NOVAKCINNE @dereritualsyan - Tumblr Blog

I’m BEGGING for the new chapter of the Alex Cabot series. I literally check your profile EVERYDAY. I’ll do whatever you need🥲

𝑴𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒚 𝑰𝒔 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑨𝒏𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎 ~ Chapter Nine (Alex Cabot & Casey Novak x Fem Reader)

alex cabot & casey novak x fem reader

sorry for making you wait so long anon, here's your new chapter <3

word count: 6.7 lol

Alex is trying. You know she is. But as the campaign consumes your lives and old patterns begin to return, the things you’ve been avoiding become impossible to ignore.

Read on AO3

𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝑵𝒊𝒏𝒆 - 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑾𝒆𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝑯𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒕y

Casey’s standing there like she belongs exactly where she is. Like she didn’t interrupt anything, didn’t collide with a thought you were trying to keep under control. Just arrived, simple as that, and somehow the air around her feels still.

“You look like you’ve been personally insulted by cereal,” she says, glancing into your basket.

It catches you off guard. A laugh slips out before you can stop it.

“I have not.”

“Mhm.” She nods solemnly. “The cereal aisle would disagree.”

That does it. Something in your chest loosens in a way you don’t have to earn. Don’t have to explain.

You walk together.

No announcement, no transition. Just suddenly side by side in the fluorescent hum of the store, wheels of baskets whispering over tile.

It’s easier here. That’s the simplest way to put it. Not lighter exactly, but less tight around the edges.

Casey drifts into commentary almost immediately, like she’s narrating a life she’s mildly offended to be part of.

“You’re buying the saddest-looking bananas I’ve ever seen. That’s impressive.”

“They’re fine.”

“They’re plotting something.”

You snort. “Is this fruit theory now?”

“I stay informed.”

She reaches past you at one point to grab something off the shelf, entirely unnecessary because she could’ve just asked, but she leans in close enough that you feel the movement more than you see it.

“Also,” she adds, inspecting whatever she grabbed, “can I please help you with your terrible food choices?”

“I didn’t ask for help.”

“You don’t have to.” A pause. “It’s a public service at this point.”

There’s something in the ease of it that keeps catching you off guard. Not because it’s loud or bright, but because it doesn’t demand anything from you to continue existing in it.

No reading between lines. No careful deliberation.

Just Casey, lightly orbiting you like she’s decided you’re worth staying near. And the worst part is how safe that feels.

Because home has weight to it. Rules that don’t get spoken out loud but still press into everything you do. Even silence there feels monitored, like it might be graded later.

Here, Casey is noise that doesn’t hurt. Noise that your chest yearns for.

At one point she pauses in front of a shelf of snacks, tilting her head

“You ever just stand here and feel like the chips are talking to you?”

“I think that’s just you.”

She looks offended. “I’m deeply emotionally vulnerable in the chip aisle and this is how you treat me?”

That pulls another laugh out of you, easier this time. More natural. Like it has somewhere to go.

You move through the rest of the store like that. Not rushing. Not lingering too much either. Just existing in the same lane, basket wheels occasionally bumping when you drift too close, neither of you bothering to correct it.

By the time you reach the register, the world feels less divided inside your head.

The fluorescent lights are still too bright. The shelves still too orderly.

But you’re not as split down the middle of it anymore.

“You going to attempt self-checkout or do you trust humans today?” Casey asks, already steering toward a regular register.

“I don’t trust self-checkout machines,” you admit.

“Smart. They’re always watching.”

“That’s not–”

“Don’t question it.”

The line is short. Quiet. You end up side by side anyway, baskets resting on the belt at nearly the same time. The cashier barely glances up, scanning with practised rhythm.

Casey leans slightly toward you, voice dropping like she’s sharing classified information.

“If this card declines, I want it on record that I was morally supportive throughout this entire financial operation.”

“You didn’t pay for anything yet.”

“That’s a technicality. Emotional investment counts.”

You shake your head, but you’re smiling. It’s not loud. It doesn’t need to be.

Outside, the night air is cooler than the store. Cleaner. Less artificial.

You walk out together, bags in hand, keys already appearing like it’s instinct rather than decision. The parking lot is mostly empty, streetlights pooling gold onto asphalt.

