please read the author's note at the end ?

The dishes

"Street!" Chris says, louder and sharper than she means to in the middle of the dish aisle, but they've been in this Home Goods for hours. Her feet hurt, the too-bright lights are giving her a steadily-growing headache, and, despite her understanding that this is his first time really home shopping for himself, her patience has worn thin. Two dishes sit in his hands, one a matte, navy square with rounded edges and the other a simple white circle, and she's about ready to throw them both in the cart so hard they shatter over the linoleum. "Just pick one, please."

Glancing back at her, he sees in her eyes how lucky he is that looks can't kill. With a deep breath, he starts to put the blue ones back on the shelf, until a last minute tug at the back of his stomach keeps him forms setting them down.

"Oh my God."

"I'm sorry!" He says earnestly, thumbs fixated on the texture of the plates. "But what if we get them home, and I hate them?"

"Then you'll return them. By yourself. Because I am not spending another three hours in this store until you're convinced that it doesn't matter if you eat eggs off a square or round plate."

Hurt flickers in his eyes that's a knife through her stomach. Softening, she pushes off the cart handle she's been leaning against, and takes one set of dishes to set down, while he does the same with the other. Her hands find the back of his neck and the front of his abs, fingers delicately tracing over the muscles that she can feel through the fabric.

"I'm sorry," he repeats, and this time she shakes her head to tell him not to be.

"Babe, I know you want everything to be perfect, but I promise that doesn't hinge on what dishes we get. If we get them home and we hate them, we'll bring them back or pawn them off on Luca, or something." Dropping her voice to a low whisper, she watches how his eyes search hers, and lets her hand start to snake underneath his shirt to the hot skin beneath it. Her breath paints over his lips and jaw. "Dishes are the least exciting thing that's going to happen in our apartment."

He's frozen when she gently pushes off him and returns to the cart, his mouth barely open as his breath catches at the thoughts racing through his mind. Clearing his throat, he turns back to the shelves and gives them a quick once-over before grabbing one of the boxes confidently.

"Navy square."

"You're sure?"

"Sure enough. Let's go home."

The bed

From cleaning his plate at dinner or risking not getting any the next night to hiding extra pairs of socks in folded jeans so they wouldn't get stolen, there's a lot from Street's early years that, as soon as it was his own choice, he stopped doing. The one habit that stuck was making his bed every morning. Although enforced militaristically by some of his group homes, the feeling of getting back after school or work to a made bed waiting for him always gave him a sense of control he desperately needed. Long cases and the never-ending needs of the city only make it that much more of a comfort for him to look forward to as an adult.

"Chris!" He groans from their bedroom, the third time that week that he gets back to find their covers a crumpled mess, and the extra pillows still on the floor on her side of the bed. His backpack slips down his shoulders, hands dragging over his face, and he jumps from her hand on his back when she walks in from the living room, not meaning for her to overhear.

"What? Sorry." She gives him a small smile for startling him, one that he doesn't return.

"Nothing."

Narrowing her eyes, she tries to catch a glimpse of his gaze, but all she gets is the profile of his clenched jaw. With too much force, he grabs his backpack from the floor and throws it onto the bed to get his off-duty weapon secured and his dirty clothes into the hamper.

"It's not nothing." She takes a step closer, but he rolls his eyes and shakes his head, cutting her off before she can figure out what's going on.

"Yes it is. I've had a long day, okay?"

"Okay," she surrenders, though it's a struggle to keep her voice calm. Her instinct is to offer to talk after, or whenever he feels up to it, but she recognizes the need for space when she sees it, and softly closes the bedroom door on her way out.

In the shower, Street's thoughts run wild with every transgression he and Chris have ever committed against the other. The soap bubbles in their shared shower are full of the reasons why he should just let it go, but as they pop or slide down the drain, his anger grows until it's all encompassing. He finishes up and dries himself off, not caring that the door slams as he walks back out to the kitchen and looks for something to eat.

"Oh," Chris interrupts his racing thoughts, setting her book down on the coffee table. "I'll get started on the chicken."

"Don't worry about it." He says, and the mumbles under his breath, "You don't worry about anything else."

Running her tongue over her teeth, she walks around the island and presses the fridge door closed, using his shock to slide in-between him and the door, and grips his forearm so that he has no choice but to look at her.

"Hey. What is going on?"

