," she shrugged. "Stupid stuff. Dumb teenage drama, you know."

The coach held her gaze for a moment longer but didn’t press. He just ran a hand over his chin and got straight to the point.

"I called you in because of what happened with the Espanyol player."

Her body tensed instantly.

"Alexia told me what happened."

Maya clenched her jaw. And there it was. She knew it. Her mind went straight to the most obvious conclusion.

Great. Not only did I get a red card during the match, but now they think I was going to start a fight afterward.

She straightened up slightly, arms still crossed.

"Nothing happened," she said flatly. "I didn’t hit her, if that’s what you’re thinking."

Alexia lifted her gaze, looking at her with the same calm she had when analyzing the field before making a decisive pass.

"No one said you hit her."

Maya turned toward her.

"Oh no?" She tilted her head, skeptical. "Then what exactly did you tell the coach?"

Alexia remained relaxed, unbothered.

"I told him about the lack of control you showed during the match," she explained evenly. "About how the Espanyol player was provoking you the entire time and how you reacted."

A prick of discomfort settled in Maya’s chest. She didn’t like being analyzed like that.

"Oh, right. She provoked me, I reacted, and somehow I’m the bad guy."

"No one said you’re the bad guy," the coach interjected. "But you do have a problem."

Maya scoffed.

"My problem is that I don’t let people walk all over me?"

The coach narrowed his eyes, resting his elbows on the desk.

"Your problem is that you let yourself get taken out of the game over nothing."

Maya averted her gaze, biting her tongue to keep from saying the first thing that came to mind.

"Do you think you reacted the right way?" he pressed.

"If the referee isn’t going to do his job, someone has to."

The coach let out a long sigh, as if he were exhausted from having the same conversation over and over again.

"Maya…" He ran a hand down his face. "In football, there are provocations all the time. If every time someone messes with you, you respond with a foul like that, you’re going to get sent off in every match."

Before she could reply, Alexia spoke up.

"If you let them get you out of the game with provocations, you’re giving them exactly what they want."

That comment irritated her more than it should have.

"I didn’t let them take me out of the game. They took me out of the game." She paused. "Which is different."

"It’s not," Alexia countered, still infuriatingly calm. "Porque si cada vez que te tocan un poco los cojones, pierdes la cabeza, entonces te van a manejar como quieran." (Because if every time they push your buttons, you lose your head, then they can control you however they want)

Maya frowned.

She didn’t like how that sounded. Like she was some animal that could be controlled with a few cheap tricks. Like she didn’t have self-control.

But most of all, she didn’t like it because there was some truth to it.

The coach watched her patiently, waiting.

"Do you understand?"

Maya stayed quiet for a moment before answering, her tone clipped.

"Yes."

The coach nodded, though he didn’t look entirely convinced.

"I hope I don’t have to bring this up with you again."

Maya didn’t respond. She simply turned and left the office with the same calm as always, no rush, no sign of anything. But the moment the door shut behind her, she felt something strange in her chest. A part of her was still angry. Angry that they had treated her like she didn’t know what she was doing. But another part, one she preferred to ignore, knew that Alexia and the coach were right.

And that pissed her off even more.

🫛🫛🫛

The night air was cool, but Maya felt like she was burning under her skin. She walked with long, quick strides, her jaw clenched, her backpack slung over one shoulder. As if each step could help her leave behind the coach’s office, the damn conversation, and, most of all, that patient voice of Alexia Putellas repeating things she already knew but didn’t want to hear.

Football was about provocation, sure. Football was about keeping a cool head, too. Pero que no jodan. (But give me a break)

As she stepped past the club’s entrance, her eyes landed on the bus stop across the street. At this hour, the night buses took forever, and the last thing she wanted was to sit around doing nothing, letting her mind spiral over the same thoughts.

She took a deep breath and adjusted the strap of her backpack. Maybe she could walk to the next stop. Maybe that would get rid of this burning feeling in her chest.

Then, a car horn.

Maya frowned, irritated by the sudden noise, and turned her head, ready to ignore it. But she recognized the car before she could.

A black Audi. And behind the wheel, Alexia Putellas.

The passenger-side window lowered with a smooth hum, and Alexia’s voice, calm as always, cut through the night.

"Get in. I’ll take you."

Her first reaction was automatic: say no.

Because she didn’t like being told what to do. Because she still had her pride stuck in her throat after that conversation. And because, honestly, she wasn’t in the mood to spend more time with Alexia.

She crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow.

"I’m fine. I don’t need a ride."

Alexia didn’t react. She didn’t look surprised or impatient. She just tilted her head slightly and repeated,

"Maya."

Just her name. Said in that low, steady tone—not quite a command, but not a request either.

And Maya, for some damn reason, didn’t have the energy to keep refusing.

She huffed through her nose and muttered something unintelligible as she stepped toward the car. She pulled open the passenger door and dropped into the seat unceremoniously, shutting the door with more force than necessary.

She didn’t say thank you.

Alexia didn’t seem to expect it.

The engine purred quietly, the only sound in the car besides the distant murmur of nighttime traffic.

Maya stared out the window, arms crossed, her gaze lost in the city lights flashing past. The silence was so thick it was becoming uncomfortable. Suddenly, she was aware of her own breathing. Of every small movement. Of how unnervingly calm the car felt even if her head was hell.

She didn’t dare move a muscle, wondering if Alexia felt the awkwardness too—or if she was just immune to it.

Then, Alexia’s voice broke the silence.

"So, you like smashing heads against walls, huh?"

Maya blinked.

What?

Her first reaction was pure internal panic.

How the hell does she know?

Worse: Did she tell the coach?

She turned toward Alexia, her back suddenly tense.

"Who told you that?"

Alexia kept her eyes on the road, only shrugging slightly. "Vicky told me."

Maya exhaled, rolling her eyes.

Of course.

If there was anyone who knew everything that happened in Barça B, it was Vicky López. And if there was anyone she shared it with, it was Alexia. Ever since she started training with the first team, their relationship had become inseparable. Fans even called them “mother and daughter.”

Maya pressed her lips together, uncomfortable.

"I wasn’t actually going to do it. I just said it."

"Sure."

Alexia smiled slightly, not even looking at her, as if she didn’t believe her for a second.

Maya sighed and slumped further into the seat, annoyed. "Did you pick me up just to give me a lecture on anger management?"

"No," Alexia replied casually. "But if you want me to, I can."

Maya turned to her, half incredulous, half exasperated.

"I’ll pass."

A brief silence settled between them. But this time, it wasn’t uncomfortable.

Maya noticed the atmosphere had shifted. Less tense. Less hostile. And though she didn’t want to admit it, Alexia’s attitude—calm, not pushing her, not lecturing her—was making her anger simmer down.

They reached her building a few minutes later. Alexia pulled up in front of the entrance without a word, simply letting the engine shut off smoothly.

Maya unbuckled her seatbelt and, without looking at her, muttered quickly, "Thanks for the ride." Like it physically hurt to say it.

Alexia didn’t answer right away. When she did, her voice was steady. "See you, Maya."

Maya gave a small nod and got out of the car without another word.

She closed the door with less force this time.

[rmytears]

TIME AND TIMING. calex one-shot

SUMMARY: A routine morning at the precinct takes a turn when Alex confesses an unexpected new interest—astrology. Casey humors her at first, but when Alex asks for her birth time, the conversation suddenly feels a little more personal than she expected.

The hum of activity in Manhattan's 16th Precinct squad room was more than just noise—it was a living, breathing entity. Like any creature of habit, it had its own distinct rhythms: the staccato percussion of computer keys clicking in irregular bursts, the bass line of shuffling papers, the occasional crescendo of a detective's voice rising above the din to request a file or share a breakthrough. Phones chirped their digital songs at random intervals, creating a chaotic harmony that somehow made perfect sense to those who worked there.

The Special Victims Unit occupied this space like a family might inhabit an old house, each member knowing instinctively which floorboard creaked, which drawer stuck, which corner offered the best refuge during difficult moments. They had worn paths into the industrial carpet between their desks, created their own territories marked not by walls but by coffee mugs, family photos, and the occasional stress ball.

