Aug 20, 2025
Bonus:
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from Morocco
seen from Morocco
seen from United States
seen from Slovenia
seen from United States
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seen from Türkiye
seen from Australia
seen from Canada
seen from Slovenia
seen from Russia
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seen from Saudi Arabia
Bonus:
scribbles in paint
25
Rita Calhoun x reader warnings: language, that's about it? welp. i think the bitch is back?!!! (me. i am the bitch). It looks like the last thing I posted was in September and that's likely the last time I wrote. ugh. And there was likely a month off before then too. oop. Anyways, i'm hoping this is the beginning of the spark coming back, but it is holiday season and work is A LOT, so here's hoping I find a creative outlet in this again and it not becoming a must do burden of a task, ya know? Thank you to everyone who's stuck around, who's sent in req's (even if they didn't get done, or are sitting in the 1/3 done wip pile that hasn't been touched in months lol. sorrrrrrry). please continue to do so and chat with me, i swear im here and active and check things daily, even if i'm not writing i still love to yap about our faves! <3 2.1k I didn't look this over minus spelling so... good luck and godspeed.
When Rita saw the dinner meeting on your shared calendar— circled in pink ink and complete with an annoyed face emoji— she knew exactly what that meant. That at the end of another long week, you’d be stuck at the office until at least seven thirty, eating take out that you had no choice in, pretending to sip a glass of whiskey to keep up appearances like you were one of the guys. She was all too aware of what it was like attempting to climb the patriarchal ladder in a room full of old, white, rich men who each thought they had the biggest dick on the upper east side. How much of a struggle it was holding up your end of every single deal when you were the only woman present, how everything came down to a near science of when to keep your mouth shut and look pretty and when you could actually sneak a tidbit of an idea into the group and pray it didn’t get stolen as someone else’s creation. Yes, there was a reason you absolutely loathed the evening meetings.
Certain that it would be deemed the woman in the room obviously only wanted rabbit food, Rita’s first stop was at a bistro around the corner from your share apartment. A bowl of carbonara for herself and one of a spicy arrabiata sausage penne for you, along with extra garlic bread and an order of bruschetta. Once she was sure the apartment was exactly as cozy as she wanted it, she changed from her two piece suit into a pair of dark linen pants, pulling a green sweater over her head and slipping back into her coat before heading back out into Manhattan.
As if on schedule at seven forty-five she heard the distant ping of an elevator in the back hallway of your office building, the rumbling of deep laughter and boisterous jeers echoing into the lobby. The more prestigious members sneaking out the back door together, off to drink their weight in beer and smoke cheap cigars. Rita couldn’t even bother to hold her contempt, a small scoff leaving the back of her throat as she rolled her eyes and she picked up her phone again. She shot off a text reply to Rafael and it didn’t take long for the two of them to slip into a banter of whose turn it was to pick up the tab next time they had lunch. A louder, closer elevator pinged, the doors swooshing open and the sound of stilettos against the faux marble floor took precedence in the lobby. A second later your name was flashing across her phone screen and her lips twitched up into a small smile before she answered, looking up across the lobby.
“Don’t look so downtrodden, it can’t have been that bad.”
You stalled at the sound of her voice wafting through both of your ears, not just the one your phone was held up to, and when you glanced up the weight of the day melted off you. Your shoulders dropped, tension dissipating as a breath left your lips right before they curved upwards.
“Rita…” your head tilted, your stride slowing as you approached the bench she was perched on, “you didn’t—”
“Oh, don’t start.” She wagged a playful, warning finger, “I was in the neighbourhood.” She gestured to the paper takeout bag as she scooped it up.
“Figo closed an hour ago.” You countered with a raised brow, taking her hand in yours when she stood and moving towards her to steal a kiss, “you should have just gone home.”
“Mmm.” Her head shook ever so slightly, “it’s part of my job to wait for you.” Her lips brushed against yours once again and you felt another wave of frustration leave your body. “I have to make sure my girl’s properly taken care of, don’t I?”
“Is there real food in there too?” You asked, attempting to stick a finger into the bag to get a peek before Rita swatted your hand away. “I’m starving.”
“I picked up your favourite on the way home.” Her hand squeezed at yours, prompting you to fall into step beside her so the two of you could make your way out of the building, “it’s just waiting to be warmed up.”
“God, I love you.” You couldn’t help the warm smile on your face as you leant in to kiss her cheek softly, “always know how to cheer a girl up.”
“After all these years?” She laughed, “I should hope so.”
You rolled your eyes at her, swatting her elbow before pulling open the back door of the SUV, guiding her to slide in before you, pulling the door shut once you were both safely inside. The city streets flew by, glittering lights growing brighter as the sky became darker, fewer people inhabiting the streets, squeezing their way into ritzy bistros or worn down bars after their own long weeks of work. Letting the stressors of life leave the forefront of their minds as they focused on enjoying their weekends, spending time with their loved ones and doing something fun.