"Chris," Street sighs, like she's a hopeless case, but she refuses to give into the fire in her core begging her to fight back.

"No. Talk to me."

His glare is met with raised eyebrows, and, after a minute of her refusing to let it go, he deflates. He shakes out of her grip to take her hand instead, walking them back to the bedroom and watching her face. Confusion flies across it, but he manages to temper his irritation at the whole thing.

"The bed?" The words finally pour from his mouth.

"What about it?"

"Is there a reason you won't make it?"

"Won't?" She scoffs, but catches his hand when he turns to walk away. "No. There's no reason I won't make it. The reason I didn't make it is that it doesn't bug me, and I didn't know that it bugged you."

"I make it every time I'm the last one up."

"And I close the seat. I didn't think any more of it than personal preference." Without another word, she walks around to grab one corner of the duvet, and gestures at him to grab the other side. Emotions buzz through his veins, so he follows her instruction to give him a distraction, and straightens the pillows after. Chris throws the decorative ones back on top, brushing her hand over the soft fabric as she comes back to his side and presses a chaste kiss to his lips that quiets everything else down. After, she gives his shoulders a gentle shove until his thighs hit the mattress and he sits down. His fingers dig into the covers as hers dig into the line of knots down his shoulders and neck, smiling at the soft moan he lets out, and how his lashes stand out against his skin.

"You've had a long day," she affirms. "Relax, decompress. I'm going to make dinner, and after we can talk. I love you."

"Wait!" He calls, none of the same venom as earlier in his tone. Turning, she smiles when he takes her hand and pulls her in for one more kiss.

"I love you, too."

"So," she starts, once leftovers have been put away and as the low buzz of the dishwasher fills the air. Her feet are in his lap, his thumbs resting on her ankles. "The bed."

He sees her soft expression in his periphery and sighs, suddenly sheepish.

"I'm sorry for how I acted. But will you please make the bed the mornings you leave after I do?"

"You're forgiven. And I will, now that I know."

"Thank you," Street breathes out, smiling at her smile. His gaze falls to his hands as a short war wages within his chest. The safety of her trumps all his insecurities. "It helps me feel more put-together. In control. Holdover from the group homes, I guess."

Carefully, Chris swings her feet down so she can slide until their thighs are touching. The beginnings of stubble tickle her hand where she cups his cheek to make him look at her, and when she looks into his eyes, for a second she sees the same twenty-something loose canon who first joined SWAT. She knows now that his confidence was mostly a facade then, and takes his hand in her other one to squeeze it.

"Thank you for telling me. It's a comfort, I get it, and I'll make it from here on out. But you are put-together; you know that, right?"

"Yeah," he mumbles, bringing her hand to his lips to kiss her knuckles. Tracing her face, his usual demeanor starts to trickle back in, his back straightening and his voice growing stronger. "A sergeant has to be."

"Please," she rolls her eyes, but lets out a laugh. Breaking from him, she reaches for the remote, but mutes the TV as she scrolls through the guide. His hand is a warm weight on her back, her eyes continually glancing in her periphery to find him looking at her.

"It really doesn't bug you?" He asks. Playful disbelief lines his words, and she shrugs.

"Nope. My cousins never made theirs, so I never got into the habit, and Helena and Sarzo didn't care how I kept my room so long as I could get to the door before they had to wake me up on school days."

"What I'm hearing is I should ask Helena for more stories about you as a teen."

"No," she laughs, holding back the urge to kiss him senseless. "You shouldn't."

The cabinets.

Chris first notices the cabinets a few weeks after they move in together. After years of a regimented schedule, sleeping in is a luxury she allows herself as often as she can. The downside is that Street is usually in the shower by the time she rolls out of bed, but the upside is the coffee is always hot. She follows the smell into the kitchen, Street's shirt brushing her thighs, and doesn't realize until the mug is in her hand that their cabinet was standing wide open when she walked in. It's too early to think anything of it, letting it bang closed without a second glance as she leans on the breakfast bar and takes her first sip.

The trend continues. Every morning, their mug cabinet is open. On the occasion that Street opts for tea, the cabinet above their coffee maker housing countless boxes of Earl Grey and bottles of honey is also open. She closes them with a roll of her eyes before getting started with the rest of her routine. By the time Street emerges from the shower, she's already onto cooking breakfast and more focused on seeing him out the door than bringing it up. Even if she did plan on it, his chases the thought away when he pins her against the fridge and kisses her.

