The Art Of Planning (and How Love Ruins It). Calex One Shot.

The Art of Planning (and How Love Ruins It). calex one shot.

SUMMARY: In which Alex overthinks gifts, Casey burns dinner, and love happens anyway.

Alex Cabot had built her career on being three steps ahead. In the courtroom, her reputation for meticulous preparation was legendary – defense attorneys visibly deflated when they saw her striding in, armed with perfectly organized files and arguments sharp enough to slice through even the most carefully constructed alibis. Her colleagues joked that she probably planned her grocery shopping with the same tactical precision she applied to cross-examinations.

They weren't entirely wrong.

But now, on a grey February afternoon that couldn't seem to decide between rain and snow, Manhattan's most formidable ADA sat in her corner office on the tenth floor, surrounded by the fruits of what could only be described as a gift-buying panic spiral.

The evidence of her unraveling was spread across her usually pristine desk: six presents – no, seven, if you counted the small box of artisanal chocolates she'd impulse-bought on her lunch break. Each item had seemed perfect in isolation, chosen with the kind of thoughtful consideration that spoke of hours spent analyzing casual conversations, filing away small details, noting the way Casey's eyes would linger on certain things in store windows during their weekend walks.

A leather-bound journal, smooth and elegant, because Casey once mentioned during a late-night conversation over take out and case files that she preferred writing things down by hand rather than typing them into her phone. "There's something about pen on paper," she'd said, absently twirling lo mein around her fork. "Like you're really connecting with your thoughts."

Next to it sat the first-edition copy of To Kill a Mockingbird, sourced from a rare bookstore in the Village that Alex had visited four times before committing to the purchase. She'd watched Casey's face light up whenever she referenced the book, had seen the worn paperback copy on her office shelf, its spine cracked from countless readings.

The cashmere throw blanket was folded into a perfect square, its soft grey material catching the winter light. That one had been easy – Casey was always stealing Alex's blanket during their movie nights, wrapping herself in it like a cocoon and claiming squatter's rights with a grin that made argument impossible. An adorable but exasperating habit.

A silver necklace, understated yet sophisticated, something that would look effortlessly perfect against the curve of Casey’s collarbone. Alex had spent an entire Saturday afternoon in Tiffany's, driving the sales associate slightly mad with her determination to find something that would suit Casey's understated style. Nothing flashy enough to draw attention in court, but beautiful enough to make her eyes sparkle when she caught her reflection.

The bottle of small-batch bourbon stood sentinel among the softer gifts, its amber contents promising warmth. Alex was ninety percent certain it was Casey's preferred brand – she'd seen her order it once at Forlini's after a particularly brutal case, but now doubt crept in. What if she'd remembered wrong?

And then there was the plush golden retriever, sitting there like a furry manifestation of Alex's complete loss of perspective. She blamed that one on the late-night conversation they'd had months ago, when Casey had joked about wanting a dog. It had been an offhand comment, something small, something inconsequential. And yet, somehow that had translated into Alex buying a stuffed animal like they were teenagers exchanging Valentine's gifts in high school.

But now? Now she was sitting here, staring at this ridiculous assortment of gifts, and none of it felt like the gift. The one that would say what she wanted it to say, what she hadn't quite figured out how to put into words yet.

She ran both hands through her hair, disheveling the perfect blonde waves she'd spent twenty minutes styling that morning. "What am I doing?"

Because Valentine’s Day was tonight, and for the first time in her life, Alex had no plan

The question hung in the air, unanswered. The gifts stared back at her, each one suddenly seeming inadequate, too much, or completely wrong for their first Valentine's Day together.

Their first Valentine's Day.

The thought sent another wave of anxiety through her chest. Because this wasn't just about gifts – this was about what they meant. About the way Casey had slowly but surely dismantled every careful wall Alex had built around her heart, not with battering rams or siege engines, but with crooked smiles and terrible puns and a kindness that seemed as natural as breathing.

She was so lost in her spiral of overthinking that the knock on her office door barely registered before it swung open.

"Alex—"

She jumped, her head snapping up to find Olivia Benson standing in her doorway, dark eyes taking in the gift shop display with growing amusement.

