Chapter Text
Chapter 1 – Friday Night Beginnings
The locker room at Weatherfield Police Station always smelt faintly of detergent and cheap deodorant. It was a strange mix that Lisa had quickly come to associate with the end of a shift and the quiet pride that followed it. She shrugged out of her uniform jacket carefully, smoothing the sleeves down before hanging it inside her locker. Her fingertips brushed the metal badge on the breast pocket, lingering there for a second longer than necessary.
It still felt surreal some days.
PC Lisa Swain.
Her dad would have been proud. The thought both warmed her chest and made it ache at the same time. He’d died two years ago, and some days the loss still caught her off guard, sharp and sudden, like walking into a door she’d forgotten was there. She missed him terribly. She missed the way he used to ruffle her hair and call her “Constable” long before she’d earned the title. She swallowed down the growing feeling of grief, letting the sadness settle into something quieter, something she could carry without it spilling over.
She took a deep breath then straightened the jacket, making sure the crease sat just right. She caught sight of herself in the mirror as she went to close the locker door and stopped. She has her dad’s eyes, everyone says it. You don’t expect your father to die at the age of 50, nobody does but he did and she misses him every single day. Taking a deep breath, her eye closing momentarily she closes the locker door with a soft clang.
A muffled voice echoed through the corridor outside. “Swain! You planning on moving in there or what?”
Lisa rolled her eyes, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Two minutes!” she called back. “Almost ready!”
She tugged on her jumper, grabbed her bag, and pushed through the locker room door to find Craig and Kit waiting, both leaning against the opposite wall with the exaggerated patience of people who had absolutely none.
“Finally,” Kit said, glancing at his watch theatrically. “Thought we’d have to send in a search party.”
Craig grinned. “Or file a missing persons report.”
Lisa nudged Craig’s shoulder as she walked past them. “You two are unbearable. Where are we heading then? Town, or somewhere quieter?”
Craig perked up immediately. “The Rovers. Coronation Street. My mum’s been a few times. She says it’s proper nice. Bit old-school, but good beers on draft.”
Kit shrugged. “Works for me. It’s walking distance, right?”
“Yeah,” Craig confirmed. “Not far at all.”
Lisa nodded. A simple pub sounded perfect. No loud music, no sticky dance floors just somewhere to unwind that didn’t involve paperwork or radio chatter. “Rovers it is then.”
The evening air outside the station was cool but pleasant, spring had officially arrived. They fell into step easily, the rhythm of their conversation as familiar as their patrol routes. Craig recounted a minor incident from earlier that day with exaggerated drama, Kit chimed in with dry commentary, and Lisa laughed more than she had all shift. She loves them both like brothers.
She’d met Kit during academy training both of them barely 20 years old, both of them wide-eyed, determined, and quietly terrified of messing up. They’d clicked almost instantly, bonded through shared nerves and shared ambition. Being placed at Weatherfield together had felt like winning a small lottery. Five years later and she wouldn’t hesitate in calling him her best friend. Craig had joined the station a year later, earnest and eager, and somehow completed the trio without ever forcing his way in. They just clicked. Each of them very different but it worked.
By the time they reached Coronation Street, the sky had deepened into navy blue, streetlights casting warm halos across the cobbles. The sign for the Rovers glowed invitingly above the door. Even from outside they could hear the low hum of conversation and the occasional burst of laughter drifting into the night air.
Inside, the pub was alive with Friday energy, not the rowdy kind, just full. Glasses clinked, a dartboard thudded somewhere in the background, and conversations overlapped in a comfortable, familiar murmur. The smell of ale and polished wood wrapped around them as they stepped in. They weaved their way toward the bar, slipping between small clusters of people. Lisa instinctively murmured apologies whenever her shoulder brushed someone’s arm or her bag nudged a chair.
“Sorry…excuse me…thanks,” she repeated softly, offering quick smiles that were almost automatic and completely unnecessary.