It was early December, and winter had settled over New York like a wool blanket—heavy, slightly scratchy, but ultimately necessary. The precinct's ancient heating system fought valiantly against the cold, producing a persistent mechanical wheeze that had become as familiar as a roommate's breathing.

Assistant District Attorney Alexandra Cabot stood by the coffee machine, a relic from what appeared to be the late Paleolithic era, watching steam rise from her cup in lazy spirals. The machine's location—tucked into a corner between a filing cabinet and a bulletin board plastered with wanted posters and departmental memos—had become an unofficial sanctuary, a place where conversations could happen away from the intensity of active investigations.

Alex's appearance, as always, was meticulously curated. Her navy blazer, tailored to perfection, suggested authority without demanding it. Pearl earrings caught the fluorescent light, tiny moons orbiting the sharp planes of her face. Her blonde hair was swept back in a style that looked effortless but likely took considerable time to achieve. Everything about her projected competence, control, and an almost architectural precision.

Which made what she was about to say all the more surprising.

Casey Novak approached the coffee station with the determined stride of someone who had learned to move quickly through life, lest it move too quickly past her. Her auburn hair was pulled back in a practical ponytail, and her suit, while professional, spoke more of functionality than fashion. She carried a legal pad covered in her characteristic scrawl, evidence of a mind that worked faster than most people could keep up with.

"Please tell me there's still coffee," Casey said, already reaching for a cup. "I've got three motions to file before noon, and Judge Petrovsky is not in a generous mood today."

Alex's lips curved into a smile that held more warmth than most people got to see. "There's coffee," she confirmed, "though I make no promises about its quality or legal standing as a beverage."

Casey poured herself a cup, the dark liquid steaming like a witch's cauldron. "At this point, I'd drink motor oil if it had caffeine in it." She took a sip and grimaced. "This might actually be motor oil."

"I've been thinking about taking up astrology," Alex said suddenly, her voice carrying the slightly hesitant tone of someone testing unfamiliar waters.

Casey's head snapped up so quickly she nearly spilled her coffee. She studied Alex's face for signs of a joke, finding none. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Astrology," Alex repeated, more confidently now. "The study of celestial bodies and their influence on human affairs."

"I know what astrology is," Casey said, amusement creeping into her voice. "I'm just trying to picture you plotting star charts between cross-examinations."

Alex's expression remained serene, but there was a glimmer of something playful in her eyes. "There's a lot about me you don't know, Novak."

The use of her last name—so formal, yet somehow intimate in Alex's mouth—made Casey's stomach do an unexpected flip. She covered it with a smirk. "Clearly. Next you'll tell me you're reading tarot cards in your office."

"Don't be ridiculous," Alex said, taking a deliberate sip of her coffee. "Tarot cards would be completely unprofessional." She paused, then added with perfect timing, "I keep those at home."

Casey laughed, a genuine sound that drew brief glances from nearby detectives before they returned to their work. "Alright, Madam Alexandra, what's my sign then?"

Alex's gaze became analytical, reminding Casey of the way she looked at witnesses on the stand—searching for truth beneath the surface. "Well, I know your birthday's coming up, but for a proper reading, I'd need to know exactly when you were born."

"The time?" Casey raised an eyebrow. "That matters?"

"It's crucial," Alex said with mock solemnity. "It determines your rising sign, your house placements..." She waved a hand vaguely. "Very technical stuff."

Casey found herself leaning against the counter, mirroring Alex's posture without realizing it. "Okay, I'll bite. December 12th, 4:57 PM."

Something flickered across Alex's face—satisfaction, perhaps, or triumph—but it was gone before Casey could properly identify it. "Interesting," was all she said.

Before Casey could press further, Detective Olivia Benson's approach cast a shadow over their corner. She moved with the measured grace of someone who had seen too much but refused to let it show, her dark eyes holding the weight of countless cases. The file in her hand might as well have been made of lead for all the gravity it carried.

"Sorry to break up the coffee klatch," Olivia said, though her slight smile suggested she wasn't entirely sorry, "but we need both of you on this one."

The moment dissolved like sugar in hot coffee, sweet but ultimately unsustainable. They were professionals first, always, and the work that brought them together was the same work that kept them apart.

Weeks blurred into months, marked by the steady progression of cases through the system. Winter softened into spring, then hardened into summer's unforgiving heat. The squad room's ancient air conditioning unit joined its heating counterpart in a duet of mechanical protest. Through it all, Casey found her thoughts occasionally drifting back to that conversation by the coffee machine, like a tongue probing a loose tooth—not exactly painful, but impossible to ignore.

She didn't mention it again, and neither did Alex. They worked together with their usual efficiency, trading legal strategies and case laws across conference tables, passing each other in courthouse corridors with professional nods. But sometimes, Casey would catch Alex watching her with that same analytical gaze from the coffee machine, as if she were still plotting some celestial chart only she could see.

When December 12th arrived, the squad room had been transformed. Someone (probably Fin, though he'd never admit it) had strung up a "Happy Birthday" banner that had seen better days. The conference table groaned under the weight of snacks, and a cake decorated in surprisingly artistic fashion proclaimed "Happy Birthday Casey" in bold blue letters.

"Alright, everybody gather 'round," Cragen announced, his usual gruff demeanor softened by the occasion. "Let's do this before we catch a case.

The squad assembled with the organized chaos of a family at a holiday dinner. Fin presented his gift first, a vintage law book Casey had once mentioned wanting. Munch followed with a conspiracy theory book ("Know your enemy," he said with a wink). Olivia's gift was practical—a sleek leather briefcase to replace Casey's worn one. Even Cragen contributed, offering a bottle of aged scotch with a gruff "For after hours only."

Throughout it all, Casey was acutely aware of Alex's presence at the edges of the group. She participated in the celebration with her usual grace, but offered no gift, no special acknowledgment of their previous conversation. Casey told herself it didn't matter, that she was being ridiculous for even remembering such a minor exchange.

The party dispersed as quickly as it had formed, the demands of justice never taking a holiday. Casey retreated to her office, diving into work to distract herself from a disappointment she couldn't quite justify.

The wall clock ticked toward late afternoon, its sound suddenly prominent in the quiet office. 4:56 PM.

A knock at the door made her heart skip, though she couldn't say why.

"Come in," she called, proud of how steady her voice remained.

The door opened with a soft click, and there stood Alex Cabot, holding a small package wrapped in silver paper that caught the light like stars.

Casey's eyes darted to the clock just as it changed: 4:57 PM.

"You remembered," Casey said softly, the words escaping before she could stop them.

Alex's smile was gentle but knowing as she stepped into the office, closing the door behind her. The sound seemed to seal them in their own private universe, separate from the chaos of the precinct beyond. "Of course I did. I told you timing was crucial."

She approached Casey's desk with measured steps, her heels clicking against the floor in a rhythm that seemed to match Casey's suddenly accelerated heartbeat. The package she carried looked small in her hands, but it commanded attention like evidence in a courtroom.

"I hope you don't mind that I waited," Alex said, placing the gift on Casey's desk with careful precision. "It seemed important to get the timing right."

Casey stared at the package, afraid to reach for it, afraid not to. "I thought you'd forgotten about all that astrology talk."

"I never forget anything, Casey." The use of her first name, so rare from Alex's lips, felt intimate in the confined space of the office. "Especially not conversations that matter."

With fingers that trembled slightly—though she'd never admit it—Casey reached for the package. The paper was cool and smooth under her touch, like running her hands through water. She unwrapped it slowly, savoring the moment, until she revealed a small jewelry box.

Inside, nestled on black velvet, lay a silver bracelet. Its surface caught the late afternoon light streaming through her office window, making the engraved word dance: Patience.

Casey traced the letters with her fingertip, feeling the slight indentations against her skin. "Why this word?" she asked, though something in her chest suggested she already knew the answer.

Alex moved closer, close enough that Casey could smell her perfume—something expensive and subtle, like secrets wrapped in silk. "Because some things are worth waiting for," she said softly. "Some connections need time to align properly."

Their eyes met, and in that moment, Casey understood that they weren't talking about astrology anymore. Perhaps they never had been.

"Here," Alex said, reaching for the bracelet. "Let me help you with that."

Her fingers were warm as they brushed against Casey's wrist, sending little sparks of electricity dancing up her arm. The bracelet clasped with a soft click that seemed to echo in the quiet office.

