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It's only love | Doctor Who

pairing: Kate Lethbridge-Stewart x fem!reader

Kate Stewart is a woman you'd seen on galas and events, a mystery and beautiful enigma so it makes sense for you to agree to play her girlfriend. It would've all been so easy if you hadn't completely fallen in love with her.

warnings/tags: Fake/Pretend Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Resolved Sexual Tension, Emotional Mess Kate Stewart, what if i said she's also kind of a sugar mommy, a sprinkle of smut, Flirting, Possessive Kate Stewart

word count: 11,3k

an: inspired by these looks from Jemma at the press screening for the spin-off

+ masterlist + rules +🌿 reposts and comments are much appreciated, they motivate me a lot and keep me writing <3

“I’ll be right down!”

A sound that sounded suspiciously like suppressed laughter filtered through your flat’s intercom, followed by a low, smile-soaked, “No rush,” in that whiskey-voice of Kate Stewart.

“Yes, sorry,” you replied, thumb pressed against the button next to the display frame that had pixelated what was visible from the blonde’s profile at the front door to the bare minimum. It did its job well enough that you could still see the mischievous grin on her lips. And that the December cold accentuated the sharp line of her cheekbone. Fuck. You took a deep breath. “Can’t find my second shoe. I really don’t know where I left it.”

Another throaty, deep laugh, and screen-Kate shook her head slightly, the curly hair bouncing as vivaciously as your heart in your chest. “Don’t keep me waiting too long, Cinderella. Your pumpkin coach might turn into a real one.” She turned slightly, stepped out of the lee of the entrance area, and hurried out of the camera’s field of view.

The click of her heels on the kerb, then the door handle and the jerky slam of the car door.

Silence. Only the rush of cars, the murmuring bustle of early evening London after its end of work.

Your thumb slipped from the intercom.

Silence.

Your sigh unfurled into the flat, lingering as you caught your reflection in the mirror beside the wardrobe. You seemed to fold in on yourself, the last of your breath slipping out like a balloon losing shape. Your gaze travelled slowly—over your styled hair, the expensive clothes paid for by Kate’s credit card, the long coat drooping from your sinking shoulders, and still had the bright, intimate echo of her perfume folded into the collar. The slim gold bracelet she’d given you for your birthday jingled as you tugged your sleeve into place, the little “K” charm tapping over your quickening pulse.

It was a mystery to you what Kate did for a living—one of the conditions that governed your relationship like an iron clause—but it clearly paid well; good enough that your mates had teased you several times about being the sugar baby of a top government agent.

Which didn’t exactly help you keep your feelings for the older, charming, enigmatic woman in check and stop your mind from constantly wandering off into dramatic scenarios.

“You can do this,” you tried to encourage yourself.

Everything was perfect. You knew it. The clothes she’d paid for without blinking, the coat chosen to match hers so you’d “look cohesive for the gossip vultures”—it all came together with almost ridiculous precision. You looked like someone who belonged at Kate Stewart’s side.

Adorned in things she’d given you, wrapped in her scent, wearing her initial against your skin… you made an impressive vision. You matched her. You matched with her.

But that had always been the plan; an arrangement struck months ago, practised until neither of you needed lines any more, the roles slipping on as easily as a second skin whenever it was time to perform.

Still, somewhere along the way, the second skin had started to feel like your own. Maybe too much. Well enough that the lines blurred when you weren’t paying attention. Well enough that you sometimes forgot where the script ended and where the wanting began.

One last sweep over your figure, and you hummed thoughtfully when your eyes snagged on a spot of dirt. Quickly, your tongue flicked out over your thumb, and you bent down to rub it away, burnishing the image you wanted, no, needed to show tonight at dinner. While you were at it, you adjusted the zip on both of your boots, too.

There, you thought, and turned to the door, now all the lies are polished.

Despite the fact that this was not a new development, it was always a bit jarring when you stepped out of the house and saw the shiny black Rolls Royce parked at the kerb. You had dabbled in the higher societies before, had accompanied friends and their distant relatives whenever the possibility offered itself, because in London, you would be dammed if you let the chance of glitter and glamour and champagne, and the dream-like fantasy of being part of the elite slip out of your fingers.

Even if that came at the cost of your heart.

You slid into the back seat, offering a small nod and a mouthed thank you toward the rearview mirror for the driver to see. When you turned, Kate was lounging in one corner of her seat and tapping at her phone with one ankle resting elegantly over her knee. Breath stuttered in your chest. Her jacket was flung onto the seat between you, and the silver-blue satin of her top gleamed temptingly, begging your fingers to test its texture. Your hands curled in your lap before temptation could get a foothold.

Kate blinked as she raised her head to greet you, and an excessively hopeless part of your heart and the puppeteer of your perception whispered in your ear that her eyes darkened at the sight of you. It did not help that her painted lips curved into yet another, famously teasing smirk. “Ah, about time, Princess. I was two seconds away from sending out a royal search party.”

“No need,” you said through the effort of a smile, and then, because you were a fool, and a romantic one at that, you softened, “You look good.”

“So do you,” Kate said, and her gaze swept over you appreciatively enough that the older woman’s approval sent butterflies through your twisted stomach. The kind that didn’t belong in a pretend relationship; a parasite on your feelings. The kind that lodged somewhere deep, warm, and stupid, making it harder and harder to remember that all of this was just pretence.

One more time, you thought, as the car rolled smoothly through the streets.

All of London was already decked out for the holidays, and you had to restrain yourself from laughing too loudly when you got out of the car. As always, Kate was already at your side, holding out her hand. Her palms were cool, not as sweaty as some of your previous partners, and soft, so damn soft. Your fingers automatically intertwined, and you let Kate guide you as your head fell back, taking in the grey sky, and—

Oh.

“Oh,” you couldn’t help the softest sound.

The entry walk of the building looked like Christmas had conspired with a luxury interior designer and told them to: “posh it up!”. Strings of warm golden lights spiralled up the polished columns like enchanted vines. Frost-dusted garlands framed the sweeping double doors, their silver ribbons catching the lights so they shimmered like falling snow. There were tall vases filled with white poinsettias, branches dipped in fine glitter, and despite the obvious silver-fication that you often saw in these social circles (nothing like the straw stars you knew from home, the felt ornaments and golden candle glow), you were gaping.

It was beautiful. Overwhelming. Magical in a way that tugged something childlike out of your chest before you could stop it.

The porter opened the door for you, and you stepped out of the cold into the similarly decorated lobby. Garlands wound up the marble pillars, threaded with warm golden lights that flickered like trapped fireflies. Plush, deep-green wreaths hung from the walls, dotted with tiny brass bells that chimed when the gust of cold air followed you through the doors. A towering fir tree stood near the reception desk, dripping with glass ornaments that caught the light in dazzling reds and silvers and made the entire place shimmer.

A tiny, delighted gasp escaped you.

