The Princess and The Criminal [ CAITVI ]

12 | The Morning After

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Vi's POV
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Caitlyn's footsteps clicked down the hall, sharp and deliberate, echoing like she wanted me to hear every damn step. Probably did—all stubborn, like she didn't just spend half the night curled up against me.

I stretched out on the couch, the springs groaning under me, and ran a hand through my hair. Still damp, still a mess. Last night was already a blur. I assumed it was the alcohol, but I was not about to dwell on it. Didn't have the time—or the energy—for that.

Her scent still hung in the air, light and floral, like it had no business existing in a dump like this. It clashed hard with the smell of rust and smoke. I chuckled to myself, replaying the look on her face from earlier that morning.

Pushing off the couch, I snagged a hoodie off the back of a chair and threw it on. The fabric was worn, a little too tight around the shoulders, but it would do. The kitchen wasn't much—a busted stove, cabinets hanging on by sheer willpower, and a table that looked like it had survived a bar fight. Barely. But it was standing, which was more than I could say for most things around here.

I cranked the faucet, waiting for the pipes to groan and creak before a thin stream of water finally sputtered out. Cold. Always cold. I filled a chipped mug, the kind of mug that felt like it might disintegrate in your hand if you weren't careful, and took a long swig. It hit hard—like a slap in the face.

Just what I needed.

Outside, Zaun stretched out in all its grimy glory. The window, fogged around the edges, framed a scene of rusted rooftops and endless haze. Snow didn't bother the Undercity—just the chill. And it sank into everything, like it was trying to freeze the whole damn city from the inside out.

Another day in paradise.

Careful footsteps echoed behind me. I didn't need to face her to tell who it was, Caitlyn had this way of moving. Her boots wouldn't scrape against the dirt like mine did—they barely made a sound at all. They sounded more like she belonged in a ballroom than a gutter.

"Kitchen's all yours, Princess," I said, not bothering to turn around. "Unless you need help figuring out how to boil water."

There was a pause before she answered, her voice even and calm, no stammering this time. "I'll figure it out."

Impressive.

I leaned back, arms crossed, watching her as she tiptoed around the cluttered space like it might swallow her whole. She opened cupboards with caution, clearly unsure what she'd find. Can't blame her—this place looked like it was one bad day away from falling apart. Not exactly Piltover standard, to say the least.

"You have coffee?" Caitlyn's voice cut through the silence, crisp and composed.

"Do I look like someone who keeps artisanal blends lying around?"

Her silence was answer enough.

"There's some instant crap in the cabinet," I jerked my head toward the cabinet. "Not exactly five-star, but it'll wake you up."

She wrinkled her nose—but didn't complain; she just pulled a battered kettle from one of the drawers. Her fingers brushed over the chipped handle as though it might break in her hands. Everything about her was too polished. Too delicate. The kind of person who probably had servants brewing her morning cup since birth.

Yet, here she was. Trying. And for some reason, that made this whole situation even more entertaining.

"So," I drawled, smirk tugging at my lips, "how does a princess even know how to make coffee? They hand out a 'basic life skills' manual or what?"