In every lifetime, i’d come home to you
Warnings-none. Straight fluff
The rain had started sometime around six.
Not the dramatic kind that rattled windows or flooded streets—just soft, steady rain that turned the city silver outside the apartment windows. The kind that made everything feel quieter. Smaller. Safer.
Alex Cabot stood at the stove in one of y/n’s old college sweatshirts, sleeves shoved to her elbows as she stirred a pot of pasta like she hadn’t spent the last twelve hours dismantling a witness on the stand.
“You’re burning the garlic.”
Alex glanced over her shoulder with mock offense. “I am not.”
Y/n leaned against the kitchen doorway, barefoot and grinning, hair still damp from a shower. She’d stolen one of Alex’s oversized T-shirts, and it hung off one shoulder in a way that should’ve been illegal.
“You absolutely are,” she laughed.
Alex sighed dramatically. “Then perhaps you should cook.”
“Nah. I like watching you pretend to be domestic.”
Alex pointed the wooden spoon at her. “I’ll have you know I’m very domestic.”
“Oh yeah?” y/n crossed the kitchen slowly, arms wrapping around Alex’s waist from behind. “Last week you tried to microwave aluminum foil.”
“That was one time.”
“And you almost set the apartment on fire.”
“A learning experience.”
A laugh brushed against Alex’s shoulder, warm and soft. Followed by a kiss—lazy and absentminded, pressed right beneath her ear.
That was the thing about loving her.
It wasn’t loud most days.
It wasn’t fireworks or dramatic declarations in the rain. It was this. Hands around her waist while pasta boiled over. Kisses in the kitchen. Someone remembering how she took her coffee after impossible mornings in court.
Someone staying.
Alex leaned back into her instinctively, exhaustion finally catching up with her bones.
“Tough case?” Y/n asked quietly.
Alex hesitated.
“Yeah.”
She didn’t elaborate, and she didn’t have to. That was another thing. She’d spent years surrounded by people who demanded explanations from her—judges, detectives, reporters. But with y/n, silence was allowed and understood.
Y/n squeezed her once before letting go. “Go sit down. I’ll save dinner.”
Alex narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “You just want control of the garlic situation.”
“Correct.”
“Hm.”
Still, Alex surrendered the spoon and moved toward the couch, collapsing against the cushions with a tired sigh. The apartment smelled like rain and tomato sauce and the vanilla candle her girlfriend insisted on lighting every night.
A few minutes later, two bowls appeared on the coffee table.
“See?” Y/n said proudly. “No kitchen fire.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“And yet,” y/n hummed, curling up beside Alex, “you’re obsessed with me.”
Alex looked at her for a long second.
Then another.
Because sometimes it still caught her off guard—that this was real. That after years of running from danger and grief and loneliness, she somehow ended up here. In sweatpants on a couch arguing over garlic with the woman she loved.
Y/n nudged her knee. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re about to say something emotional.”
Alex scoffed lightly. “I would never.”
“Liar.”
Alex smiled despite herself, small and helpless around the edges.
“I just…” She paused. “I missed you today.”
Something in y/n’s expression softened instantly.
“You saw me this morning.”
“Yes, well. It was a very long day.”
“That bad?”
Alex nodded once.
Without another word, y/n set her bowl down and climbed into Alex’s lap sideways, arms wrapping around her neck. Alex let out a startled laugh.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“And you need attention.”
“I do not.”
“You texted me four times before noon.”
“One of those was about coffee.”
“One was literally just the word ‘help.’”
Alex buried her face against her shoulder, laughing quietly for the first time all day.
“There it is,” y/n whispered, fingers sliding through Alex’s blonde hair. “That’s the sound I was waiting for.”
The rain tapped softly against the windows.
Alex could feel her heartbeat slowing beneath warm hands and familiar perfume and the weight of someone who loved her enough to memorize every version of her—sharp-edged prosecutor, exhausted insomniac, sarcastic disaster in fuzzy socks.
“You know,” y/n murmured, tracing invisible lines against Alex’s neck, “you get clingy when you’re tired.”
“I do not get clingy.”
“You absolutely do.”
Alex opened her mouth to argue, but then y/n’s lips brushed hers slow enough to steal the thought entirely.
The kiss tasted faintly like red wine and laughter.
Not rushed. Never rushed.
Y/n kissed her like she had nowhere else to be.
Alex’s hand slid instinctively to her waist, fingertips brushing warm skin beneath the oversized shirt. The kiss deepened just slightly before y/n pulled back with a grin.
“You looked stressed,” she whispered.
“That’s one way to fix it.”
“Oh?” A teasing eyebrow lifted. “You saying I’m therapeutic?”
“I’m saying you’re distracting.”
“Same thing.”
Alex kissed her again before she could get smug about it.
Outside, the city kept moving. Sirens somewhere downtown. Taxi lights reflecting on wet pavement. Thousands of people living thousands of separate lives.
But inside the apartment, the world narrowed to tangled legs on the couch and sleepy smiles and the feeling of being loved gently.
And maybe that was Alex’s favorite part.
Not the grand moments.
Not the impossible ones.
Just this.
Coming home to her.