Finn(othy)

Groaning, you shift onto your other side, turning to worm your way into Emily's arms. Your head drops on her shoulder, arm curling tight around her waist, pressing you both closer like it'll stop her from leaving. She gracelessly rubs the back of your head, yawning.

"Alaska?" She slurs into the phone. "Y'sure you got that right?"

Despite everything, her soft drawl makes you smile into her collarbone. You go all warm inside when she sounds like this—a gravelly rasp in her throat, her words pulled long and sticky, rounded with the softness of her mouth. Her voice roughens, yet her pronunciation crumbles; it's like she gets sanded down, all the sharpness melted away, purely for you to hear when she's heavy with sleep or—

Your eyes snap open at the sound of Garcia's voice, tinny but clear through the phone, reminding you of the fact that you're very much not the only witness to your wife's less inhibited state.

"Yes, I've got that right. The deputy mentioned it, like, ten times—"

"Lemme guess, salmon city, Alaska." Emily yawns again, letting her forehead loll down and press against yours.

"So close, it's Fairbanks." 

She makes a grumbling sound under her breath, the vibrations seeping into your skin. You go hot knowing the sound carries, the speakers picking up what's yours, delivering it to Garcia's ears.

Sleep leaves your body very quickly.

Garcia tuts. "Up you get, cupcake. It's a ten hour flight. Pack warm."

"No," Emily rasps.

"Jet leaves at six."

"I'm resigning."

"Can't relay the news!" Garcia chirps. "Sorry, hon, in-person resignations only. Don't be late."

She hangs up with a beep and Emily throws the phone somewhere on the bed, groaning again as she curls around you—smothers you, really. You're still stewing as the tip of her nose nudges your cheek, her mussed bangs tickling you all over. 

It's just Garcia. One-of-your-favorite-people-on-this-planet Garcia. Emily's-best-friend Garcia. 

You're being ridiculous. It's fine. She's seen her drunk off her mind, looped up on pain meds. They spend an abnormal amount of time together, and this isn't the first time this has happened. Hell, it'll hardly be the last.

Had she ever answered JJ like this? Hotch?

Your fingers curl into the cotton of Emily's tank top. She exhales, the warmth of it hitting your cheek, and shifts around to rest her forehead on your shoulder.

"I should quit."

"Yeah, you should." You shoot back too fast, your own voice gravely with exhaustion.

"Wow, really?" Emily mumbles. "That was a lil' too enthusiastic."

You search for her hand amidst the covers. It's cold, limp until you thread your fingers through hers and give a halfhearted squeeze. "You just came back, Emily." You say. You can't really make out her features in the dark, only feel her, hear her. "You're exhausted. It's not fair."

She hums thickly, her lips soft on your cheek. "Don't worry your pretty little head about me."

"I can't not. Besides," your voice goes a little petulant as you twist in her arms, huddling close enough to see the faint sheen of her eyes, "no one else should get to hear you like this." You mumble.

Emily's brows furrow. "Like what?" She asks, perplexed.

"This," you whisper, tracing her plush bottom lip. "Mine."

"I'm yours all the time." She whispers back. It's so earnest, so sweetly clueless. Heat crawls up your skin again, this time from your own absurdity. 

Sighing, you press a small kiss to her mouth. Emily cups your cheek, a frown still creasing her forehead. "Baby, what're you talkin' about?"

"Nothing," you mumble, muffled into her hand. "I hate the BAU."

She pets your cheek, strokes clumsily next to your eye. You savor the kiss she drops there, a small bit of lingering warmth to chase away the cold when she slips out of bed.

The emergency room at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center never sleeps, but it does breathe. In and out, chaos and calm, the rhythm of a place where life and death dance on a knife's edge every single night. You've learned to move with that rhythm during your shifts as a patient care coordinator, navigating the controlled chaos with practiced ease. But tonight, like most nights, your attention keeps drifting to Dr. Emery Walsh.

She's in her element right now, barking orders at a resident who's fumbling with an IV line. Her voice cuts through the noise like a scalpel, precise and sharp. "I don't care if you're tired. That patient needs fluids now, not five minutes from now. Move."

The resident scurries away, and you can't help the small smile that tugs at your lips. Emery's reputation precedes her: tough as nails, no-nonsense, the kind of surgeon who commands respect through sheer competence and an unwillingness to accept anything less than excellence. She's saved more lives than you can count, and she's done it with a steel spine and steady hands.

But you know something most people at PTMC don't know. You know what she looks like when she's soft.

You've been seeing each other for three months now, though "seeing each other" feels like too casual a phrase for what's growing between you. It started with lingering glances during night shifts, then coffee in the break room at 3 AM when the ER had a rare lull. She'd asked you out after a particularly brutal shift, her usual confidence wavering just slightly as she'd said, "I know a place that serves breakfast at midnight. If you're interested."

You'd been interested.

Now, you catch glimpses of both versions of her: the commanding surgeon who tolerates no mistakes, and the woman who curls into your side on her couch, who traces patterns on your skin with gentle fingers, who whispers vulnerabilities into the dark that she'd never voice in the fluorescent lights of the hospital.

"Hey, can you check on the patient in Bay 4?" Emery's voice pulls you from your thoughts. She's standing in front of you now, tablet in hand, and there's the briefest softening around her eyes when she looks at you. It's gone in a flash, professional mask back in place, but you saw it. You always see it.

"On it, Dr. Walsh," you say, matching her professional tone even as warmth spreads through your chest.

As she turns to head toward the trauma bay, something catches your eye. There, on her hospital badge alongside her ID photo and credentials, is a small pin you haven't noticed before. It's tiny, barely larger than a postage stamp, but the colors are distinct: pink, yellow, and blue in horizontal stripes.

Your heart does a strange little flip in your chest.

You know those colors. You wear them yourself, though usually more subtly, a bracelet tucked under your sleeve or a patch on your bag. The pansexual flag. But seeing it on Emery's badge, this small declaration of identity in a place where she's usually so guarded, makes something shift inside you.

She's never explicitly talked about her sexuality with you. You've talked about past relationships in vague terms, about the challenges of dating as a surgeon with impossible hours, about the fear of being vulnerable. But she's never put a label on it, never said the words out loud. And you've never pushed, content to let her share what she wants when she's ready.

But this pin. This tiny, deliberate choice. It means something.

The rest of your shift passes in the usual controlled chaos. A car accident victim comes in with internal bleeding, and you watch Emery work with the kind of focused intensity that's almost beautiful. She's in her element, hands moving with practiced precision, voice steady as she calls out orders. When the patient stabilizes, you see the tiniest release of tension in her shoulders.

Later, during a rare quiet moment, you bring her coffee in the break room. She's sitting alone, reviewing charts, and when you set the cup down beside her, she looks up with tired eyes.

"You're a lifesaver," she murmurs, and her hand briefly touches yours. It's a small gesture, barely a second of contact, but it's enough. In this semi-private space, she lets herself have this.