Casey tilts her head toward your car first. “Alright. I’m supervising your loading process. I need to make sure those bananas survive.”

“They’re fine,” you repeat.

“They’re still plotting.”

You both load your groceries at the same time anyway, cars parked close enough that the space between them feels temporary rather than final. Plastic bags rustle. Doors thud shut. Everything small and ordinary and oddly grounding.

For a moment, neither of you moves to leave. Just the sound of distant traffic. The hum of the world continuing without asking anything from you.

Casey leans lightly against her car door, watching you like she’s not in a hurry to turn this into anything other than what it is.

“Hey,” she says, softer now.

Not demanding attention. And somehow, that feels like the easiest thing in the world to answer.

Then, without shifting her gaze from you, she says, “Can I ask you something?”

The tone changes before the words even finish forming. Not sharp. Not heavy.

“Yeah,” you say, but it comes out slower than you mean it to.

Casey nods once, like she’s committing to not backing out of the question now that it’s out in the open.

“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to,” she adds, and that alone already feels like a kind of kindness you didn’t realise you were missing.

A beat.

Then she asks, “Do you actually get to breathe when you’re there?”

It shouldn’t hit as hard as it does. Because there’s no accusation in it. Just a question that sounds like it was built carefully, so it wouldn’t break anything while it was being asked.

Your stomach tightens anyway.

Guilt arrives fast and uninvited, thick enough that you feel it in your throat. Not because she’s wrong. Not because she’s right either. But because she’s noticed. Because she’s seen enough to ask.

And because some part of you already knows the answer before you even try to form it.

“I…” you start, then stop.

Casey doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t fill the silence. Just waits, steady against her car door like she’s giving you room to exist inside the question without rushing you out of it.

It makes it worse, somehow. And better.

“I don’t know,” you admit finally, quieter than anything you’ve said tonight.

It’s not the full truth. But it’s close enough to hurt.

Casey’s expression shifts, just slightly. Not disappointment. Not surprise. Something more careful than either of those.

“I figured,” she says, and there’s no satisfaction in it. Just understanding that lands too gently to argue with.

Your chest feels too tight now, like everything you didn’t say at home has followed you out here and decided to speak at once.

“I’m not trying to make it sound like…” you begin, then falter again, searching for a shape that won’t turn into something unfair. “It’s not simple.”

“I didn’t think it was,” Casey replies.

That does it. The steadiness in her voice cracks something open rather than pressing on it.

You glance up at her. She’s still watching you, but not in a way that demands anything. It almost feels like she’s just… staying close to make sure you don’t disappear mid-thought.

And that makes it harder.

Because you can feel it now, clearly. What this is doing. What it’s not.

The space between you tonight isn’t neutral anymore. It never really was. It just felt easier to stand in.

“I should go,” you say, and it lands wrong in your mouth, like it belongs somewhere else but still insists on being said.

Casey doesn’t react immediately.

Then she nods once. Small. Controlled.

“Yeah,” she says. “Okay.”

A pause stretches between you, thin and fragile.

You swallow, and it tastes like guilt.

“Alex is waiting,” you add, as if that explains everything. As if it smooths the edges of what you’re doing here.

It doesn’t. Casey’s eyes flicker at the name, just briefly, then settle again.

You don’t know what she’s thinking. She’s never made it easy to tell.

“I’m trying to work on things with her,” you say, and even as the words leave you, they feel vague. Not a lie. Not fully a truth either. Just something soft enough to carry you out of the moment without breaking it completely.

Casey nods again, slower this time.

“Alright,” she says.

Not cold, but not warm either. Just accepting in a way that somehow makes your chest ache more than if she’d argued.

You open your driver’s door.

The sound is more final than it should be. And still, neither of you moves right away, like the moment hasn’t decided what it wants to become next.

“Okay,” she repeats, softer this time. “Drive safe, yeah?”

You should leave on that. You know you should. But your body doesn’t move towards the seat. Neither does hers. It’s like the space between you is holding its breath, waiting to see which way it collapses.

Then Casey steps forward.

Not sudden. Not dramatic. Just a quiet closing of distance that feels deliberate in a way she’s trying not to make obvious.

“Hey,” she says again, and this time it’s gentler. “Come here.”

