Chapter Text
The smell of garlic and rosemary filled the small flat, curling into every corner like a warm, familiar hug. Lisa Swain stirred the tomato sauce simmering in the pan with one hand, the other holding a glass of red wine she was nursing more out of habit than thirst. She was humming a tune she didn’t quite know the words to, content in the quiet rhythm of the evening. The telly was on low in the living room, some property show she had half an eye on, but her real focus was the meal.
Carla would be home soon.
She glanced at the clock. 6:43. Carla had said she’d try to be back by 6:30, which meant she’d actually get in by 6:50 if Lisa was lucky. She smirked, turning the heat down on the hob. She’d made spaghetti arrabbiata with roasted veg on the side, knowing Carla liked her food with a bit of a kick after a long day at the factory. It wasn’t gourmet, but it was hearty, and more importantly—it was made with care.
Lisa wiped her hands on the tea towel tucked into her waistband, her eyes flicking to the door every time she thought she heard a noise. The flat was modest, cozy—Carla’s old place above the pub. Since Lisa had moved in a few months ago, it had slowly transformed from minimal and chic to lived-in and slightly chaotic. A mug with a chip sat on the windowsill, Lisa’s gardening magazines cluttered the table, and a pair of Carla’s heels had somehow ended up under the sofa.
She loved it.
The click of the front door had Lisa straightening up like a meerkat. A few seconds later, Carla Connor stepped inside, her silhouette sharp against the fading daylight behind her.
And she looked like trouble.
White blouse, top two buttons undone. Black blazer tailored to perfection. Black trousers hugging hips with the casual elegance of someone who knew exactly how they looked. But it was the black tie—loosely hanging around her neck like an afterthought—that made Lisa’s mouth go a bit dry.
“Well, don’t you look like a bloody GQ spread,” Lisa said, raising an eyebrow as she leaned against the counter.
Carla smirked, closing the door behind her and dropping her handbag onto the armchair. “Rough day,” she muttered, already pulling her hair out of its clip. “If I have to listen to Kirk drone on about supply issues one more time, I might throttle him with his own lanyard.”
Lisa chuckled, setting her wine glass down. “You’d look good doing it.”
Carla looked up then, properly, and softened at the sight of Lisa in the kitchen. Her hair tied up, wearing one of Carla’s oversized band tees and leggings, barefoot and beautiful.
“What’s cooking, gorgeous?” she asked, moving closer, the scent of her perfume blending with the rosemary in the air.
“Your favourite,” Lisa said, flipping off the hob and plating the pasta. “Spag arrabbiata with roasted veg. And garlic bread, but don’t get excited—it’s the frozen kind.”
“Frozen garlic bread is still garlic bread,” Carla replied seriously, lifting a roasted pepper from the tray and popping it in her mouth.
“Oi!” Lisa slapped her hand gently. “Go wash up. Dinner’s ready.”
Carla smirked but obeyed, shrugging off her blazer and tossing it over the back of a chair. The tie stayed on. Lisa noted that.
They sat down at the small table by the window, a candle flickering between them, more for mood than necessity. Carla twirled her pasta, blowing on it dramatically before taking a bite.
“Mmm,” she groaned. “You trying to seduce me with carbs?”
Lisa shrugged. “If it works, it works.”
They ate in companionable silence for a few moments, the city outside their window a quiet backdrop of life. It was in moments like these—forks clinking, laughter bubbling, hands brushing—that Lisa felt like she had everything she’d ever wanted.
After dinner, Lisa insisted on doing the dishes.
“You worked all day,” she said, stacking plates. “I’ll clean.”
Carla lounged on the sofa, one leg tucked beneath her, sipping from Lisa’s abandoned wine glass. “Fair enough. You make a better housewife anyway.”
Lisa paused, narrowing her eyes. “Housewife?”
Carla gave her a wicked grin. “Domesticated. All apron and sass.”
Lisa shook her head with a laugh. “Keep talking, and you’ll be sleeping with that frozen garlic bread.”
When she was done, she padded over to the living room, plucking the glass from Carla’s hand and setting it on the table. Carla looked up, still in that damned half-undone blouse and loose tie, eyes glinting with mischief.
Lisa sat on the coffee table in front of her, legs folded beneath her, and gently took the end of Carla’s tie between her fingers.
“You know,” she said, voice softer now, “this look is criminal.”
Carla arched a brow. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah,” Lisa said, tugging gently. “Absolutely illegal.”
Carla leaned in slightly, lips twitching. “What are you gonna do about it, officer?”
Lisa grinned, wrapped the tie around her hand once, then tugged Carla forward so their lips met in a warm, lingering kiss. Carla made a pleased sound in her throat, one hand moving to Lisa’s waist as the other braced against the sofa.
They kissed slowly, sweetly, like they had all the time in the world. No urgency, just quiet affection and soft laughter as Carla tried to keep her balance and Lisa tugged at the tie again, giggling.
“God, you’re such a menace,” Carla murmured against her mouth.
“You love it,” Lisa replied, kissing her again.
When they finally broke apart, Carla rested her forehead against Lisa’s, exhaling a soft sigh.
“I do, you know,” she said.
Lisa blinked. “Know what?”
“Love it. You. All of this.”
Lisa’s heart clenched in that way it always did when Carla dropped her guard like this. She reached up, smoothing a hand over Carla’s cheek.
“I know,” she whispered. “Me too.”
They curled up together on the sofa after that, the tie forgotten, the telly still babbling in the background. Lisa dozed off with her head on Carla’s shoulder, and Carla ran her fingers through Lisa’s hair, thinking about how much better life was now—with garlic bread, ridiculous ties, and the woman who made her flat a home.
And maybe—just maybe—she’d start leaving that tie on more often.