"Rough night?" you ask, settling into the chair across from her.

"They're all rough." She takes a sip of coffee and sighs. "But yeah. Lost a patient earlier, before you came on shift. Eighteen-year-old kid. Motorcycle accident."

You reach across the table and squeeze her hand. She lets you, her fingers curling around yours for a moment before she pulls away. Even here, even with you, she can't fully let her guard down. Not at work.

"I'm sorry," you say softly.

She nods, jaw tight, and returns to her charts. You sit with her in comfortable silence, and your gaze drifts back to that pin on her badge. Pink, yellow, blue. A tiny rainbow of identity, a small act of courage in a world that doesn't always make space for people like you. Like her.

An idea begins to form.

When you get home that morning, the sun is just starting to rise over Pittsburgh. You're exhausted, your feet ache, and you should go straight to bed. Instead, you find yourself at your laptop, searching.

"Pansexual flag meaning."

You know what it means to you, of course. You've identified as pansexual since college, when you finally found a word that fit the way you experienced attraction. Not limited by gender, drawn to people for who they are rather than what they are. It had felt like coming home, finding that label.

But you want to understand it more deeply. You want to know the history, the significance of each color, the weight of what it means to claim this identity.

The search results fill your screen. You learn that the pink represents attraction to women, the blue represents attraction to men, and the yellow represents attraction to non-binary and gender-nonconforming people. The flag was designed in 2010, a deliberate creation meant to give pansexual people their own symbol, their own visible representation.

You read personal stories from people who'd felt invisible for years, who'd struggled to find community, who'd finally felt seen when they discovered this flag and the identity it represented. You read about the courage it takes to display it openly, especially in professional settings where queer identities are often kept hidden.

And you think about Emery, who wears that pin on her badge every single day. Emery, who's so guarded about her personal life, who keeps her walls up so high at work. She's claiming this identity in a place where she's otherwise so careful, so controlled.

It means something. It means everything.

You want to show her that you see it. That you see her.

The idea that started forming in the break room crystallizes into something concrete. You're going to make her something. Something handmade, something personal, something in those exact colors. A gift that says, "I see you." I understand. You're not alone.

You spend the next hour browsing craft stores online, looking for supplies. You're not particularly artistic, but you're determined. Finally, you settle on an idea: a small wooden trinket box, something she could keep on her bedside table or her desk. You'll paint it in the colors of the pansexual flag, carefully and precisely, and maybe add a design or pattern to make it special.

You order supplies for same-day delivery: a plain wooden box, acrylic paints in the exact shades of pink, yellow, and blue, brushes, sealant, sandpaper. Your exhaustion has been replaced by a nervous, excited energy.

This is going to mean something. You just hope it means what you want it to mean.

The supplies arrive that afternoon, waking you from a fitful sleep. You drag yourself out of bed, make coffee, and spread everything out on your kitchen table. The wooden box is small, about the size of your palm, with a hinged lid and smooth surfaces. Perfect.

You start with the sandpaper, smoothing out any rough spots on the wood. It's meditative work, repetitive and calming. As you work, you think about Emery. About the way she looks at you when she thinks no one else is watching. About the way she melts into your arms when you're alone together, all that rigid control dissolving into softness.

She doesn't let many people see that side of her. You know that. She's told you, in whispered confessions at 2 AM, that she's always felt like she had to be tough. Growing up, coming out, medical school, residency, fighting for respect in a field that doesn't always make space for women, let alone queer women. She's built walls because she's had to.

But with you, sometimes, the walls come down.

Once the box is sanded smooth, you start painting. You decide to do horizontal stripes, just like the flag. Pink on top, yellow in the middle, blue on the bottom. You work slowly, carefully, using painter's tape to keep the lines clean. The first coat goes on streaky and uneven, and you have to resist the urge to rush. This needs to be perfect.

While the first coat dries, you make dinner and try not to obsess over whether this is too much. You've only been together for three months. Is a handmade gift too intense? Too presumptuous? What if she thinks you're moving too fast?

But then you remember the way she'd looked at you last week, curled up on her couch after a brutal shift. She'd been exhausted, emotionally wrung out after losing two patients in one night. You'd held her while she cried, something she admitted she rarely let herself do.

"I don't know why I can be like this with you," she'd whispered against your shoulder. "I don't let people in like this."

"Maybe because you know I won't judge you for being human," you'd said.

She'd pulled back to look at you, eyes red-rimmed and vulnerable. "Maybe."

No, you decide. This gift isn't too much. It's exactly right.

You apply a second coat of paint, then a third. Each layer makes the colors more vibrant, more true. The pink is soft and warm, the yellow bright and cheerful, the blue deep and rich. Together, they're beautiful.

On the second evening of work, you add details. You're not skilled enough for anything too elaborate, but you carefully paint small stars in gold along the edges where the colors meet. Little constellations, because Emery once told you she wanted to be an astronaut when she was a kid. She'd laughed when she said it, self-deprecating, but you'd seen the wistfulness in her eyes.

"Why didn't you?" you'd asked.

"Turns out I'm better at fixing people than exploring space," she'd said. "But sometimes I still look up and wonder."

So: stars. A small nod to the dreams she'd set aside, the parts of herself she doesn't often share.

The painting takes three evenings total. Between shifts at the hospital, you work on the box with painstaking care. Sand, paint, wait for it to dry. Paint again. Add details. Let it cure. Apply sealant to protect the finish. Each step is an act of love, a meditation on what Emery means to you.

You see her at work during this time, of course. She's her usual self: commanding, focused, occasionally letting her guard down just enough to give you a soft look when no one's watching. Once, during a particularly chaotic trauma, she snaps at you for not having a patient's chart ready fast enough. You don't take it personally; you know how she gets when the pressure's on. Later, during a quiet moment, she finds you and apologizes.

"I was out of line," she says, voice low. "You didn't deserve that."

"It's okay," you tell her. "I know you're under a lot of stress."

She looks at you for a long moment, something unreadable in her eyes. "You're too understanding sometimes. Most people would tell me to fuck off."

"I'm not most people."

"No," she agrees softly. "You're not."

She walks away before anyone can notice the tenderness in her expression, but you carry that moment with you as you finish the box that night.

On the fourth evening, the box is complete. You hold it in your hands, turning it over to examine your work. It's not perfect; there are a few places where the paint bled slightly under the tape, a couple of stars that are more lopsided than you'd like. But it's beautiful in its imperfection, and it's made with love. That has to count for something.

You practice what you're going to say. "I noticed your pin, and I wanted you to know that I see you." Too formal. "I made this for you because I think you're amazing." Too vague. "I know what the colors mean, and I wanted you to have something that celebrates that part of you." Better, but still not quite right.

Finally, you settle on simplicity: "I saw your pin, and I wanted to make you something. To show you that I see you, and I'm proud of you for wearing it."

