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Cassie called you at 8:30 P.M. just as you were leaving your final lecture for the day.

“Ten is my smoke break,” she told you with sirens distantly wailing in the background. “Park across from the ICU lot. I’ll be out to get you.”

“You have a really odd way of saying hello,” you told her dryly, propping the door to your car open and leaning on it.

You could hear her exhale so heavily that she sounded like a deflating balloon. You didn’t think she’d appreciate you saying that right now, though.

The image of it was making you smile anyway.

“I’m sorry,” she rasped. “I just — I need to see you.”

Your cheeks burned at her admission, biting your lower lip. “Even at work?”

One of the stipulations Cassie had put in place when you first started seeing each other was that she didn’t show up during your classes, and you didn’t show up at her work — emergencies exempt, of course. She wanted to ensure there was boundaries in place.

You’d agreed easily. You wouldn’t have been able to do so if you didn’t know what you were getting into with her: the first responder in an emergency room with a young son and custody battles.

She was exploring her newfound sexual freedom and she didn’t want anything too deeply intwined.

It had been an easy arrangement, the sex as damn good even with Cassie’s limited experience coming into it, and both of you felt your stress levels lowered as it continued.

“Fuck work,” Cassie told you. You paused at her tone.

“Are you feeling a little needy, Cass?” you purred, lowering your voice and seeping just the right amount of attitude into it.

Cassie McKay was a demanding woman with sharp reflexes and hard expectations; but she was also rewarding and encouraging in the same breath.

You just had to fish for information on which Cassie you needed to prepare for.

Her breath hitched and you struck like a predator. “Oh, you are. You need to fuck me so bad, don’t you? I dunno, Cass. You’re the one who made the rule . . .”

“I—“ the doctor was trying to get ahold of herself. She was already losing composure. “I don’t care, baby. I need you so bad. I need to make you cum.”

You tapped your fingers along the rim of your door, pretending to think about it but already knowing you’ll give in. You always do.

“Ten you said?” you asked casually, glancing around you and scanning for anyone else in the lot. Some students were passing through parked cars, coming and going, but you remained ignored.

“Yes.”

“Alright, ten it is then. Want me to bring you some food too?”

“I’m going to give you so many orgasms if you do.” She sounded lighter now, like you just gave the cure to a debilitating illness.

You laughed. “You’d do that anyway.”

“The food,” you gasped as your wrist was snatched and you were pulled roughly from your car. You were barely able to park and stuff your keys and phone into your hoodie before blue scrubs and rough hands filled your vision.

“We can come back for it. I need you.” The brunette laced her fingers through yours and sped away from the lot; not toward the visitor’s entrance but to a door farther to the side of the building.

“How much time do you have?” you asked her, heart fluttering and a low heat beginning to burn in your belly.

She slowed and pulled her ID card out of her pocket and slapped it against an access pad. It beaped and continued her way. The hallway was dim and void of life, rooms blacked out.

“Thirty minutes. I managed to get Dana to work my time out here a little better so I can just —“ she sounded breathless, passing door after door.

Like she had mapped it out already, which location would be the best place to take you apart in her fiery need.

“Won’t you get in trouble?”

“Yeah, baby, so much trouble.”

When you didn’t reply she turned to gauge your reaction and found the concern you felt written across your face, your steps a little less eager.

“Hey, no.” She stopped and turned, clasping your arms. “I was just playing. This part of the hospital hasn’t been touched since COVID. It was just a secondary ER for patients without symptoms.”

“I don’t want to get you into trouble.”

“I’ve been hanging out in this part of the hospital for weeks. I’ve seen only a few people. Dana and Emma won’t say anything.” The way she worded that last bit made you want to dig for questions but you could see it wasn’t the time.

Later.

“You’re safe, my job is safe.” She leaned forward and finally kissed you. It’s all you wanted since seeing her face.

It was delicate and warm — things that she didn’t express so far tonight.

You wrapped your arms around her neck and pulled her closer. Her scrubs brushed against your sweatpants and she caressed your chin to lift your head closer to hers.

“Fuck,” she whispered when the kiss broke.

“I need you,” you murmured, still grazing your lips along hers, swallowing.

She smelled like saline and cedar wood.

“Not far now, let’s go.” She dragged you along behind her once more. It wasn’t a long trek, she stopped at a door and jerked it open.

“A storage closet?” The shelves were empty and looked to be collecting dust.

“Windowless,” she said. Then she clutched your waist and hauled you up. Your legs automatically locked together around her, gasping in surprise.

She settled you on one of the shelves. Not even a freak was made when your weight was added. “Is this even safe?” you questioned as her fingers started to work at the strings of your sweats and her lips started leaving trails down your neck.

“It’s meant to hold medical equipment baby. You won’t be shaking it off of the screws anytime soon.”

And that was that.

You groaned when teeth dug into your collarbone. She got your sweats down to your ankles and made quicker work of your soaked underwear.

“You’re so fucking wet,” she said, licking her lips and suddenly dropping to her knees in front of you.

“You have that effect on me.” Your feet splayed, but she snatched your ankle and looked up at you through her bangs. Her eyes were heated, intense.

“Shoulders.”

“Shoes,” you retorted.

“Don’t fucking care. Shoulders.” She dug her short nails into your ankle, eyebrow raising and staring you down.

You relented, lifted the left one and gently put it down on her shoulder and followed it with the fight.

“Good girl.” And then she rewarded you with a lick of your folds.

You gasped and started to reach for anything to hold onto. Cassie was about to make it hard for you to steady yourself. Your fingers slipped between the bars of the selves that dug into your ass, and you curled them while the other hand grabbed ahold of Cassie’s hair.

“This is so unprofessional, Doctor McKay. I thought you were going to tell me —“ A moan cut you off as Cassie’s tongue started to work inside of you and one of her fingers joined almost a second after, “ — my test results.”

Cassie pulled back briefly, finger still pumping inside of you, face flushed and lips wet. “Baby I have about twenty more minutes to make you cum and I want at least two from you before I let you go. Play later.”