Rita’s fingers traced the palm of your hand, her manicured nails tickling patterns into your skin and a shiver moved its way through you. You shifted, collecting her hand in yours, threading your fingers together and squeezed softly.
“You want to talk about it?” She murmured.
“Usual bureaucratic bullshit.” You replied, “but at least no one tried to take credit for my article that made front page this time.”
“A step in the right direction.” She teased, earning a playful scoff from you as you turned your head to face her.
“What about you? You were in court today, yeah?”
“Mmhm.” She nodded as the car slowed, pausing to tip the driver and slide out of the vehicle behind you.
The smile wound its way onto her cheeks without her even noticing at the way you immediately held your hand out behind you in wait for her to take it again. Her fingers interlocked with yours instantly, warmth blooming through her entire body from the subtle touch, the way your thumb brushed over her knuckles in a calming manner even though you were the one coming off a stressful situation. Though she shouldn’t have been surprised, it was always like this, relaxing her, helped you. Making her feel happy and loved in turn made you feel happy, loved and appreciated. It was just how the dynamic of your relationship worked and she wouldn’t have it any other way.
“It wasn’t too bad.” She stated as the elevator doors slid open, “just Rafael.”
You chuckled softly, pressing the button for your floor, “sometimes I’m not sure whether the days you two are together are easier or worse.”
“That man certainly does know how to get under my skin.” She muttered, “but he was on his best behaviour today.”
“Good.” With a smile you followed her out of the elevator, around the corner and into your apartment. A small groan leaving your lips as you dumped your purse onto the entry way table, fishing your phone out of it.
“Why don’t you go get changed while I heat up dinner?” Rita offered, gently nudging you in the direction of the hallway and you thanked her with a satisfied grin.
By the time you’d returned into the living room, clad in pyjama pants and a cozy tee, your face free from make-up and hair tied back, Rita had dinner reheated. Two large plates sat on the island with steaming pasta and huge hunks of garlic bread neatly arranged on the side. She was in the midst of pouring a glass of wine for each of you when you wrapped yourself around her back, pressing tender kisses to the side of her neck.
Rita placed the bottle down onto the island, re-corking it before her hands came to rest on yours, squeezing gently as she leant back into your embrace.
“Thank you.” You murmured, nuzzling into the warmth on the crook of her neck and she nearly shivered at the feeling of your lips brushing over her skin.
“Of course, darling.” She picked up one of your hands in hers, leaving a kiss in the palm of your hand that made butterflies erupt in your stomach. Even after all the years she still knew how to make you melt into a puddle of goo.
“It smells amazing.”
She chuckled, “all I did was pick your favourite, I can’t take credit for how good it is.”
“I know.” You teased, prodding her in the ribs, “I can’t smell anything burnt, that’d be the dead giveaway if you cooked.” Your hands reached out for the takeout bag from Figo, “what’s their flavour of the month? You got yourself the coffee one, right? Not just spoiling me?”
Rita laughed softly, selecting silverware from the drawer as you slid the bag of gelato across the island towards you.
“Oof.” It needed a harder yank than you’d expected, “clearly you did.” Finally, you were able to pull apart the sides of the bag, ripping the stapled paper and your eyes widened at the sight inside, “Rita!”
A shoulder lifted as she slid a fork onto each of your plates, “I wasn't sure which flavor you wanted so I got all of them.”
“There’s—” your hands fumbled through the bag quickly, “twenty five cups in here!”
“I didn’t want to disappoint.” She replied with another shoulder raise, her hands chasing yours away from dessert, “you can figure out which one you want later, don’t let your dinner get cold.” She scooped up the bag, hiding it away in the freezer as you nearly gaped at her.
You couldn’t help but shake your head, a happy laugh escaping your lips as you picked up your plate and followed her into the living room.
“You’re something else, you know that?” You asked, settling in beside her on the couch.
“My favourite girl had a shitty end to a long day.” She replied, turning towards you, her fingers pushing back a piece of your hair before trailing down your cheek, “I wasn’t about to let her down and I know just how much you love a sweet treat.”
Shaking your head again, you could barely keep the beaming smile off your face, adoration pouring from your eyes to hers.
“Guess I’m pretty lucky to be your favourite then.”
“I’d say I’m the lucky one.” She countered, her fingers curling under your chin to guide you to her for a sweet kiss, her lips moving softly against yours. “I love you darling.”
“I love you more.”
“I’m not sure that’s a battle you’ll ever win.” Rita teased, a gleam in her eye as she relaxed back into the couch and picked up her carbonara.
You picked up the remote as you rolled your eyes, more than well aware that she was watching you out of the corner of her eyes. Normally, you’d fire off a couple more remarks about how it was impossible she loved you more, battling back and forth for a while until the fake argument finally petered off. But tonight you didn’t have much of a starting point and you weren’t about to even attempt to be upset about that.