Your heart is racing just thinking about it. What if she thinks it's too much? What if she's not ready for this level of emotional intimacy? What if you've misread everything?

But you think about that pin on her badge, that small act of courage, and you know you have to try.

You're both working the next night. You tuck the box, wrapped in tissue paper, into your bag and head to the hospital with butterflies in your stomach.

The shift is mercifully slow, at least by PTMC standards. A few minor traumas, some routine emergencies, nothing that requires Emery to go into full battlefield-surgeon mode. You catch her eye a few times throughout the night, and each time, she gives you that small, private smile that's just for you.

Around 2 AM, you find her in the break room again. She's alone, eating a sad-looking sandwich from the vending machine and scrolling through her phone. When you walk in, she looks up and her whole face softens.

"Hey," she says.

"Hey yourself." You close the door behind you, heart pounding. "Got a minute?"

"For you? Always." She sets down her sandwich and gives you her full attention.

You sit down across from her, suddenly nervous. The box feels heavy in your pocket. "So, I noticed something a few days ago. The pin on your badge."

Her hand instinctively goes to her badge, fingers brushing over the small pansexual flag pin. "Oh. Yeah."

"I wanted to talk to you about it. Or, well, not talk exactly. I wanted to..." You pull the box out of your pocket, still wrapped in tissue paper. "I made you something."

Emery's eyes widen slightly. She takes the small package from you, careful and slow, like it might break. "You made me something?"

"Open it," you say softly.

She unwraps the tissue paper with steady surgeon's hands, and then the box is revealed. You watch her face as she takes it in: the pink, yellow, and blue stripes, the gold stars, the careful craftsmanship. Her expression does something complicated, a series of micro-emotions flickering across her features too fast to name.

"You made this," she says, and her voice is rough. "For me."

"I saw your pin, and I wanted you to know that I see you," you say. The words come easier now, fueled by the look on her face. "I know what the colors mean. Pink for attraction to women, yellow for attraction to non-binary people, blue for attraction to men. I'm pansexual too, and I know what it means to claim that identity. I know it takes courage, especially here, especially when you're so careful about keeping your personal and professional lives separate."

Emery's eyes are shining now, bright with unshed tears. She's staring at the box like it's the most precious thing she's ever held.

"I wanted you to have something that celebrates that part of you," you continue. "Something handmade, something personal. To show you that you're seen. That you're not alone."

A single tear escapes, tracking down her cheek. Emery, who's always so controlled, who never cries at work, who keeps her walls up so high, is crying. Over a painted wooden box.

"I don't..." She stops, swallows hard. "I don't know what to say."

"You don't have to say anything."

She sets the box down carefully on the table and reaches for you. Her hands cup your face, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones, and when she kisses you, it's soft and desperate and full of everything she can't put into words. You kiss her back, pouring your own feelings into it, and for a moment, the break room disappears. There's just this: her lips on yours, her hands gentle on your face, the taste of salt from her tears.

When she pulls back, she's smiling through the tears. "Thank you," she whispers. "You have no idea what this means to me."

"Tell me," you say.

She takes a shaky breath. "I've never had someone do something like this for me. I've never had someone take the time to understand this part of me, to celebrate it. Most people either don't care or they make it into a big deal, like it's some exotic thing. But you just... you saw me. You saw this part of me that I'm still learning to be proud of, and you made something beautiful to honor it."

"You deserve to be honored," you tell her. "All of you. The tough surgeon and the soft woman who cries during sad movies. The part of you that saves lives and the part of you that still dreams about stars. And yes, the part of you that's pansexual and brave enough to wear that pin every single day."

She laughs, watery and genuine. "I only started wearing it a month ago. I kept buying pins and then chickening out. But then I thought about you, about how open you are about who you are, and I wanted to be brave like that."

Your heart swells. "You're the bravest person I know, Emery."

"Not always." She picks up the box again, running her fingers over the painted surface. "Not about this. I've spent so long keeping this part of myself hidden, being careful about who knows what. It's exhausting."

"You don't have to hide with me."

"I know." She meets your eyes, and the vulnerability there takes your breath away. "That's why this means so much. You see all of me, and you're still here."

"I'm not going anywhere," you promise.

She stands up, still holding the box, and pulls you into a hug. You wrap your arms around her, feeling the way she melts into you. Here, in this quiet moment, she's not Dr. Walsh, the tough trauma surgeon. She's just Emery, soft and vulnerable and yours.

"Come home with me after shift?" she murmurs against your hair. "I want to show you where I'm going to keep this."

"I'd love that."

The rest of the shift passes in a blur. You're both more focused on your work, but there's a new energy between you. Every time you pass each other in the hallway, every time your eyes meet across the ER, there's a shared understanding. Something has shifted, deepened.

When 7 AM finally rolls around and the day shift takes over, you're both exhausted but wired. Emery changes out of her scrubs in the locker room while you wait, the painted box safely tucked back in your bag. When she emerges in jeans and a soft sweater, hair down from its usual bun, she looks younger. Softer.

"Ready?" she asks, and you nod.

The drive to her apartment is quiet, comfortable. She lives in a renovated building in Lawrenceville, all exposed brick and big windows. You've been here before, of course, but it still makes you smile every time. It's so perfectly her: stylish but practical, with little touches of personality scattered throughout. Books on surgery and astronomy side by side on the shelves. A vintage telescope in the corner that she swears she'll use someday. Photographs of her family and friends, carefully curated.

She leads you inside, and you both kick off your shoes. The exhaustion of the night shift is starting to catch up with you, but you're not ready to sleep yet. There's something electric in the air, a sense of anticipation.

Emery takes the box from your bag and holds it up to the morning light streaming through her windows. The colors glow: pink, yellow, blue, gold. Beautiful.

"Come here," she says, and you follow her to the bedroom.

Her bedroom is your favorite room in the apartment. It's cozy and intimate, with soft lighting and a bed that's almost sinfully comfortable. She's got blackout curtains for sleeping during the day, but right now they're open, letting in the early morning sun.

She walks to her bedside table and carefully moves aside the book she's been reading, a biography of Sally Ride. Then she places the box right there, in the spot where she'll see it first thing when she wakes up and last thing before she goes to sleep.

"Perfect," she says softly.

You come up behind her, wrapping your arms around her waist. She leans back into you, and you rest your chin on her shoulder. Together, you look at the box in its place of honor.

"I can't believe you made this for me," she says. "I keep thinking I'm going to wake up and realize I imagined it."

"It's real," you assure her. "You're real. This is real."

She turns in your arms to face you. Her eyes are still a little red from crying earlier, but they're also bright with something that looks like joy. "I love it," she says. "I love that you took the time to learn what the colors meant, even though you already knew. I love that you spent hours making something with your hands just for me. I love the stars, and the fact that you remembered that stupid story about wanting to be an astronaut."