The silence stretched for one beat, two.

Then—

"Wow." Olivia's eyebrow arched with the precision of a master interrogator. "Are you—are you starting a side business I should know about?"

Alex let her head fall forward with a groan. "Go away."

"Let me guess," Olivia continued, ignoring the dismissal as she stepped fully into the office, closing the door behind her. "You have no idea what to give Casey?"

Alex straightened, crossing her arms. "I do have an idea. Several, actually."

Olivia gestured toward the overwhelming collection. "Clearly."

"It has to be perfect," Alex insisted, the words carrying more weight than she'd intended.

Olivia snorted, stepping further inside. "Alex, it’s Valentine’s Day, not a Supreme Court case."

"You don’t understand," Alex muttered, leaning back in her chair. "It has to be the gift. The one that shows her how much I—" She cut herself off, pressing her lips together.

Olivia’s smirk softened into something more knowing.

"Oh," she said, voice lighter. "I see what this is about."

Alex looked away, fixing her gaze on the bourbon bottle as if it held the answers.

"You know she's going to love whatever you give her, right? The woman looks at you like you hung the moon."

Alex sighed, removing her glasses to rub at her temples. "It doesn't feel right yet. None of it feels... enough."

"You do realize," Olivia said, perching on the edge of Alex's desk with familiar ease, "that Casey is probably driving herself just as crazy right now?"

Alex scoffed. "Casey? Freaking out? Olivia, she's the most laid-back person I've ever met. She wore Converse to court last week."

"Those were her backup shoes and you know it," Olivia countered. "Her heel broke on the courthouse steps. But trust me," her grin turned knowing, "when it comes to you? That woman is anything but laid-back."

Meanwhile, across town...

Casey Novak was indeed proving Olivia's point by pacing the length of her apartment, stress-eating her way through a heart-shaped box of chocolates that she'd bought for Alex but opened in a moment of weakness.

"I'm screwed," she announced to her audience of one, running her free hand through already-disheveled red hair. "Completely and utterly screwed."

John Munch, resident conspiracy theorist and unlikely relationship counselor, watched her from his spot on her worn leather couch. He'd shown up twenty minutes ago with case files that could have easily waited until tomorrow, fooling exactly no one about his real reasons for visiting.

"This is wildly entertaining," he commented, helping himself to one of the rapidly diminishing chocolates. "Like watching a rom-com in real time, but with more pacing and fewer musical montages."

"Munch," Casey groaned, flopping onto the couch beside him. "I had everything planned. The perfect reservation at that little Italian place she loves – the one where the owner still makes everything from his grandmother's recipes. And now? Now I have nothing. The pipe burst in their kitchen this morning, they're closed for at least a week, and every other decent restaurant in Manhattan has been booked solid for months."

"You could always cook something," Munch suggested, examining a chocolate before popping it into his mouth.

Casey turned to stare at him, green eyes wide with horror. "Have you met me? I burned instant ramen last week. Instant. Ramen."

"Ah," Munch nodded sagely. "Fair point."

Casey slumped further into the couch, staring at her ceiling as if it might offer solutions. "What do you get someone who color-codes their legal briefs and probably has a spreadsheet for organizing her sock drawer?"

"Something she doesn't know she wants yet," Munch offered, his voice carrying the kind of wisdom that came from decades of observing human nature – and several failed marriages of his own.

Casey sat up slowly, something shifting in her expression. "That's... actually helpful."

"Don't sound so surprised," Munch smirked. "I have my moments."

The ceiling fan spun lazily above them, stirring the winter-cold air. Casey's apartment was smaller than Alex's, cozier, with mismatched furniture and law books stacked on every available surface. Photos covered one wall – her family, her softball team, candid shots of the squad at various gatherings. And there, right in the center, a picture from the summer: Alex laughing at something off-camera, the setting sun turning her hair to gold, her guard completely down in a way few people ever got to see.

Casey's eyes fixed on that photo, and something settled in her chest. "Right," she said, standing up with sudden determination. "I need to go shopping."