Kit chuckled under his breath. “You apologising for nothing again Lisa?” He asked good naturedly.
“Can’t help it, it’s a reflex,” she replied, nudging him lightly with her elbow as they finally reached the front of the bar. It’s manners, her father had instilled that in her from an early age. The warmth, the chatter, the gentle chaos of the place settled around her, and for the first time that day, Lisa felt entirely off duty. The night, she thought, was just beginning.
The three of them stood at the bar shoulder-to-shoulder, the polished wood cool beneath Lisa’s fingertips as the noise of the pub washed over them.
Kit glanced sideways at her, then up at the bar top. “You want a leg up, Swain? Can you actually see over this thing?”
Lisa turned slowly, feigning offence. “Funny. I’m surprised you haven’t had a nosebleed from being that tall. Thin air up there, is it?”
Craig snorted, shaking his head. “You two sure you aren’t brother and sister.”
Their gentle ribbing was cut cleanly through by a voice carrying easily over the hum of conversation.
“Right, you three — what can I get ya?” The unmistakable Manchester twang cutting through the noise.
Lisa spun around.
And promptly forgot how words worked.
“Wow,” slipped out before she could stop it.
Behind the bar stood a brunette — dark hair falling loose around her shoulders, big hoop earrings catching the light, collarbones sharp and elegant above a black tank top that clung like it had been designed specifically for her. Lisa’s gaze travelled upward, taking in strong cheekbones, warm skin, and then…eyes. Striking green eyes that seemed to hold their own light.
“Wow,” she said again, quieter this time, entirely without meaning to.
The barmaid’s mouth curved into an amused smile, slow and knowing. Kit nudged Lisa gently in the ribs while peering over her head at Craig, who looked dangerously close to losing composure altogether. He’d never seen Lisa this thrown.
Lisa met the barmaid’s eyes and felt her stomach flip.
“What can I get you, love?” the brunette asked, voice warm and gravely, threaded with a playful lilt that made Lisa suddenly aware of her own heartbeat thrumming against her ribcage.
“Your eyes are really green,” Lisa blurted.
The barmaid laughed a glorious sound. It was low, rich, effortless. “That’s a new one. Usually I just get ‘pint of lager, please love.”
“I mean— they’re just… very green,” Lisa tried again, and immediately wished the floor would open up and swallow her whole. What is she doing?
“Observant,” the brunette teased gently. “Got brown hair as well, you know.”
Lisa’s brain short-circuited entirely. She was aware, distantly, of Kit making a choking sound beside her. “Swain, abort, abort.” He muttered under his breath. “She’s waiting for your order.”
“Right. Yeah — sorry. Three IPAs, please.” Her voice came out a touch higher than intended. The word please catching in the back of her throat.
“Three IPAs,” the brunette repeated, leaning slightly onto the bar as she said it, her chin tilting in a way that felt deliberately… close. “Anything else you fancy?”
Lisa blinked. “Yes. I mean— no thank you. You’re perfect. Shit.” Craig was chuckling beside her, Kit mortified on her behalf. “I mean that’s, that’s perfect.” Oh God.
“Shame,” the brunette said lightly, pushing herself upright. “I was hoping you’d stay talking a bit longer.” Lisa didn’t miss the way the barmaid bit her lip gently between pearly white teeth as her eyes took in the young women infront of her. Lisa couldn’t work out if she’d embarrassed the women or endeared herself to her. She really hoped it was the latter.
Lisa felt heat rush straight to her cheeks. She hadn’t felt this flustered since she was about sixteen and someone had smiled at her in maths class. The brunette turned and headed to the taps further along the bar. Lisa felt a flicker of guilt at herself, but it didn’t stop her gaze from dropping, trailing down to the most sensational arse she had ever seen. She chastised herself, those sorts of thoughts not becoming of a police officer, and forced her gaze back up. She watched the way the women moved around the bar with an easy confidence, the way her forearms tensed as she pulled the pints, the way her fingers flexed with the precise tilt of each glass. A blonde woman leaned in to whisper something in her ear; the brunette chuckled and gently nudged her away before glancing back over her shoulder, looking directly at Lisa.