Rita knew you, every inch of you, emotionally, physically, metaphorically and she always knew just what to do when it came to cheering you up. Or when you were starting to get sick, when you needed to vent, when you needed to cry, what kind of chocolate you wanted the day before your period started and that it was an entirely different kind of chocolate once your period actually did start. She knew that you liked to greet the sun first thing in the morning, that you preferred the towels on the left side over the right. That it didn’t matter what the wine pairing for your dinner was, you wanted a glass of pinot grigio—with two ice cubes. She knew your coffee order, that you only liked eggs when they were hard boiled, and preferred peanut butter and banana sandwiches over the classic pb and jelly.
She also knew that at the end of an overstimulating week the last thing you wanted to do was make any kind of even potentially hard decision. Hence the twenty five flavours of gelato. And that a sweet treat was your preferred way to end the week.
She knew all of this because she loved you. She loved you with every fibre of her being and she always would. In the same sense that calming her, calmed you, loving you made her feel so incredibly loved. Each and every day she was so thankful that she got to be the one loving you and she knew that you felt the exact same, that both of your lives were far better because of this love.
And if that meant twenty five flavours of gelato, so be it.
———————
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this entire scene is so hilarious to me. comedy gold.
Secret Admirer
Rita Calhoun x fem!reader
Summary: After watching Rita during a hearing, an idea hits you and like clockwork, flowers begin anonymously appearing on Rita Calhoun's desk each week. She becomes suspicious and eventually after a conversation with Barba, she realises who her secret admirer is.
Warnings: mention of usual SVU topics (rape, stalking, pregnancy), inspo came from the season 14: episode 18 titled "legitimate rape", use of Y/N, Barba being a gossip, brief alcohol consumption, Rita and Rafael are friends and you can't argue otherwise, general fluff, reader being a softy.
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It all started when Barba had recommended a lawyer for a victim, Avery Jordan, who was fighting to keep custody of her child conceived from rape. He said he knew exactly who to call, and he was right to call Rita Calhoun, the best lawyer for the job. Throughout the custody hearing, Rita fought hard to empathise with Avery and emphasise the ludicrous mindset of Mr. Purcell. She showed the photos he had taken of Avery, before her pregnancy and even before her assault, making it clear that the hearing was solely his way of controlling Avery, or rather in her words, "This is isn't about the baby, This is about you being obsessed with Ms. Jordan." Purcell argued, of course, claiming, "It's wasn't like that." And that he was, "just showing her how much he loved her."
Rita's response was immediately and demeaning, "-By spying on her, menacing her, and trying to humiliate her publicly?" And as she threw down some files onto her table, staring the man in the eyes, before speaking with that condescending smile of hers, "Ever heard of flowers?" You watched from beside Olivia as Rita continued her questioning, or rather her interrogation of Mr. Purcell. Ultimately, Rita achieved full custody for Avery over her baby boy, with minimal supervised visits for Purcell that, unfortunately, was not something Rita could overturn.
During that hearing, you saw another side of Rita, one who was gentle and compassionate with Avery and her usual challenging and deservingly undermining self toward Purcell. Her words were concise as she masterfully awarded the right bearing to each one, whether she needed to be firm, empathetic, or reassuring. However, with everything she had said, one thing had stuck with you, the condescending comment, "Ever heard of flowers?" You couldn't manage to understand why exactly that had stuck out to you, nor stayed in your mind for the next week to come.
It was a speculation that all women loved receiving flowers. For some, it was far from the truth, but for others, it was just that simple, and perhaps it was that way for her. You began to wonder if she would appreciate flowers or rather flowers from you.
Being a detective at SVU meant you had your fair share of run-ins with Rita. It was friendly between you, mostly. Eventually, you had learned to respect her choice of profession, but regardless, you often had moments of disagreement. When a case was going badly for SVU, you had a tendency to question her morals and it would result in arguments, however these never lasted too long as the next time you would see her, you both would be back on the same page again and with time you became more comfortable with one another, trading quips and sarcastic remarks as easy as you breathed.
Still, despite this comfortability you and her had created, you were uncertain whether a thing such as flowers would be taken as an unwanted gesture or more rather a romantic one, which you had assured yourself was not the message you intended, or maybe it was. And so, with that in mind, you decided to entertain this thought for a while.
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The past year or so you've known Rita, it wasn't uncommon for you to visit her at her office and so you had become quite familiar, if not friendly with her assistant who resided at a desk outside Rita's sanctuary. Each Monday morning, a new vase of flowers would find their way onto her desk. At the first appearance of them, Rita had shrugged it off, figuring it had been a client saying thank you despite there being no note indicating as such. After the third week is when she finally became suspicious, she asked her secretary, but apparently it was a mystery who had sent them, and gradually over the next couple of months, the flowers continued and so did her smile at seeing them at the beginning of each week, she found a small comfort in seeing the new arrangement each time, like something to make her want to get out of bed for.