"It's not stupid," you say. "It's part of who you are."

"I love that you see me," she continues, voice getting softer. "Really see me. Not just the surgeon, not just the tough exterior. You see all the messy, complicated parts, and you don't run away."

"Why would I run away from someone amazing?"

She kisses you then, slow and deep. It's different from the kiss in the break room. That one was desperate, overwhelming. This one is sure. Certain. A promise.

When she pulls back, she's smiling. "Stay," she says. "Sleep here. I want to wake up and see that box and remember that someone understands me."

"Okay," you say simply.

You both change into comfortable clothes, her lending you a soft t-shirt that smells like her detergent. The bed is as comfortable as you remember, and when you slide under the covers, she immediately curls into your side. Her head rests on your chest, one arm draped across your waist, and you can feel her breathing start to slow.

"Thank you," she murmurs, already half-asleep. "For seeing me. For making something so beautiful. For being you."

"Thank you for letting me in," you whisper back.

She's asleep within minutes, her body relaxed and trusting against yours. You stay awake a little longer, looking at the box on the bedside table. The morning sun catches the gold stars, making them shimmer. Pink, yellow, blue. The colors of understanding, of identity, of pride.

You think about the journey that brought you both here. The late-night conversations, the stolen moments in the break room, the gradual lowering of walls. You think about how she's tough at work because she has to be, because lives depend on her steady hands and clear head. But here, in this quiet morning light, she's soft. Vulnerable. Real.

And you get to be the person who sees both sides of her. The person she trusts with her tears and her dreams and her truth.

You press a kiss to the top of her head and let your own eyes drift closed. Outside, Pittsburgh is waking up. Inside, in this small bedroom with blackout curtains and a handmade box painted in the colors of pride, you've found something precious.

Understanding. Acceptance. Love.

When you wake up, it's early afternoon. Emery is still asleep beside you, her face peaceful in a way it never is at the hospital. You watch her for a moment, taking in the soft curve of her mouth, the way her hair falls across the pillow. She's beautiful like this, unguarded and at ease.

As if sensing your gaze, her eyes flutter open. She smiles when she sees you, slow and genuine.

"Hi," she says, voice rough with sleep.

"Hi."

She stretches, catlike, and then reaches for the bedside table. Her fingers brush over the painted box, tracing the stripes of color. "I wasn't dreaming," she says. "It's really here."

"It's really here."

She rolls over to face you fully, propping herself up on one elbow. "I want to tell you something," she says. "I've been thinking about it all night, even in my sleep."

"Okay."

"I've spent so much of my life being careful," she begins. "Careful about who I let in, careful about what I show people, careful about claiming my identity. I came out as bi in college, and then I discovered the term pansexual a few years later, and it fit better, but I never really talked about it. I just... existed. Dated who I wanted to date, loved who I wanted to love, but never really claimed it out loud."

You stay quiet, letting her work through her thoughts.

"And then I met you," she continues. "And you're so open about who you are. You wear your identity like it's something to be proud of, not something to hide. And I wanted that. I wanted to be brave like you."

"Emery..."

"Let me finish," she says gently. "That pin, the one you noticed? I bought it because of you. Because I wanted to be the kind of person who could publicly claim this part of myself. And it scared me to put it on my badge. I thought people would judge me, or make assumptions, or treat me differently. But you know what happened?"

"What?"

"Nothing. Most people didn't even notice. And the ones who did, the ones who understood what it meant, they just... nodded. Like it was no big deal. Like I was allowed to be this person." She touches the box again. "And then you made me this. You saw that tiny pin, and you understood what it meant, what it took for me to wear it. And you celebrated it. You made something beautiful to honor it."

Tears are pricking at your eyes now. "You deserve to be celebrated."

"I'm starting to believe that," she says. "Because of you."

She kisses you again, and this time it's slow and thorough, a kiss that says everything words can't quite capture. When she pulls back, she's smiling.

"I want to take you out," she says. "On a real date, not just midnight breakfast or coffee in the break room. I want to take you somewhere nice and hold your hand in public and not worry about who sees. I want to be brave with you."

"I'd like that," you say, heart full.

"Good." She glances at the clock. "We've got a few hours before we need to get ready for tonight's shift. Want to order food and watch a movie?"

"Only if it's a sad one so I can see the tough Dr. Walsh cry."

She laughs and swats at you playfully. "I'm never going to live that down, am I?"

"Never," you confirm. "I have evidence now. You cried over a painted box."

"The most beautiful painted box in the world," she corrects. "Made by the most thoughtful person I've ever met."

You spend the afternoon curled up on her couch, eating Thai food and watching a movie that does, in fact, make her cry. She doesn't try to hide it this time, just lets the tears fall while you hold her hand. It's a small thing, but it feels monumental. Every wall she lets down, every vulnerability she shares, it's a gift.

When it's time to get ready for work, you both move through her apartment with easy familiarity. She lends you scrubs to change into, and you brush your teeth side by side at her bathroom sink. It's domestic and comfortable, and you can see a future in these small moments. Mornings and evenings, shifts at the hospital and quiet days off, a life built together one painted box at a time.

Before you leave, Emery stops in the bedroom doorway. She looks at the box on her bedside table one more time, and when she turns to you, her smile is radiant.

"Thank you," she says again. "For seeing me. For understanding. For making something so perfect."

"You're worth it," you tell her. "Every hour I spent painting, every moment of worry about whether it was too much. You're worth all of it."

She takes your hand, lacing your fingers together. "We should probably go. Don't want to be late."

"Dr. Walsh, late? Never."

She laughs, and the sound fills you with warmth. As you head out to her car, hand in hand, you think about the night ahead. She'll be tough Dr. Walsh again, commanding and focused, saving lives with steady hands. But now you'll know that when the shift ends, she'll come home to a painted box in pansexual colors, a reminder that she's seen and understood and loved.

And maybe, just maybe, she'll let that softness show a little more at work too. A smile for you in the hallway, a gentle word when she might have been harsh, a willingness to be human in a place that demands perfection.

Because that's what love does. It doesn't erase the tough parts or the soft parts. It makes space for all of it, celebrates all of it, honors all of it.

Pink, yellow, blue. The colors of identity, of pride, of understanding.

Before Trinity Santos ever thought about medicine, she thought about endings.

At eighteen, the whole world had already asked too much of her.

Her body had been trained into obedience before her heart had learned how to protect itself. Pointed toes. Locked knees. Chin up. Smile wider. Again. Again. Again.

She knew how to fall. She knew how to land. She knew how to split herself open and call it discipline. What she did not know was how to survive the silence after the funeral.

Her best friend’s death had emptied something inside her that no medal, no coach, no screaming arena could touch. People kept saying things like she’s in a better place and at least she isn’t suffering anymore, and every time they did, Trinity wanted to claw the words out of the air.