You felt more than saw Kate turn her head, and when you glanced sideways, blushing, the faintest grin tugged at the corner of her mouth.

“Easy there,” she murmured huskily, amusement curling around the words, her fingers around yours. “I can’t have you fawning more over the decoration than me.”

Never.

“Since you didn’t show up in a Santa Claus costume as you promised, you’ve forfeited any right to be adored,” you said and playfully lifted your nose.

“Mm.” Her grin deepened. “That’s an oversight on you,” Kate leaned in slightly, her grip around your hand tightening for a beat, “because I’m wearing santa-red where you can’t see it.”

You were fairly sure the colour on your face matched what you had to assume was her underwear, and it took much from you to stay on your feet, and not faint or trip.

As you approached the lifts, Kate dropped your intertwined fingers only to place her hand low on your back—low enough that heat blossomed right through the fabric of your coat. The touch was firm, guiding, proprietary in the way your arrangement sometimes required, and so possessive that that stupid heart of yours fluttered.

The lift doors slid open with a soft chime, and when Kate ushered you inside, the mirrored walls caught every angle of you and the older blonde together. She looked effortlessly magnificent, a dizzying mix of beautiful and handsome, in the black slacks that hugged the curves of her hips and airily brushed her ankles, the silk shirt tugged perfectly in, and her jacket splayed open by the hand she had casually slipped into her pocket. Your bodies were tilted subtly toward each other, her other hand remaining on the small of your back, and there was a sense of unity that was undeniable.

You looked like a couple. A real one.

The realization hit your chest with a soft, traitorous thud.

Kate noticed your gaze drifting to your reflections. Her eyes flicked to the mirror too, then to you, and she raised an immaculate eyebrow, the corners of her mouth lifting in the smallest, softest grin.

“You alright?” she asked, voice low, almost gentle.

You swallowed hard, lead in your stomach, a pile of empty shells from the firing squad against your heart.

“Sure,” you sounded anything but convincing, a nervous tilt in your voice that was almost airy. Kate’s eyes narrowed slightly, and she leaned in further, the hand in your back heavy and hot. Despite your effort to stay nonchalant about all of this, the nudge of her fingers against your spine and the dark brown of her eyes were unspooling you as helplessly as a ball of yarn thrown down a flight of stairs. “Kate, I—” you started, staring at her shoulder, nudging closer to yours. All the words you wanted to say were right there, at the tip of your tongue.

But your silence stretched a second too long.

Kate shifted, her brows pulling together. “Ah—I apologise.” Her voice lowered, softened in a way that made something behind your ribs pulse painfully. “If the underwear bit was a step too far, just tell me. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“What? No—no, that’s not—” Your head snapped up, mortified. “It’s not that at all.” Heat flooded your cheeks at the reminder, “Really.”

Kate paused, studying your face like she was scanning for contradictions. Then she huffed a little laugh, casual and warm, brushing her thumb once at your spine—barely there, but felt everywhere. “Good. Then breathe, princess. It’s only love we have to act, remember? Nothing we haven’t handled before.”

“Right,” you responded, a hollowness carving straight through your chest. “It’s only love.”

Kate didn’t seem to notice that your smile was even more fake than your relationship. She swept into the room, her shoes clicking confidently and radiating her usual grace and engaging dominance, with you following at her arm.

It was ironic, a cruel twist of fate, that the Christmas dinner was taking place in the very restaurant where you had first met Kate. A portal to the past, decorated with pine branches, a glittering reflection of your deeds in polished Christmas tree baubles. Together, you and Kate drifted through the room: shaking hands, offering sparkling smiles, exchanging the usual seasonal lines—“Can you believe how fast December arrived?”—and, with long, deliberate looks and lingering touches, “Yes, our first Christmas together.” your eyes kept falling on the terrace that wrapped around the glass crown of the towering building.

You could still feel the breeze tugging at your hair, the sun heating your bare shoulders, like it hadn’t been six whole months since you’d stood there shaking hands with the older blonde in the lazy summer dress and bored expression that you had previously only seen (and pined for) from afar.

What had once seemed like an easy solution to your desire to be part of this world—agreeing to become Kate Stewart’s companion, no, her girlfriend, her partner, her lover, turned out to demand far more of you than you had ever imagined.

Because the moment Kate’s arm curled around your hips and her lips flirted over the line of your jaw in a warm breath and loudly murmured, “I have exactly what I wanted right here!” you felt your heart rush dangerously toward the edge of heartbreak.

And while you leaned instinctively into her side, your face turned up with a look that should have been performed, should have been pretend… you knew, with a quiet ache settling low in your chest, that absolutely nothing about the way you looked at her was acting.

You had completely fallen for her.

“Shall we go and find our table, darling?” Kate asked, startling you to break your gaze away from the bow of her lips.

“Let’s,” you agreed and threw a playful roll of your eyes towards the CEO’s of some medical foundation that Kate had drawn you towards before, “She always gets so feisty when she’s hungry.”

“What would I do without you?” Kate asked, her hand squeezing your hip while her lips brushed your forehead. “You’re taking such good care of me.”

There was a wistful sigh of one of the men’s wives, the kind that was as much adoration as accusation towards their husbands, and you saw a teasing flash strike through Kate’s dark eyes.

“Starve away in your office or bite some heads off,” you said through a light chuckle and nudged your shoulder against hers. “Now, I’d hate to leave because you got your teeth into something other than the delicious food I can smell. It would be most dreadful giving the pleasant company.”

“If you would excuse us,” Kate said, and her hand fell away from your hip. “Smith,” she stretched out her arm and let the man in the suit that probably cost more than anything you’ve ever owned—including your flat—reach out to shake her hand. You saw the firmness of her grip, the way the CEO bit down on a grimace, and swallowed down a laugh.

“Miss Stewart,” the man said and flexed his fingers by his side, “I know I’ve said before that my funds are all tied up, but,” his eyes raked over you in a way that made you the slightest bit uncomfortable, “I’m sure we will find a few loose strings for you and your business.”

“Isn’t that a nice surprise?” Kate’s voice was sharp, her fingers lacing around yours possessively. “Aren’t I a lucky woman?” It sounded hollow, almost sarcastic.

Not that Smith noticed, no, he was probably too busy leering at you and how you pushed yourself against Kate’s curves. He already opened his mouth, but Kate already nodded once and walked the two of you away.

“Apologies,” she said as you wound through the round tables dotted around the large room, her watchful eyes scanning the handwritten cards on the white tablecloths for your names. “One might think that the men here would have a little more decorum due to their typically British aristocratic upbringing, but it seems that even the most educated man turns into a caveman when he sees a pretty woman.”

“You just don’t stop apologising for things you can’t help, Kate,” you said, smiling benignly to avoid potential conflict, as Kate didn’t even think about going around another man in Tom Ford but strode straight towards him until he quickly stepped aside.