One day, however, She had a trial against Barba, and in the end, he was the victor, both of them wound up walking to Rita's office for a shared drink. As they entered, she approached her desk, getting out a bottle of bourbon, but as she poured them, she turned to see Rafael, who was now seated in front of the desk, eyeing the vase that resided by a stack of papers, amusement and questioning evident from his raised brow. She rolls her eyes and hands him one of the glasses, sitting on the edge of her desk, "What's that look for?" He smirks and shrugs, "Nothing, just wondering what the occasion is?" She takes a long sip of the amber liquor, relishing in the heat at the back of her throat it provided, "If you must know, there is no occasion, I've just been receiving flowers for a while now."
Rafael laughs, tasting the bourbon himself, but the sound falls as he realises she wasn't joking, "Seriously? Well, who are they from?" She gently kicks his leg with her heel at his laugh and surprise before answering, "Yes I'm being serious, and to be honest I don't know who they're from exactly, they never leave a note." Barba's smirk returns, "so...you have a secret admirer?" "What? No, of course not. " "Really, cause it seems like you do- how long have they been showing up in your office?" Rita takes a moment, thinking before she answers, her denial of the flowers' sentimental significance wavering and her voice low. "Every week for....three months."
At this information, he bursts out with a deep laugh once again, this time with more vigour, his grip on his glass tightening as he leans forward. "Jesús, Y/N isn't exactly subtle now, is she?" Rita paused, her glass at her lips as she was about to take another taste of the drink, but her hand lowered, her eyes narrowing and brows knitting together. "What do you mean Y/N, there's no note?" Rafael eventually catches his breath, leaning back against the chair cushion, amused at her true confusion. "Well, I just figured they'd be from her. She has a massive crush on you-" "she does?" "Yeah why'd you think she fights with you so much?" "Cause I'm opposing counsel?." "Seriously? Dios, I thought you knew that already, Calhoun."
The conversation shifts, but she finds her mind returning to the flowers and you. She had always had a way of knowing whether someone liked her, so there was no way you did, right? She shook her head and emptied the glass, the flavour lingering on her tongue.
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The next few days, she floods her schedule with work, hoping to ignore the idea of confronting you. It's not that she was scared, there was so very few things that scared her, and this wasn't one of them, but she finds herself overthinking this more than she usually does with anything. Over the time she's gotten to know you, you've somehow squirmed your way into her mental list of people she enjoys the company of and even trusts, not that she'd ever openly admit that, but she knew in her heart that there was a reason she had never thought of you as her secret admirer, or at least acknowledged the thought.
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It was mid afternoon friday. She was scribbling down some notes after just finishing a trial. She wasn't expecting company, so when she heard a knock at her door, she looked up quickly. Setting the pen down cautiously, she was half hoping it was you, the other half knowing there was more chance of it being her secretary. But to her luck, as she called for the person to enter, she saw you as the door opened, and almost instinctively, a small but visible smile tugged at her lips as you entered her space. She silently notes the way your eyes flick to the vase, a somewhat matching smile appearing on your features as you see the floral arrangement was well kept, the soft colours sticking out in her office, the small amber glow of a lamp lighting the room, creating a warm but still atmosphere.
"What can I do for you, detective?" She asks, gesturing for you to sit in the chair across from her desk, keeping her voice steady despite the smile on her face. "I just wanted to drop by, y'know, since we haven't had many cases together for a while now." You answer as you sit down, shrugging slightly like you wasn't admitting to actually seeking out her company. She let's out a light, breathy laugh, "Drop by?" "Yeah...I mean- unless you're too busy-" she cuts you off, "No, I'm not too busy...actually, I've been meaning to ask you something." She admits, scanning your face for a reaction of any kind. "Sure, anything." You reply, no more than a second after, missing the way her heart quickened its pace at your eager reply. "Well...I suppose I'll just get right to it then." She stands up, heels clicking softly against the carpet as she walks around to perch on the edge of her desk in front of you, your knee gingerly brushing against her leg as she crosses them. "These flowers....did you send them?"
You take in a deep breath, there was no point in lying to her, not when she was so direct to ask and so with a steady enough voice that you could muster, you tell her the truth. "Yes...I've been sending them." You see her shoulder's relax as she lets out a breath, one she hadn't realised she'd been holding since you walked in. Her heartbeat becomes louder now at your admission, so much so that she could feel it thumping hard against her ribs. A flutter building in her abdomen, it was butterflies, something she hasn't felt in a long time. She swallows her feelings, voice trembling ever so slightly, "Can I ask...why?"