Munch raised an eyebrow. "Now? It's almost five."

"Exactly," Casey grabbed her coat. "I have two hours before I'm supposed to be at Alex's. Plenty of time."

"For what?"

Casey grinned, an idea taking shape. "Something she doesn't know she wants yet."

By the time they met at Alex’s apartment, both of them were still very convinced they had somehow managed to ruin Valentine’s Day.

Alex's apartment occupied the corner of a pre-war building in the West Village, all high ceilings and hardwood floors and windows that caught the last rays of sunset. Usually, the space felt like a reflection of its owner – elegant, organized, everything in its proper place. But tonight, the familiar rooms held a different energy, charged with anticipation and the faint scent of... something burning.

Alex had eventually settled on giving Casey the book—plus the necklace, because she couldn’t decide—and Casey, in a moment of pure panic, had decided to cook.

As soon as Alex stepped into her apartment, an unusual noise pulled her toward the kitchen. The sight that met her stopped her cold.

Her immaculate kitchen – where she usually prepared nothing more complicated than coffee – had been transformed into what looked like the aftermath of a culinary war zone. Flour dusted the granite countertops like fresh snow. A pot of something that might have once been pasta sat abandoned in the sink. And in the middle of it all stood Casey Novak, wearing jeans and Alex's borrowed apron, staring at a slightly charred attempt at... something... with the same expression she usually reserved for particularly challenging cross-examinations.

"Casey?"

Casey jumped, nearly dropping the wooden spoon she was clutching like a lifeline. "Alex! Hi! You're early!"

Alex glanced at the antique wall clock – a gift from her grandmother – that hung between her windows. "It's seven."

"Exactly!" Casey nodded with the kind of desperate enthusiasm that suggested she was clinging to the last threads of a plan rapidly unraveling. "Early!"

Alex bit back a smile, taking in the complete picture: Casey's hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, a smudge of flour decorated her left cheek, and she had somehow managed to get tomato sauce on her forehead. She looked absolutely nothing like the polished ADA who could reduce defense attorneys to stammering messes, and absolutely everything like someone Alex wanted to kiss senseless.

"Casey," she said softly, stepping into the disaster zone that was her kitchen.

Casey's shoulders slumped. She ran a flour-dusted hand through her hair, adding to the general chaos. "Okay, so I had this really amazing dinner planned at Vincenzo's – you know, that little place where you always get the linguine with clams? But then their kitchen flooded, which, by the way, is definitely a conspiracy because who has a pipe burst on Valentine's Day? So I thought – how hard can cooking be? People do it every day. Children do it. I have multiple degrees. I once got a conviction with nothing but circumstantial evidence and a half-decent witness."

She gestured at the pot in the sink. "Turns out? Very hard. Cooking is very hard. And pasta is apparently a lot more complicated than 'boil water, add noodles.' Who knew?"

Alex stepped closer, examining the remnants of what appeared to be an attempt at marinara sauce. "You cooked for me?"

"Attempted to cook," Casey corrected, her voice carrying that particular mix of frustration and self-deprecating humor that Alex had fallen in love with months ago, even if she hadn't admitted it to herself at the time. "What you're looking at is less 'cooking' and more 'crime against Italian cuisine.'"

Alex's heart did something complicated in her chest. Because this was Casey – brilliant, passionate Casey who could argue constitutional law for hours but couldn't make coffee without detailed instructions – standing in her kitchen on Valentine's Day, having tried to cook dinner just because she knew Alex loved Italian food.

She reached out, brushing the flour from Casey's cheek with gentle fingers. "I love it."

Casey groaned. "You haven't even tasted it yet. Which, by the way, you're not going to, because I refuse to be responsible for giving you food poisoning on Valentine's Day."

Alex smirked. "Doesn't matter."

"You're just saying that because you brought me a present," Casey narrowed her eyes suspiciously, "and now you feel bad that I ruined dinner."

Alex hesitated, thinking of the collection of gifts she'd finally narrowed down to two. "...maybe."