You held back laughter as she actually said those words with full seriousness awarded to most doctors, like delivering devastating news.

She lowered her head and started eating you out without waiting for you to respond.

Your cries must have been enough. She lazily stroked a hand up and down your lifted thigh and thumbed your clit like a madwoman, forcing you into oversensitiveity before you were close to orgasm.

She loved how easy it was to get you to a wriggly, wet mess that squirmed and whined before she even got inside of you.

But she hadn’t drawn it out tonight. She was aiming to make you cum fast and hard, and this was a sure fire way to do so without the strap.

“We need,” you gasped, mind blanking out into white noise as her fingers — two now — crooked up into you until they touched your g-spot, “to talk a-about — fuck Cassie — this later.”

Cassie’s fingers didn’t slow but she pulled her head up again and licked her lips. “We can talk all you want, baby. But I think we both know this stopped being casual about two weeks ago. I don’t think I need to torture yourself or myself over this.”

You would later look back on this moment and process her statement to you in its entirety. Right now, however, Cassie wasn’t willing to let you up for air until she got what she wanted.

She had five minutes left to spare by the time she made you cum a second time. She didn’t need to look at you for you to know she was proud of your state. You looked entirely taken apart and she still had time to put you back together.

She was pressing soft kisses to your cheeks and lips as she tied your sweat strings back together, pulling your hair back for you and tying it up with a spare hair tie.

“You did so good for me,” she murmured, cheek pressing against yours as you became more grounded.

“I don’t think I can walk.”

She grinned wolfishly.

She steadied you and she guided you back out to the parking lot in a daze, her hands never leaving you even when she had to grab a door or use her ID card.

“I’m working later tonight but . . . “ she hesitated, looking awful shy as you stopped at your car. She reached into her pocket, “. . . Harrison is with his dad and — if you’d want to, you can go to my place. Shower. Sleep.” She pulled out a key.

Your eyes widened. “Cassie —“

“I like you,” the older woman blurted. “I really like you. If you feel the same way, I’d like to maybe . . . get more serious? I know that wasn’t the plan —“

You surged forward, curling your fist around hers where the key was and kissed her hard.

When you pulled back, the key was safely tucked into your palm. “I want to get more serious, too.”

Her smile was burned into your head as you drove to her house that night.

This week has been too much. Problem after problem, the kind of week where not an hour has gone smoothly. The chance for a break never comes. No amount of sleep takes the tiredness away; it barely scratches the edge. All week Emery has watched you hovering on the edge, slipping away into your own overwhelmed head. By the time you crawl to bed on Friday, exhausted eyes brimming with tears and holding onto Emery for dear life, she realises she shouldn't have let it go on so long. This week has taken you apart and Emery is the only person that can put you back together.

You wake late on Saturday morning to a day off and the rattling of crockery. Emery sets a tray on the nightstand and kisses your cheek. Neither of you expecting the whimper that escapes you. You’ve tried all week to deny the wooliness in your head, the unrelenting ache between your thighs all week. It always comes when you’re stressed and spiralling, your body’s way of trying to escape, craving a reassuring, guiding touch. But you know management have been breathing down Emery’s neck all week about attending paperwork. Even in her sleep she's been hissing the words "I have patients." You hadn't wanted to add a clingy girlfriend to her problems.

"Good morning." Emery drawls, climbing into bed to arrange the pillows behind you.

Breakfast smells delicious, she's covered the smashed avocado with chilli and salt just how you like but no matter how you much you will yourself you can't make your body move to eat. Every part of you feels heavy, disconnected.  In the end its Emery's hand who lifts the toast to your mouth. You bite and chew under her instruction. You seem to be as fulfilled by her steering you through the simple task as you are the food. When you instinctively suck the last crumbs from her thumb she knows you're far gone and in need of something, anything to tether you back to Earth. Luckily, Emery is the master of breaking her girl out of this state.

Emery only lets you visit the bathroom before she coaxes you back to lay over her. Her body is warm beneath you and if you shift just a little closer on you can feel the brush of her thigh right where you've been aching for her. All week you've only had fragments of her touch, stolen moments between a never ending to do list. Searching for another level of proximity you press your face into her shoulder. Your hands slip into the opening of her sleep shirt. You need her skin on yours, to disappear into the feeling of it. Before you know it all the frustration and repressed wanting of the week are spilling in the form of tears wept into Emery's neck.

"Baby?" Emery's voice is still coated in sleepiness. Words turn to grabbled sobs in your mouth. "Look at me." She urges, you want to stay buried in the salty smell of her skin, but she softly lifts your head. Her hand smooths at your hair and your head tips into the comfort of her touch.  'I'm sorry, I should have done something days ago." Her apology hurts, she's not to blame for your messy headspace. She’s not your asshole boss or the voice in your head that says you’re not good enough. You try to recoil, shaking your head but Emery won't relinquish her hold.

"Not your fa-"

"Shh,shh." She cuts you off but its soothing rather than sharp.

"''M sorry Em. Knew you were busy. Didn’t want to bother you. I didn’t have time." Little sobbed hiccups make it hard to speak. It makes you feel small, a shaking creature that needs to be held.

"It doesn't matter, I want to look after you, okay?" She skims her fingers down your back, watching you nod with watery eyes. Your fragility makes something in her sting. God she should have forced you away from work and unwound you sooner. Should have given you more than the stolen kisses you've been surviving on.

"Breaking my heart thinking you've been keeping what you want from me." She says hushed. The confession makes your own heart twinge. Emery lives to fix and solve, whether it’s a surgical procedure or getting you off, its what her methodical mind was made for.

Her leg slots between yours, her thigh pressing into your sticky, wet underwear. Though you're still sniffling, Emery doesn't miss the squeaky gasp you make at the contact. The pulse that’s been haunting your pussy for days thrums back into life but just like at breakfast you can't bring your body to act for itself. Instead Emery coaxes movement out of you, her tug on your hip telling you to stop denying yourself. It only takes a few rolls of your core against the firmness of her muscle for your resistance to start breaking. You start seeking the pressure against your clit for yourself until your humping Emery's leg like you're in heat.