Neither woman moved to break contact.

"It's beautiful," Casey whispered, her voice barely audible over the sound of their breathing.

"It suits you," Alex replied, her thumb tracing a small circle on Casey's pulse point.

The moment stretched between them like taffy, sweet and fragile and full of possibility. Casey found herself leaning forward slightly, drawn by some force as inexorable as gravity—

A sharp knock shattered the moment.

Olivia's voice carried through the door. "Hey, we're heading to Forlini's for birthday drinks. You coming?"

Casey cleared her throat, trying to remember how to form words. "Yeah, be right there."

Alex stepped back, but her eyes never left Casey's face. The professional mask slipped back into place, but now Casey could see the cracks in it, the places where something warmer showed through.

"Shall we?" Alex asked, gesturing toward the door.

Casey nodded, but as they moved to leave, she caught Alex's hand. "Thank you," she said. "Not just for the bracelet, but for... timing."

Alex's fingers squeezed hers briefly. "Some things are written in the stars, Casey. We just have to be patient enough to read them."

At Forlini's, surrounded by their colleagues and friends, Casey found her attention constantly drawn to Alex like a compass finding north. The bracelet felt warm against her skin, a constant reminder of possibility.

Olivia, ever observant, nudged her gently. "Nice bracelet."

"Thanks," Casey said, unconsciously touching it. "It was a... special gift."

Olivia's knowing smile suggested she understood more than Casey had said. "You know, some people speak louder through gestures than words."

Across the bar, Alex was laughing at something Fin had said, the sound carrying over the ambient noise. As if sensing Casey's attention, she looked up, their eyes meeting across the crowded space.

Time seemed to slow, the noise fading to a distant hum. The word engraved on Casey's wrist seemed to pulse with meaning: Patience.

She smiled, and Alex smiled back, and Casey thought that maybe, just maybe, some things really were written in the stars.

All they had to do was wait for the right moment to read them.

[rmytears]

HOW NOT TO KEEP A RELATIONSHIP SECRET. calex one-shot.

SUMMARY: Casey's day takes an unexpected turn when SVU’s newest detective develops a crush on Alex and, for some reason, asks her for help. Determined to keep their relationship a secret, Casey tries to deflect… only to somehow end up giving him accidental dating advice.

The 16th precinct hummed with its characteristic chaos—a symphony of ringing phones, heated debates over case files, and the persistent whir of an overworked coffee maker that hadn't been properly cleaned since the Obama administration. The air was thick with the acrid smell of burnt coffee, a scent that had become as much a part of the building as the worn linoleum floors and the flickering fluorescent lights that cast everything in an unflattering pallor.

Casey Novak sat at her desk, surrounded by towering stacks of discovery materials that threatened to topple at any moment. Her reading glasses were perched precariously on the edge of her nose, and her auburn hair was twisted into a messy bun that had gradually migrated sideways throughout the morning. She was only half-listening to the ongoing debate between Fin and Olivia about lunch options—Fin advocating for the new Thai place around the corner, while Olivia stubbornly defended her usual deli sandwich.

"I'm telling you," Fin insisted, gesturing with a case file, "they've got these dumplings that'll change your life."

Olivia rolled her eyes. "The last time you said that about food, I couldn't taste anything for three days."

Casey smiled to herself, letting their familiar bickering fade into background noise as she focused on the affidavit in front of her. The words were starting to blur together—something about chain of custody that she'd read four times without really absorbing—when a shadow fell across her desk.

Detective Ryan Callahan stood there, all six feet of earnest awkwardness, shifting his weight from foot to foot like a nervous teenager at his first school dance. He was new to SVU, barely six months on the job, with the kind of fresh-faced enthusiasm that hadn't yet been tempered by the harsh realities of their work. In the field, he was surprisingly competent—good instincts, quick on his feet, and genuinely empathetic with victims. But socially... well, that was another matter entirely.

His dark hair was slightly disheveled, as if he'd been running his hands through it—a nervous habit Casey had noticed during particularly stressful cases. Today, his tie was slightly askew, and there was a coffee stain on his otherwise pristine white shirt. He had the look of someone who had spent considerable time rehearsing what he was about to say, only to forget every word the moment he opened his mouth.

Casey raised an eyebrow, setting down her pen. "Callahan, what's up?"

He cleared his throat, a flush creeping up his neck. "Uh, so, I had a question."

She waited, watching as he fidgeted with his badge, clipping and unclipping it from his belt. The silence stretched between them like taffy, growing more awkward by the second.

Finally, he scratched the back of his neck—another nervous tell—and said, "About Alex."

Casey blinked, her heart doing a complicated gymnastics routine in her chest. "Alex?"

"Yeah." He shuffled closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "I mean, I figured since you two spend a lot of time together, you'd know... if she's, you know, seeing anyone."

Casey felt her world tilt sideways. Oh, this was bad.

Very, very bad.

Callahan, completely oblivious to the internal crisis he had just triggered, pressed on with the determination of someone walking straight off a cliff. "I just—I don't know. She's incredible. Smart, sharp, kind of terrifying but, like, in a hot way? Not that you need me to tell you that, obviously, you know her better than I do. Which is why I was hoping you'd, uh, help me out here."

Casey's mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again, performing an impressive impression of a fish out of water. "Help you out?" she repeated, her voice hitting a pitch she hadn't reached since high school choir.

He nodded, eyes bright with hope. "You think she'd go for a guy like me?"

Casey, who had built her career on her ability to think quickly under pressure, who had stared down serial killers and sociopaths without breaking a sweat, who had once delivered an entire closing argument with a sprained ankle and didn't miss a beat, suddenly found herself completely incapable of forming a coherent sentence.

Because here she was, sitting at her desk on a Tuesday morning, being asked for dating advice about her girlfriend by a man who had no idea he was essentially asking for tips on how to seduce someone who was very much taken.

By her.

The irony was almost poetic.

Swallowing hard, she forced what she hoped was a professional smile but probably looked more like a grimace. "Listen, Callahan, if you're interested in Alex, maybe you should ask her yourself." The words tasted like betrayal in her mouth, but what else could she say?

Callahan's face fell slightly. "Yeah, but I don't want to come on too strong. I figured you might have, like, some insight? Maybe you could, I don't know..." He leaned in closer, lowering his voice further, "put in a good word?"

Casey let out a sound that could only be described as a strangled cough, drawing curious glances from nearby desks. Her mind raced through possible responses, each more absurd than the last. She could tell him the truth—but no, they'd agreed to keep their relationship private, at least for now. She could make up some reason why he shouldn't pursue Alex—but that felt dishonest, and besides, what reason could she give that wouldn't raise more questions?

"I—uh—I'm not really—"

"Just a little nudge," he pressed, his enthusiasm growing in inverse proportion to her comfort level. "Like, what does she like? Coffee? Flowers? Should I be, you know, mysterious and aloof? Or direct? I've been reading this dating advice blog, and it says women like confidence, but also vulnerability, but also strength, but also sensitivity..." He trailed off, looking at her expectantly.

Casey stared at him, her brain screaming in at least three different languages. This was like watching a train wreck in slow motion, except she wasn't just watching—she was somehow both the conductor and the person tied to the tracks.

And yet, instead of shutting it down, instead of making an excuse and escaping with what little dignity she had left, she found herself muttering, "She likes espresso. No sugar."

The moment the words left her mouth, she knew she'd made a terrible mistake. Callahan's face lit up like Times Square at Christmas.

"See? That's helpful! Anything else?"

Casey internally cursed herself in all the languages she knew, and a few she didn't.

Two days later, Casey was seriously reconsidering her career choices. Maybe she should've become a tax attorney. Or a librarian. Or literally anything that wouldn't have led to her current predicament, watching her girlfriend's unwitting suitor execute what had to be the most painfully earnest courtship attempt in NYPD history.

The precinct had become a stage for Callahan's increasingly elaborate gestures. Every time Alex entered the building—her sharp heels clicking against the floor, her presence commanding attention without effort—there he was, materializing like a well-meaning ghost with perfectly timed offerings.