“Well,” Kate barely faltered, though there was a particular harsh clack of her heels as she let out an “Aha!” at the sight of your place cards. Then her hands were on your shoulders, helping you shrug off your coat, both her thumbs running over your arms as she did. She lingered behind you, draping the coat over the back of your chair. “I’ve long stopped apologising for the right things,” you heard her say, felt the warm breath of the low words shiver down your spine.

When you wanted to inquire for more, to ask what she meant by that, Kate was already throwing her own jacket over her chair right next to yours and, with all the manners of a gentleman, Kate slid your chair back with one hand, the other grazing your waist in a way that was perfectly appropriate for a girlfriend and utterly ruinous for a woman pretending to be one. Her touch guided you down, her fingers brushing the curve of your hip as if the gesture were second nature to her.

You sat, breath catching, and she smoothly eased the chair in again.

By the time you’d gathered yourself enough to turn toward her, she was already slipping gracefully into the seat beside you. She crossed her legs, one elegant movement, her arm settling along the back of your chair as though it belonged there, as though she belonged there—next to you, close enough that her perfume wrapped around you. Her fingers tapped once against the wood behind your shoulder, a near-silent reassurance or perhaps a claim, and only then did she offer you a small, unreadable smile.

Once again, Kate proved that you would never be able to understand her, never follow what she was trying to say or hide behind vague statements and mysterious phrases that could mean all but empty air. And didn’t that just hurt? The worst part was that you had no right to feel this petty and bitter over her behaviour, that you were so far out of line for the irritation spreading in your stomach like bubbling acidity, a poisonous cocktail of jealousy towards the person you were playing, who existed alongside and only through you, and yet had so much more.

This was only pretend, a fiction you both had agreed on, yet here you were, close to scowling and falling into a pout about Kate keeping secrets you had no business sticking your anxious nose in.

“So,” you forced yourself to sound casual, placing a hand on the table and playing lightly with your fork, “how long do you think the speeches will last today?”

Kate immediately groaned under her breath and tilted her head back slightly, giving you a more than tempting view of her slender neck and the gold chain that wrapped around it, bearing your initial. How you wished you could press your lips against her throat, kissing her skin as the delicate gold pendant did. “If it goes over ten minutes, I’ll throw myself out the window,” she said dryly.

The corners of your mouth twitched. “I’ve seen at least four men who were patted on the back a little too hard. I recommend the door to the smoking area, where you can dive straight into the Thames if you take enough run-up.”

“You’re so thoughtful,” Kate sighed and nudged your foot under the table with hers. A strand of hair fell lightly across her face, and she made no move to brush it away.

“I can’t take responsibility for you tearing down the Christmas decorations outside,” you joked, adjusting your knife to keep yourself from wrapping the lock of hair around your finger. “Do you know how much that costs?”

Kate’s rough laugh was like a magnet, raising every hair on your body to stand on end. “Of course, how silly of me. I’ll be sure to aim for a less expensive structural failure.” She tapped her finger thoughtfully against her wine glass. “Perhaps I’ll take out one of the board members on my way down, make the whole evening truly cost-efficient.”

This time, you couldn’t hold back the snort of laughter, and on pure instinct, you reached out to give her a warning slap to the thigh, a swift, teasing stroke, but froze when she reacted as quickly as a whip and caught your hand before it came into contact. The strength of her loosened immediately, though not fast enough for you not to notice the power surge through her and flex in her biceps, the muscles tensing underneath freckled skin where the sleeve of her satin shirt slid up.

Not that she let go after that.

Instead, her fingers slipped between yours with unhurried certainty. She guided your joined hands into her lap, thumb brushing once over your knuckles before settling there.

“Mmh,” she murmured, eyes glinting with mischief as she tilted her head just enough for you to feel her breath skim your cheek. “Better keep that hand where I can see it. Who knows what havoc you’ll wreak on my self-control otherwise.”

Your pulse kicked hard against your ribs. You tried to laugh it off, but it came out softer than intended, a bit uneven, and Kate had to notice it by the wicked smirk crossing her face. Her thumb resumed its lazy sweep over your knuckles, slow, rhythmic, as though she were soothing herself rather than teasing you.

People began arriving at your table, velvet-clad spouses at cuffed arms, board members of the firms represented, faces you recognised as some that Kate had talked to on other nights. Chairs scraped. Greetings were exchanged. And through all of it, Kate kept your hand in hers, neither hidden nor flaunted; for who she was doing this show puzzled you into overthinking silence.

As the first speaker cleared his throat at the podium, Kate shifted slightly, crossing her legs, but never once released you.

You had only known Kate for six months, but you could tell from the way she immediately slouched that she had become bored within a minute of the speech. Utterly. Her mouth settled into that thin, unimpressed line; her lips gave the faintest twitch, and her eyes began a slow, wandering sweep across the room or lifted to the ceiling in barely suppressed annoyance and disbelief. Even her perfectly sculpted brows lifted and lowered in a little ballet of contemptuous commentary, revealing just how unimpressed she truly was.

After the third quietly muttered, “For god’s sake!” you decided to get her attention by lightly kicking her foot.

“Could you at least try to look entertained?” you whispered.

Kate grimaced. “His voice could tranquillise a charging bull. Frankly, if I heard his name tomorrow, I might collapse out of sheer self-defence.”

You threw her a look at that, biting down on your lip to at least make the appearance of being unamused.

“No, really,” Kate said gruffly. “I’m convinced if I’d gone another forty-eight hours without sleep, simply hearing someone mention him would drop me where I stood.”

“Shush, you,” you snickered, “You’re terrible.”

Kate shook her head and enclasped your hand with her other too, patting it twice. “Considering I would have usually already considered pulling the fire alarm to get out of this, I would say I’m terribly brave.”

In a faux-solemnity, you curled your fingers around hers and ignored the flutter of butterflies when she mirrored it. “Very brave,” you reinforced her. “And with the patience of a five-year-old during school attendance.”

Almost comedically, Kate’s eyes widened, and her mouth dropped open. She looked positively baffled and taken by surprise, and you were gleeful with joy and the rush that only this bantering sent surging through your veins, blood rushing into your cheeks. Just when she gathered herself, picked up her jaw and set to reply something, you raised your finger to your lips.

“Pscht now, I’m profoundly fascinated by this talk,” you hurried to lie. “I’ve always wanted to hear a man drone on about how great he thought his own performance was this year.”

Kate stared at you for a long beat. Then she closed her mouth, leaned back in her chair and shook her head, a quiet huff of laughter slipping out through her nose. “Impossible,” she murmured and returned her attention to the podium—some of it anyway; her fingers started to absently trace patterns across your knuckles, small arcs and soft lines that made your breath stumble each time.

You tried, really, truly tried, to listen to the speeches, to follow a word, a sentence, anything.

But all you could focus on was the slow, thoughtful motion of Kate’s thumb.

The gentle warmth of her palm cradling yours.