It isn’t a question, but it also doesn’t feel like a demand. Something in your chest gives way before you even decide.

You walk into her.

The hug lands warm and real and immediate, like your body recognises something your mind has been arguing with all night. Casey wraps her arms around you in a way that feels steady, not tight, just sure. Present.

And for a second, everything else falls away.

The parking lot, the car, the weight of what you just said, what you didn’t say, all of it loosens its grip.

She smells faintly like clean fabric and something soft underneath it, warm and familiar in a way that makes your thoughts stumble. Your hands hover for half a second before settling against her back, like you’re testing whether you’re allowed to hold on.

You are. Her hold doesn’t change. It just stays there, like she’s decided this moment gets to exist fully before it ends. Then your mind does something treacherous with the quiet.

It drifts.

Not in a way you want it to. Not in a way you asked for.

Just a flicker of awareness. The feel of her close enough that you can’t ignore how solid she is, how real. The way your body reacts before your thoughts catch up, a confusing heat that makes your stomach tighten with something that feels too close to vulnerability to name properly.

You hate it and don’t at the same time. Your breath stutters slightly against her shoulder. Casey shifts, just a fraction, like she feels it even if she doesn’t comment on it.

You lift your head without meaning to. She’s already looking at you.

Her expression is softer than it’s been all night. No teasing now. No jokes tucked behind her eyes. Just something steady and aware, like she understands exactly what this moment is doing to you without needing it spelt out.

For a second, neither of you speaks. Then Casey smiles. Small. Not triumphant. Not sad either. Just knowing in a way that doesn’t push.

She lifts one hand and gently guides your head back to her shoulder, not forcing, just encouraging, like she’s reminding you where you chose to be a moment ago.

“There you go,” she murmurs.

It isn’t patronising, but grounding. Like she’s acknowledging the fracture in you without trying to widen it.

“I know,” she adds quietly, after a beat. “This is hard.”

Your grip tightens slightly at her back, because it is. Because she’s saying it out loud makes it harder to pretend it isn’t.

“But I’m not going to make it harder for you,” she continues, voice still low, still close. “Even if I want to.”

It’s not pressure you’re dealing with; it’s restraint. It’s care that has a line it refuses to cross.

You close your eyes for a moment, letting yourself stay there just a second longer than feels safe.

Then, slowly, you pull back. Casey lets you go without resistance, her hands falling away like they were never holding on too tightly to begin with.

“Go on,” she says gently. “Before I change my mind and start giving you unsolicited snack recommendations again.”

A faint laugh slips out of you, shaky at the edges.

“Wouldn’t want that.”

“Too late,” she says. “Already planning it.”

And somehow, even with everything still tangled inside you, you manage to turn toward your car.

The car door shuts with a soft, final click that feels louder than it should, and for a moment, you don’t start the engine.

Your hands just rest there on the steering wheel, like your body hasn’t caught up with the fact that the hug is over.

Casey’s warmth still clings to you in fragments. Not in any physical sense anymore, but in the way your chest doesn’t quite settle back into its usual shape. Like something was pressed into place and hasn’t fully released.

You exhale slowly. Your breath as warm as your body’s growing.

The parking lot light hums above you. The world outside the windshield looks ordinary again, almost insultingly so. Other cars. Empty trolleys. The quiet churn of a place that doesn’t know anything important just happened in it.

You start the car. The engine turns over gently, and that alone feels like a decision.

Driving home stretches time in a strange way.

The roads are familiar, too familiar. Every set of lights feels like an interruption rather than a pause. Your mind keeps slipping back without permission.

Casey’s voice first. Not the words exactly. The tone. The steadiness of it. The way she didn’t rush you even when you were clearly already halfway gone.

Then the hug.

Not as a thought you can examine properly, but as a feeling your body keeps replaying in small, disobedient echoes. The safety of it. The lack of pressure. The way it didn’t ask you to be anything other than yourself.

And that’s what makes it stick, because nothing at home feels like that.

At some point you realise you’ve been gripping the wheel too tightly.

You loosen your fingers.

The guilt follows after the warmth, slower but heavier. It doesn’t arrive as a single thought, just a layered awareness that builds quietly in the background. Alex. The expectations. The version of you that knows how things are supposed to be.