"Stop," she laughs, shoving lightly at his chest. "I'm going to be pissed if those eggs are overcooked."

"Boo," he pouts, garnering another peck on the cheek before she goes back to the stove. The color of the blush that runs up his neck and cheeks becomes her favorite in an instant, her stomach whirring for ideas on how she can see it again.

"Boo yourself," she teases back. "I love you."

"Love you, too, babe."

She catches him in the act two days later. Blankets are piled up on their couch, a mess of snacks and drinks on the coffee table, and she glances over when he comes back and plops down, but there's no sound of a cabinet slamming.

Detective of the year, she thinks, seeing both the pantry door and the dish cabinet standing open.

"Hey, Babe?"

"Yeah?"

"Will you go close the cabinets?"

"The—" Street looks back over his shoulder, as if he's becoming aware of the fact that they're still open for the first time. "Why?"

"Why close the cabinets?" She looks at him like he has two heads, and she sees the same confusion that she's feeling in his eyes. "Are you being serious?"

"Yeah," he widens his eyes, the beginning of a smirk playing at his lips. "Why does it matter?"

"Because you're done in there, aren't you?"

"Yeah."

"Then you should close them!"

"Okay." He relents, putting his hands up in surrender and making quick work of shutting them. "Happy now?"

"Yes," Chris sighs. "I'm happy now."

But she's not when, weeks later, she continues to get home to find him on the couch with the cabinets hanging wide open, or when she wakes and he's already in the shower, but dishes are staring at her when she walks into the kitchen.

"Street!" She busts into the bathroom, not caring about the steam that hits her in the face or fogs the mirror, as she finally snaps.

Mid-shampoo, he thinks he's hearing things until the shower door opens, too.

"Hey—" he starts, but the smirk on his face and the invitation for her to join him fall away when he sees her face.

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

"What?" He squeezes an eye shut to keep soap from running into it, barely able to see her through the other. "Chris, can we do this in ten minutes?"

"No! Ugh—here." She hands him a towel to wipe off his face and hairline, and shoves it back on the rack with entirely too much force when he's done. The shower stream hitting the tile would be soothing if she wasn't so worked up, but she can't deny how the smell of his soap wafting past her makes her feel. Shaking it away to focus, she finds him staring at her.

"The cabinets, Street. I've asked you a million times to just close them; it's like you're trying to piss me off."

"That's what you interrupted my shower for?" He scoffs, about to turn back to rinse his hair out when she catches his wrist.

"Yes. And I don't want to hear it when the whole reason I'm in here is because of you."

"They're cabinets. You can close them."

"That's not the point! I've asked you for one thing and you won't do it. And do not say it's not that big of a deal."

"Then I'm going to need you to say something else, Chris, because that's all I've got."

Sighing, she pinches the bridge of her nose and squeezes her eyes shut. Her heart's beating erratically in her chest, annoyed more than anything else, with a new kind of uncertainty that she's never felt before. Her instincts to walk away are long rusty, so she takes a deep breath and resigns herself to working through it.

"Looking in the kitchen and seeing everything open feels like a mess. One that I then have to clean up. I know it takes two seconds, which is why you can do it. It's like turning off the lights when you leave the room."

"Like the bed?" He connects the dots, and she can't help how her lips turn up, despite how she still wants to be irritated.

"Exactly like the bed."

Chest tightening, he reaches for her hand and relaxes when she lets him take it.

"I'm sorry, Babe. And I'm sorry for not listening."

The feeling floats away from her, a softer one settling in its place, and she squeezes his hand as her smile grows.

"Don't be sorry, just close the cabinets."

"You got it," he promises, and lets go of her hand to let her go back to whatever she was doing. Sliding the shower door closed, the water is still hot as it runs over his shoulders and down his back. Chris takes a few steps and stops to admire what she can see through the glass, biting her lip.

"You can still join me," he calls.

She does.

The silence.

"I'm not a mind reader, Chris." Street spits, and it takes everything in her not to scoff. Her jaw clenches, but she keeps her face a neutral mask, barely flicking her gaze to him before she goes back to not-reading the book she's holding.

"I never asked you to be."

"Really?" He scoffs, more anger leaking into his voice over this whole situation. A week ago, they were fine. Three days ago, something was clearly wrong. Now, they've barely spoken to each other in 48 hours. "Because from my end, you are. And it's childish."