She only let go when dinner arrived in the swift, routine dance of black-and-white-tuxedo’d servers flocking out of the kitchen doors and placing big plates with tiny portions in front of everyone and the rumouring of voices lifted the noise level of the room, added by the clinking of cutlery, the swishing pouring of wine.

“Oh, marvellous,” Kate said flatly when the second course was served, leaned into your space for her hair to brush your shoulder, “Any smaller, and they would need microscopic help to plate these up. Who is supposed to get their fill from that?”

Out of the corner of your eye, you caught the other couple at the table watching you, and you recognised them as the founders of some biochemistry company that Kate had tried to wrap around her fingers for the longest of time, a pretentious and more than sceptical pair of insufferable rich folks. They hadn’t been the fondest of Kate—something about a prickly personality and too much sarcasm that, oh, was a bullseye description—and you would be damned if you didn’t try to sway them into her favour, one last effort to do your part in this charade.

“You should try this,” you said lightly and picked up your fork, hand underneath it, to bring it to Kate’s mouth. Your fingertips brushed her chin, lifting it ever so slightly so she could look you fully in the eyes as you fed her a piece of your chicken, watching, throat dry, as her lips closed around the cutlery and her lashes fluttered shut in delight.

The hum that vibrated through her should have been marked as indecent, but you threw yourself into this; you would finish it, too.

“And,” you muttered, loud enough for the couple obviously listening in, “if that’s not enough for you”—your finger danced over her lip, collecting a drop of gravy when Kate’s eyes shot up again, brown eyes and dark pupils widening. Your voice only shook slightly as you watched her tongue flick out to lick away the sauce, “I’m sure we can sneak into the kitchen and find you something else to sate your hunger.”

“Quite right,” Kate said gravelly. Her lips moved against your fingertip, pressing a tame kiss to it before you pulled away and considered downing the entire glass of water to cool down. “Is that all I get from you tonight, princess?” Kate asked, tongue sweeping slowly along her lower lip. “Or may I, being the terribly frail, terribly old woman I am, help myself to your dessert as well?”

“First of all,” you scoffed, heat kicking up your neck, “you are not old. You are ridiculously fit.”

Kate’s eyebrow arched sharply. “Fit?” she repeated, as if tasting the word. Her grin curved, gaining a pleased tilt to it that you couldn’t ignore.

“You can’t expect me to lie to you,” you muttered, straightening your shoulders.

Kate hummed low in her throat. “No, I don’t,” she purred, leaning just a fraction closer, “but I do wish to hear you elaborate.”

“Absolutely not! Forget that I even said anything!” you protested.

“Can’t do that, sweetheart,” the blonde smirked.

It was frighteningly effortless, the way you and Kate bantered, her foot knocking against yours; too fluid to be rehearsed, too warm to be pretend. If this were all performance, then Kate belonged on a West End stage, because something between you had to be real, at least a genuine harmony.

Wanting to stay in that seamless back-and-forth, to bathe in Kate’s attention underneath the golden chandelier light above London’s grey dress of heavy clouds, you shook your head. “For that awful teasing, you’re going to eat your own dessert and look at mine from afar.”

For a woman decades past her childhood, the pout that crossed Kate’s features shouldn’t have been as adorable as it was, but her lips pursed downwards, and there was a line on her forehead that you wished to smooth away with your thumb or mouth. “But it’s tiramisu,” she said, followed by a plaintive and sorrowful sigh.

“Well,” you dabbed the corner of your mouth with your napkin, “played your chance.”

Her nose scrunched up in thought, and then Kate finally, dramatically, flicked the curl of hair out of her face. “You give me no other choice,” she said, and her voice lifted into a light, airy tone of matter-of-fact, “I will have to court-martial you.”

“You can’t do that,” you said, and waited for her to say something. When all she did was raise both her eyebrows at you, your mouth dropped open. What was that? A line of her life? A speck of truth? “No way.”

“Mhmhm,” Kate hummed, winked, and denied ever saying anything about it for the rest of the dessert. By the end, she was polishing off both hers and your tiramisu, dragging the fork gleefully between her teeth and taking apparent pleasure in how you continuously tried pulling information out of her nose.

As a precautionary measure, so as not to break your golden rule, you concocted the wildest theories, from Kate as a military leader to Kate as the owner of an entire castle with the power to carry out beheading ceremonies, each hypothesis delving more and more into the absurd, your hands waving your fork in the air while Kate dipped hers into the cream of your nearly untouched dessert, chuckling in amusement.

If it had been up to you, the whole evening could have gone on like this, but the bubble burst relatively quickly when Kate fished her vibrating mobile phone out of her trouser pocket. Curious, you caught a glimpse of the display, of the name ‘Osgood’, before Kate turned it towards her and looked up apologetically.

“I have to take this.” There was a solemnity on her face that quickly reminded you how serious Kate could be, that there was this commanding presence of authority in her that had lured you in from the start and that showed up to take over her life, just as much as Kate popped up in yours.

“No problem,” you said, still wearing a half-smile that flickered like the candles on the table.

Kate’s dark eyes flitted over you, hesitating for a moment that you didn’t want to read too much into. “I’ll hurry,” she stated firmly. Then her lips were on your forehead, murmuring “Be good, princess” loud enough for you to realise that the kiss meant nothing more than a theatrical bow, and she was out of her chair.

Long legs hurried quickly between the tables, the mobile phone pressed to her ear, and all that remained was the soapy foam of your dream bubble, her jacket on the back of the chair, and your empty dessert plate.

You never knew how long Kate would disappear for her super secret phone calls, sometimes you could hear her muffled voice bark out a few orders as she marched off and her red nails were more than enough times tapping rushed messages into her phone when the two of you were in the car and she couldn’t just throw you out to take the call, that your ideas of her in some important job crystallized.

To pass the time, you wandered through the hall, engaging in half-hearted conversations while keeping an eye out for a blonde head of hair. Your longing seemed to arouse the pity of the couple who had shared the table with you during dinner, because after a while of standing by the window, counting the cars driving by, the typical red buses, or watching the London Eye turn in the distance, an arm suddenly slipped into yours.

“She’s a tough one, isn’t she?” the brunette woman, Lisa, you thought to remember, immediately started, her arm patting yours patronizingly.

“Uhm.” You blinked.

“Kate Stewart, silly girl,” she laughed, all charms and bells and it was so set-up a fairy was being born in the world. “Oh, we absolutely adore Miss Stewart,” Lisa gushed, breath warm with champagne.

You bit back the comment that you had been there for two occasions where Lisa’s husband had told Kate that he had no business dealing with her or wanted her anywhere near his field, which, to be honest, did not exactly sound as adore as Lisa put it up.

Instead you settled into your role, the one that agreed and nodded and smiled and made Kate look good. “So do I.”

Lisa scrunched her nose in a smile like a woman talking to a child. “You two are so cute.”

“Thank you?”