She holds you tightly even as you move, she lets you collapse back into the crook of her neck so she can enjoy your delicate whines. You're so pent up with the need to escape this week. You don't want stress, you don't want to think and Emery knows it. It’s evident in the enthusiastic way your rutting against her, your rhythm already growing sloppy from a combination of tiredness and want.

Seeking more escapism, you begin to unbutton Emery's shirt until she takes over and shrugs the garment off. Your flushed cheek burns hot against Emery's skin, the softness of her the perfect comfort. Emery pulls your t-shirt over your head so you can have your body even closer to hers. When she hooks her thumb underneath the elastic of your pants you expect her to lift you off her and strip you. Emery surprises you by instead pulling the elastic upwards. The soaked cotton rides up and makes you whimper again, realising she’s giving you more friction to rub against. Your head lolls backwards, your moans still have a tearful watery edge that makes them sound even sweeter to Emery. Each movement brings you further out the fogginess of your head. The days old itch finally getting scratched. The biting sting of your panties pulled taught against your needy clit is what you've been needing - a real, physical sensation you can latch onto. Emery deliberately pulses her thigh beneath you letting you rock and grind and use her. You whine in frustration, trying to find the release you need but is just out of reach, like somethings blocking your path. Emery watches knowingly, you're still too gone to give yourself permission.

"Come on baby, let go, it’s okay.” She encourages, almost bouncing her thigh up into you. Your mind latches on to her voice. The elastic under her thumbs is pulled tight enough it could snap. "You can let go for me baby. Show me you can.” Your body follows her instruction. You feel yourself shake against Emery's thigh and the cotton twisted between your slit growing wetter. Her thumbs switch to brushing your hips, reassuring you it’s okay to let yourself feel good.

The feeling of drowning in worries is dissipating but your mind is still thick with an ugly fog. You cling to Emery's frame, nowhere near ready to let your anchor go. It’s a bruising grip for someone looking so fragile, Emery doesn't mind so long as it helps ease the way you’re feeling. She'll wear the purple imprints with pride.

"Where's my kisses baby?" Emery asks playfully but doesn't tease, it’s her lips that land on you first. Your mouth is ready to take and take, accepting every intrusion of her tongue. She lets you flick the mole on her top lip repeatedly, the little lump the kind of familiarity you need when your head is hazy. Having something in your mouth to rhythmically suck on soothes you like a babe. Driven by pure need you make your way down Emery's body.

"Oh, baby you don’t have t-" She's cut off by your hands landing on her breasts. You adore the feeling of their plump weight in your hands; how close you feel to her with her heartbeat fluttering under your ear. Seeing the content look on your face Emery relaxes knowing you aren't acting out of a sense of expectation. " Please, please" You mouth at her collar bone.

 "Okay baby okay, you take whatever you need. I’ve got you." Maybe its primal or weird psychosexual shit but sucking Emery's nipple always has the power to slow your rushing thoughts. Everything shrinks down to rolling your tongue against the bud until you crack a moan out of her. You worship her with your mouth until her chest gleams with trails of your saliva. Emery only looks down at you like you’ve made a masterpiece.

 "That’s my girl." She coos, holding your chin up towards her. You want more, of her praise and her body. If having your mouth on her nipples is comforting, then having your head encircled by Emery's thighs is pure solace. Her tangy smell tells you she wants you and lets you be engulfed in her like nothing else. The moment your tongue meets her you wish you'd asked for this days ago. Emery doesn't buck her hips or pull at your hair when you’re in this mood. Between irritating colleagues and tetchy patients, Emery's had plenty of years to hone her self-control. She uses every drop to resist directing you. Emery wants to indulge you; she lets you lay between her sprawled legs and your tongue play around between her folds. You seem so gently innocence down there, mouthing at her like you’re famished.

"There you go." She breathes out. You have your face nestled into her, nose nudging at her clit, tongue languidly pushing its way around "Don’t have to think of anything else baby, just focus on this, yeah?"

Yes, you think. If you could you'd survive on nothing but Emery's slick on your tongue. You kiss at her, mouth open, dirtily making out with her clit then holding the bundled nerves between your lips, tongue pressed flush to it. Only briefly do you come up for air, your palms press into Emery's thighs so you can spread her open further for you. Even that moment is too long and you moan in relief when you have your mouth back on her.

"That nice?" Your hair tickles her crotch as you nod in agreement making Emery chuckle under her breath.

"Feels so good, baby."  Emery's voice grows mumbled but she keeps talking. Her speech as relentless as your suckling at her clit.

" You’re being so good, aren’t you?"

"Keep going, keep taking what you need."

"Look so pretty, don't you?" You're all tears’ stains and drool but Emery knows you can't argue with her clit suctioned between your lips. She means her words though, your vulnerability and desperation drive her as wild as your mouth. Her restraint begins to wane, and she can't help raising her hips until she’s gently thrusting up into you as if she can fuck your mouth.

You’re certain you’ve done nothing right all week. Making Emery come undone is redemption. The sound that catches in her throat is so deep you swear it rises from where your tongue is still at work. You press a final thankful kiss to her when her thighs cease twitching. Where before you felt like you were floating away now you’re suspended in happiness, like the early stages of being tipsy when everything grows softer.

"C'mere, here." Emery's voice is undercut with breathlessness. She guides you to face her, hands either side of your head, eyes blown and velvet dark. Your face is wet and streaked with Emery's release but she holds you like you’re precious. "You with me?" She whispers. The line between enough and too much is a delicate balance when you’re in this stare, but you nod.

"Yeah." Your voice threatens to crack again. There's a throbbing between your legs and knot in your stomach that needs undone. You feel better but not "fixed" as Emery calls it, not broken out of your fawn response.

"You remember what I said about you telling me when you need me? Telling me what you want?" You nod keenly, even though it’s never so easy when you dig yourself into that hole where you believe you're unworthy of Emery's time or touch.  "Good girl. We're gonna practice. Tell me what you want right now."