And then Casey again, uninvited, not as an argument, but as a contrast you can’t unsee.

By the time your street comes into view, you’re hyper-aware of the throbbing at your core. You park. Taking a moment to deep breathe, as if that’ll remove the specific ache Casey has left within you.

The house is there, lit in the familiar way it always is, as if it has been waiting for you without changing its expression.

You don’t move right away. Your hand stays on the key for a second too long. Because whatever you left in that parking lot with Casey, it didn’t stay there, and you’re not entirely sure yet what you’re supposed to do with that.

The porch light spills across the driveway in a warm amber glow. Home.

You'd pictured coming back here the entire drive, trying to prepare yourself for the shift. For the invisible weight that always seemed to settle over your shoulders the closer you got.

You hadn't realised how obvious that feeling had become until tonight.

The grocery bag handles bite into your fingers as you make your way to the front door. Your keys jingle softly against the lock before the familiar click echoes through the quiet house.

The smell of home greets you first. A candle burning somewhere in the living room, laundry detergent lingering faintly in the air. Normal. Comfortingly, painfully normal.

“Hey?”

Alex's voice carries from the kitchen before you've even managed to close the door.

She rounds the corner a second later, phone abandoned on the counter the moment she sees you.

"There you are."

Her smile is immediate.

"I was starting to wonder if you'd gotten lost."

You feel your stomach tighten.

"I ran into someone," you say, setting the bags down by the island before your arms have a chance to protest.

Alex nods easily.

"Oh?"

"It was Casey."

Something flickers across her face. It’s not suspicion; it’s recognition.

“The ADA?”

You nod.

“We ended up talking. We recognised each other from events we’ve met at.”

“Oh.”

It’s such a small word. She doesn’t ask how long, doesn’t ask about what.

Instead, she walks over, already reaching for two of the heavier bags before you’ve even straightened up.

“I managed to finish up everything I needed to do,” she says lightly. “You should’ve called when you were almost here; I would’ve helped you get inside.” “I was okay.”

“I know.”

She smiles again, softer this time.

“I still would’ve.”

The words settle somewhere uncomfortably warm inside your chest.

She turns toward the kitchen, unpacking almost automatically. Frozen vegetables disappear into the freezer, milk into the fridge, bread onto the bench.

You can’t remember the last time she unpacked for you; rather, she’d always watch from a distance, finding anything to scrutinise.

"You seriously saved dinner tomorrow," she says over her shoulder. "Thank you."

"It's just groceries."

“I know.”

She closes the freezer and looks back at you.

"But you still went out this late."

A small shrug.

"I appreciate it."

The guilt presses harder, because she’s trying. You can see it. Not in grand gestures or rehearsed apologies, but in little things that would be easy to miss if you weren't looking.

You help finish unpacking, settling cans into the pantry while Alex slides containers around in the fridge to make room.

For a few quiet minutes, the rhythm is easy. Plastic rustles, cupboard doors open and close. Neither of you says much. Then Alex laughs quietly to herself.

“I remembered.”

You glance over.

“What?”

“I forgot to tell you, I picked up that peppermint tea you like a couple of days ago.”

She points toward the cupboard beside the kettle.

"The one you could never find last week."

Your eyes follow her hand, and sure enough, the familiar box sits neatly on the shelf.

"I figured..." She rubs the back of her neck, suddenly looking almost shy. "You always seem calmer after a cup."

The words catch you off guard. Not because they’re extraordinary, but because they’re observant. You can’t think of the last time she noticed. The last time she remembered. The last time she tried.

“Thanks,” you say quietly.

“You’re welcome.”

Alex closes the pantry door and lets out a satisfied little sigh.

"There."

Then she looks at you properly for the first time since you walked in.

“You look exhausted.”

“I am.”

She steps closer. Her hands find your waist first before sliding around your back, drawing you into a familiar embrace.

You melt into it automatically. Years of habit. Years of knowing exactly where your arms fit around her.

Her chin rests briefly against the top of your head before she presses a gentle kiss against your forehead.

“Thank you,” she murmurs again.

“I’m really glad you’re home.”

You close your eyes. The hug is warm. It’s loving; it’s home. But somewhere inside it, you become aware of yourself.