“And she’s so driven. Always chasing something. It’s admirable, of course—” Lisa paused and nodded to herself, “ambition is such a… vital trait.” Her smile tightened just enough to betray the barb beneath. “Though one does sometimes wish she would relax. There’s such a fine line between focused and… intense, isn’t there? But bless her, she means well.”

Now, you hadn’t grown up in these social circles, but one had to be ignorant to not hear the false mockery in the syrupy-sticky tone of voice. You stiffened. “Kate is quite wonderful,” you said clearly, “her ambition and drive are brilliant, and it makes her the best person to work with and to love.”

Oops, well there was a little too much truth rushing out of you there, but it seemed to satisfy Lisa’s greed for either information or gossip material.

The woman bumped your arm with performative glee. “Love, goodness! How charmingly sweet that sounds.” She squeezed your arm as though confiding a secret. “You must be quite something to keep her attention this long. It’s positively refreshing to see Miss Stewart all domesticated and gushing over you. I do hope she behaves for you more than she does for the rest of us.”

There was a wink that spiralled you to think about the low, velvety tone of Kate’s voice, the firm hand leading you around, the display of power that came in her picking you up in that car of hers, buying you clothes and jewellery.

You blushed, darkly. “She’s…yes, she’s—” you scrambled around in your head for the right word.

“Ah, there she is,” said Lisa, more than delighted, raising her hand in an unnecessary wave to get Kate’s attention.

As soon as the older blonde turned the corner, your eyes met across the crowd. A drink in her hand and the other hand in her pocket, Kate sauntered over to you, her hips swaying tantalisingly. “Excuse me, sweetheart,” she said in earshot. “I’ve kept you waiting for too long.”

“It’s alright.” You smiled and graciously accepted the tumbler. “Lisa was so kind to keep me entertained.”

Kate hummed and smiled at the brunette, claiming her spot at your side as she slung an arm around your waist and possessively placed her hand on your hip again. Bumping her nose against your temple, the soft press of her lips against your ear sent goosebumps all over your body, only worsened by the low murmur of, “I knew that if someone managed to pull the stick out of her arse it would be you.”

“She was in good hands with me, weren’t you, darling?” Lisa asked.

You were just about to agree and nod when Kate’s arm pulled you further into her slim frame, her thigh pressing into you to feel the heat of her body. “What fun,” she said, fixing Lisa with a smile that felt more like a wolf flashing its teeth at a helpless deer.

“Don’t worry,” Lisa waved off, “I’m not taking her away from you.”

“Good,” Kate purred, giving your hip a light squeeze, “I’ve grown rather used to being spoiled. Besides,”—she tipped her head toward you, eyes flicking over your face with unnerving precision—“she’s the only person I’ll tolerate fussing over me this way. The rest would end up blacklisted.”

“Someone has to keep you civilised,” you joked.

“Civilised? Don’t ruin my reputation.”

You rolled your eyes. “I wouldn’t dare.”

“Spot on,” Kate said cockily.

“After all,” you said thoughtfully, blinking your lashes up at the blonde. You paused for a moment, unable to stop the tiniest grin on your lips, “I would never risk being court-martialled by Your Highness.”

Kate barked out a loud laugh, her body shaking with the force of it, and her hand tightened on your hip. Her nose bumped your hairline as she turned her head, a low, almost teasingly vibrating hum sweeping against your temple. “With that mouth of yours, I think I should consider reintroducing beheadings.”

“You’re just jealous someone else has mastered the art of sarcasm,” you shot back, the next words following just as quickly before you could keep them behind your teeth. “And dare I say you like my head far too much for that.”

Oh fuck, did you just really say that?

Going by the sound coming from the back of Kate’s throat…the answer was clearly, horrifyingly, absolutely yes.

It was impossible to take back what you had just said—the echo of your own words reverberated in your ears like a gong in an empty church, over and over again—and you were already calculating whether it would be more realistic to travel back in time and stop yourself from your thoughtless torrent of words, or whether you could wipe the memory of everyone in this room, including yourself.

But Kate’s lips pulled into a lazy smirk, one that was like a pure shot of adrenaline. “Quite right,” she agreed in a husky murmur, her thumb drawing a circular motion on your hipbone.

The older woman kept her eyes on you, taking in the blush heating up your face that you desperately urged to die down again or else she would look straight through you, and there was a glimmer of curiosity, that glint of her razor-sharp mind that seemed to be analysing whatever it was that she saw to the point where you needed someone, anything to please interrupt because you couldn’t for the life and heart of you tear yourself away.

Was Kate leaning in? Were her eyes flicking down to your lips, or was the light playing tricks on you?

Luckily, you could always rely on the fragile ego of a rich person and their incapability to go five minutes without being the centre of attention.

“So it’s actually true,” Lisa cooed, the rings on her fingers clacking as she clasped her hands together and startling you. “The frosty Kate Stewart has melted into a romantic! Who would have thought the day would happen!”

The few centimetres that Kate shifted away from your face felt like freedom, giving you the room and chance to catch your breath as discreetly as possible. You lifted the glass that you had been clinging onto to your lips, a shaky exhalation rippling over the bubbly foam on what smelled like a honey-flavoured whisky concoction. There was a carousel of question marks zipping in a circle around in your head, a carnival light flashing or was that the roaring siren alarm of your heart, signalling you that you were reaching a limit of what you could and couldn’t take?

“One thing you can always rely on, the gossip mill shows more interest in me than any of your companies,” Kate said drily, shoulders stiffening.

Lisa’s eyes sparkled, the annoyance of Kate’s arrow flying right past her or, what you suspected more, was deliberately avoided. “Ah, now, Miss Stewart, none of that. I’m sure that if you tell me your little secret to harmony like yours, I can use it to sway that useless husband of mine to reconsider that request to visit our facilities.” With a more serious tone, said through a flippant smile, she added, “Under the right security measurements, of course.”

“Emotional blackmail,” Kate said wryly, “I’m almost impressed.”

Your eyebrows flew up into your hairline as your brain tried to save all this information, the ones that washed with waves of security-talk, words like blackmail and velvet-over-steel-wrapped arrangements, over the flirty, red-cheeked version of Kate. The enigma of Kate Stewart sliced through the fog, and you were glad that you were still staring down into your drink and swallowing the ever-growing question of what you had gotten yourself into.

“It’s fairly straightforward, no big secret or recipe,” Kate continued and pressed a quick kiss against your temple.

Her lips lingered.

Her words shot forward.

“It’s only love.”

And the phrase detonated behind your ribs. A single blow, a replay of her reminder in the lift, and Kate took you down without even noticing it.

The world felt like it was suffocating underneath a layer of thick snow, the sound of Lisa’s awing muffled, the hand that rested on your hips and drew you in ice-cold, and you swallowed, tasted cotton. Lifted your glass. Swallowed. Burned yourself and frost away with whisky, honey, and Kate’s attention.

Swallowed again.

