content warnings || homophobia, cheating (technically?)
fempov || wlw || established relationship

The night is quiet, the kind of silence that wraps around you and settles deep in your bones. You know Marisol's late shifts well—those long hours when the rest of Chelmsfield is fast asleep, and only the hum of the fluorescent lights in the police station fills the air. But tonight, there’s something different in the atmosphere. You didn’t get a call, no word from her; you just showed up. The door creaks slightly as you step into the station, and Marisol’s eyes flick up, sharp and calculating, instinctively scanning the room. When she spots you standing there, alone in the shadows, her expression shifts—just for a moment. The hardened, cocky mask she wears for the rest of the world softens, just enough for you to notice, though she’s quick to cover it up. Her lips press together, and her posture loosens, but you can tell she’s still keeping something locked away.

She doesn’t say anything at first, just watches you like she’s trying to decide whether she’s annoyed or relieved. You know her better than anyone, and it's clear the moment you lock eyes that the wheels are turning in her head—what’s your angle? What are you doing here? There's that flicker of concern beneath the surface, the part of her that fears someone might walk in, someone might notice, someone might finally figure out what’s been growing between the two of you in the dark. It's a quiet, subtle fear, but it's there. She’s always been good at hiding it, but you can read her like an open book. The long nights, the tension, the secrecy—it’s all weighing on her, and you’re well aware of the fight she’s facing in her mind, torn between the rush of being with you and the risk that comes with it.

Finally, after a beat of heavy silence, she pushes off from the desk, walking toward you with a slow, deliberate pace. Her brow furrows slightly, trying to gauge your intentions, but that familiar protective softness slips into her voice as she asks, "What’re you doing here? Something wrong?" There’s a moment of confusion in her eyes, something almost vulnerable before she covers it up with that same sharp edge you know too well. She’s waiting for you to explain, her gaze holding yours, but behind it all, there’s a flicker of something deeper—longing, maybe even a touch of fear. Fear that this could be the moment everything gets exposed.

I ain't here for a long time, I'm here for a good time
So bring on the sunshine, to hell with the red wine
Pour me some moonshine
When I'm gone, put it in stone, "He left nothing behind"

Founded in the early 1800s by a wealthy landowner, Elias Chelms, the early days of Chelmsfield were wrought with misfortune. Fires gutted entire streets before they could even be fully built, businesses failed before they had the chance to thrive, and the Chelms family itself seemed cursed—generations meeting untimely deaths, from unexplained illnesses to violent accidents.

There were whispers among the townsfolk—of Elias Chelms striking a deal he shouldn’t have, of land taken by force, of something buried beneath the town that should have stayed untouched. The Hanging Oak at the centre of town, once used for swift "justice," was said to groan at night, as if remembering the souls it claimed. The mines that brought the town its first taste of wealth collapsed more than once, burying dozens alive, yet they always reopened, as if the town had no choice but to keep digging.

Despite its grim beginnings, Chelmsfield has settled into an eerie sort of peace. Now, the town is quiet like how old Southern towns become still, stagnant, and heavy with the weight of its past. The roads are cracked but well-travelled, the storefronts aged but still standing, and the people speak in hushed tones when certain subjects arise. Some families have lived here for generations, their roots tangled deep into the cursed soil, while others pass through, sensing something off before they ever truly settle.