"Just happened to grab an extra espresso," he'd say, placing the steaming cup on her desk with the careful precision of someone handling evidence. The coffee was always from that expensive place three blocks over, the one with the pretentious baristas and lines out the door. Casey knew for a fact he'd started getting there twenty minutes early just to beat the morning rush.

Alex, for her part, had progressed through a fascinating spectrum of reactions. At first, it was just a slightly quirked eyebrow, the barest hint of confusion crossing her otherwise composed features. Then came the studying—those piercing blue eyes narrowing slightly whenever Callahan appeared, like she was processing evidence in a particularly puzzling case.

The coffee was just the beginning. Suddenly, Callahan was everywhere. Holding doors open with an eager "After you, Counselor." Casually mentioning cases he knew she'd won—"That Martinez cross-examination? Legendary stuff." He'd even started wearing better suits, though his ties remained perpetually crooked in a way that made Casey's fingers itch to fix them.

And then there was the day he'd watched Alex verbally demolish defense attorney Trevor Langan in court. Casey had been there too, ostensibly to observe the trial, but really because Alex in court was a sight to behold. The way she moved, the precise timing of her questions, the subtle shift in her voice when she went in for the kill—it was like watching a master artist at work.

Callahan had been sitting next to Casey, presumably there to learn trial techniques. But halfway through Alex's cross-examination, Casey heard him whisper, "Holy shit," with the kind of reverence usually reserved for religious experiences.

After court, he'd caught up with Alex in the hallway. "That was incredible," he'd gushed. "The way you cornered him on the timeline inconsistencies? And then that thing with the phone records? Pure genius."

Alex had paused, tilted her head slightly, and given Casey a look that clearly said, 'We need to talk.'

Because that's when it clicked. The coffee. The compliments. The way Callahan's eyes followed Alex around the precinct like a lovesick puppy. And most damningly, the fact that he seemed to know exactly how Alex liked her coffee.

There was only one person who could have told him that.

The look Alex gave Casey in that moment promised a conversation that would be neither brief nor comfortable.

"You are going to explain to me," Alex said later that day, her voice carrying that dangerous calm that made hardened criminals confess on the stand, "why my girlfriend is helping a man flirt with me."

They were in Alex's office, where the late afternoon sun slanted through the blinds, casting striped shadows across the polished desk. The door had clicked shut with a finality that made Casey's stomach drop.

Casey, perched against the desk, tried for casual. "Okay, first of all, not my fault."

Alex arched an eyebrow, a gesture that could have been patented for its ability to convey volumes of skepticism without a single word.

"No?"

Casey groaned, running a hand through her hair. "He asked me if you were single! What was I supposed to say?"

Alex folded her arms, her blazer—charcoal grey today, impeccably tailored—shifting with the movement. "You could have said 'no.' That's generally how people answer that question when they are, in fact, not single."

The sarcasm in her voice could have stripped paint.

Casey flinched. "Okay, yeah, fair, but he caught me off guard, and I didn't want to, you know..." She gestured vaguely. "Out us."

Alex inhaled deeply, pinching the bridge of her nose—a rare display of exasperation from someone who usually maintained perfect composure. "And your next brilliant move was... what? Coaching him?"

"I didn't coach him," Casey protested, though her voice lacked conviction. "I just—he wouldn't drop it, and I panicked, and now he's bringing you coffee, and—" She threw up her hands in surrender. "Look, I didn't think it would work!"

Alex let out a laugh that held absolutely no humor. "Well, it did. And now I have a detective attempting to woo me with caffeine and admiration for my cross-examinations." She stepped closer, her heels silent on the carpeted floor. "Do you have any idea how difficult it is to maintain professional authority when someone looks at you like you've hung the moon every time you object to hearsay?"

Casey winced. "... He did say that thing about the Martinez case, huh?"

Alex leveled her with a look that could have melted steel. "Yes. He did. In fact, he's apparently been studying my old cases. This morning, he quoted my closing argument from the Wilson trial. Word for word."

A beat of silence filled the office.

Then, Alex took another step forward. Then another. Her movements were deliberate, predatory, like a cat cornering its prey. Casey found herself pressing back against the desk, suddenly very aware of how the temperature in the room seemed to have risen several degrees.

"So, tell me," Alex murmured, close enough now that Casey could smell her perfume—something expensive and subtle that made coherent thought increasingly difficult. "How exactly were you planning to resolve this, Counselor?"

The way Alex said 'Counselor' should have been illegal in at least three states.

Casey cleared her throat, aiming for nonchalance and missing by a mile. "I figured eventually he'd... move on?"

Alex's lips curved into something that was not quite a smile but promised all sorts of interesting consequences. "Mm. I have a better idea."

Before Casey could process what was happening, Alex's hand had slid to the back of her neck, fingers threading through her hair, pulling her in for a kiss that was definitely not appropriate for office hours. It was slow, deliberate, thorough—the kind of kiss that made Casey forget every legal precedent she'd ever memorized.

When Alex finally pulled back, Casey's brain had officially gone offline. Her lips tingled, and she was pretty sure she'd forgotten how to form sentences in English.

"I—" Casey started, then promptly lost whatever she was going to say when she caught the look in Alex's eyes.

Alex smirked, looking entirely too pleased with herself. "Let's see if Callahan still has questions after that."

And with that, Alex turned and opened the office door.

Straight into what appeared to be half the SVU squad.

Olivia, Fin, and Elliot stood there, wearing expressions that ranged from surprised (Olivia) to amused (Fin) to mildly uncomfortable but supportive (Elliot).

Olivia blinked. "Oh."

Fin's grin could have powered half of Manhattan. "Damn. Thought you two were just bad at flirting. Turns out you were just sneaky."

Elliot shook his head, though there was a hint of a smile playing at his lips. "Honestly? We should've seen it coming. Nobody spends that much time 'reviewing case files' after hours."

And because the universe wasn't done with them yet, Callahan chose that exact moment to walk by. He stopped, coffee cup in hand—probably another perfectly prepared espresso—and took in the scene. His eyes moved from Alex's slightly smudged lipstick to Casey's thoroughly kissed expression, and understanding dawned on his face with almost audible clarity.

"Well," he muttered, "that explains... a lot." He paused, then added with a weak laugh, "Like why you knew her coffee order."

Casey groaned, burying her face in her hands. Alex, somehow still maintaining her composure despite everything, simply adjusted her blazer with precise movements.

"Well," Olivia drawled, her grin growing wider by the second, "this is fun."

"I hate all of you," Casey mumbled through her fingers.

Alex, fighting what looked suspiciously like genuine amusement, reached over and laced their fingers together.

"Too late now, darling," she murmured, squeezing Casey's hand. "Might as well own it."

And as Casey looked at the team's smug, knowing faces—Olivia's warmth, Fin's mischief, Elliot's awkward acceptance, and even Callahan's embarrassed but genuine smile—she realized there was no winning this.

But maybe, she thought as Alex's thumb traced small circles on her hand, winning wasn't the point.

At least she had Alex.

And really good espresso.

Two weeks later, Callahan left a peace offering on both their desks: gift cards to that expensive coffee place he'd been frequenting. The note attached read: "Sorry for the awkward. But in my defense, your girlfriend is terrifying in court. - RC"

Alex kept the note pinned to her bulletin board, right next to the conviction record that had so impressed him.

And if anyone noticed that Casey started wearing her ties a little crooked, or that Alex's lipstick needed touching up more often after their "case review meetings," well...

Some things were better left unsaid.

Even in a building full of detectives.

[rmytears]

why is it so hot here

[rmytears]

The Art of Planning (and How Love Ruins It). calex one shot.

SUMMARY: In which Alex overthinks gifts, Casey burns dinner, and love happens anyway.

Alex Cabot had built her career on being three steps ahead. In the courtroom, her reputation for meticulous preparation was legendary – defense attorneys visibly deflated when they saw her striding in, armed with perfectly organized files and arguments sharp enough to slice through even the most carefully constructed alibis. Her colleagues joked that she probably planned her grocery shopping with the same tactical precision she applied to cross-examinations.

They weren't entirely wrong.

But now, on a grey February afternoon that couldn't seem to decide between rain and snow, Manhattan's most formidable ADA sat in her corner office on the tenth floor, surrounded by the fruits of what could only be described as a gift-buying panic spiral.