Sound returned, your heartbeat in your ears the loudest, as you shifted back into your role and leaned into Kate. “Careful,” you teased, hoping your voice didn’t betray itself, “keep saying things like that and people will think you actually have a heart.”

“Don’t you worry about that,” chuckled Kate, oblivious to the storm that had quietened down; a resolution filling the space that questioning, hoping, wishing, had long occupied. Kate’s voice still had that lilt to it, the conspiring tone built on a shared secret and banter, “They would never think something absurd like that.”

You couldn’t continue this.

You knew, with a frightening, crystal-clear certainty, that if you stayed any longer in the orbit of her words, her presence, her pretence, you wouldn’t be able to get back up again. Not emotionally, not mentally—not without breaking.

Lisa excused herself with another cheerful toast, leaving the two of you in your own orbit. Straightaway, Kate’s hands fell away from your body and she turned her back halfway to the window. She kicked a leg out as she leaned against the glass, resting her hands in the pockets of her trousers. It was unfair how beautiful Kate was.

You took a step to join her, deliberately leaving a sliver of space between you so you wouldn’t be tempted to touch her. Your eyes followed where hers turned, out into the night. The sky had thickened, clouds gathering like wool—heavy enough to smother the city soon enough.

“I think it’s going to snow,” you said and wrapped an arm around yourself, the other keeping a hold of your drink.

Kate cocked her head in lazy agreement. “Mm. Certainly looks that way.”

“Maybe even tonight,” you added in thought, finding a bit of joy in the possibility.

A beat passed, then Kate scoffed under her breath. “Oh, that will be a pain, a single snowflake may cause mayhem to the entire city.” She shifted her weight against the window, eyes tracking the clouds. “Honestly, we should print warnings on the weather reports: brace yourselves, atmospheric variation incoming.”

“I don’t know, I quite like it,” you shrugged. “There is something magical about snow right before Christmas, isn’t there?” You looked into the distance, sighing wistfully. “You could almost imagine it’s London right out of all the movies.”

“It’s never like the movies,” Kate chuckled, and the way she said it felt like condescension. She didn’t see you furrow your brows for a moment, irritation creeping into your stance as you tightened the hold on yourself and let her go on. Kate lifted her chin, nodding down the building. “In five minutes it’ll be grey slush, people skidding about, the tubes seizing up and taxis revolting.”

Your hopeful smile faltered, a small sting knocking the brightness out of your chest. “Well.” You realised this was the first time Kate and you openly disagreed on something, and you had no desire to let every fake-date and memory of the last few months come to an end in an argument, so you tried another approach. You offered Kate something delicate, something fragile, something fully, true heartedly and purely you.

“Back home,” you began softly, “snow used to mean we’d drag out the sleds and build forts until our cheeks were numb. No one cared about delays or chaos, just the fun of it, you know?”

Kate arched an eyebrow, a wry smirk tugging at her lips. “Fun as that sounds, princess, I don’t have time to sit in a car buried in the hell that traffic will be while everyone else panics over a dusting of snow. Grown-up life isn’t exactly magical and whimsical picturesque.”

You pulled away further, a flash of frustration and annoyance bubbling angrily behind your temple. “Oh, woe is you, Kate,” you snapped, and a surprised confusion passed over her face.

“Did I miss something?” she asked, straightening up her posture to look down at you.

“Actually, yes,” you replied, stomach swooping and your heart missing a beat.

A frown etched itself between Kate’s eyebrows. “Care to enlighten me on what the bloody hell just happened?”

“You, Kate, you did!” you said bitterly, and took a swift sip of your drink. “You can’t go through a conversation without acting all superior; the older, wiser woman, can you?”

Her nose twitched. “Huh? When did I—what? When did I say anything like that?”

“Just now.” You glared at her.

“I bloody well didn’t,” she protested, her face contorting as if she was replaying the conversation.

You wrestled out half a groan, half a scoff. “You’re so thick, so saturnine.” You bristled, too upset by the whole evening washing down the drain so quickly, and shook your head. “Forget it.”

Kate’s hand shot out, enclasped your upper arm to draw you back in when you looked away from her and made a move to walk off, her grip tight enough to keep you at her side. “Right then… what on earth is going on?” she asked, voice clipped.

To your horror, tears stung in your eyes, hot and insistent. “God forbid that I romanticise this, Kate,” you said watery.

Kate’s eyes flicked past you, and you immediately noticed the faint, calculating gaze of a few nearby guests—hungry for gossip, eager to catch a crack in the perfect image she projected. You felt a pang of guilt, almost, for doing exactly the opposite of what she’d asked: make people like her, not judge her, not watch her girlfriend unravel. But the weight in your chest was too heavy, your energy spent, and the thought of maintaining the act any longer was unbearable.

Kate’s lips twitched and she huffed. You saw the emotional shutters behind her eyes slam down. “Enough of this. Time to go,” she murmured, the command quiet and absolute.

You let yourself be pulled along, body aligning with hers as she snagged both of your jackets from the chair and handed you one. Your hands trembled slightly as you stepped forward, tugging your coat on and letting it settle around your shoulders. You felt awfully small.

The lift doors slid open, and you caught your reflection: your hair slightly dishevelled, your lips pressed into a small, unsure line, watching Kate as she turned away from you to call the driver. Her profile, rigid and too sharp, left a hollow ache behind your ribs. You’d fucked up.

The cold bit at your heated cheeks outside, a heavy silence weighing between the two of you while Kate impatiently stared down the drive, her hands shoved deeply into the pockets of her trousers again, her eyebrows set into her story expression. When the dark car rolled up, and Kate strutted forward to open the door, you were unsure if you were meant to follow until she cocked her head.

“In you hop,” she said, a tight smile on her thin lips that probably meant to seem comforting. Not that she knew how to do that. At least not in the emotional way. This was all practical.

You dropped into your seat, clicking the seatbelt safe and curled into yourself, arms wrapped around your chest once more, and your head against the window. The bracelet around your wrist snagged slightly on a bit of lint in your sleeve, and the tears threatened to spill over as you unclasped it and let it drop into your pocket.

Kate kept her jacket on too, had once again folded one long leg over the other. In the dim, grey light she was squinting at the display of her phone, her lips pursed while she rapidly typed messages, nails clacking against the screen.

“I don’t know what happened at the end,” she said after an endless while of silence, of the engine purring quietly and your stifled sniffs, “But thank you, nonetheless.”

“For what?” you asked, keeping your eyes up towards the thick sky, awaiting the fall of snow.

“For all of it,” Kate said matter-of-fact, “You are very good company and make these events bearable, tolerable.” There was something that had to be a smile in her voice, and her next words made you want to die, “You’re the best pretend girlfriend anyone could ask for.”

Your throat clogged up at the pure tenderness that she wrapped the fist punching your gut in, unaware that her effort to be kind was everything but.