Your eyes drop and a blush sweep over you. Its pitiful to act shy with remnants of Emery's cunt drying on your chin. "I want you to touch me". Emery brushes her hands through your hair and kisses your forehead. The sweetness makes you tremble, her hands wandering the sides of your body as she tells you to keep talking. "Want you to use your fingers." Emery is toying with the waistband of your ruined underwear, her slender fingers painfully close to where your body is crying out for her. "Want you to use your mouth. Please, will you-"

Your breathing is growing shallow from the way Emery is petting at the soaked crotch of your underwear but guilt at confessing everything you've been needing bites at you. Emery notices the way you've grown rigid and eyes have snapped shut. Her fingers pause and you whiner only to be soothed by her peppering kisses over your face. Her voice pulls you out of guilt's grasp.

 "I will. I will, you see that’s all you need to do okay? Next time you need something you tell me. Promise?"

 "Promise, Emery." She locks her pinkie finger round yours, juvenilely cementing the promise.

Emery lays you down as she peels your underwear off. "Fuck baby. Look at the state of you. Must have been so desperate. My poor girl you been dripping like this for days?" She shakes her head clucking in disbelief. She lingers, not touching just watching your pussy drip and twitch. You worry you could cum from her gaze alone.

"Poor thing." Emery purrs, thumb rubbing at your core like it’s your tear stained cheek. "Been needing me all this time." She mutters barely loud enough to hear before she licks a fat stripe through your folds.

Emery's tongue swipes the fog in your head away each time it glides over you. She's precise and steady, the promise that she's going to keep pleasuring you the certainty you've been seeking. Each pass of her mouth makes another pathetic noise slip from your lips. When she envelops your clit the warmth of it is akin to a hug. Even Emery groans like she's come home and you’re hit with the rush of being wanted and loved. Your hips push upward. You need Emery to keep her mouth fused where it’s working you hard enough you hear electricity crackling through your nerves. She keeps up sucking and tonguing at your clit making up for lost time by not leaving you untouched for a second. The feeling of it makes your body prickle with pleasure never wanting to leave the warm joy of her mouth.

 mery huffs breath out her nose unwilling to let her girl go when she can feel a tell tale pulse in her mouth and your fingers scrabbling through her hair. When your orgasm hits the strain of the entire week snaps and falls away leaving you aware of nothing, but the kisses Emery is lavishing on your seam.

Though your body is still shaky Emery doesn't back away. She stays between your legs softly swirling her tongue round your puffy clit. You feel like your swimming for the first time in days, buoyed against life's current by Emery. Through hazy eyes you watch her head of curls bobbing between your legs until the surprise press of a finger makes your eyes shut.

"Nuh uh." Emery's head raises only slightly, her breath fanning your hot wetness. You peel your eyes open to meet her dark gaze. "Can't have you disappearing into your head, keep your eyes on me." She smirks. It’s the same face she pulls when she's proved right at work and saves her patient. She knows you've been feeling broken, like any good doctor she's going to make it all better.

You watch Emery settle back to her task. Her own eyes remain boring up into you even when she starts kitten licking you again. Her stare and her mouth claim you as hers and of course you surrender, ready for Emery to do with you as she sees fit. Whatever it takes to break you out your funk. Her deft finger returns to your entrance working inside with no resistance from your wanton body. She smirks again at how you clench round her digit.

"That good?" Emery asks, working her way inside you and brushing parts of you that make keeping your eyes open incredibly difficult. She moves with steadiness, adding a second finger.

"Good."

"My needy girl finally getting what she wants." Emery's voice is saccharine but the deep thrust of her fingers is sweeter. It completes something in you, eases a hollow ache. "Just need to be filled, don’t you?"

"Dont worry we have all weekend, I’ll make up for neglecting you baby." She whispers, dropping tender kisses on your clit between the words. You keen, your legs instinctively trying to close round her but you’re plaint enough Emery can nudge them back with a mere tap. It doesn't detract her from showering you with praise whenever she catches your eyes still trained on her. "Might keep you in bed whole time, fuck, gonna sleep with my strap buried in you. You like that idea?”

Words escape you but the idea makes your body greedily grip her fingers. "Can feel how much you like it." Being filled and loved on all night sounds like Emery offering you the world on a plate. “Keep you full and happy. You just have to ask baby." She half groans as she watches the desperation growing in your eyes as she starts to press at her favourite spot deep inside of you.

She keeps stoking the fire, scissoring her fingers until you yelp. Emery, has you dancing on the edge. "Too much. Em I can’t."

 "Of course you can. I know you can." "What if I ca-"

"You will.” Her voice is as assured as the way she fucks you, her fingers ploughing in and out of you deliciously deep. It makes you whine and gargle round your attempts to protest, so close to the edge. But now you’ve broken the seal and dipped into what she can give you need everything Emery has to offer. You need more of her to tip you over the finish line. You grumble at your own greed and frustration; afraid you won’t be able to cum again. he The fear of letting Emery down making you more desperate

"Shh baby, you won’t cum if you get all wound up again. Just enjoy how it feels." She sinks her head so she can wrap her tongue round your clit. You force your eyes to stay on her. She’s entirely focused on your body, knowing exactly how to play it with every move of her fingers and mouth. Nothing else matters but Emery and the way she's driving you to the very edge.

"Come on, so close baby." Emery can feel it in the way you’re writhing under her. You feel it, the swell of your orgasm deep in you, Your eyes fall close and you surrender to it, waves of pleasure washing away traces of your week. The only word in your mind and on your lips is Emery. Filthy, caring Emery who keeps gently kissing between your legs until your body grows limp.

Her kisses make their way up your body, pulling the bedcover with her as she notices goosepimples blooming over you. You’re both sticky and sweaty but she snuggles her body behind yours. Once again you’re surrounded by her presence and able to hold onto her hands to ground you.

"How’s that little head of yours" Emery whisper into your temple.

"Mmm quieter." The frazzled tension of the week is giving way to a comfortable sleepiness.

"Good. You don’t need to think about anything for now. You got me here." Emery arms keep you present, tuned to the rise and fall of her chest against your back and the thump of your heart. You love her for knowing how to make you feel whole. Pulling you down from the height the of stress and nurturing the parts of you that you’ve ignored.