Because if suffering ended that way, then what was Trinity supposed to do with hers? Then came the coach. The investigation. The questions. The way adults suddenly looked at her like a crime scene instead of a girl. That was how she met you. Not in some grand, cinematic rescue. Not with swelling music or rain on windows.

Just a fluorescent hospital room with one chair that squeaked, one box of tissues nobody had opened, and Trinity Santos sitting on the edge of the exam bed like she was waiting to be sentenced.

You came in using your cane that day. She noticed that first. Not your badge. Not your title. Not the calm line of your mouth. The cane. The way you moved like pain was a language you spoke fluently, not something you were ashamed of. The way you didn’t apologize for being slower. The way you shut the door with your elbow and looked at her without pity.

“Trinity?” you asked.

She stared at the floor.

“That’s what everyone keeps calling me.” She tried to joke, you noted it for later before you nodded once, like that made sense. Like you understood the strange violence of hearing your own name after something terrible had happened to you.

“I’m Dr. Y/L/N. I’m with psych consults.” You paused by the chair. “I’m not here to make you talk about anything you don’t want to talk about.”

Her laugh came out sharp and dead. “Then why are you here?”

You lowered yourself into the chair carefully, jaw tightening for half a second as your hip protested. Trinity caught it. Of course she did. Gymnasts noticed bodies. They noticed pain. They noticed when someone swallowed it down.

“I’m here because someone thought you might need a person in the room who can handle ugly things without flinching.” That made her look up. Her eyes were red. Not soft-red. Not pretty-red. Furious-red. Wrecked-red. Like crying had become another competition she was losing.

“And can you?”

“Usually.”

“Usually?”

“I’m human. I just have good training.” For the first time since she’d arrived, something almost changed in her face. Not a smile. Nothing that generous, but a flicker. A tiny, suspicious spark. You didn’t push. That was the first thing Trinity noticed about you. Everyone else pushed. Police pushed. Lawyers pushed. Doctors pushed. Her parents pushed. Coaches had always pushed. Pushed until her body bent. Pushed until her pain became useful to someone else.

You just sat there. Quietly. Like you had nowhere more important to be. It irritated her at first. Then it scared her. Then, somehow, it helped.

“I don’t want to say it,” she whispered.

“Okay. That’s fine.”

“You’re supposed to tell me I have to.”

“No.”

Her fingers curled into the paper beneath her, tearing a small crescent into the exam table sheet.

“What if I never say it?”

“Then we start with what you can say.”

Her throat bobbed.

“I hate him.”

You nodded.

“I believe you.”

Three words.

Tiny. Plain. Almost nothing.

But Trinity’s face crumpled like you had put your hand directly against some hidden bruise. She turned away fast, furious with herself for reacting. Her shoulders locked. Her breathing went uneven, shallow little cuts of air. You did not move toward her. You did not touch her.

You only said, “Can I talk you through breathing, or would that feel annoying right now?”

A wet, broken laugh escaped her.

“Everything feels annoying right now.”

“Fair.”

Another silence.

Then she muttered, “You can talk.”

So you did. Not with syrupy comfort. Not with the voice people used when they thought pain made someone stupid. You gave her simple things. Feet on the floor. Name five blue objects. Press your thumb to each fingertip. Inhale for four, hold for two, exhale for six. She followed only half of it at first. Badly. Stubbornly. Like she was doing you a favor. But she followed. Eventually her breathing stopped trying to run out of the room without her.

“There,” you said gently. “That was hard. You did it anyway.”

Trinity wiped her face with the heel of her hand.

“I’m good at doing hard things.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t.”

You looked at her for a long moment. Not challenging or correcting. Just seeing.

“No,” you said. “I don’t know all of it.”

That answer seemed to bother her more than if you had lied. Her mouth trembled once before she bit down on the inside of her cheek.

“She was my best friend,” Trinity said. You stayed still. “She knew.”

A tear slipped down her jaw. She looked disgusted by it.

“She knew about him. He was doing it to both of us. And I kept telling her I was fine because I had to be fine because if I wasn’t fine then everything would fall apart, and then she…” Her voice broke so violently it almost sounded physical.

You leaned forward, elbows resting on your knees, cane angled between you like a small boundary marker.

“She died,” you said softly.

Trinity squeezed her eyes shut.

“She left me.”

There it was. Not the polished grief. Not the acceptable sentence. The ugly one. The one that made people uncomfortable. You let it exist.

“She left,” you repeated.

Trinity’s hands shook in her lap.

“And I’m so mad at her,” she whispered. “I’m so mad I can’t breathe. And then I feel horrible because she’s dead, and I’m here, and I hate that I’m here, and I hate him, and I hate myself, and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with all of that.”

You took in a slow breath.

“Nothing today.”

She blinked.

“What?”

“You don’t have to know what to do with all of that today.” Your voice stayed quiet. “Today, we get you through the next ten minutes. Then the ten after that. We do not build a life out of rubble in one afternoon.”

Trinity stared at you. Her face was young in a way that hurt. Not innocent. That had been stolen. But young. Too young to be carrying this much violence in her chest.

“What if I can’t?” she asked.

“Then I help.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re here.”

“That’s not a reason.”

“It is to me.”

Her gaze dropped to your cane again. “Does it hurt?”

The question came out abruptly. Defensive. Like she was trying to drag the light off herself.

“My leg?” She nodded. “Today? Yes.”

“Then why are you sitting like that?”

You glanced down, then adjusted slightly with a small exhale.

“Because I was trying not to make noise while you were talking.”

Trinity frowned.

“That’s stupid.”

A small smile touched your mouth.

“A little.”

“You should’ve moved.”

“You’re right.”

She looked startled by that too. Adults admitting things was apparently not something she had much experience with. You shifted more carefully this time, stretching one leg out, letting your body exist instead of pretending it didn’t. Trinity watched the whole thing with sharp, wounded attention.

“My body doesn’t always cooperate either,” you said. “Different reasons. But I know what it’s like to have people decide what your body means before they ask you.”

Trinity went very still. For a second, you wondered if you had said too much.

Then she whispered, “I don’t feel like it’s mine anymore.”

The room seemed to narrow around the sentence.

You nodded once.

“That makes sense.”

Her eyes filled again.

“I hate when you say that.”

“Why?”

“Because then I believe you.”

You let out a soft breath. “That sounds scary.”

“It is.”

“I know.”

This time she did not argue. Outside the door, someone laughed down the hallway. A cart rattled past. The hospital kept being a hospital. Bright and indifferent. Full of machines and footsteps and lives changing behind thin curtains. Inside the room, Trinity Santos sat with her grief in both hands and you sat with her. Not saving her or trying to  fix her. Just staying.

After a while, she asked, “Do you think I’m ruined?”

The question was so quiet you almost missed it.

Your answer was not.

“No.”

Her chin quivered.

“You don’t even know me.”

“I know ruined things, don't ask that question.”

She stared at you, eyes shining. You continued, softer now.