“About that,” your own voice so small it could have faded to disappear. You cleared your throat and kept your gaze fixed on the cloudy sky beyond the window. “I think… it would be best if we stop this. This arrangement, you know.”

Kate’s head turned sharply toward you.

You pressed on before you lost the nerve, words tumbling fast and brittle. “It’s been going on for too long, Kate. I don’t feel comfortable any more. It’s all…too much. All the secrets, and half-truths and, oh, you talked about military weeks ago. God knows what you’re mixed up in.” You let out a shaky breath. “For all I know, you could be some sort of crime matriarch, and I’m too naïve to notice.”

Her mouth parted in pure disbelief.

“And I can’t keep rearranging my life so you can dress me up, parade me around, and then drop me back at my door like a borrowed accessory.” You rattled it all off, a dam breaking. “I have a life too. Plans. People. Things that don’t revolve around your schedule or your image.”

Kate blinked, visibly stunned—like someone had pulled the ground out from beneath her.

“What?” she breathed, sounding utterly thrown. “Wait, hold on—what?”

You didn’t look at her. You couldn’t. Your hands were shaking too much, and if you met her eyes, you would break at the seams. Outside, the clouds finally split, fat flakes tumbling down, and strangers on the pavement paused to marvel, tipping their heads into their necks. You watched them with aching longing, everyone softening at snow while you hardened against the person beside you.

“I just think we should stop,” you whispered. “So, please don’t call any more.”

Kate stared at you, completely nonplussed, as if she had just walked into the middle of a conversation she didn’t remember starting.

For once, timing was on your side and the car turned onto your street, rolling smoothly but your heart felt bumpy nonetheless. You dug in your pocket, fingers grazing over the pendant on the bracelet before fishing it out, the gold chain dripping out of your hand and onto the seat between you like something gutted.

“Could you tell me what this truly is?” Kate asked, and the weary and hurt expression was nearly enough to reel you back in.

You shrugged again, heart on your tongue and feelings choking in your throat. Shaking fingers unclasped the seatbelt and curled around the door handle. You allowed yourself one last look at her, the beauty of her, the magnificence and charm that was Kate Stewart. “It’s only love, Kate,” you said and opened the door. “It’s only love. But I guess the tin woman of London’s High Society wouldn’t understand such childish and whimsical feelings.”

You didn’t wait for an answer, you wouldn’t have, couldn’t have, and absolutely shouldn’t have for the sake of your heart, but you did hear the breathy and broken, “Oh”, the sound of hurt that left Kate as you left her.

The snow melted on your burning face, ice flakes dripping down your cheeks in a stream of water and tears as you unfolded yourself from the seat and slammed the door shut behind you one last time. There was already a carpet of white dust on the pavement, and you watched your boots leave imprints, your head kept to the ground at every single step from the car to the front door of the house. Your heart thrummed inside your chest, each beat a hammer blow that punched breath after breath from you. You didn’t even feel relief, didn’t enjoy the cruel words that had been your last to her.

All you felt was pain.

Another slam of a car door broke through the night like a shot, then there was the hurried clicking of Kate’s heels, your name urgently called out.

You didn’t turn around, didn’t slow down your steps, only scrambled in your coat for your keys, intending on keeping your walls up. Of not allowing Kate back.

Your name again, louder, edged with panic now.

Then footsteps closed the last gap too fast, and a hand clamped around your arm. Your body betrayed you instantly, softening, submitting, folding, letting her steer you back against the cold wood of your door. Not slammed, but pinned—her strength unhidden, her desperation palpable. A soft sound, a whimper and “Please, let me, Kate,” fled your lips, and you lowered your head, streams of tears stinging on your face.

“Did you mean that?” Kate asked, her hand curling into the heavy fabric of your coat, yet you still felt every knuckle as if they burned right on your skin.

You clamped your mouth shut. Salt and melted snow and the need to deny, to lie, mixed on your tongue. She was so close, her head bowed down to you, the shadow of her lean frame blocked out most of the now heavier snowfall. You saw it hail down between what little space was between you, blurred through a veil of tears.

Kate shook you lightly, her fingers digging in further. “Talk to me, damn it!”

“Kate,” your voice wobbled and broke, a drop of spit and tears clinging to your lip as you took in a ragged breath, “please just let me leave, I can’t—” you sniffed and stared at the undone satin of her shirt, “I can’t continue, please. Don’t make me say it. Not again.”

Kate invaded your space further, and the hand on your arm eased only for her cold fingers to slide underneath your chin, a light pressure that nevertheless nudged you enough to follow it.

Your eyes dragged up her chest, up the ivory column of her neck and the slightly open mouth, over the blush of winter on her cheeks to finally meet her gaze. You whimpered again. A sob tore through you, ice-cold air filling your lungs as your eyebrows pulled together in a plea you repeated, watery.

“Please don’t make me say it.”

Dark eyes swept over you, again and again, a look in them that you hadn’t seen before on her. Delicacy. A pleading that mirrored yours. A vulnerability that made her even more beautiful.

“Why didn’t you tell me before?” she whispered, as if trying to truly figure you out.

“What?” you sniffed, blinking rapidly against the continuous tears, “Kate…you reminded me again and again that this is all pretend for you.”

The hand beneath your chin shifted, and she cupped your cheek, tender, trembling. Kate froze at the sound you made—a wounded, involuntary whimper she’d caused but didn’t seem to know how to stop.

Her thumb stroked through the tears. “I’m rather inept at all this,” Kate said slowly, voice low and uneven, “catastrophically ill-equipped for emotional conversations, if I’m being honest, and I had hoped I could get around it.” She swallowed visibly, her jaw tightening before she forced the next words out, “But you scare the hell out of me.”

You blinked, sniffed. Confusion warred with pain. “I scare you?”

Kate huffed almost helplessly, her thumb running over your skin in the same restless motion as her eyes trailed over your face. “Yes, you. And I never said I didn’t—” her mouth worked and her eyes flicked back to yours, terrified and furious at once, though with the way she held you, cradled you almost, you were sure the fury wasn’t aimed at you, “I never said I didn’t feel anything.”

You shook your head, tears thick again. “No, no, Kate. You only made it impossible for me not to feel anything. You flirt in front of others and touch me,” you swallowed and watched the snowflakes dust her golden hair, “And the next moment you don’t talk. You don’t show anything.”

Kate’s nostrils flared as if that hurt more than it should have. “Listen to me, you don’t just scare me, you terrify me. I don’t take anyone to these events because they’re my job, a damn important one at that, too. It was reckless bringing you into it, but you wonderful, infuriating girl, were the perfect excuse for me to find some private, selfish enjoyment in them.”

You stared at her, the cold nipping at your fingers balled tightly together at your side, the metal of your keys biting into your palm. Even if you had known how to respond, Kate was already continuing, her hand moving to your jaw and her mouth twisting.

“I flirt because I don’t know how to be subtle with you. I touch you because if I don’t, I’ll implode. And I shut up because the moment I open my mouth, I might say something I can’t take back.”

