Work Text:
The faint, rhythmic click-clack of keys was the soundtrack to Beca Mitchell's afternoon. Hunched over her laptop on the small, slightly lumpy pull-out sofa that served as her bed—and currently her office—she was deep in the throes of a mixing job for a new commercial jingle.
The Brooklyn apartment was cozy—a generous term for cramped—but at least it was mostly quiet. Amy had taken off hours ago, claiming she had an "aerial-yoga-meets-stand-up-comedy audition" in the city. And Chloe... well, Chloe was probably surrounded by fluffy puppies and nervous owners, her scrubs dusted with pet hair and her smile dazzling despite the stress of her veterinary internship.
Beca hit 'render' and stretched, her shoulders popping with a satisfying series of cracks. Done. With the silence of the apartment suddenly amplified, she cast about for a way to occupy her brain. A new electronic track? Too much effort. A scathing tweet? Too on brand.
Her gaze landed on the remote for the cheap flat-screen they'd mounted over the mini-fridge. A small, secret smile touched her lips. She grabbed it, flipped through the channels, and landed on it: The Great British Bake Off.
No one knew about Beca's obsession. Not Jesse, not even Chloe. She needed everyone to think she was perpetually a badass music producer, listening only to obscure techno and maybe, grudgingly, classic rock. But the truth was, nothing was more calming than watching someone stress over a soggy bottom.
She settled in, the polite tension of the technical challenge lulling her into a state of deep, blissful relaxation. The smell of burning sugar wafted through her imagination. Just five more minutes, she thought, sinking deeper into the soft cushions.
The apartment door clicked shut with a soft, familiar sound, and a sunbeam seemed to enter the room. Chloe Beale was home early. A tough day at the clinic had ended with an unexpected cancellation, and she’d decided to trade sterilizing surgical tools for relaxing with her roommates.
She kicked off her worn sneakers and dropped her heavy backpack by the door. The apartment was still, save for a gentle, British voice drifting from the TV. Chloe paused. She moved quietly around the edge of the galley kitchen and peered into the living area.
There, sprawled out on the pull-out sofa, was Beca. She was completely conked out, one arm draped over her chest, the other dangling towards the floor. Her dark hair was splayed against a pillow, and her mouth was slightly ajar.
On the screen, a man with a charmingly anxious expression was peering into an oven. It was Bake Off. Chocolate Week.
A genuine, warmth-filled grin spread across Chloe’s face. She didn’t even try to hide the sound of her laughter—it was soft, airy, and entirely directed at the irony of the scene. Beca Mitchell, the queen of snark and beats, asleep during a bread technical. It was the most adorable thing Chloe had seen all week.
She took a step closer, just wanting to look at her for a second longer—the way Beca’s forehead furrowed even in sleep, the way the light caught the delicate curve of her ear. There was a quiet, domestic beauty to the moment that Chloe found herself strangely attached to.
As if sensing the gaze, Beca’s eyes fluttered open. She blinked, a slow, confused process, until they focused on the bright, blue-eyed face hovering over her.
“Chloe?” Beca’s voice was a low, scratchy rasp. She instantly bolted upright, pushing herself away from the pillows, her whole body stiffening. She fumbled for the remote, desperate to shut it off.
“I—I wasn’t watching that,” Beca stammered, her cheeks flushing a deep, mortified pink. She rubbed her eyes fiercely. "I was... doing sound design for a baker’s commercial and I fell asleep. Research! It’s called research.”
Chloe merely smiled, her head tilted to the side, her blue eyes shining with knowing amusement. “Uh-huh. Sure you were, little badger. The commercial where they cry about over-whipped ganache.”
She moved over to the sofa, sitting down right beside Beca, their thighs touching in the confined space. Chloe's closeness was like a physical presence, a warm gravity Beca was entirely unequipped to deal with, especially right now. Beca could smell a faint scent of antiseptic and something sweet, like vanilla, on Chloe’s scrubs.
“Well, you missed an excellent signature bake,” Chloe said simply, leaning her head back against the cushion. She turned her beaming face to Beca. “Hit play. I want to see if this guy saves his choux.”
Beca stared at her, her defensive shields momentarily down. Chloe was so ridiculously, effortlessly... close. Beca felt a ridiculous, fluttery sensation that she immediately categorized as 'caffeine withdrawal.'
Beca narrowed her eyes, the embarrassment morphing into a familiar, eye-rolling affection. “Fine. But if you tell anyone I watch this, I will put a highly compressed bass drop in your alarm clock.”
Chloe’s smile widened into a full, captivating grin. “Deal.”
Beca scoffed, rolled her eyes, and let a small, involuntary smirk curl onto her own lips. With a click, the polite, anxious drama of the tent returned.
“Don’t judge his piping skills,” Chloe murmured, settling in, her shoulder pressing comfortably against Beca’s.
“I’m judging everything,” Beca replied, her tone pure, restored snark. But she didn't move away. She just leaned a fraction of an inch closer, drawn into the shared warmth, and stared intently at the screen. The drama of the technical challenge suddenly had a much stronger pull.