"Em?"

"What is it?" She presses her nose into your neck, kissing your bare skin hoping it keeps any worries at bay.

"Did you mean it?"

"Mean what babe?"

“About you.. know?"

She sighs. "What did Isay about asking for what you want?"

You feel yourself heat up, despite everything that’s just passed between you you feel shy. “Would you sleep with your strap in me?"

Emery props herself up on her elbow and looks down at you. Her smirk radiates the cocky energy of knowing she’s planted the seed in your head. "Is that what you want? Need to be full of me even when you’re dreaming?"

The emergency department wasn’t unfamiliar with pediatric cases. Most days, children came through its doors with fevers that worried exhausted parents, ears aching from infections, wrists bent the wrong way after playground falls. Tears were soothed with stickers, popsicles, and promises that the cast color could be any shade they wanted. Parents apologized for overreacting while nurses promised they hadn’t. Someone was always asking where the bathroom was. Someone was always bargaining with a toddler over taking medicine.

Those were the kinds of pediatric emergencies the ER could handle without calling for the specialists upstairs.

Today was not one of those days.

Today, an eighteen month old baby boy had been left in his father’s car.

It was one of those deceptive September afternoons, seventy degrees and golden outside. Warm enough for shorts, cool enough for a sweatshirt once the sun dipped. The kind of day people called beautiful. The kind of day no one would think could turn deadly.

The ambulance had arrived with sirens blaring loudly enough to rattle the glass doors. The radio report hit the department like a punch to the chest.

Unresponsive toddler. Vehicle entrapment. Unknown downtime. Poor vitals. No parents on scene.

That last part settled over the department in a different kind of silence.

By the time the rig backed into the bay, Trauma Two was already full. Respiratory therapy stood at the head of the bed with intubation equipment laid out in neat rows. Nurses primed lines and tore open packages with practiced hands. Pediatrics had been alerted. Neurology had been called down early because everyone knew what prolonged oxygen deprivation could mean. Social work lingered nearby, summoned before the child had even arrived. Registration had already been warned that they might be admitting a John Doe if no guardian could be located.

That alone said enough.

Trinity Santos had heard the call while finishing notes on a teenager with an ankle sprain. Eighteen months old. The number lodged itself beneath her ribs and stayed there.

Her daughter at home was sixteen months old. Only two months younger. Still in the stage of sleepy curls after bath time, mismatched socks, and sticky hands reaching insistently for whoever was closest. Still small enough to fit against Trinity’s chest when nightmares hit in the middle of the night.

Her daughter had once been a Jane Doe too.

A nameless newborn left in the emergency department bathroom. Wrapped poorly in a thin receiving blanket, crying with all the strength her tiny lungs could manage until a nurse followed the sound and found her on the tiled floor beside the sink. No note. No name. No mother waiting nearby to change her mind. Just a baby left in the one place where someone would hear her and come running.

Sixteen months. Eighteen months.

Close enough that Trinity’s mind betrayed her before she could stop it. For one brutal second, she pictured Alma strapped into a car seat, cheeks flushed, crying until no sound came out. Then another image followed just as quickly: a newborn in a bassinet, with a paper bracelet reading 'Jane Doe'.

Two children left behind in two entirely different ways.

One abandoned where help was steps away.

One abandoned where help had to break a window to reach him.

Then she shoved the images down hard enough to hurt.

There was no room for that here. Not now. She was the ER resident on shift. She was needed steady, quick, and clinical.

Mothers did not get to exist in trauma bays. Doctors did.

“Dr. Santos?” a nurse called. “EMS is two minutes out.”

“I’m here.” Trinity snapped gloves on. “Respiratory ready?”

“Ready.”

“Peds aware?”

“On standby.”

She nodded once. “Let’s move.”

When the doors burst open, the stretcher seemed too large for the patient on top of it. He was tiny beneath the straps and blankets, curls damp against his forehead, cheeks flushed an angry red that had already begun fading into something waxy and wrong. One little sneaker had fallen half off his foot. No diaper bag. No favorite stuffed animal. No frantic parent racing beside the gurney calling his name.

Just strangers carrying him in.

The EMT jogged beside the stretcher, voice clipped and professional though grief-strained every syllable.

“Eighteen-month-old male, found unresponsive after being left unattended in a parked vehicle on a seventy-degree day for unknown length of time. Removed by first responders prior to our arrival. No purposeful response on scene. Respirations agonal, pulse weak and thready. Skin hot to the touch, pale. Temperature elevated.”

He glanced once toward the empty hallway behind him. “No parent or guardian located prior to transport. Police remained on scene attempting contact.”

No one missed the way his jaw tightened at the last sentence.

Trinity was already moving before he finished. She stepped into place at the bedside like instinct had dragged her there.

“On my count,” she said sharply. “One, two, three.”

The room moved with her. Monitor leads snapped onto fragile skin. A nurse pushed fluids through the line. Another drew labs to check electrolytes, organ function, everything that heat and time could destroy. Respiratory positioned for intubation. Someone called out a heart rate that was too slow. Someone else called for another dose of medication.

The little boy’s chest rose only when the bag was squeezed for him.

There was no crying. No frightened reaching for a parent. No squirming against unfamiliar hands. Just the rhythmic hiss of oxygen, the shrill beeping of machines, and the awful stillness of a child who should have been fighting them.

“Come on, buddy,” one of the nurses muttered under her breath as she adjusted the leads. “Come on.”

Every few minutes, Trinity’s eyes flicked to the trauma room doorway on instinct alone. Waiting for a sobbing mother. A father stumbling in, wild-eyed and begging for updates. Anyone.

No one came.

The absence felt monstrous.

She forced herself back to the monitor, to the airway, to medication dosages and numbers. But anger had begun threading itself through the fear now, hot and sharp.

Her daughter was at home with applesauce on her shirt and cartoons playing too loudly. Safe. Loved. Accounted for every second. Once nameless, now adored beyond measure.