The evidence of her unraveling was spread across her usually pristine desk: six presents – no, seven, if you counted the small box of artisanal chocolates she'd impulse-bought on her lunch break. Each item had seemed perfect in isolation, chosen with the kind of thoughtful consideration that spoke of hours spent analyzing casual conversations, filing away small details, noting the way Casey's eyes would linger on certain things in store windows during their weekend walks.

A leather-bound journal, smooth and elegant, because Casey once mentioned during a late-night conversation over take out and case files that she preferred writing things down by hand rather than typing them into her phone. "There's something about pen on paper," she'd said, absently twirling lo mein around her fork. "Like you're really connecting with your thoughts."

Next to it sat the first-edition copy of To Kill a Mockingbird, sourced from a rare bookstore in the Village that Alex had visited four times before committing to the purchase. She'd watched Casey's face light up whenever she referenced the book, had seen the worn paperback copy on her office shelf, its spine cracked from countless readings.

The cashmere throw blanket was folded into a perfect square, its soft grey material catching the winter light. That one had been easy – Casey was always stealing Alex's blanket during their movie nights, wrapping herself in it like a cocoon and claiming squatter's rights with a grin that made argument impossible. An adorable but exasperating habit.

A silver necklace, understated yet sophisticated, something that would look effortlessly perfect against the curve of Casey’s collarbone. Alex had spent an entire Saturday afternoon in Tiffany's, driving the sales associate slightly mad with her determination to find something that would suit Casey's understated style. Nothing flashy enough to draw attention in court, but beautiful enough to make her eyes sparkle when she caught her reflection.

The bottle of small-batch bourbon stood sentinel among the softer gifts, its amber contents promising warmth. Alex was ninety percent certain it was Casey's preferred brand – she'd seen her order it once at Forlini's after a particularly brutal case, but now doubt crept in. What if she'd remembered wrong?

And then there was the plush golden retriever, sitting there like a furry manifestation of Alex's complete loss of perspective. She blamed that one on the late-night conversation they'd had months ago, when Casey had joked about wanting a dog. It had been an offhand comment, something small, something inconsequential. And yet, somehow that had translated into Alex buying a stuffed animal like they were teenagers exchanging Valentine's gifts in high school.

But now? Now she was sitting here, staring at this ridiculous assortment of gifts, and none of it felt like the gift. The one that would say what she wanted it to say, what she hadn't quite figured out how to put into words yet.

She ran both hands through her hair, disheveling the perfect blonde waves she'd spent twenty minutes styling that morning. "What am I doing?"

Because Valentine’s Day was tonight, and for the first time in her life, Alex had no plan

The question hung in the air, unanswered. The gifts stared back at her, each one suddenly seeming inadequate, too much, or completely wrong for their first Valentine's Day together.

Their first Valentine's Day.

The thought sent another wave of anxiety through her chest. Because this wasn't just about gifts – this was about what they meant. About the way Casey had slowly but surely dismantled every careful wall Alex had built around her heart, not with battering rams or siege engines, but with crooked smiles and terrible puns and a kindness that seemed as natural as breathing.

She was so lost in her spiral of overthinking that the knock on her office door barely registered before it swung open.

"Alex—"

She jumped, her head snapping up to find Olivia Benson standing in her doorway, dark eyes taking in the gift shop display with growing amusement.

The silence stretched for one beat, two.

Then—

"Wow." Olivia's eyebrow arched with the precision of a master interrogator. "Are you—are you starting a side business I should know about?"

Alex let her head fall forward with a groan. "Go away."

"Let me guess," Olivia continued, ignoring the dismissal as she stepped fully into the office, closing the door behind her. "You have no idea what to give Casey?"

Alex straightened, crossing her arms. "I do have an idea. Several, actually."

Olivia gestured toward the overwhelming collection. "Clearly."

"It has to be perfect," Alex insisted, the words carrying more weight than she'd intended.

Olivia snorted, stepping further inside. "Alex, it’s Valentine’s Day, not a Supreme Court case."

"You don’t understand," Alex muttered, leaning back in her chair. "It has to be the gift. The one that shows her how much I—" She cut herself off, pressing her lips together.

Olivia’s smirk softened into something more knowing.

"Oh," she said, voice lighter. "I see what this is about."

Alex looked away, fixing her gaze on the bourbon bottle as if it held the answers.

"You know she's going to love whatever you give her, right? The woman looks at you like you hung the moon."

Alex sighed, removing her glasses to rub at her temples. "It doesn't feel right yet. None of it feels... enough."

"You do realize," Olivia said, perching on the edge of Alex's desk with familiar ease, "that Casey is probably driving herself just as crazy right now?"

Alex scoffed. "Casey? Freaking out? Olivia, she's the most laid-back person I've ever met. She wore Converse to court last week."

"Those were her backup shoes and you know it," Olivia countered. "Her heel broke on the courthouse steps. But trust me," her grin turned knowing, "when it comes to you? That woman is anything but laid-back."

Meanwhile, across town...

Casey Novak was indeed proving Olivia's point by pacing the length of her apartment, stress-eating her way through a heart-shaped box of chocolates that she'd bought for Alex but opened in a moment of weakness.

"I'm screwed," she announced to her audience of one, running her free hand through already-disheveled red hair. "Completely and utterly screwed."

John Munch, resident conspiracy theorist and unlikely relationship counselor, watched her from his spot on her worn leather couch. He'd shown up twenty minutes ago with case files that could have easily waited until tomorrow, fooling exactly no one about his real reasons for visiting.

"This is wildly entertaining," he commented, helping himself to one of the rapidly diminishing chocolates. "Like watching a rom-com in real time, but with more pacing and fewer musical montages."

"Munch," Casey groaned, flopping onto the couch beside him. "I had everything planned. The perfect reservation at that little Italian place she loves – the one where the owner still makes everything from his grandmother's recipes. And now? Now I have nothing. The pipe burst in their kitchen this morning, they're closed for at least a week, and every other decent restaurant in Manhattan has been booked solid for months."

"You could always cook something," Munch suggested, examining a chocolate before popping it into his mouth.

Casey turned to stare at him, green eyes wide with horror. "Have you met me? I burned instant ramen last week. Instant. Ramen."

"Ah," Munch nodded sagely. "Fair point."

Casey slumped further into the couch, staring at her ceiling as if it might offer solutions. "What do you get someone who color-codes their legal briefs and probably has a spreadsheet for organizing her sock drawer?"

"Something she doesn't know she wants yet," Munch offered, his voice carrying the kind of wisdom that came from decades of observing human nature – and several failed marriages of his own.

Casey sat up slowly, something shifting in her expression. "That's... actually helpful."

"Don't sound so surprised," Munch smirked. "I have my moments."

The ceiling fan spun lazily above them, stirring the winter-cold air. Casey's apartment was smaller than Alex's, cozier, with mismatched furniture and law books stacked on every available surface. Photos covered one wall – her family, her softball team, candid shots of the squad at various gatherings. And there, right in the center, a picture from the summer: Alex laughing at something off-camera, the setting sun turning her hair to gold, her guard completely down in a way few people ever got to see.

Casey's eyes fixed on that photo, and something settled in her chest. "Right," she said, standing up with sudden determination. "I need to go shopping."

Munch raised an eyebrow. "Now? It's almost five."

"Exactly," Casey grabbed her coat. "I have two hours before I'm supposed to be at Alex's. Plenty of time."

"For what?"

Casey grinned, an idea taking shape. "Something she doesn't know she wants yet."

By the time they met at Alex’s apartment, both of them were still very convinced they had somehow managed to ruin Valentine’s Day.

Alex's apartment occupied the corner of a pre-war building in the West Village, all high ceilings and hardwood floors and windows that caught the last rays of sunset. Usually, the space felt like a reflection of its owner – elegant, organized, everything in its proper place. But tonight, the familiar rooms held a different energy, charged with anticipation and the faint scent of... something burning.

Alex had eventually settled on giving Casey the book—plus the necklace, because she couldn’t decide—and Casey, in a moment of pure panic, had decided to cook.

As soon as Alex stepped into her apartment, an unusual noise pulled her toward the kitchen. The sight that met her stopped her cold.