You think for a moment, your smile growing as you do, an almost prideful look in your eyes which had finally landed on hers. "Well...I uh...got the idea from some comment you made in court and...I thought that considering the criminals you face have to defend each day...that you have to sit back and listen to their crimes and act like nothing happened...I could...well- I wanted to give you something to look forward to, something to make you smile."
For a moment, all air floods out of her lungs, her eyes widen as she listens to your reasoning, and in that moment, she realises the flowers did just that. They gave her a reason to come to work, to get through one week at a time, to smile again for something that wasn't just winning some case. They way you said it, "to make her smile." Like it was the easiest thing in the world, but to her, it was everything, and she had you to thank for that. A delicate and genuine smile stretches across her face at how thoughtful it was.The butterflies fluttering in her stomach become more rampant as she looks at your face, that proud and honest look in your eyes, sat there in front of her with no idea what this gesture is doing to her.
"Thank you...Y/N" Her voice is soft, gentle in the way that's calming to your nerves. A moment of silence draws over the two of you, not an uncomfortable one, but rather a silence that feels full, complete almost, both of you exactly where you wanted to be. Together.
"Do you like them?" You ask, a playful smirk on your lips, and you both share a laugh, a freeing laugh. She stands up off the edge of the desk, looking down at your in that chair, her knee brushing hers, almost intentionally now as she leans toward you, your gaze joined to hers, her hair falling forward, and you instinctively push a loose piece behind her ear, fingers lingering on her cheek, she shivers softly and that's all it took for her to lean down fully, her breath fanning your face, her expensive perfume invading your senses as she whispers, "I love them."
And with that, you feel her lips meet yours, your hand cupping her cheek, thumb stroking the curve of her face. Her hands on the arms of the chair, holding her self upright as she kisses you, it felt like the easiest thing in the world, but for both of you, it was the start of everything
For You Pt. 1
Rita Calhoun x Navy Seal!reader Warnings: lots of flirting!, Rita being a lil shyt, sass city WC: 3.1k Authors Note: I'm back! Life has been pretty rough lately so writing has been hard. I missed my ladies. Thank you @roylekel for this request! This is part 1 and I'll keep adding to this story as the mood strikes. Enjoy my loves <3
Your sister had insisted you “do something normal,” which was how you ended up in a boutique self-defense studio off Madison Avenue — the sort of place where the air smelled faintly of eucalyptus and generational wealth.
You took a place near the mirrored wall, hidden but observant, dressed in your faded Navy sweatshirt and joggers.
If your sister wanted you to blend into civilian life, you’d try, terribly, but you’d try.
Leave was supposed to feel restful. Instead, it felt like wearing someone else’s clothes.
The instructor had just started explaining wrist breaks when the door opened with the soft but unmistakable confidence of someone used to entering rooms worth entering.
A woman stepped inside — late, unbothered. Camel coat draped over one arm, sunglasses still on, a coffee from a place with no posted prices.
Her presence didn’t fill the room so much as recalibrate it. Her gaze passed over glossy-haired associates and executives, then caught on you.
You raised your fingers in a lazy two-finger salute before you could stop yourself. Old habits. She lifted one eyebrow above the rim of her sunglasses and almost smiled.
The instructor cleared his throat. “Welcome, we’re just getting started. You can join any group.”
She removed her sunglasses with leisure, revealing sharp, assessing hazel eyes. “Lovely. And here I was worried I’d missed all the fun.”
The instructor gestured her toward a cluster of women. She ignored it, walking directly toward you.
“Is this spot taken?”
You shook your head. “Help yourself.”
She looked at you a beat too long, playful in her gaze. “You stand out,” she said.
You huffed a soft laugh. “Look who’s talking.”
Her smirk softened into something warmer. “Touché. Two standouts in one room—imagine the odds.”
A beat passed before you asked, “You got a name?”
She let out a soft huff of laughter. “Rita.”
The name carried weight, like she expected you to recognize it. You only noticed the way she said it — controlled, polished, practiced — like a signature on expensive stationery.
“And you?” she asked.
You gave her your name, and she repeated it back in a low, testing murmur, as if trying to decide where to place you in her mental puzzle.
Before either of you could say more, the instructor clapped his hands. “Pair up with a partner!”
Rita didn’t look away from you.
“Well,” she said, sliding off her jacket and rolling her sleeves to her elbows. “Shall we?”
You weren’t sure whether she meant the drill. Or the trouble she’d very clearly just invited you into.
Either way, her confidence was a gravitational force.
She stepped closer, enough that you could smell her perfume — expensive, the kind worn by women who never rushed for anything. “I work with cops,” she said, lowering her voice as if leaning on a bar instead of standing on a padded gym floor. “I can tell when someone walks in with training. And you scream ‘military.’ What branch?”
You kept your stance loose, hands relaxed. “Navy.”