This child had arrived nameless in a different way. Alone in a room full of people who cared too late to matter.

Outside the room, staff who weren’t needed stood frozen for a moment before forcing themselves back to work. Inside, no one looked at one another for too long. No one wanted to see the same thought reflected back at them.

They would do everything medicine allowed. They would breathe for him, cool his body, support his failing organs, flood his veins with fluids, and shock his heart if it came to that. They would call every specialist needed and keep going long after hope became thin and ragged.

But the silence tucked beneath every command said what no one dared voice aloud.

The little boy was most likely not going to survive.

And if he didn’t, the room would change all over again. Doctors would step back. The time of death would be spoken softly. Social workers would stay with a child who had no one beside him. Police officers would continue searching for the people meant to protect him. Investigators would document every detail.

For now, though, none of that mattered.

For now, every person in the trauma bay was trying to do the impossible.

They were trying to save a child who had already been failed.

At home, you and Alma were oblivious to what was happening at PTMC. Your rare day off was being spent cleaning the small apartment while Alma sat cross-legged on the living room rug watching Arthur. Her hands were sticky from the syrup she had somehow managed to spread from fingertips to elbows during breakfast, and her curls had risen in every direction after sleep. There had been no plans to go anywhere today, which meant no one had bothered with real clothes or taming hair. She wore one of Trinity’s old T-shirts as a sleep dress, the collar slipping off one shoulder, a diaper peeking beneath the hem.

The two of you had spent most of the morning tangled in blankets, refusing to move when Trinity got ready for work. She had leaned over the bed in scrubs still cool from the closet, pressing a soft kiss to your temple and another to Alma’s forehead.

Alma, half asleep, had reached out blindly and mumbled, “Mumu stay.”

Trinity laughed under her breath. “Mumu has to go save people, baby girl.”

“No save people,” Alma muttered, rolling dramatically onto her stomach. “Stay bed.”

You smiled without opening your eyes. “That’s two votes for staying.”

Trinity kissed the back of your head. “Traitors. Both of you.”

Then the apartment door clicked shut behind her while you and Alma drifted back to sleep in the warm hollow she left behind.

Now sunlight poured through the blinds in stripes across the floor. The apartment smelled faintly of pancake mix, dish soap, and the lavender detergent Trinity always bought when it was on sale. Ordinary smells. Safe smells.

“Mama, look,” Alma announced urgently, pointing at the television. Arthur was doing something involving a library card that apparently carried life-altering stakes.

“I see,” you said, wiping down the kitchen counter. “Very dramatic.”

“Dama-tic,” Alma repeated proudly.

Across town, there was no sunlight in Trauma Two. Only fluorescent glare and the relentless pulse of monitors. Another toddler lay still beneath blankets and cooling packs, strangers moving around him with fast hands and clipped voices. No cartoons narrated the room. No one argued over library cards.

“Mama up,” Alma demanded, abandoning the television to toddle toward you with both arms raised.

You scooped her up automatically. She settled against your shoulder, warm and heavy with trust, smelling like syrup and sleep and strawberry shampoo.

“There she is,” you murmured. “My clingy girl.”

“Not clingy,” she protested into your neck. “Baby.”

“Oh, sorry. My baby.”

“Yes.” She paused thoughtfully. “Big baby.”

You laughed, and she laughed because you were laughing.

At PTMC, the child in Trinity’s trauma bay could not lift his own arms to be held. Could not protest. Could not laugh because someone else was laughing. His body had gone frighteningly quiet.

Alma wriggled until you set her down, then grabbed your hand with sticky fingers.

“Come on.”

“Where?”

“Kitchen.”

“We’re already in the kitchen.”

She frowned deeply at this complication. “Other kitchen.”

You let her drag you three feet to the fruit bowl. She pointed triumphantly.

“Nana.”

“You know, one day you’ll use full words.”

“Nana,” she repeated, as if you were the unreasonable one.

You peeled a banana and handed it over. She took two bites before pressing the slobbery remainder back into your hand.

“Share.”

“Wow,” you said solemnly. “So generous.”

Across town, nurses discussed blood gases and kidney function instead of snack sharing. They pushed medications, adjusted oxygen, and called for more labs. No one there was being handed half-chewed fruit by delighted little fingers.

“Mumu work?” Alma asked, climbing onto the couch beside you. Banana clung to her cheek.

“Mumu’s at work, yeah.”

“Call Mumu.”

You smiled. “We can try.”

You called once. Straight to voicemail.

Again. Nothing.

A third time, still nothing but the recorded prompt asking you to leave a message.

Alma frowned at the phone like it had personally offended her. “No.”

“She’s busy, bug.”

“Call ’gain.”

You did, mostly because it was impossible not to when she asked like that. Still nothing.

At PTMC, Trinity’s phone sat forgotten in the bottom of her locker, silenced hours ago before she ran into trauma. She had not touched it since. Her hands were occupied keeping a child alive.

“Mumu no answer,” Alma said mournfully.

“She’ll call back later.”

“Miss Mumu.”

Your chest softened. “Me too.”

Alma crawled into your lap and shoved the sticky banana end against your mouth.

“Eat.”

“Yes, ma’am.” You took a dutiful bite. “Delicious.”

She beamed.

In Trauma Two, Trinity was calling for another dose of epinephrine when the doors opened again. Everyone looked up instinctively.

A woman stumbled in behind security, hair disheveled, mascara streaked down her cheeks, breath coming in ragged gasps.

“My baby,” she choked out before anyone could stop her. “That’s my baby.”

The room changed instantly.

Social work moved first. Security close behind. A nurse guided the woman away from the sterile field as she sobbed hard enough to fold in on herself.

“I only went inside for a minute,” she cried. “I only went inside. I thought his dad had him. I thought…”

Her knees buckled. Someone caught her before she hit the floor.

Trinity did not look away from the monitor. She could not. She could not afford to. But the words landed like stones anyway.

At home, Alma was furious because the banana had been broken the wrong way. She thrust the two halves toward you with outraged tears in her eyes.

“It’s okay, baby,” you soothed. “It still tastes the same.”