Her immaculate kitchen – where she usually prepared nothing more complicated than coffee – had been transformed into what looked like the aftermath of a culinary war zone. Flour dusted the granite countertops like fresh snow. A pot of something that might have once been pasta sat abandoned in the sink. And in the middle of it all stood Casey Novak, wearing jeans and Alex's borrowed apron, staring at a slightly charred attempt at... something... with the same expression she usually reserved for particularly challenging cross-examinations.

"Casey?"

Casey jumped, nearly dropping the wooden spoon she was clutching like a lifeline. "Alex! Hi! You're early!"

Alex glanced at the antique wall clock – a gift from her grandmother – that hung between her windows. "It's seven."

"Exactly!" Casey nodded with the kind of desperate enthusiasm that suggested she was clinging to the last threads of a plan rapidly unraveling. "Early!"

Alex bit back a smile, taking in the complete picture: Casey's hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, a smudge of flour decorated her left cheek, and she had somehow managed to get tomato sauce on her forehead. She looked absolutely nothing like the polished ADA who could reduce defense attorneys to stammering messes, and absolutely everything like someone Alex wanted to kiss senseless.

"Casey," she said softly, stepping into the disaster zone that was her kitchen.

Casey's shoulders slumped. She ran a flour-dusted hand through her hair, adding to the general chaos. "Okay, so I had this really amazing dinner planned at Vincenzo's – you know, that little place where you always get the linguine with clams? But then their kitchen flooded, which, by the way, is definitely a conspiracy because who has a pipe burst on Valentine's Day? So I thought – how hard can cooking be? People do it every day. Children do it. I have multiple degrees. I once got a conviction with nothing but circumstantial evidence and a half-decent witness."

She gestured at the pot in the sink. "Turns out? Very hard. Cooking is very hard. And pasta is apparently a lot more complicated than 'boil water, add noodles.' Who knew?"

Alex stepped closer, examining the remnants of what appeared to be an attempt at marinara sauce. "You cooked for me?"

"Attempted to cook," Casey corrected, her voice carrying that particular mix of frustration and self-deprecating humor that Alex had fallen in love with months ago, even if she hadn't admitted it to herself at the time. "What you're looking at is less 'cooking' and more 'crime against Italian cuisine.'"

Alex's heart did something complicated in her chest. Because this was Casey – brilliant, passionate Casey who could argue constitutional law for hours but couldn't make coffee without detailed instructions – standing in her kitchen on Valentine's Day, having tried to cook dinner just because she knew Alex loved Italian food.

She reached out, brushing the flour from Casey's cheek with gentle fingers. "I love it."

Casey groaned. "You haven't even tasted it yet. Which, by the way, you're not going to, because I refuse to be responsible for giving you food poisoning on Valentine's Day."

Alex smirked. "Doesn't matter."

"You're just saying that because you brought me a present," Casey narrowed her eyes suspiciously, "and now you feel bad that I ruined dinner."

Alex hesitated, thinking of the collection of gifts she'd finally narrowed down to two. "...maybe."

Casey sighed dramatically, but her eyes were sparkling. "Fine. Let's see it. But first—" She reached for a dishtowel, attempting to clean some of the flour off her hands. "I should probably try to look less like I got into a fight with a bag of flour."

"I don't know," Alex mused, "I think it's a good look on you. Very... domestic."

Casey snorted. "Yeah, that's me. Domestic goddess." She gave up on the flour and turned to face Alex fully. "Okay, hit me with it. What perfectly thoughtful, absolutely perfect gift did Alexandra Cabot choose?"

Alex's confidence wavered slightly as she retrieved the carefully wrapped packages from where she'd left them in the living room. What if she'd overthought this? What if—

No. She was Alexandra Cabot. She did not second-guess herself.

(Except, apparently, when it came to Casey Novak.)

She handed over the first box, wrapped in simple silver paper. "This one first."

Casey took it carefully, as if it might explode. Her fingers traced the edges before finding the seam and unwrapping it with surprising delicacy for someone who usually attacked packaging like it had personally offended her.

The book's leather binding caught the light as she lifted it from its wrapping. Casey's breath caught audibly as she read the title, fingers hovering over the gilt lettering as if afraid to touch it.

"Alex..." Her voice was barely a whisper. "This is... is this..."

"First edition," Alex confirmed softly. "I remembered you saying it was your favorite."

Casey swallowed hard, still staring at the book. "My dad used to read it to me. Every summer when we visited my grandparents in Georgia. He'd do all the voices..." She trailed off, blinking rapidly.

"And this," Alex added quickly, not wanting Casey to cry (because if Casey cried, she would cry, and she'd spent far too long on her makeup for that), holding out the second box.

Casey opened it with slightly shaky hands, revealing the delicate silver necklace nestled against black velvet. A small pendant caught the light – a simple design that somehow managed to be both classic and modern, exactly like the woman it was meant for.

She stared at it for a long moment, then looked up at Alex with an expression that made Alex's heart skip several beats.

"Okay," Casey whispered, "now I feel worse about the pasta."

Alex laughed softly. "Don't. I love my gift."

"I burned pasta."

"You tried."

"And failed. Spectacularly."

"And I still love you."

The words fell into the space between them like stones into still water, ripples of meaning expanding outward. Alex felt her breath catch as she realized what she'd said – what she'd been feeling for months but hadn't dared to voice.

Casey went very still, her eyes wide and startlingly green in the kitchen's warm light.

Because they hadn't said that yet. Hadn't put words to this thing that had grown between them, starting with late-night strategy sessions over Chinese food and growing into something that made Alex's carefully ordered world tilt on its axis in the best possible way.

But now that the words were out there, Alex knew with absolute certainty that they were true. She loved Casey Novak, with her terrible puns and her passion for justice and her complete inability to cook pasta. She loved her in a way that made all her careful plans and strategies irrelevant, in a way that scared her and thrilled her in equal measure.

Casey's smile bloomed slowly, like sunrise breaking over the city. "You love me?" she whispered, and there was wonder in her voice, as if she couldn't quite believe it.

Alex exhaled, her fingers finding Casey's cheek again, thumb brushing over that stubborn smudge of flour. "Yeah," she said simply. "I do."

Casey swallowed, then whispered back, "I love you too." A pause, then: "Even though you're definitely going to hold this pasta thing over my head forever."

Alex laughed, soft and real. "Only until you learn to cook."

"So, forever then."

And then Alex kissed her, tasting flour and chocolate and something that might have been marinara sauce. Casey's hands came up to tangle in her hair, probably getting flour everywhere, but Alex couldn't bring herself to care.

Because this – this moment in her disaster of a kitchen, with the smell of burnt pasta in the air and Casey's heartbeat under her palms – this was perfect.

Later, they ordered takeout from the Thai place around the corner. They ate on Alex's couch, Casey wearing Alex's necklace and reading aloud from her new book, doing all the voices just like her father used to. The pasta pot sat soaking in the sink, a reminder that sometimes the best gifts aren't the ones we plan, but the ones that come from trying and failing and loving anyway.

And that made it the best Valentine's Day either of them had ever had.

Burnt pasta and all.

[rmytears]

EVERY PART OF YOU. calex one shot.

summary: In which Casey struggles with insecurities about her appearance due to a new neighbor's attention on her girlfriend Alex.

It started with the new neighbor.

She moved into the building a few weeks ago—someone young, effortlessly gorgeous, and very comfortable with attention. Casey had noticed her immediately, but more importantly, she had noticed how the woman noticed Alex.

Tall, blonde, striking in the kind of way that made heads turn, Alex had always stood out. It was something Casey had accepted, even loved. Alex commanded a room without even trying. She was poised, elegant, untouchable.

And now, she had an admirer.

The woman—Jessica? Jenna?—was anything but subtle.

She seemed to appear whenever Alex was around, all lingering glances and flirtatious smiles.

And the worst part?

Alex hadn’t noticed at all.

She was oblivious to the way the neighbor leaned just a little too close in the elevator, how she touched Alex’s arm when they passed in the hallway, how she laughed a little too loudly at things Alex said.

But Casey?

She noticed everything.

And with every encounter, an unsettling feeling curled in Casey’s chest—a quiet, creeping insecurity she hadn’t felt in a long time.

It started small, though.

A glance in the mirror.

A fleeting thought.