“Ruined is final. You are hurt. You are grieving. You are traumatized. You are furious. You are exhausted. But you are not ruined, Trinity.”

Her breath hitched.

“And if I don’t believe that?”

“Then I’ll believe it until you can borrow it.”

That was when she started crying for real. Not pretty. Not delicate. Not the kind of crying people understood. She folded forward with a sound that seemed torn from somewhere ancient, and still you did not touch her without permission. You simply reached for the unopened tissue box and placed it beside her hand. She grabbed one. Then another. Then the whole box and somehow, through the wreckage, she laughed. It was small. Broken. Barely alive.

But it was there.

“You’re really bad at being normal,” she said, voice thick.

You smiled faintly.

“I’ve been told.”

“Good.”

Her hands shook as she wiped her face.

“I don’t think normal people help.”

“No,” you said. “Sometimes they just tidy up the room so they don’t have to look at the blood.”

Trinity looked at you then. Really looked. Like some part of her had been searching in the dark and found a porch light.

Years later, she would stand in emergency rooms with blood on her gloves and your words lodged somewhere behind her ribs.

We get through the next ten minutes.

Years later, she would become sharp and brilliant and infuriating.

Years later, she would learn how to hold pressure on a wound, how to call time of death, how to keep her hands steady while everything inside her screamed.

But before all of that, she was eighteen.

You were there. Your cane rested against your knee. Her tissue box sat half-crushed in her lap. The world had not become kind. The dead had not returned. The past had not loosened its teeth, but Trinity Santos breathed in. Held it. Breathed out.

Trinity was tired. The kind of tired that seeped into your bones, and made every move an effort. The kind of tired that made the mere idea of continuing on seem impossible. The kind of tired that brought stings to her eyes but without the energy to let them fall. 

It was almost ten at night as she climbed the creaky stairs in her apartment building. The elevator had been broken since August. It was now January. She had been kept late catching up on charting after a mass casualty event. A drunk driver had caused a seven car pileup, resulting in five lives lost, two of which had belonged to children. Of course, the drunk driver walked away with a broken arm.

Just one of those shifts. She shivered, despite her many layers and the work of climbing the stairs on her deadened legs, still feeling the hands of desperate family members clinging to her, begging her to do the impossible. If she closed her eyes, she saw the kids, so small and gray looking, lying motionless on the table. Unreachable. Futures cut short.

She needed to sleep. She needed a meal. She needed a long, hot shower to attempt to wash the unease and grief away. But above anything else, she needed you.

She was unsure about you, a couple years before, when you approached her about her extra room. You were bubbly, cheery, almost overly so, and an illustrator for children’s books. She almost thought you were joking, until you showed her some of your work.

Whatever reservations she’d had, you were undoubtedly the most reliable and normal applicant of the bunch, and she was running out of time before her roommate moved out. When she told you you’d gotten the room, you actually hugged her, and squealed, “We’re going to have so much fun!”

Fun, as it turned out, for you, could be anything. You wore a constant smile, even as you panted in the sweltering city heat bringing your many boxes, cleared the congested shower drain because the landlord was taking too long, or dealt with Trinity’s foul moods after particularly difficult shifts. It took much less time than she expected for Trinity to get used to you.

You always prepared her a drink in the morning, coffee, matcha, even took the time to pour her Monsters into pretty cups with twirly straws. You drove her to her clinicals and classes even though most days you worked from home yourself, and dare she forget her specially packed lunch, you would ride your flowery, tasseled bike to drop it off for her.

You brought fresh flowers for the apartment. You got her specific comfort foods when you grocery shopped. You even learned how to make adobo, her favorite, when you knew she was going through tough times.

All it took was one fortnight trip to visit your family, leaving her all by her lonesome, for her to realize she didn’t ever want to be without you. Two weeks she spent grumbling and moaning around her strangely empty apartment. It took one whole week of your vacation for her to accept exactly why she was so upset, and another three days to come to terms with the fact that you would be in her life forever. Because if you weren’t? She wasn’t sure how she would manage.

When you finally arrived back to your shared place, back home, where you belonged, Trinity picked you up from the airport. The blinding smile you gave her as you rushed towards her car, weighed down by souvenirs and snacks you just couldn’t help buying for her, cemented it all in her heart.

“Oh my god, Trin, I have insane family drama to share!” you had said as you approached. “Remember my Uncle Dave? Well, his divorce just went through.”

As you yapped, Trinity took each of your bags from around your arms. You moved to open the trunk, but she merely dropped them where they were, and pulled you closer.

“— I mean, she’s a grown woman, technically, but she can’t even rent a car! What the hell is Uncle Dave think —”

Before you could have even raised a brow at Trinity’s odd behavior, she snaked one arm around your waist, one hand cupped your cheek, and she kissed you. All nerves that came with falling for your best friend, the ifs and hows, the anxieties, melted away as you kissed her back.

When you broke apart, she looked into your dazed eyes. You were smiling, of course you were. You wrapped your own arms around her neck, giddy.

“I missed you,” she said honestly.

“I missed you, too.”

And from then on, it was you and Trin. Trin and you. You allowed her to lay herself bare, and proved to her that you weren’t going anywhere anytime soon. You were a unicorn to her, after years of toxic, short-lived, harmful relationships. You were gentle, and kind. You loved her, just as she loved you.

And now she got to do this. Jam her key into the sticky lock, push open the door, and see you. You were sprawled out on the living room floor, surrounded by sketches, and discarded ideas, and every color of pen imaginable. Your headphones were on, clearly blasting since you didn’t immediately turn around to greet her.

Trinity took a minute just to admire you. She loved to see you concentrating. You furrowed your brow, and your tongue poked out of the corner of your mouth. You looked almost angry at the page, though Trinity knew you well enough to know that this was you at your happiest.

She pushed the door closed and let her bag fall quietly to the floor as she slipped off her shoes. It was your cat, Franklin, who finally alerted you to your girlfriend’s presence. The fat little Torbie stopped batting at the back of your pen, and trotted up to Trinity, slithering between her legs. You followed him, whipping your headphones off and dropping your Sakura, visage brightening at once.

“Trin,” you said simply, with a tone that suggested as though her being there was the greatest thing you could ever wish for.

She could tell by the cracking of your limbs as you stood that you hadn’t moved in quite some time. Sometimes, when you got locked in a flow, she’d have to remind you to eat, drink, even go to the bathroom. You became all consumed in your work. Normally, she’d just reprimand you, ask when you’d last eaten, and force some dinner into you because the answer always disappointed her. But this time, perhaps because she was exhausted, perhaps because she was already feeling the weight of her limitations after such loss as she’d experienced today, the idea that you might have needed her and she wasn’t there had those aforementioned tears rising to the surface.

Your smile immediately turned down into worry, and you gathered her up in your arms. She buried her screwed up face in your neck.