She gave you a once-over, the kind that began professional and slipped into something amusing. “Navy what?”
“…Just Navy.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “That’s an adorable lie,” she said, folding her arms.
“Or a deflection. And I get the feeling you’re very good at those.”
“Oh, I’m excellent at it.” You let a slow grin appear, just to watch her reaction.
Before she could ask anything else, the instructor called out, “Volunteers for the next demonstration?”
Your hand went up out of habit. Hers rose a half-second later.
She glanced sideways. “Guess we’re doing this.”
The drill was simple: break a wrist grab, step back, counter—at least for you.
Rita, as it turned out, was stronger than her frame suggested and infinitely more competitive. She engaged like she did everything in life: with expectation of victory.
The first time you redirected her wrist without effort, she blinked, scandalized. “How—what—okay. Again.”
You repeated the motion with the same gentle precision.
Her eyes narrowed. “You are absolutely not just Navy.”
“Maybe I work a desk.”
“Oh yes,” she said dryly. “You radiate ‘administrative support.’”
You leaned in, voice dropping. “Are you investigating me, Rita?”
Her breath hitched — barely, but enough to betray her. “I’m observant,” she countered. “It’s not every day someone like you shows up to a Saturday class in Midtown.”
“Someone like me?”
A devastating smile curved her mouth.
“Strong. Very controlled. Annoyingly skilled. You could’ve tossed me across the room, but you were being polite.
You chuckled. “Want me to stop being polite?”
She blinked rapidly, regaining composure with visible effort. “I—no. Well… later? Perhaps. Purely for educational purposes.”
God, she was fun.
When the seminar ended, the others drifted out with water bottles and weekend plans. Rita didn’t move. She lingered against the mirrored wall, tapping her phone without ever unlocking it, as if waiting for a reason to stay.
You walked toward her. “Headed anywhere?”
She looked up, caught. “Home.”
Then, before you could respond: “I’m two blocks away. And before you ask — no, I don’t need a ride.”
“Didn’t say you did,” you replied, amused. “I just figured maybe I’d walk with you.”
She huffed an involuntary laugh. “Direct, aren’t you?”
“Efficient. In my line of work, it helps.”
“And what line of work is that?”
You shrugged. “Right now? Vacation.”
Her expression softened, like light catching glass. “You don’t seem like someone who relaxes easily.”
“I don’t.”
She smiled — a real one, the kind that settled low in your chest. “Well. If you’re bored, there’s a place around the corner with terrible pastries but excellent people-watching.”
You raised an eyebrow. “You offering to spend more time with me?”
“You’re interesting.” She said it simply, like an unnegotiable fact. “I don’t meet many people who can flip me without dislocating my shoulder.”
You pretended to consider. “Alright. Coffee.”
As you walked beside her onto the street, she nudged you lightly with her elbow.
“So,” she said, that signature sly curve returning to her mouth, “when you inevitably tell me what you really do… make it dramatic.”
You bit back a grin. “Trust me, I’ve got material.”
She laughed and the sound of it slipped into your bones, loosening something that had been clenched tight for far too long.
For the first time since returning home, you felt… human again.
—
The café was the kind of place that tried to look effortless and failed — curated rustic, with reclaimed wood tables and pastries arranged like museum pieces.
Rita pushed the door open with her shoulder and held it for you, though she did it with the kind of casual precision that made it seem like she held doors only when she wished to — not out of obligation, but out of strategy.
“Order whatever you want,” she said, waving vaguely at the chalkboard menu. “Just don’t choose the almond croissant. It tastes like ennui.”
You snorted. “Noted.”
She ordered an Americano; you ordered something with oatmilk and foam that made her raise an eyebrow like she was adding the detail to a dossier.
The two of you took a small corner table, half-hidden behind a pillar, where the noise softened to a pleasant murmur. You settled opposite her, and she draped her coat over the back of her chair — the kind of coat that suggested private drivers and winter weekends in the Hamptons.
She studied you again. You were starting to understand that she didn’t do anything halfway — not her career, not her wardrobe, not her scrutiny.
“So,” she said, wrapping elegant fingers around her mug. “You’re on leave. From…?”
You could deflect. You usually did. But something about the way she asked made it feel like a dare — one you didn’t mind rising to.
“Navy,” you said. Then, because her gaze invited precision: “Navy SEAL.”
She went very still. Then slowly blinked, as if recalibrating her assessment of you.
“Well,” she murmured, leaning back. “That is considerably more dramatic than I expected.”
“You asked,” you said with a shrug. “And you wanted dramatic.”
“Please,” she scoffed, though her eyes were gleaming. “If you’d told me you were a dentist, I would’ve assumed there was a classified component. You radiate competency.” Her mouth curved.
You sipped your coffee. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Immensely,” she admitted without shame.