Then another.

And another.

She had gained weight. Not much, just enough to notice. Enough that her jeans fit a little tighter, enough that her usual blouses didn’t fall quite the same way.

It wasn’t that she thought she was unattractive—or at least, she hadn’t before.

But then there was her.

The neighbor.

Slim. Beautiful. Confident.

The kind of woman who probably never worried about things like this.

And suddenly, Casey found herself comparing.

Did Alex notice?

Had she noticed and just not said anything?

The thought made something in her chest ache.

So she did what she always did when she felt something too deeply.

She distanced herself.

At first, Alex didn’t think much of it.

Casey had been busy, that was all.

Late nights at the office. Skipping their usual morning coffee together. A quick kiss on the cheek instead of their normal, lingering ones before bed.

But by the end of the week, Alex knew something was wrong.

She walked into the kitchen one morning to find Casey standing by the counter, staring at her untouched coffee.

"You're up early," Alex said, pouring herself a cup.

Casey barely looked up. "Yeah."

Alex frowned. Something was off.

She leaned against the counter, studying Casey closely. "Everything okay?"

Casey nodded—too quickly.

"Just tired," she added, offering a small smile.

It wasn’t a lie exactly.

But it wasn’t the truth, either.

And Alex knew Casey too well to miss that.

That night, Alex walked into the bedroom to find Casey standing in front of the mirror.

She was wearing just a pair of shorts and a tank top, fingers tracing the soft curve of her stomach, her brows furrowed.

She looked sad.

And that—more than anything—made Alex’s heart clench.

"Case?"

Casey jumped, eyes flicking to Alex through the mirror.

Alex tilted her head, stepping closer. "What’s going on?"

"Nothing," Casey said too quickly, grabbing a sweater from the bed and pulling it over her head.

Alex’s stomach dropped.

She had seen Casey bare, vulnerable, unguarded in every way possible. They had spent years learning every inch of each other, every scar, every freckle.

And now?

Now Casey was hiding from her.

Alex’s voice softened. "Casey, talk to me."

Casey sighed, rubbing her hands over her face. "It's stupid."

Alex didn’t budge. "Try me."

A long pause.

Then, finally, in a small, broken voice—

"I just… I don’t look the same."

Alex stilled.

Casey let out a weak laugh, but there was no humor in it. "I've gained weight, Alex. And I know it’s not a big deal, but—”

"But what?" Alex stepped closer. "What made you think I’d care about that?"

Casey hesitated. Then, quietly—

“The new neighbor.”

Alex blinked. "What about her?"

Casey exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "She’s beautiful, Alex. And she flirts with you constantly. And you—”

Alex’s heart broke.

She reached for Casey, hands sliding gently up her arms. "Sweetheart."

Casey didn’t move away, but she wouldn’t meet Alex’s eyes either.

"You really think I’d want her?" Alex’s voice was softer now, full of something raw. "That I’d look at anyone else when I have you?"

Casey swallowed. "I just... I don’t look the way I used to."

Alex let out a breath, then—without hesitation—dropped to her knees.

Casey’s eyes widened. "Alex, what are you—?"

Alex pressed a slow, lingering kiss to Casey’s stomach.

Then another.

Then another.

Every soft curve, every place Casey had doubted, Alex kissed.

"You think I don't want you?" Alex murmured against her skin. "Baby, I have never wanted anything more in my life."

Casey’s breath hitched.

Alex’s hands skimmed lower, fingers pressing lightly into Casey’s hips.

"Every inch of you is mine," Alex whispered, reverent. "Every single inch, Casey."

Casey shivered, hands instinctively tangling in Alex’s hair.

"You don’t need to change," Alex said, pressing another kiss to her hip. "Not for me. Not for anyone."

Casey let out a shaky exhale.

"Alex..."

Alex looked up, eyes fierce. "You are perfect, Casey. You always have been. Let me show you, my love. Let me show you how much I love you"

And finally, finally, Casey let herself believe it.

Later, as they lay tangled in bed, Alex traced lazy patterns on Casey’s back.

"Just to be clear," Alex murmured, voice heavy with love, "the neighbor could throw herself at me naked, and I still wouldn’t look twice."

Casey laughed softly, nestling closer. "Promise?"

Alex tilted her chin up, meeting her gaze.

She kissed her slowly, deeply, like a vow.

"Promise."

And with that, Casey finally let go of every doubt she had ever held.

Because in Alex’s arms, she was home.

[rmytears]

olga carmona has such a punchable fucking face

[rmytears]

THE GREAT BAKE-OFF DEBACLE. calex one shot.

pairing: Alex Cabot x Casey Novak

summary: In which Alex and Casey engage in a hilariously competitive bake-off, dragging the SVU team into their chaotic quest for dessert supremacy.

The courtroom was no stranger to tension, but today’s atmosphere was different. It wasn’t a high-stakes trial or a contentious deposition—it was something far more serious.

A bake-off.

Alex Cabot adjusted her glasses, glancing over the rim at Casey Novak, who stood on the other side of the SVU precinct’s communal kitchen. Casey was armed with a whisk in one hand and a determined gleam in her eye, looking as though she was preparing for a closing argument instead of baking a cake.

“You know, Casey,” Alex began, her tone light but edged with competitive energy, “you didn’t have to challenge me to this. I could have just let you bask in the delusion that you’re the better cook.”

Casey smirked, flicking a strand of auburn hair out of her face. “Oh, I’m not delusional, Alex. I just know I’m better. The team deserves to see you finally admit defeat.”

Behind them, the SVU squad—Olivia Benson, Elliot Stabler, Fin Tutuola, and John Munch—sat at the long table, munching on donuts and enjoying the rare entertainment.

“This is the best idea we’ve ever had,” Fin whispered to Olivia, who nodded, trying to suppress a grin.

“Better than karaoke night,” Munch added. “Though I still maintain my rendition of ‘My Way’ was unparalleled.”

“Focus, people,” Olivia said, though her eyes sparkled with amusement. “We’re here to judge fairly. No playing favorites.”

Elliot leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “I’m just here for the food.”

The kitchen itself was a chaotic battlefield. Flour dusted the countertops, and the air was thick with the smell of vanilla, chocolate, and a faint hint of burnt sugar—courtesy of Casey’s first attempt at caramelizing something.

“Is that supposed to look like that?” Alex asked, peering at Casey’s mixing bowl with a raised eyebrow.

“It’s called creativity,” Casey shot back, though she subtly adjusted the mixer speed. “Something you wouldn’t understand, Miss By-The-Book.”

Alex laughed, a melodic sound that made Fin nudge Elliot. “You owe me twenty bucks if they end up together after this.”

“They’re already together,” Elliot replied, rolling his eyes. “This is just foreplay.”

Olivia coughed loudly. “Focus!”

Alex, oblivious to the commentary, was meticulously measuring out ingredients for her signature lemon tart. Every movement was precise, every step deliberate. She exuded an aura of control that only slightly faltered when Casey accidentally bumped her elbow, sending a puff of powdered sugar into the air.

“Casey!” Alex exclaimed, stepping back and glaring at the white streak on her black blouse.

“Oh, lighten up,” Casey teased, though her cheeks flushed. “You look festive.”

“You’re going to pay for that.”

“What are you going to do? Sue me?”

Alex’s lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile. “No. I’m going to win.”

The tension in the room escalated as the timer ticked down. Alex’s tart was cooling on a wire rack, its golden crust and glossy lemon filling gleaming under the fluorescent lights. Casey, meanwhile, was furiously decorating a three-layer chocolate cake with an uneven swirl of frosting.

“Five minutes!” Olivia called, enjoying her role as the impartial timekeeper.

“Plenty of time,” Alex said, carefully arranging candied lemon slices on her tart.

“Not enough time,” Casey muttered, smearing frosting on the side of the cake and trying to make it look intentional.

“You’re sweating,” Alex observed, her tone almost sympathetic. “Are you nervous?”

“Not at all,” Casey replied, though she wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. “Just focused.”

“Uh-huh.”

Finally, the timer buzzed, and Olivia clapped her hands. “Time’s up! Step away from the desserts.”

Alex and Casey both set down their tools, stepping back to admire their creations. Alex’s tart was pristine, a picture of elegance and sophistication. Casey’s cake, though slightly lopsided, had a charming, homemade appeal.