Casey sighed dramatically, but her eyes were sparkling. "Fine. Let's see it. But first—" She reached for a dishtowel, attempting to clean some of the flour off her hands. "I should probably try to look less like I got into a fight with a bag of flour."

"I don't know," Alex mused, "I think it's a good look on you. Very... domestic."

Casey snorted. "Yeah, that's me. Domestic goddess." She gave up on the flour and turned to face Alex fully. "Okay, hit me with it. What perfectly thoughtful, absolutely perfect gift did Alexandra Cabot choose?"

Alex's confidence wavered slightly as she retrieved the carefully wrapped packages from where she'd left them in the living room. What if she'd overthought this? What if—

No. She was Alexandra Cabot. She did not second-guess herself.

(Except, apparently, when it came to Casey Novak.)

She handed over the first box, wrapped in simple silver paper. "This one first."

Casey took it carefully, as if it might explode. Her fingers traced the edges before finding the seam and unwrapping it with surprising delicacy for someone who usually attacked packaging like it had personally offended her.

The book's leather binding caught the light as she lifted it from its wrapping. Casey's breath caught audibly as she read the title, fingers hovering over the gilt lettering as if afraid to touch it.

"Alex..." Her voice was barely a whisper. "This is... is this..."

"First edition," Alex confirmed softly. "I remembered you saying it was your favorite."

Casey swallowed hard, still staring at the book. "My dad used to read it to me. Every summer when we visited my grandparents in Georgia. He'd do all the voices..." She trailed off, blinking rapidly.

"And this," Alex added quickly, not wanting Casey to cry (because if Casey cried, she would cry, and she'd spent far too long on her makeup for that), holding out the second box.

Casey opened it with slightly shaky hands, revealing the delicate silver necklace nestled against black velvet. A small pendant caught the light – a simple design that somehow managed to be both classic and modern, exactly like the woman it was meant for.

She stared at it for a long moment, then looked up at Alex with an expression that made Alex's heart skip several beats.

"Okay," Casey whispered, "now I feel worse about the pasta."

Alex laughed softly. "Don't. I love my gift."

"I burned pasta."

"You tried."

"And failed. Spectacularly."

"And I still love you."

The words fell into the space between them like stones into still water, ripples of meaning expanding outward. Alex felt her breath catch as she realized what she'd said – what she'd been feeling for months but hadn't dared to voice.

Casey went very still, her eyes wide and startlingly green in the kitchen's warm light.

Because they hadn't said that yet. Hadn't put words to this thing that had grown between them, starting with late-night strategy sessions over Chinese food and growing into something that made Alex's carefully ordered world tilt on its axis in the best possible way.

But now that the words were out there, Alex knew with absolute certainty that they were true. She loved Casey Novak, with her terrible puns and her passion for justice and her complete inability to cook pasta. She loved her in a way that made all her careful plans and strategies irrelevant, in a way that scared her and thrilled her in equal measure.

Casey's smile bloomed slowly, like sunrise breaking over the city. "You love me?" she whispered, and there was wonder in her voice, as if she couldn't quite believe it.

Alex exhaled, her fingers finding Casey's cheek again, thumb brushing over that stubborn smudge of flour. "Yeah," she said simply. "I do."

Casey swallowed, then whispered back, "I love you too." A pause, then: "Even though you're definitely going to hold this pasta thing over my head forever."

Alex laughed, soft and real. "Only until you learn to cook."

"So, forever then."

And then Alex kissed her, tasting flour and chocolate and something that might have been marinara sauce. Casey's hands came up to tangle in her hair, probably getting flour everywhere, but Alex couldn't bring herself to care.

Because this – this moment in her disaster of a kitchen, with the smell of burnt pasta in the air and Casey's heartbeat under her palms – this was perfect.

Later, they ordered takeout from the Thai place around the corner. They ate on Alex's couch, Casey wearing Alex's necklace and reading aloud from her new book, doing all the voices just like her father used to. The pasta pot sat soaking in the sink, a reminder that sometimes the best gifts aren't the ones we plan, but the ones that come from trying and failing and loving anyway.

And that made it the best Valentine's Day either of them had ever had.

Burnt pasta and all.