Trinity still wasn’t very good at letting herself be vulnerable, and crying to her felt like one of the most vulnerable states you could be in. She still sometimes got the urge, at those first signs of sobs, to run and hide herself away, lest anyone perceive her as weakened . You were trying to help her out of that.

Your arms went around her middle, under her jacket, hands rubbing slowly up and down her spine. You didn’t ask her what was wrong, just let her collapse into you as you swayed back and forth. It was a feeling of such safety, warm and tender and steady, that she wasn’t sure she’d ever felt before you, even as a child. To know that no matter how ugly things got, you would smile, and open your arms, and tell her you loved her.

When the worst of her weeping was over, and her shoulder stopped shaking, she raised her eyes to meet yours. You wiped her cheeks.

“First, a shower,” you said softly.

It wasn’t a command, but somehow, not a question either. Your hands didn’t leave her for a second as you removed her coat and led her to the bathroom. Her eyes were tired and sore, and as if somehow sensing this, you turned only the lights over the sink on. You sat her on the toilet seat while spinning the shower to life.

“Dennis?” you asked.

“Farm,” croaked Trinity.

The roll of your eyes made her smile slightly, cracking the trails of dried tears lining her cheeks.

You had been waiting for her, as usual, that September night after her first shift, with a steaming pot of adobo on the stove to celebrate her first day as an intern. The impulsive decision to bring home her abandoned colleague without asking you had Trinity just a touch less enthusiastic to face you. It was your home too, and she never wanted you to feel disrespected or ignored in your relationship.

But, after all, you were you. You welcomed the new addition with open arms, set him a plate at the table, and transformed your old bedroom-turned-storage room into a comfortable, homey place. Naturally, you’d become just about as protective over your bumbling huckleberry as Trinity had, and you weren’t a fan of his commitment to Amy and her farm.

Trinity half expected you to start another rant about unhealthy boundary crossing, but you seemed determined not to be distracted. You removed her scrubs, compression socks, underwear, and bra, forcing Trinity to move only when strictly necessary. Then you undressed yourself, and while waiting for the water to heat up, ran a brush through her thick dark hair.

When you were satisfied, you helped her overworked muscles lower her down into a seated position on the floor of the tub, so she was facing the wall. Then you began to shampoo her hair.

She closed her eyes as your perpetually inkstained fingers worked their way through the grime and sweat that accumulated under her too tight ponytail. You lightly scratched her scalp as you went, and whether you meant to or not, started humming a soft tune under your breath. Either way, Trinity appreciated it.

There was a time in her life when Trinity didn’t think she’d ever get where she was. Scarred body on display, back turned and eyes closed, and still feeling safer than she ever had. As your soapy hands slid down, working the knots from her neck and shoulders, salt burned her eyes again. This time, though, as tears of relief.

She was home. She was safe. She was human. Tomorrow would be another day, and no matter what, you’d be by her side. Days of mere survival were over for her. In you, she had a soft place to land. Always.

You whispered assurances to her as you methodically rinsed the shampoo from her locks. You told her you loved her, she was strong, how proud you were of her. When you were done, she spun herself around to face you. While you worked the green apple and mango body wash over her skin, she traced her hands across your form, reminding herself you were real.

“All clean,” you said, shutting off the water.

Dripping on the bathmat, you wrapped her in a warm, soft towel. It wasn’t until you had her sat at the kitchen table, drowning in fuzzy pajamas, with a bowl of leftovers steaming in front of her, that she found her voice.

“There was a car accident,” she said. “Five people died. Two kids. Brothers.”

“I’m sorry,” you said. “It’s hard to see as much death as you do.”

She nodded, stirring her food unnecessarily.

“Sometimes, I just don’t get it,” she sighed. “Why the people who live, live, and the people who don’t, don’t. Who gets to decide?”

“No one,” you said, locking your fuzzy-socked feet around her ankle under the table. “And certainly not you. I know that if you couldn’t save them, they were never going to be saved. It was out of your control.”

She shook her head.

“I don’t know,” she said.

“I do,” you said. “And you know my rule. No serious decision making or existential musings past eight PM.”

When Trinity had managed to choke down half of her meal, you both headed to bed, leaving the dishes and the cleanup for the next day. She realized, as she sunk into the silky sheets, how nice it was to be home. Though she thought about it all day long, imagined spending her night with you, what you would do, it was never quite as good in her head as it was in real life.

She rested her weary head upon your chest to hear your heartbeat, steady and strong underneath layers of very much living tissue and bone, and blood vessels pumping life across your body.

Franklin hopped up after her, wiggling in between your warm bodies, purring contentedly.

“I love you,” she muttered, eyes already pulled shut.

She stayed awake just long enough to hear you say, “I love you more,” and to feel Franklin’s scratchy tongue against her hand, before she drifted off to sleep.

---

Periods were never fun to deal with, regardless of gender, but when coupled with unrelenting feelings of inadequacy and insecurity it was much worse. For you, not only was it a reminder that your body didn't perfectly match the person who you really and truly were like you wished it did, but also just how God awful it was to be pretty much constantly bleeding while experiencing what felt like a red-hot iron straight to your lower abdomen.

Fortunately, this was made much better by the presence of Cassie and Baran, who both not only completely understood a lot of your physical agony from dealing with periods themselves, but in addition to this were extra doting and careful when handling your mixed-up emotions. If they could take time off work together to be with you, then they would, but if not then they alternated days, one staying with you at home while the other went to work, and vice versa.

It made your heart swell up with adoration to know they cared for you so much, even if those pesky thoughts of self-loathing were creeping around in your brain still. They crawled down to your eardrums, attempting to drown out your girlfriends' loving coos with cruel taunts regarding your menstrual cycle that had you doubting your own masculinity. But not even that would deter the loves of your life from doing everything they could to comfort you when this happened.

"Hey, bud," Cassie murmured in a low voice as you began to stir that evening from a much-needed nap, green eyes gazing down with a fond expression as she watched you. "How are you feeling?"

"Mrgh." A muffled groan was all you could bear to muster out in reply. You were cramping badly (which was probably the reason you woke up in the first place), and you could already tell from the texture of your pad that it desperately needed to be thrown away and replaced with a new one.

Her lip drew together in a tight, thin line at your obvious agony, brow furrowed with concern at the sight of you almost immediately moving to curl up in a fetal position once you became more alert to your body. "That bad, huh?"

That time you didn't even bother to respond, just squeezing your eyes shut while holding both hands over your lower abdomen in hopes of quelling the raging beast that was the random dull throbs of pain wracking your body. You heard her get up, presumably to grab something to help you deal with your monthly monster.

When you opened your eyes again however long later, she was plugging in a heating pad to the wall socket beside the bed, a glass of water awaiting you on the nightstand with two pills beside it. "Here you go, bud." She handed you the heating pad, allowing you to get it turned on and set up on the place of pain before adding with a coaxing lilt, "open up."