Kate leaned in, forehead nearly brushing yours, snow melting against her hair as she swallowed hard.

“So yes,” she whispered fiercely, “I reminded you it was pretend, because the alternative, the truth, is that it hasn’t been pretend for me in a very long time. And I don’t have the faintest idea how to handle that.” She exhaled shakily, thumb still stroking, as if she could apologise through touch alone. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know how to do this. I was trying to keep you safe, from me and my work.” An unguarded, raw vulnerability flashed across her face, and it was so unlike the woman you had spent half a year with.

Head swimming with her confession, your hands loosened, slipping the keys back into your coat pocket. Shakily, you reached out for her. Nearly frozen fingers touched her temple, the bloody curl of hair that was slightly matted from the weather brushed your hand, and you couldn’t help it; Kate’s eyelashes lowered for a fraction of a second when you twirled the hair behind her ear and traced the shell of it.

“You really didn’t joke about the court-martialling now, did you?”

A crooked smile lightened up Kate’s expression. “What if I told you that I work in the Tower of London and have an army of ravens?”

“I’d say you’re absurd for calling me princes,” you said, the lightheartedness in the words coming as easily as breathing.

“I will show them to you,” Kate said and searched for your eyes again. “I will put in an effort so you never have to feel as small as you did.” “It felt fucking horrible, Kate,” you whispered and dropped your hand along the collar of her jacket. “For you to show me around and then disappear until you send me the next invitation and jewellery. I know that was what we agreed on, but I truly can’t continue like that.” “You won’t have to. Give me a chance to prove that to you.”

You hesitated briefly, the pain of loving someone far away had left its mark on your heart, as did the decision to end this tonight, to never let yourself be treated like an accessory again.

“Prove it to me right now,” you said hoarsely, “Prove—”

The rest of it was gone in the snow and wind as Kate surged forward.

Her mouth slanted over yours, and she kissed you in desperation, in pure want and need that had you grasping for her, to pull her closer, to offer yourself for her to take what she needed. You could only hold on, falling against the door as Kate crowded you against it closer and pinned you against the wood with her hips. Her fingers slid into your hair and her tongue brushed against yours; unable to help yourself, you whimpered against her lips, a warm breath into her mouth, and Kate responded in a low moan.

A chant of your name, her teeth finding your lower lip and tugging on it, Kate lost herself and dragged you right with her, once again in a dance of call-and-answer, of her hand curling around your waist, and you opening your mouth for her tongue.

The kiss slowed, her nose bumped yours—cold, another kiss of winter—and you gasped for air as she fell against your forehead.

“Is this prove enough?” she rasped, catching your lip in another nip.

You were too dazed to properly talk, your knees jelly and a live wire zapping electricity through your entire body when her leg inched between yours.

“Mhm,” Kate hummed, an amused chuckle rippled over every single goosebump on your body like a stone skipping on water. “If you would allow me to come up,” Kate said lowly, lips moving against yours, then brushing up your cheek, and kissing a path up to your ear, “then I could properly apologise for stealing your dessert.”

And apologise she did, over and over. The two were barely upstairs and in your flat when Kate’s lips were back on yours, kissing you like she couldn’t get enough, needed more, needed you, and you answered just as desperately, mumbling directions to your bedroom.

Kate apologised with her mouth working between your legs, teasing strokes like her fingers on your hand during the speeches, in flicks against your clit and lavishing licks when you crashed over the edge with your fingers grasping her hair and your hips pressing against the pinning strength of her arms.

Kate apologised in words, in praises of you’re so beautiful, and that’s my girl murmured and kissed against your neck and throat, into the corner of your mouth when she held you against her, the softness of her breasts in your back and her fingers dipping inside you, curling, drawing back out and circling your bundle of nerves, then dipping again.

Later, a handful of orgasms that had your legs trembling and tears springing to your eyes, you were showered and a satisfied, exhausted pile curled into the lap of the older woman with the blanket up to your shoulder blades and Kate’s hand wandering aimlessly over the love bites on your neck.

She had roamed through your closet after pampering you in the bath, the red slip hugging the curve of her arse and her legs going all the way to the ground floor of the building by the length of them, before she crawled back into bed and underneath the covers.

Now your nose nuzzled into the fabric of one of your jumpers that made her look astonishingly soft. A piece of you on her. There was also a pair of black-framed glasses low on her nose as she scrolled through her phone, pausing the calming scratches on your skin to type with both hands.

You owlishly blinked up at her, your fingers wandering underneath the jumper to hold the softness of her waist and stomach. “Kate,” you mumbled into a yawn.

“Yes, darling?”

“What happens now?”

She threw you a wicked look over the top of her glasses that was entirely indecent and smirked. “If that’s your coy way of requesting another round, you might try actually catching your breath first.”

Heat shot straight to your face. “I—that’s not—I didn’t—” you sputtered, and mumbled into the jumper, “I didn’t mean that.”

Kate only hummed, infuriatingly pleased with herself. “After the ways I’ve fucked you, I would be surprised if you would be that needy again so quickly.”

“Kate!” you whined, blushing further. “I asked about us, not your bloody stamina. I’m sure if you touch my clit again in the next twenty-four hours, it’ll fall off.”

She lazily stretched her legs underneath you, smugness in every cell of her body. “And I know that I could make you come without touching it,” she said, then shut off her phone and threw it into the blankets. Both of her hands returned to you, one stroking along your spine and the other cupping your cheek in her palm again; you melted into the touches like butter on a freshly baked loaf.

“Seriously though,” Kate’s fingernails scratched along your hairline and behind your ear, “I did mean it when I said my job isn’t your regular nine-to-five at some desk.”

“Crime matriarch,” you yawned and nodded, feeling her raspy laughter jolt her stomach.

“Something close to it, yes,” she murmured impossibly fond, and stroke her thumb over the kissed-bruised bow of your lip. “There will be a whole load of paperwork and confidentially clauses, and likely a psych assessment to ensure you haven’t lost your mind by agreeing to date me.”

You huffed and shook your head. “You’re far too harsh on yourself. Beneath all that bite and sarcasm, you’re… irresistible. Honestly, it’s almost unfair how easy it is to love you.”

Kate’s hands stilled for a breath.

When you looked up, her eyes were wide and dark, intimate grey snow-light illuminating the redness on her cheeks.

“You still mean that?” she asked quietly, and you saw when the mountain of emotional vulnerability seemed too high for her to climb, the corners of her lips pulling down into that wry smile. “Even though Boq never managed to break the curse to be a tin man?”

“That was mean of me to say,” you said quietly, “and wrong. I’m sorry for throwing that at you.”

“It’s alright,” Kate’s smile softened, “Don’t worry about it, princess. I think I may have already been hit by a spell.”

“Abracadabra?”

“No, nothing like that” she laughed and tapped your nose. “Dare I say…it’s love, and only yours.”

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