“Okay, judges,” Olivia said, gesturing to the table. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”

The squad took their roles seriously, sampling each dessert with exaggerated deliberation. Munch insisted on taking detailed notes, though no one could decipher his handwriting. Fin declared himself the “official frosting inspector,” while Elliot focused on the texture of the tart crust.

“This is incredible,” Olivia said, savoring a bite of Alex’s tart. “It’s tangy, sweet, and the crust is perfect.”

“Of course it is,” Alex said, folding her arms and smirking at Casey. “I told you.”

Casey rolled her eyes but grinned. “Try the cake, Benson. You’ll change your tune.”

Olivia obliged, cutting into the cake and taking a bite. Her eyes widened. “Wow. This is—”

“Delicious,” Fin finished, reaching for another slice. “You might be onto something, Novak.”

Alex frowned, leaning closer to inspect the cake. “What did you put in the frosting?”

“Secret ingredient,” Casey said smugly. “You’ll never guess.”

“It’s bourbon,” Munch said, sniffing the frosting. “Good choice.”

Alex’s jaw dropped. “You spiked your frosting?”

“It’s called innovation,” Casey replied, her tone innocent.

The debate raged on for nearly half an hour, with the squad divided over which dessert deserved the title of “Best Bake.” In the end, Olivia called for a tie, much to Alex and Casey’s mutual dismay.

“This isn’t over,” Alex said as they cleaned up the kitchen.

“Agreed,” Casey replied, nudging Alex with her shoulder. “But admit it—you had fun.”

Alex sighed, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Maybe a little.”

“See? That wasn’t so hard.”

As the squad filed out, leaving the two attorneys alone in the kitchen, Alex turned to Casey with a mischievous glint in her eye. “Next time, we’re doing something I’m guaranteed to win.”

“Oh yeah? Like what?”

“Trivia.”

Casey groaned. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you love it.”

Casey laughed, leaning in to kiss Alex on the cheek. “Yeah, I do.”

From the hallway, Fin’s voice echoed back. “Pay up, Stabler!”

[rmytears]

In honor of National Hugging Day ♡

[rmytears]

UNSHAKABLE. calex one shot.

summary: in which alex makes a new friend, madison, causing casey to feel insecure, but olivia is calex stan.

Casey Novak was no stranger to insecurity, but this was something new. Across the room, Alex was laughing. That wasn’t unusual; Alex’s laugh was as warm and rare as sunlight breaking through storm clouds. But it wasn’t Casey who’d drawn it out this time—it was Madison. Madison King, with her designer wardrobe and razor-sharp wit, had arrived on the Manhattan legal scene like a hurricane, and now she seemed intent on making landfall right in Casey’s life.

“Alex, you have such a sharp mind. I don’t know how you keep all those facts straight in your head,” Madison was saying, leaning slightly toward Alex as if the two of them were the only people in the room. “Honestly, I’m in awe.”

Alex gave her a polite smile, the kind she reserved for strangers she hadn’t quite figured out yet. “It’s all about organization. And coffee,” Alex quipped. “Lots and lots of coffee.”

Casey’s stomach twisted. Madison’s laugh was too loud, too deliberate, like she wanted the entire bullpen to hear it. Casey bit the inside of her cheek and forced herself to look down at her notes. She had a closing argument to prepare, and she wasn’t about to let Madison’s theatrics derail her focus.

But then Madison’s voice cut through the air again, this time sharper. “I don’t know how you do it, Alex, especially with… well, some of the challenges you must face.” She glanced pointedly in Casey’s direction.

Casey froze, her pen hovering above the paper. She didn’t look up, but she could feel the weight of Madison’s words pressing down on her. What the hell was that supposed to mean?

Alex, to her credit, didn’t take the bait. “Challenges come with the territory,” she said smoothly. “But I’m lucky to have a great team.” Her eyes flicked briefly to Casey, but Madison shifted her body slightly, blocking the line of sight.

“Sure,” Madison said, her tone dripping with faux sympathy. “I mean, some people might not be cut out for the pressure, but you? You’re unshakable. It’s inspiring, really.”

Casey’s jaw tightened. She wanted to stand up, to say something—anything—but what could she say? That Madison was being passive-aggressive? That she was deliberately trying to make her look small? No one else seemed to notice, and Casey wasn’t about to be the paranoid girlfriend who made a scene.

Olivia Benson, however, was watching. From her desk across the room, the SVU detective’s sharp eyes flicked between Alex, Madison, and Casey. She leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, her expression unreadable.

---

Olivia had suggested the outing—well, more like insisted on it. “We could all use a break,” she’d said, her tone leaving no room for argument. “And besides, it’ll be fun. Madison should come too, right?”

Casey had wanted to say no, but Alex had agreed before she could object. Now they were all crammed into a booth at Forlini’s, the air thick with the scent of marinara and the low hum of conversation. Madison had taken the seat next to Alex, of course, leaving Casey wedged awkwardly at the far end of the booth.

“Alex, you have to tell me about that fraud case you worked on last year,” Madison was saying, her hand resting lightly on Alex’s arm. “I read about it in the Times. It was brilliant.”

Casey sipped her wine, trying to ignore the way Madison’s fingers lingered a little too long. Olivia caught her eye from across the table and raised an eyebrow. Casey gave a small shake of her head, silently pleading with her friend not to make a scene.

But Olivia wasn’t one to let things slide. “You know, Madison,” she said casually, leaning forward, “Casey worked on that case too. She was the one who found the key piece of evidence, wasn’t she, Alex?”

Alex blinked, her attention finally shifting away from Madison. “That’s right,” she said, her voice warm with pride. “Casey’s the one who connected the dots. The case would’ve fallen apart without her.”

Madison’s smile faltered for just a moment before she recovered. “Oh, of course. That must’ve been… rewarding for you, Casey.” Her tone was syrupy sweet, but the underlying condescension was unmistakable.

Casey forced a tight smile. “It was. Teamwork makes the dream work, right?”

Madison laughed, a little too loudly. “Absolutely. Though some of us are better at it than others.”

Olivia’s eyes narrowed. “You’re right about that,” she said coolly. “Some people really know how to support their team.”

Alex frowned, glancing between Olivia and Madison. “What’s going on here?” she asked, her voice tinged with confusion.

Olivia leaned back in her seat, her expression calm but pointed. “Nothing. Just making sure everyone’s on the same page.”

The evening wore on, and Alex began to notice things she hadn’t before. The way Madison’s compliments often came with a sharp edge. The way she interrupted Casey or dismissed her contributions. The way Casey’s shoulders tensed every time Madison spoke.

By the time the check arrived, Alex had had enough. She stood abruptly, pulling on her coat. “Casey, can I talk to you for a second?” she asked, her voice firm.

Casey looked startled but nodded, following Alex out onto the sidewalk. The cold January air bit at their skin, but Alex didn’t seem to notice. She turned to face Casey, her blue eyes filled with concern.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Alex asked, her voice low.

“About what?” Casey replied, crossing her arms against the chill. “Madison? It’s nothing. I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.”

“It’s not nothing,” Alex said, her tone fierce. “She’s been undermining you all night, and I didn’t see it until Olivia pointed it out. I’m sorry, sweetheart. I should’ve noticed sooner.”

Casey’s eyes softened. “It’s okay. I just… I didn’t want to seem insecure. She’s your friend, and I didn’t want to be that girlfriend.”

Alex stepped closer, her hands finding Casey’s. “You’re not ‘that girlfriend.’ You’re my girlfriend. And if someone’s making you uncomfortable, that’s a problem. Madison doesn’t get to talk to you like that.”

Casey looked down at their joined hands, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Thanks, Alex.”

Alex leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to Casey’s forehead. “No more Madison,” she murmured. “I promise.”

From the doorway of the bar, Olivia watched them with a satisfied smirk. “About time,” she muttered, turning back to the table where Madison sat alone, her expression sour. Olivia slid into the booth and raised her glass. “Looks like your plan didn’t work out, huh?”

Madison bristled, but Olivia just grinned. “Welcome to Manhattan, sweetheart. Better luck next time.”

[rmytears]

they were so in love

my babies<3