Your hands, your posture, whether you’ve hugged her back tightly enough, whether you’re holding on too long.

Whether she can feel how distracted you’ve been all evening.

The thoughts arrive without permission, one after the other, quiet as breathing.

With Casey…

They hadn’t.

For one impossible moment in that parking lot, you'd forgotten to think about yourself at all.

The realisation lands so softly it almost escapes you. Not because Alex is doing anything wrong.

She's holding you exactly the way she always has, but the difference isn’t in her. It’s in the version of yourself that only seems to exist when someone asks nothing of you except to be there.

Alex pulls back just enough to look at you, her thumb brushing lightly across your side.

"You okay?"

You open your eyes. She looks genuinely concerned.

“Tired,” you say with a small smile.

“It’s been a long day.”

Alex studies you for half a heartbeat before nodding.

“Then let’s make some tea.”

Another kiss to your forehead. It’s gentle, it’s affectionate, but somehow the guilt hurts more than if she hadn’t tried at all.

Alex doesn’t push.

She never has, at least not when she can see you're running low on whatever energy you had left to give that day.

Instead, she offers you a small, understanding smile, the kind that reaches her eyes even if there's still a flicker of concern sitting quietly behind it.

"Tea," she says again, her voice gentle enough to smooth over the silence that had settled between you. "Then bed?"

You nod, managing a tired smile of your own.

“Yeah.”

The kettle hums softly as it comes to a boil, filling the kitchen with a familiar domestic rhythm that you've heard so many times it almost fades into the background. Alex moves around the space with a warmth about her, reaching into the cupboard for your peppermint tea before pausing with the box in her hands.

“Honey?”

You glance up from where you’re leaning against the counter.

“What?”

“In your tea,” she clarifies, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “You’ve been putting honey in it lately.”

You hadn’t realised she’d noticed.

“I have been,” you reply with a quiet smile. “Please.”

She stirs it without another word before carrying the mug over to you, waiting until your fingers had wrapped securely around the warmth before letting go.

“There.”

The mug feels comforting between your hands, the heat seeping into your palms as you lift it for a careful sip. The peppermint is familiar, soothing in a way that makes your shoulders loosen just slightly, even if it can't quite reach the knot that's been sitting stubbornly in your chest all evening.

Alex watches you for a second, seemingly satisfied that you're actually drinking it before nodding toward the hallway.

"I'm going to get changed," she says. "Take your time."

Lights are switched off one by one as you make your way through the kitchen. The dishwasher hums quietly beneath the counter after Alex loads the last of the mugs inside, and somewhere in the living room, a lamp is left on just long enough for one final check that the front door is locked before the rest of the house falls into a comfortable quiet.

By the time you finish your tea, only the bedroom light remains.

When you step into the room, Alex is already in bed.

She's sitting comfortably against the headboard with a book resting open across her lap, reading glasses slipping just slightly down her nose in a way that always makes her look softer somehow.

She looks up as soon as you appear in the doorway.

“There you are.”

A smile spreads easily across her face.

“Feeling any better?”

“A little.”

“I’m glad.”

She doesn't ask what happened, and she doesn’t ask why you’re quiet.

Instead, she slides a bookmark between the pages of her book before setting it carefully on the bedside table.

“I was waiting for you.”

Something inside your chest tightens almost immediately.

You disappear into the bathroom to brush your teeth, changing into one of Alex's old university T-shirts on the way back. It had somehow become yours years ago, one of those small exchanges that happened so gradually neither of you could remember when it started.

When you climb beneath the covers, the mattress dips gently beneath your weight.

Alex reaches over to switch off the bedside lamp, leaving only the pale wash of moonlight filtering through the curtains to illuminate the room.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. The silence doesn’t feel awkward; both of you know you’re equally tired.

“You cold?” Alex asks eventually.

You shake your head, moving closer to her.

“No.”

“You sure?”

Before you can answer again, her hand finds your waist beneath the blankets, her fingers stroking gently on your skin as though she'd done it a thousand times before.

Because she has.

Her thumb strokes lazily across your back, slow and absent-minded, the kind of touch that comes more from habit than intention.

"I worry about you sometimes," she admits quietly, her voice barely above a whisper in the darkness.

"You've seemed... somewhere else lately."