You didn't even hesitate upon seeing her hold out the pills in her open palm, glass of water clutched in her opposite hand. The pills were taken from her with a mumbled "thank you" before shoved into your mouth and eagerly swallowed down with several generous gulps of the cold water.

Regular over-the-counter pain meds didn't always work to help combat your cramps, which is why both of your girlfriends had urged you to see one of their coworkers at PTMC so you could get a prescription. Well aware that they were probably right, you complied, and it ended up being one of the best decisions you'd ever made.

"I know you don't wanna have to move right now, but you should probably get up and change your pad in a second," Cassie suggested, keeping her voice at a steady and measured volume while a hand reached out to tenderly rub your shoulder. "I'm sure it must be pretty uncomfortable for you right now, given the type of flows you have."

The idea of leaving behind your precious heating pad, no matter how temporarily, when it was finally starting to fight off the atrocious period pains you were dealing with made you want to let out a loud groan in protest, even though she was right. "Okayyyyy," you relented in a drawn-out whine, allowing her to help you shuffle over to the bathroom. The painkillers were thankfully starting to kick in some, but it still hurt like hell.

"I'll be out here. If you need something, just holler," she said before shutting the door carefully behind you and waiting outside. Sure enough, your pad did indeed need to be changed just like you thought. While you were busy with that, the door to your place was being unlocked as your other partner arrived home from a long shift.

"Hello? Where are you?" Baran called out inquisitively as she made her way inside, setting her bag down on the counter and taking her shoes off before neatly placing them by the door. She figured you'd both be in the bedroom, but she wanted to be sure.

"In here," Cassie replied from where she stood by the closed bathroom door, as though she were you own personal bodyguard. She took a few steps away to greet her girlfriend, the attending place a warm kiss to the other's cheek.

A few minutes later, you shuffled back out of the bathroom, still feeling like crap but now with duller cramps and a clean pad. Too out of it to properly voice your joy upon seeing your other girlfriend's arrival, you simply reached out and made grabby hands in her direction.

"There he is, my handsome boy," Baran murmured in an adoring tone as she wrapped you up in her arms, cooing at you in Farsi with what could only be loving reassurances. "I hope you've been feeling okay."

"Mhm," came your muffled grunt as you pressed your face into her shoulder, inhaling her scent as you nuzzled against the area. The two women shared a look over your head, a silent conversation passing between them on how to properly care for you. They always kept each other updated with how you were doing so neither would be left out of the loop, making it easier to determine what you needed.

"I have a surprise for you," your curly-haired partner spoke as she helped guide you back to the bed. "I made a quick pitstop on my way home, and I got you something that I think you'll enjoy."

You perked up slightly at that, watching with awe as she pulled out a bar of chocolate from the pocket of her scrubs, unable to stop yourself from choking out a disbelieving "you got me my favorite?" as you took the candy from her with eager hands.

She chuckled softly, lips curling up into that signature little half-smile of hers as she watched you begin to open it. "I figured you deserved a little treat for being such a strong boy right now while you're dealing with your period." Leaning down, she then placed a kiss to your temple before speaking again. "I'm gonna get changed, then I'll join you in bed, alright?"

Nodding, you curled up under the blankets, allowing Cassie (who'd joined you sometime after you'd gotten resettled) to adjust your heating pad so that it was laying over your lower abdomen again. Her hands were steady, her movements certain, a testament to all her time spent taking care of others.

It didn't take very long for Baran to join you, moving to sit on your other side so you were sandwiched between the two of them. "How's the pain? The prescription is helping, I hope," she mused in a tone that was a cross between professional concern as a doctor and personal worry as your girlfriend, her hand beginning to gently rub your back as a way to help soothe you. "I hate to think about you hurting like that, especially when we have the tools to combat the cramps you get."

"I'm okay. Feeling better now," you answered honestly between bites of chocolate. Between the heating pad, the painkillers, the candy, and both of your partners cuddled up with you, things weren't so bad anymore. For the most part.

"Do you have any… other problems that we should know about?" Cassie questioned in a delicate manner, trying to make a subtle ask about your current mental state without being too abrupt. The two were well aware that your mental health always took a beating whenever your period came around.

Keeping your head down, you simply shrugged in response. "I don't know," you lied in a quiet mutter. Baran's hand paused where it'd been rubbing and gripped onto the hoodie you were wearing ever-so-slightly while Cassie moved to wrap a protective arm around your midsection.

"Hey. You don't have to lie to us," Cassie reminded, her voice full of compassion. "We know that sometimes your dysphoria acts up during your period, and it's okay to tell us about it."

Baran's gaze observed your slumped form sympathetically as she added, "this doesn't make you any less manly to us. Your masculinity isn't and shouldn't be defined by certain ways that your body functions, because you're so much more than that."

Their words caused you to sniffle somewhat, your eyesight blurring as it became misty with faint tears. "Stopppp, you're gonna get me all emotional," you grumbled lightly, which just made them hold onto you tighter while doubling down on their loving reassurances. It was pretty hard listening to the lies fed to you by your traitorous mind when you had two gorgeous women doting and fawning over you, period and all.

Of course, this didn't cause it to go away completely, but that was okay, because you knew they'd always be there to fend off the bad thoughts when you needed them to, taking the time to care for you in the best way possible. When Cassie left early the next morning for her own shift at work, Baran made your favorite breakfast, letting you eat it in bed while you watched whatever you wanted to on the TV.

The warmth of her body against yours as you sat curled up against her while you ate, listening to the silky smooth sound of her voice as it lavished you in Farsi with hushed whispers of how handsome you were--well, it might've not have cured your dysphoria completely, but if anything could get rid of the psychological warfare you were dealing with, it was definitely that, if only for a little while.

"You're so gentle, and kind, and loving," Baran stated matter-of-factly as the two of you cuddled together upon finishing breakfast, her nails scalping at your scalp as you kept your face pressed into the crook of her neck. "You're passionate when it comes to the things you care about, and you know how to show your appreciation to others when they extend a nice gesture. That seems like a much better way to measure someone's masculinity than by what a person has in their pants, don't you think?"

The only you could do was give a short little nod, worried if you'd try to speak you'd only get choked up again like you did earlier. Your hands tightened their grip on her shirt as you clung onto her more insistently, legs tangled together like you were desperate to keep this level of care with you for as long as possible, a small part worried it might disappear should you let go.

Your clinginess didn't faze her in the slightest, as she was well aware of just how badly you needed to hear those words. "You're such a handsome boy," she continued, the palm of her hand cradling your skull as her nails scratched some more. "So strong, and so brave. And so, so loved, did you know that?"

Her voice swelled with pride in a way that caused you to let out a faint whimper while she just smiled. "You're so loved, handsome. More than you know."

End notes: I never know if I've hit the mark when it comes to my requests so uh 😵‍💫 here's hoping it was enjoyable and everything you wanted!

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