A moment passed — not awkward, but charged. She rested her chin on her hand, studying you with something warm, curious, and interested.
“You know,” she said lightly, “you still haven’t asked what I do.”
“I figured you’d tell me when you wanted to.”
She hummed at that — amused. Then she said, with a small, elegant shrug, “I’m a defense attorney.”
You raised your brows. “You defend criminals for a living?”
“I defend the Constitution,” she corrected smoothly. “Sometimes the Constitution is standing behind a man who did terrible things, but that’s hardly my fault.”
You laughed, unable to help it. “You’re dangerous too.”
She lifted one shoulder. “In Manolo Blahnik, even.”
Rita leaned in slightly, voice low enough to be intimate. “So let me get this straight. You jump out of planes and storm buildings… and you voluntarily spent your Saturday in a self-defense class full of women who buy crystals for protection?”
“Trying to stay sharp,” you said. “And my sister signed me up.”
“She has excellent taste,” Rita murmured, her gaze making a slow path over your shoulders, your jaw, the way you sat. “Very excellent taste.”
Heat flickered under your skin — not embarrassment, but recognition. She wasn’t subtle. She wasn’t trying to be. She was enjoying this: the reveal, the banter, the proximity.
When the coffees were nearly finished, she glanced toward the window, then back at you with a different expression — a quieter one, though no less certain.
You watched her trace the rim of her mug with one fingertip, an uncharacteristically pensive gesture from someone who seemed otherwise incapable of second-guessing herself. It struck you how… human she looked in that moment.
You cleared your throat. “I should tell you something.”
Her attention snapped back to you, alert in that lawyerly way. “Should I be worried?”
“Not unless you’ve grown attached in the last two hour.”
Her mouth curved, sly. “Impossible to say.”
You leaned your forearms on the table. “I’m only in the city for two weeks. Leave. Then I fly back out.”
There was a brief tightening around her eyes, there and gone so fast you might’ve imagined it. But she recovered with a practiced smoothness.
“Well,” she said, “some people are worth knowing even on a countdown clock.”
You smiled, softer than you meant to.
“So,” you said, trying to sound casual and not at all like your heart had just done something inconvenient, “can I see you again while I’m here?”
Rita’s brows lifted, undeniably pleased. “Are you asking me out?”
“Yes. I’m asking if you’d like to get coffee again,” you countered. “Maybe somewhere with pastries that don’t taste like cardboard.”
She laughed — a low, warm sound that made her look less polished and more reachable. She studied you and you had the strange feeling of being evaluated for admission to a club you hadn’t applied to but very much wanted to join.
“I suppose,” she said, though the softness in her voice betrayed that she’d made up her mind before you even asked. “My schedule is… demanding, but I can make time.”
“I can be flexible.”
“I get the impression you’re many things,” she said, “but flexible wasn’t one I expected.”
“Try me.”
Rita let her gaze drift down your forearms, your shoulders, then back to your eyes. “Oh, I intend to.”
Your pulse jumped—a subtle little traitorous thing—and the corner of her mouth lifted like she’d heard it.
She reached for her coat, smoothing it over one arm. “Before we do coffee again, meet me tomorrow evening,” she said. “There’s a place I like. Excellent wine list. Do you own anything that won’t scandalize the hostess?”
You blinked. “I have… a jacket.”
“A jacket.” She repeated it as if tasting the word and finding it adorable. “Fine. We’ll make it work.”
You stood as she did, stepping closer than necessary, only realizing too late how little distance there was between the two of you. Her breath brushed your cheek. She didn’t step back.
“Two weeks,” she murmured. “We’d better not waste any of it.”
You gave her a slow nod. “Agreed.”
Rita slipped on her sunglasses, elegant armor returning. You didn’t miss the tiny curve of her lips before she turned toward the door.
She paused with her hand on the frame, glancing back at you once.
“Don’t go jumping out of planes before tomorrow,” she said.
“No promises.”
You watched her walk away, feeling the strange, startling buzz of excitement settle in your ribs.
—
Your sister nearly dropped her glass when you told her you had a date.
“A what?”
“A date,” you repeated, trying not to smile. “Tonight.”
“With who?” she demanded, already crossing her arms like she was about to interrogate you under a bare bulb. “You’ve been home for three days. How did you even meet someone? You can’t talk to anyone without scanning for exits.”
You shrugged. “Self-defense seminar.”
She blinked. “You went to that thing I signed you up for?”
“I was bored.”
“And?”
You hesitated, then said too casually, “Met someone.”
Your sister’s eyes widened with glee. “Oh my god. You like her.”
“I didn’t say—”
“You like her,” she repeated, marching to the hall closet like she’d been preparing for this moment since your enlistment. “And you are absolutely not wearing that ‘Navy sweatshirt trying to be a personality’ thing on a date. What’s the vibe?”