The words land softly, but they still find their mark.

You tighten your fingers around hers without thinking.

“I’m sorry.”

“Hey.”

She shifts a little closer, just enough that her legs touch yours more.

"You don't have to apologise, I know it’s been hard lately.”

“I know.”

“You’ve had a lot on your mind.”

Another slow stroke of her thumb.

“We’ll figure it out.”

Alex lifts your hand just enough to press a gentle kiss against your knuckles before letting them settle back onto the mattress.

“I love you.”

The words come easily.

They always have.

You turn your head just enough to meet her eyes in the darkness.

“I love you too.”

You mean it. Entirely.

Alex shifts closer until you're tucked naturally against her, one arm draped loosely around your waist while the other remains beneath her pillow. She continues tracing slow, absent circles against your side, the movement gradually slowing as sleep starts to pull at her.

Within a few minutes, her breathing deepens.

You lie awake listening to the steady rhythm of her breathing, staring into the darkness while your thoughts quietly drift back over the evening.

The groceries. The tea she’d remembered. The way she’d thanked you more than once. The forehead kiss. The patient questions she never pushed you to answer. Every small thing she'd done tonight had been another way of saying I'm trying.

You can see it now. You can feel it.

And still, when you search your memory for the moment your shoulders had finally relaxed, for the moment your mind had stopped racing long enough to simply exist…

You find yourself standing beneath amber streetlights in an almost-empty parking lot.

"Come here."

The memory is painfully gentle.

Not because of the embrace itself, but because, for a few brief minutes, you'd forgotten to monitor yourself entirely.

You hadn't been wondering whether you were saying the right thing, whether you were reacting correctly. Whether someone needed something from you.

The guilt arrives almost immediately afterwards.

You turn carefully toward Alex, taking care not to wake her.

In sleep, every trace of worry has disappeared from her face. She looks younger somehow, softer, the crease that had settled between her eyebrows earlier in the evening completely gone.

You reach up, brushing a loose strand of hair back behind her ear with the lightest touch you can manage.

"I'm trying," you whisper into the darkness.

You aren't entirely sure whether you're saying it to Alex, to yourself, or to the version of your life that suddenly feels far more uncertain than it did yesterday.

Eventually, exhaustion wins.

Curled safely in Alex's arms, with your heart still divided between gratitude, guilt, and something you aren't ready to name, you let sleep find you.

Morning arrives slowly.

You wake before your alarm, the room still washed in the pale blue light that comes just before sunrise. For a few quiet moments, you don't move, letting yourself drift somewhere between sleep and consciousness as the house remains perfectly still around you.

Alex stirs beside you with a sleepy sigh, burying her face a little further into your shoulder before her arm instinctively tightens around your waist.

"Mmm..." she mumbles, her voice rough with sleep. "You're awake."

“Barely.”

A sleepy smile brushes against your skin.

“Liar.”

You can’t help smiling back.

Her hair is a mess, flattened on one side where she'd spent the night curled against you. Without her glasses and before she's fully awake, there's something disarmingly soft about her. Younger, somehow. Less guarded.

She presses a lazy kiss against your shoulder before tilting her head up to find your face.

“Morning.”

Another kiss.

This one lands at the corner of your mouth, lingering just long enough to make you laugh quietly.

“What?”

“You always do that.”

“Do what?”

“Kiss everywhere except my lips first.”

Alex hums thoughtfully, pretending to consider it.

“I’m building suspense.”

You roll your eyes with a smile.

“For a kiss?”

“For an excellent kiss.”

“Oh, naturally.”

She finally closes the tiny gap between you, kissing you properly this time, slow and familiar and unhurried.

When she pulls away, she rests her forehead against yours.

"I like mornings with you," she murmurs.

The words should settle warmly inside your chest.

Instead, they make something ache.

Because you like mornings with her too. You always have. But this is the first time since you can remember that Alex chose to stay in with you, rather than immediately leave her side cold.

You close your eyes for a moment, gathering courage that suddenly feels much harder to find in daylight.

“Alex?”

“Mhm?”

“I’ve been thinking.”

She opens one eye dramatically.

“That sounds dangerous.”

Normally, you would’ve laughed.

Instead, you take a slow breath.