“No!” she wailed, because to toddlers shape was everything and logic was nothing.

You gathered her into your lap, banana and all, rocking her through the heartbreak of divided fruit.

“Oh no,” you gasped dramatically. “The banana tragedy.”

She sobbed harder.

“Call the news.”

That made her pause mid-cry.

At the hospital, another mother’s cries echoed down the hallway as she begged to see the son she had lost track of for one minute too long. There would be no rocking this grief away. No easy fix. No replacing what had broken.

Alma sniffled against your chest, tears already fading. “More nana?”

You kissed the top of her curls. “Always more bananas.”

Across town, Trinity pressed two fingers to the tiny neck of an eighteen-month-old boy while his mother sobbed just outside the curtain.

At home, Alma’s biggest tragedy lasted thirty seconds and could be solved with fresh fruit.

At PTMC, a mother arrived just in time to witness how little time remained.

The room went quiet in the way only hospital rooms can after chaos.

Not silent. Never silent. The ventilator in the next bay still hissed. Phones still rang at the nurses' station. Someone laughed too loudly down the hall at something unrelated and harmless. A printer spat out labels somewhere near triage. Life, indifferent and rude, continued around them.

But inside Trauma Two, after the shouting of doses and compressions and desperate commands, there came the stillness that meant everyone had run out of things to do.

Trinity stood at the bedside with her gloves still on, staring at the little boy in front of her. Sweat cooled beneath her scrub top. Her arms ached from rounds of compressions. Her jaw hurt from clenching it. Her back throbbed from leaning over a bed too small for this kind of war.

Dr. Robby listened once more with his stethoscope, fingers pressing lightly at the child’s neck, though everyone in the room already knew. He looked at the wall clock.

“Time of death, 14:17.”

No one moved for a beat.

Then the room began the quiet work that follows failure. A nurse silenced the alarms. Another gathered empty syringes and torn wrappers into the trash. Respiratory disconnected tubing with gentle hands, as though softness mattered now. Someone pulled the sheet higher. Someone dimmed one bank of lights.

Trinity stepped back so fast she nearly stumbled.

He was dead.

After fifty-five minutes of compressions, medications, lines, cooling measures, pleading inside her own head, he was still dead.

A nurse touched her elbow. “Dr. Santos?”

“Yeah.”

“You okay?”

No.

“Fine.”

The nurse gave her a look that said liar but turned away.

The mother was brought in seconds later, held upright more by momentum than strength. Social work hovered near her elbow, security lingering respectfully at the door. Her mascara had run in black tracks down her face. One heel was broken, forcing her to limp and stumble. Her purse hung open, spilling receipts and lipstick across the floor behind her.

The second she saw the bed, something animal ripped out of her throat.

She threw herself across the child, clutching his shirt, his hair, his still face. “No, no, no, baby, please no. Mommy’s here. Mommy’s here now.”

She kissed his cheeks over and over. “Wake up. Come on, wake up for Mommy. Please. Please.”

No one interrupted. There are moments medicine knows to stand aside.

Trinity stood rooted in place, fury and pity tangling so tightly inside her she couldn’t tell one from the other.

The woman’s sobs eventually weakened into ragged breaths. She looked up, eyes swollen and wild, and found Trinity standing nearest.

“You said you were helping him,” she accused hoarsely. “You said you were working on him.”

Trinity kept her voice level through sheer force. “We did everything we could.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the truth.”

The woman staggered upright. “Then do more.” She jabbed a finger toward the bed. “Start again.”

“Ma’am...” Trinity swallowed. “He’s gone.”

“Then bring him back!” the mother screamed. “Isn’t that your job?”

Something hot and ugly flared in Trinity’s chest. Exhaustion. Grief. Rage on behalf of a child who had no voice left of his own.

“My job,” Trinity snapped, stepping forward before anyone could stop her, “was to save the child who was left in a car.”

The room froze.

The mother recoiled like she’d been struck. Social work inhaled sharply. Security straightened.

Trinity heard the cruelty in her own words and didn’t entirely regret them.

The woman pointed at her with a shaking hand. “You judgmental little bitch.”

Trinity’s eyes flashed. “He was eighteen months old.”

“Don’t you dare…”

“He could not unbuckle himself.” Trinity’s voice rose now, sharp enough to cut. “He could not call 911. He could not open the door. He depended on the adults around him.”

“Dr. Santos,” Robby warned quietly.

But Trinity was done swallowing it.

“He died because the people responsible for him failed him.”

The mother lunged with a scream. Security moved instantly, catching her before she reached Trinity. Nails still snagged Trinity’s scrub collar hard enough to scratch skin.

“Let me go!” the woman shrieked. “Let me go!”

Trinity took one involuntary step forward, adrenaline still surging. “No, you listen to me…”

“Trinity.” This time, Robby’s voice cracked like a whip.

She stopped. Chest heaving.

The mother fought against security, sobbing and raging all at once. “You don’t understand! You don’t know what this feels like!”

“You’re right,” Trinity said tightly. “I don’t know this exact pain.”

“I bet you don’t even have kids.”

The words landed squarely in the softest place she had.

“I have a daughter.”

The woman barked out a broken laugh. “Of course you do. Of course, you get to have one. How old?”

Trinity should not have answered. She knew that.

“Sixteen months.”

The mother screamed louder than before.

“Then shut up!”

Security tightened their grip.

“She’s too young!” the woman cried to anyone who would listen. “She is a baby herself. She doesn’t know anything. She doesn’t understand what it is to lose your child.”

That one landed deeper than the scratch.

Because Trinity suddenly saw Alma on this bed. Alma’s curls damp with sweat. Alma’s tiny body under a white sheet. Alma silent forever because someone forgot her.

Her knees nearly buckled.

Instead, she bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood.

“She gets to go home and hold her baby!” the woman sobbed. “She gets to judge me while I bury mine!”

Trinity’s voice came out low and shaking. “I am not judging you for grieving.”

“Liar!”

“I am judging that he was helpless.”

The room went still again.

“He deserved better than this.”