Lisa’s ears tinged pink.
Somewhere to her right she faintly heard Kit and Craig debating booths. She nodded absently in their direction so they knew she’d heard, even though her attention hadn’t moved an inch.
The barmaid returned, balancing all three pint glasses effortlessly before setting them down with practiced ease. “That’ll be £18.90, love.”
“Oh — right. Yeah. Sure. Please.” Lisa fumbled with her card, nearly dropping it once, then twice.
The brunette smiled softly, eyes flicking between Lisa’s hands and her face. “You’re cute, you know.” Lisa blinked, momentarily stunned. I’m cute. Her spine straightened a fraction on instinct. Cool. Very cool. Don’t pass out. Do not pass out. “You’ve not been in here before,” the brunette said, resting her knuckles lightly on the bar as Lisa tucked her card away.
“No, we usually head into town after shift,” Lisa replied, gesturing vaguely toward Kit and Craig. “We all work together.”
“Shift?” A brow lifted. “What is it you do?”
“We’re police officers.”
“Right,” she said, lips quirking. “I’ll make sure I’m on my best behaviour then, officer.” Her tone suggested the exact opposite.
Lisa’s thoughts tangled over themselves. Is she flirting? She’s flirting. No, she’s just friendly. She’s definitely just friendly. People like her don’t flirt with people like me.
“Well… I should get these back to my mates,” Lisa said, lifting the tray slightly. “Maybe I’ll… see you again.” She paused before turning away from the bar. “I’m Lisa, by the way.”
“Carla,” the brunette replied. “I work here most evenings. If you were wondering.” Lisa’s knees trembled at the assured smirk that spread across Carla’s stunning features.
Lisa bit her lip, nodded once, and backed away before her brain could betray her further. She could feelCarla’s eyes on her for the first few steps and it took every ounce of restraint not to turn around again. She slid into the booth opposite Kit and Craig, both of whom were staring at her like she’d just announced she was moving to the moon.
“What on earth was that?” Kit asked.
“What was what?” Lisa tried, far too casually.
“Your tongue was hanging out like a cartoon dog,” he said flatly. “Please tell us you got her number?”
“It was just friendly,” Lisa insisted, taking a hurried sip of her drink.
Craig tilted his head toward the bar. “If it was just friendly, why is she looking over here now then?”
Lisa’s eyes widened and, against her better judgement, she looked. Carla was mid-pour on a Guinness and she was watching her. Lisa lifted a small, tentative wave without thinking. Carla’s shoulders softened. Then she winked.
“She’s blushing,” Kit announced digging his elbow into her ribs.
“I am not,” Lisa shot back shoving him away.
“Yeah, you are.”
“Alright…alright,” she muttered, defeated, sitting a little straighter despite herself. “Maybe we could pop back in after shift next week.”
Both of them burst out laughing sharing a knowing look.
The evening unfolded in stolen glances and shy smiles. Lisa tried, genuinely tried, not to look toward the bar every five seconds, but her eyes seemed to have developed a will of their own. And more often than not, when she did glance up, Carla was already looking back.
At one point their gazes locked for just a second too long. Carla, distracted, let the pint she was pouring foam straight over the rim. “Shit,” she muttered, grabbing a cloth as beer spilled onto the drip tray and down toward the floor. Lisa couldn’t help feeling a little smug at her ability to throw Carla a little off balance, a small, private smile tugging at her lips.
Kit leaned across the table. “Go and get the hot barmaid’s number.” Lisa rolled her eyes, but her gaze drifted back to the bar anyway drawn there like gravity like there was a magnetic pull.
For the rest of the night, words blurred, laughter faded in and out, but one thing stayed constant, every time Lisa looked up, those green eyes found her again. And every time they did, her stomach flipped like she was a teenager experiencing her first crush all over again.
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