"I think..." Your fingers twist slightly in the fabric of the blanket. "I think maybe we should see someone."

Alex blinks.

“What do you mean?”

“A marriage counsellor.”

The change is almost imperceptible. Her body doesn’t pull away, but it stills. Completely. For a few long seconds, she simply looks at you.

Then she exhales through her nose.

“...Why?”

"I just..." You search for words that won't sound like blame. "I think we've been trying really hard on our own, and maybe having someone objective could help us communicate better."

Alex sits up a little, leaning back against the headboard.

"I don't think therapy fixes relationships."

You remain quiet.

"I think," she continues, rubbing a hand across her face, "people go to therapy because they want someone else to tell them they're right."

"That's not what I want."

"No?"

She gives a small, humourless laugh.

"They ask a bunch of questions, you talk in circles for an hour, and then they tell you to use 'I feel' statements and charge you two hundred dollars."

There's an edge to her voice now. It’s not loud, but you definitely recognise the tone.

"You know how many couples I know who've done counselling?"

You shake your head.

"They're all divorced."

You swallow.

"I don't think that's because of the counselling."

"I just don't see the point."

You watch her as she speaks.

Her shoulders have lifted, her jaw’s tight. She isn’t angry; she’s defensive.

The certainty in her voice feels almost rehearsed, as though these opinions have been waiting for an opportunity to justify themselves.

Your gaze drops to the duvet pooled across your lap.

“Oh.”

It’s only one syllable, but it comes out smaller than you intended.

Alex notices immediately.

The room falls quiet.

You don’t argue.

And you certainly don’t try to convince her.

You simply nod once, staring down at your hands.

“Okay.”

The defeat in your voice hangs between you. Alex’s expression changes almost immediately.

The tension leaves her shoulders as quickly as it arrived.

“...Hey.”

You don’t look up.

She reaches for your hand.

When you don’t pull away, she threads her fingers through yours.

“I’m sorry.”

You finally meet her eyes.

The defensiveness is gone.

In its place is something much more vulnerable.

“I…” she sighs, shaking her head at herself. “I think I panicked.”

A faint, self-conscious smile appears.

“I heard ‘marriage counsellor ’, and my brain translated it into ‘our marriage is failing.’”

“It isn’t,” you say quickly.

“I know.”

She squeezes your hand.

“Or… I know you weren’t saying that.”

She looks down for a moment before meeting your gaze again.

"If this is something you think we need..." she says carefully, "...then I'll go."

"Alex..."

"No."

She gives your hand another squeeze.

"I'm serious."

There's no resignation in her voice now.

"I don't have to believe it'll help."

A small smile tugs gently at one corner of her mouth.

"But I do believe in us."

Your throat tightens.

"So if sitting in an office once a week helps us understand each other better..."

She shrugs lightly.

"...then I'll do it."

She leans towards you, resting her forehead against yours once more.

"I'll do a lot of things for this marriage."

Her voice is barely above a whisper.

"I just don't ever want you to think I'm not willing to fight for it."

For a long moment, neither of you speaks.

Then you lift your free hand to her cheek, your thumb brushing gently across her skin.

"Thank you."

Alex smiles, this one tired but genuine.

"Just promise me one thing."

"What?"

"If the therapist tells me I have to start using phrases like 'holding space,'" she says with the faintest hint of a grin, "you're buying me dessert afterwards."

A surprised laugh escapes you.

The heaviness doesn't disappear.

But for the first time since the conversation began, it feels like something you're carrying together.

The next week passes in a blur.

Not the kind of blur that comes from peace or routine, but the kind that happens when every hour already belongs to someone else before the day even begins.

Alex’s re-election campaign consumes everything.

The mansion, once quiet enough that you could hear the floors creak beneath your footsteps, becomes a constant stream of movement.

Assistants come and go with folders tucked beneath their arms. Campaign managers take over the dining room table with laptops, schedules, and printed drafts of speeches. Marketing teams fill the living room, discussing branding, polling numbers, and public perception while cleaners work around them, trying to keep the house looking untouched despite the number of people constantly moving through it.

The entire place starts to feel less like a home and more like a campaign headquarters wearing the disguise of one.

Alex is everywhere.