“Wine bar,” you said, surrendering to the inevitable. “Fancy. Fancy enough that she asked if I owned anything that wouldn’t scandalize the hostess.”
Your sister grinned like she’d been handed an Olympic-level challenge. “Say no more.”
An hour later, your bed was buried under what looked like half of her closet: tailored jackets, crisp shirts, slim-cut trousers, all in deep neutrals and sharp silhouettes. But she kept pushing garments aside, muttering to herself.
“No, softer shoulders… no, this color is wrong for your skin tone… no, you need something that says ‘I’m dangerous, but I’ll also hold your drink while you fix your lipstick.’”
“You’re enjoying this too much.”
“Absolutely.”
In the end, she chose a dark charcoal suit that fit your frame like it had been waiting its whole life for you. Strong lines, clean detail, understated but undeniably butch. A crisp white shirt. Polished boots.
You looked in the mirror and felt like yourself.
Your sister stood behind you, her hands on your shoulders. “You look good,” she said. “Like… actually relaxed. I’m proud of you.”
You swallowed, caught off guard by the warmth in your chest. “Thanks.”
“Now go,” she said, waving you off. “Go be charming and mysterious and broody but emotionally available just enough. And if she’s awful, I’ll come drag you out by your ear.”
“She’s not awful,” you said before you could stop yourself.
She turned, eyebrows raised. “Oh. You really like her.”
—
Rita had told you to meet her at a wine bar on the Upper East Side — the kind of place with marble steps, whispered lighting, and a front door that looked like it judged your worthiness before opening.
You arrived a few minutes early.
Which meant you got to watch her walk in.
And god — you were taken.
Rita wore an expensive suit with a tailored blazer and a skirt that fell mid-thigh, just long enough to be professional and just short enough to be lethal. A silk blouse in a deep jewel tone. And Manolo Blahnik heels that made her legs look like they belonged in a museum.
Your first coherent thought was that you had no business looking at her like that — and your second was that she wanted you to.
Her eyes swept over you — the suit, the posture, the way you stood when you were trying not to be nervous. Her lips parted slightly, like she’d been caught off-guard.
“Well,” she said after a beat. “That jacket will not scandalize the hostess.”
“High praise,” you murmured.
“From me? It is.”
The hostess led you to a quiet corner booth, the lighting low and flattering, the room filled with soft conversation and the faint clink of crystal glasses.
Rita crossed her legs, and you had to subtly rewire your brain.
“You clean up well,” she said, glancing at you over the top of her wine menu.
“So do you.”
She arched an eyebrow. “I always clean up well.”
“I noticed.”
She smirked, pleased.
The night unfolded easily. Rita teased you for being the kind of person who noticed exits and angles; you teased her for noticing everyone’s motives. It felt strangely easy, the two of you slipping into each other’s rhythms without effort.
She talked about the art scene with the familiarity of someone who actually frequented galleries; you admitted the last museum you’d been in was on a foreign base and mostly full of old maps.
Rita laughed — a clean, unpolished burst of amusement that startled something loose in you. She looked softer like this, her brilliance still flaring in her eyes but less guarded, less curated. You didn’t mean to feel it, that small thrum of wonder in your chest, but it bloomed anyway.
“You know,” she said, swirling her wine, “I never do this. The whole… letting someone get to know me thing.”
“Same,” you admitted. “But I’m making an exception.”
Her eyes softened. “So am I.”
Time slipped. The restaurant began to empty. At one point, her knee brushed yours beneath the table — subtle, then neither of you moved.
By the time you stepped outside, the night had settled into a cool, quiet glow. Streetlights shimmered on the pavement.
“This was…” she began, then paused, unusual for her. “Unexpected.”
“Good unexpected?”
She met your eyes, and whatever armor she wore in court wasn’t present here.
“Very.”
You hesitated, savoring the moment — then reached out, gently brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
A small, helpless sound left her lips—the first unguarded thing you’d heard from her.
“May I?” you asked.
“Yes,” she said, almost a whisper.
You leaned in, pressing your lips to hers.
Rita kissed like she handled arguments — controlled, articulate — but there was a spark beneath it, something warm that opened the moment your hand rested lightly on her waist. Her fingers curled into your lapel, pulling you closer, deepening the kiss.
When you finally pulled back, she was still holding your jacket, eyes slightly dazed, lips faintly parted.
“Well,” she murmured. “I suppose I’ll be thinking about that for an unreasonable amount of time.”
“Same,” you said, breathless in a way you never let yourself be.
She stepped back just enough to regain composure, though her voice was still velvet-soft. “Tomorrow? Coffee?”
“If you want.”
“Oh,” she said with that devastating half-smile, “I very much do.”
She walked away then, heels clicking, perfume drifting behind her — but halfway down the block, she glanced over her shoulder.
The smile she gave you could’ve stopped traffic.