Slamming her book closed, Chris's nerves light up like a live wire. She's on her feet, glaring at him, but he'll take it considering it's the most he's gotten out of her in days.

"I'm being childish?" She says, each syllable cutting through her teeth and tongue.

"Yes! I'd love to figure out what's wrong and work through it, but I can't, we can't, if you won't talk to me."

"Seems like you've been doing plenty of talking."

Confusion slaps him in the face, newfound hurt in her tone draining all the fight from him.

"Chris, what are you talking about?"

"You! Planning to break up with me!"

He's staring at her like he genuinely has no idea what she's talking about, but her heart is aching, and her voice grows thick. She averts her gaze from the swirling depths of emotion in his irises that normally cloud her judgement until she'll give him everything he wants.

"The other night, at Luca's? I overheard you guys when I grabbed my jacket. 'This isn't going to work. It's time, I just don't know how to do it.'" Tears line her eyes, and she has to cough back a sob when she hears Street's breathy "oh my god."

As soon as he sees her shoulders shake, he snaps back to himself and steps towards her. The air around them is fragile as glass, and he sets his hands on her shoulders, desperate to straighten this out.

"Chris, please look at me."

She does, and he exhales in relief even though her eyes are shiny. His gentle pressure on his shoulders the best comfort; the smell of leather and sandalwood instantly calming when she follows him in taking a deep breath.

"We're going to talk about this, but first, I have something I need to get from the bedroom. I'll be right back."

Nausea hits her as her mind tells her that he's coming out with a bag he packed somewhere in the night. That, at least, she's thankfully able to push off with an eye roll, because she only narrowly had enough self-restraint to leave his clothes alone after her shower. In his absence, she swipes underneath her eyes and across her nose to clean her face, and straightens up when his footsteps return. She can't see what he's got in his hand. Swallowing, her eyes track him until he's sitting next to her once more, his hand on her knee and a nervous smile on his face.

"Chris, what you overheard wasn't me talking about breaking up with you."

In the bottom of her vision, his hands open to reveal a small black box, and she lets out a gasp as her heart starts pounding.

"It was about trying to figure out how to propose to you. I've been thinking about it for weeks, and every idea I've had has somehow fallen through."

"Oh my God," she chokes out, an entirely new pit opening in her stomach. Pressing the heels of her palms into her eyes, a sob escapes.

Eyes wide as dinner plates, Street sets the box on the end table and braces Chris's shaking shoulders.

"Hey, it's okay."

"No, it isn't! I ruined everything—I'm so sorry."

His hands slide from her shoulders to her back to pull her close. He gently shushes her until her tears slow, and then cradles her face in his hands and wipes under her eyes with his thumbs.

"Slow your roll, Babe. First, I think it's a far cry to say you 'ruined everything.' Second, I promise, we're good. There's a reason I didn't open that box. Just because you know it's coming, which in hindsight I should've been more forward about, doesn't mean it's not going to be special. I'm going to give you the most perfect proposal that you're never going to see coming."

He's giving her his smile that could cure all ills, and it only grows when she flashes a small one back. A few tears cling to her lashes, falling when he kisses her so they make her lips salty. She wants more, to push his back against the couch and drape herself over chest, but he's right about them needing to talk.

"I'm sorry," she repeats, a rasp in her voice, her hands running down his chest. His eyes are shining at her with no love lost, but a sadness that leaks through his words.

"Babe, why didn't you talk to me sooner?"

"I don't know," she shrugs, trying to collect herself. "I couldn't figure out how, I guess."

"And this was better?" His voice lacks the judgement she expects, although she's sure it's simmering in him somewhere. Shaking her head, she drops to a whisper, uncertain of herself.

"I hear how bad it sounds. I—" Her breathing catches, his warm hands on her skin a lifeline as she gets herself together. "I was scared that it would be true. Not that I could blame you now."

"Never." He says, so sharp and so sure that it almost cuts her. His eyes are more serious than she's ever seen, and his pupils are blown wide so she has to focus to make out all the colors in his irises. "I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I'm going to, if I have any say in the matter."

The lilt of his voice lifts her heart back up, and he smiles when he feels her shoulders relax and sees some of the pain drift out of her features.

"I want that, too."

He manages to keep his ecstasy at bay, though he feels his pulse jump, and kisses her softly. She sighs when they part and his hand runs over her neck and down her back, his scent enveloping her.