She wakes up early for interviews, spends hours at meetings, attends community events, shakes hands, remembers names, smiles for cameras, and stays awake long after midnight approving messaging for the next day.

You’re there for most of it.

You attend the fundraisers, you stand beside her at events, you listen as campaign advisors explain what version of Alex the public responds to best.

You review speeches, you approve photos, you sit through conversations about what colours work better on camera and which words sound too aggressive in a statement.

It’s all important.

You know that.

You know how much this means to her. And you can see how hard she’s trying.

She still makes sure you eat when you forget. She still texts you when meetings run late. She still reaches for your hand beneath tables when cameras aren't watching.

But there’s a difference now. A small one.

The version of Alex the world sees is taking up more and more space.

The polished smile, the perfect answers, the carefully controlled reactions.

Sometimes you catch yourself looking at her across a crowded room and wondering if she even gets a chance to turn that version of herself off anymore.

And then there’s Casey.

You try not to look. You really do. But Casey has a way of making herself impossible to ignore.

At every event, she’s just herself. Laughing with people, making small jokes with staff, helping wherever she can.

She exists without needing the room to adjust around her.

And every time you see her, you remember how easy it felt to stand beside her in a grocery store aisle and not have to think about who you were supposed to be.

You hate that. Not Casey. You hate what the comparison reveals. Because you’re trying. You’re trying to choose your marriage. You’re trying to believe that love can be rebuilt if both people are willing to show up.

Alex is showing up, which makes it harder. It would be easier if she stopped caring, easier if she gave you another reason to walk away.

Instead, she keeps trying to hold everything together with both hands, even when her grip is slipping.

By the end of the week, everyone’s exhausted. Especially Alex.

The campaign has fallen behind on a major round of messaging before an upcoming debate, and the entire house feels the tension before she even says anything.

You know something is wrong the second she walks through the door.

Her heels hit the floor harder than usual.

Her expression is tight.

Her phone hasn't stopped buzzing since she stepped inside.

"How bad?" you ask carefully.

She drops her bag onto the kitchen island.

"Bad enough that everyone suddenly thinks deadlines are suggestions."

You watch her rub her temples.

"The team’s fixing it."

"They should have fixed it before it became a problem."

There’s an edge there. You recognise it.

The part of Alex that appears when she feels like things are slipping out of her control.

"I know you're stressed," you say gently.

Her eyes lift to yours.

"I don't need you to tell me I'm stressed."

The response is immediate.

You go quiet.

"I was just saying..."

"I know what you were doing."

Your eyebrows pull together.

"What does that mean?"

Alex exhales sharply, already frustrated.

"It means every time something gets difficult, you try to manage my emotions instead of actually listening."

The words sting because they’re unfair. Not completely false, but enough.

"I'm not trying to manage you."

“Really?”

Her laugh is quiet, but there’s no humour in it.

"Because it feels like lately everyone has an opinion about how I should be handling things."

The kitchen suddenly feels smaller.

"I was trying to help."

"I didn't ask you to."

There it is.

That familiar shift.

The one where the conversation stops being about what happened and becomes about winning.

You stare at her.

“Alex.”

“What?”

“You’re doing it again.”

Her expression hardens.

“Doing what?”

"Turning this into something else."

"No, I'm telling you how I feel."

"No, you're telling me what I did wrong."

The silence that follows is sharp.

Alex looks away for a moment, jaw tightening.

"I don't have time for this tonight."

Your chest tightens.

"You don't have time for a conversation with your wife?"

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Make me the villain because I'm under pressure."

The words land harder than she probably intends.

You step back slightly.

"I'm not making you anything."

"Then stop acting like I’m the only one who has problems."

The unfairness of it sits between you. Because you know you have problems, you know you’re part of this.

But you’re tired of feeling like every difficult conversation becomes something you have to carefully navigate while Alex decides whether you’re allowed to be upset.

"I asked you to go to counselling," you remind her quietly.

"And I agreed."

"After you told me it was pointless."

"Because I was scared."

"Then why does it feel like you're still fighting me?"

Alex goes still.

For a second, you think she might hear it. Really hear it.

But then the walls come back up.

"I’m not fighting you."

"You are."

"I am trying to keep our lives from falling apart."

"And I'm trying to tell you that I feel like I'm falling apart inside of it."