Cait’s watching, sort of. A Piltovian man skulks through the Kumungan jungle, wearing his finest khakis, slinking ever closer to a sleeping lion.
But she’s not paying attention. She’s more concerned with the way Janna smiles at the screen, more entranced by the way her fingers trail through Caitlyn’s hair.
This is nothing like aftercare, she thinks. Janna’s wearing one of those giant shirts with more holes and stains than pristine fabric; Caitlyn’s in fleece cupcake pajamas. It’s just the two of them, on the couch, in Janna’s apartment, watching a documentary.
And as Caitlyn lays in Janna’s lap, she’s struck by how soft Janna’s thighs are. How even though the edges of her palm are calloused, the centers are soft. How she gets wrinkles at the edges of her lips, how she’s glowing just sitting here watching this documentary…
As Janna trails her fingers through Caitlyn’s thick black hair, the sheriff thinks that maybe a little domesticity isn’t so bad.