"I should've said something. I'm sorry."

Stroking her back, he gives her a small shake of her head. His gaze falls to her hands before focusing on her face again.

"You can always talk to me. I'd prefer it, actually, to know what you need." He keeps his tone light, but she hears the weight to his words. Nodding, discomfort sticking in her chest, she forces herself to keep her eyes on his.

"I've never been great at expressing my needs. Spent most of my life trying not to have any in the first place."

"I get it." He strokes his thumb over her knuckles. "But you're allowed to."

"What if it's too much?"

Eyes widening in shock, Street drops them to their hands so he can collect the pieces of his heart and tape them back together. He looks at her after a few deep breaths and lets her go so he can gently tuck her hair behind her ear, letting him take in every line of her face. They've had plenty of talks about not being able to change the past, but this is the first time he's felt like he could change her future for the better. He puts as much of that determination into his tone as he can.

"Chris—"

She yearns to hear him out, but fear is a cold weight on her chest that she has to hide from.

"Jim—"

"Christina."

A soft blanket. A crackling fire. Shelter from the storm.

"Nothing will ever be too much. That's the deal, and I signed myself away a long time ago."

"Okay," she whispers, after a drawn out moment where her eyes traced his and the air hung thick between them. His shoulders fall at her acceptance, a wide smile donning his face. Her body slots perfectly against his when he pulls her in for a hug and lets his lips linger on her forehead. Pulling back, she curls up against him, and relishes in him surrounding her. They take comfort in the softness of the other's breathing in their otherwise silent home until, eventually, her voice reaches him from where her head is pillowed on his chest.

"Hey, Street?"

"Yeah?"

"I know you want to surprise me with the proposal, but I need you to do it soon. I need to say yes."

The sweet kiss he leaves on her hair and the slight tickle of vibration wash away any last remnants of her worries until they're nothing more than a point in the distance.

"You got it, Babe."

hey all. i hope you're doing well ? i'm sorry for disappearing for so long, but admittedly, i'm sorry to say i'm not doing great. life has been exceptionally busy lately, and as much as i've wanted to write or have started a bunch of wips here and there, bringing any to fruition has been a losing battle. seriously, i've had the ask with this prompt for literal months at this point. i also feel at a bit of a standstill with my fics, either worrying (with this one) that it's out of character, or just feeling like i'm writing the same thing over-and-over. obvioulsy, that's my fault, but the writing rut has definitely dinged my confidence a bit and made it harder to return. finally, i feel quite stuck with aost as i'm in a transitional part of the piece, and i never imagined it would be so difficult to write. again, it feels repetitive, but i also don't want to skip anything important, so to speak, and this has mainly manifested in me not writing. or rereading what i have written and feeling like i have no clue how to continue. however, i do plan to continue writing. my end goal is to still finish aost one day, but that's a huge big picture to think about atm, so i'm going to try to go back to just focusing on one chapter/update at a time. i also haven't engaged in the source material in a while, but i should have some time coming up here to rewatch a bit, which i'm hoping will help get me back in the writing swing. (that said, the time i'll have to watch it will be bc i'm recovering from surgery, so i can't promise much productivity throughout the next month and a half, or so.) anyways, thank you all for continuing to read/comment/send asks. i do welcome and cherish them, even when it seems like i'm mia. this community means a lot to me ? to any new readers who have found my stuff since the last time i published anything, welcome and hello! and for everyone i've had the joy of interacting with for so long now, thanks for sticking around. i know that's all kind of heavy, so a fun little bts on this fic to change the pace. honestly, it's hard without having any domestic stris scenes to imagine what they'd fight about. so the few presented here came about a lot through discussion with other fandom friends, and bc i can't seem to leave the angst behind no matter what i try. to the person who left me this prompt, i hope this is what you were looking for! i also did/do want to write them fighting over street's motorcycle (i.e. chris being worried he's going to get hurt), but i liked how this specific "collection" turned out as it is. whenever stris argues on the show, it's always out of love and concern for one another, and i do think that would continue on in their relationship, but i also think they would both be the type to want to remedy any issues sooner rather than later. they've learned and matured from/with one another, and since their early relationship, so i hope i reflected that in a way that was in-character to the show. any thoughts on this piece are appreciated, and i'll end where i started in saying that i hope you're doing well and staying liquid! xo, A