Even the mother stopped fighting for a second.

Then she collapsed in on herself, rage folding into devastation so quickly it was horrifying to watch.

“He was supposed to come home,” she whispered. “I was supposed to take him home.”

Trinity’s anger guttered out, leaving only ash.

“I know,” she said quietly.

“No, you don’t,” the woman whispered back, but there was no venom left now. Only emptiness.

Social work guided her back to the bedside. Security eased away. The mother curled herself over the child once more, smaller somehow than when she entered.

Trinity turned and walked out before her legs gave out in front of everyone.

The hallway noise hit her like a wall. Phones. Footsteps. Someone is asking for ginger ale. Someone is complaining about the wait. A child laughing in fast track because they’d gotten a sticker.

The cruelty of ordinary life continuing nearly made her dizzy.

She braced a hand against the wall.

“Well,” a familiar voice said beside her, dry as ever, “that was profoundly bad.”

Trinity looked up. Dennis stood there in navy scrubs, coffee in one hand, chart in the other. Dennis, who had known her since her first day of residency. Dennis, who had become a roommate out of financial desperation and stayed family by accident. Dennis, who knew how she took her coffee, how she got when she skipped meals, and exactly what kind of silence meant she was fine versus the kind that meant she was absolutely not.

“Go away,” she muttered.

“No.” He held out the coffee. “Drink this.”

“I hate you.”

“You say that whenever I’m useful.”

She took the cup anyway. Her hands were shaking too badly to hide it. Dennis noticed immediately and, like always, pretended not to.

“I just told a grieving mother her child died because she failed him.”

Dennis tilted his head. “Did you say those exact words?”

“No.”

“Then let’s not rewrite the transcript to make yourself the villain.”

“I was out of line.”

“You were human.”

“I was angry.”

“You should be angry.” Dennis’s tone sharpened. “A toddler died trapped in a car.”

“She was falling apart.”

“She can be falling apart and still have been responsible.”

Trinity stared at him, eyes burning. “I kept seeing Alma.”

That wiped the humor from his face immediately.

“Oh, Trin.”

“She’s sixteen months, Dennis.” Her voice cracked around his name. “Sixteen months. I looked at that kid, and all I saw was her.”

He set the chart aside on the counter and stepped closer. Dennis had met her during her first brutal year of residency, when he was still a med student trailing behind residents with a notebook and too much pride to admit he had nowhere to go after shifts. She found out he’d been quietly sleeping in call rooms and empty corners of the hospital, and she and you had dragged him back to your apartment with spare blankets, takeout, and no room to argue. Since then, he had seen her through overnight shifts that hollowed her out, boards panic, the relentless grind of training, and the night you and Trinity came home from the hospital after deciding together that the nameless infant abandoned in the ER bathroom would be your daughter. He knew when to joke and when not to.

“Hey,” he said quietly now. “Look at me.”

She did, barely.

“She called me too young.”

He snorted softly. “You are too young.”

She glared.

“To have this much trauma,” he corrected. “Not to understand pain.”

That cracked something open in her. She laughed once and then started crying immediately after.

Dennis caught the coffee before she dropped it and set it on the counter. Then he pulled her into a quick, awkward hug because they had never been sentimental people and because hospital hallways were not built for graceful comfort.

“You need five minutes,” he said into her hair.

“I need to go home.”

“I know.”

“I need Alma.”

“I know.”

“But instead, I have room twelve asking for ginger ale.”

Dennis huffed a laugh. “Truly the greatest injustice of our generation.”

She pulled back, scrubbing at her face. “Did I defend him or did I just make it worse?”

He didn’t answer right away. That was another reason she trusted him. Dennis never lied just to soothe people.

“You defended the only person in that room who couldn’t speak,” he said finally. “You also said it badly.”

“That’s fair.”

“You’re not wrong for being angry, Trin. You’re wrong for thinking anger means you don’t care.”

She looked down the hall toward Trauma Two. “He was so small.”

Dennis followed her gaze. “Yeah.”

A beat passed between them, heavy and quiet.

Then he bumped her shoulder lightly. “Go wash your face. I’ll get room twelve their sacred ginger ale.”

“I love you platonically.”

“I know. It’s one of my burdens.”

“And if anyone asks, I was never crying.”

“You weren’t,” he said solemnly. “You were aggressively leaking.”

Despite everything, she laughed.

Then she went to wash the blood, sweat, and grief off her face before finishing the rest of her shift.

By the time Trinity unlocked the apartment door, the hallway outside was dark and still. The kind of late hour where every sound carried farther than it should. Her keys scraped once against the lock before catching, hands less steady than she wanted to admit.

Inside, only the lamp beside the couch was on, casting the living room in soft amber light. Toys had been half cleaned into a basket and half left where they fell. A board book lay open on the rug. One tiny sock rested near the coffee table like it had been discarded in protest. The television was off now, the apartment wrapped in the quiet hush of people already asleep.

Home.

The smell hit her next. Dinner long gone cold. Baby shampoo. Laundry detergent. The faint sweetness of fruit snacks or juice or some other sticky toddler crime scene. Safe smells. Familiar smells. Nothing sharp with antiseptic. Nothing touched by panic.

You were asleep on the couch, chin tipped awkwardly to the side, one blanket half covering your legs. Alma was sprawled on your chest like she belonged nowhere else, cheek pressed over your heart, one hand fisted in your shirt. Her curls were flattened on one side from sleep, pajamas rumpled, pacifier hanging uselessly beside her face.

The sight stopped Trinity in the doorway.

All day she had seen stillness in the wrong places. Too much of it. Stillness under fluorescent lights. Stillness after monitors were silenced. Stillness under a white sheet far too small.

This was different.

This was warm weight and sleepy breaths, and a toddler snoring faintly through a congested nose. This was the rise and fall of your chest beneath hers. This was life so ordinary it hurt.

She set her bag down as quietly as she could. The sound still made you stir. Your eyes blinked open slowly, unfocused for a second before landing on her.

“There you are,” you murmured, voice thick with sleep.

Trinity only nodded. Her throat had closed somewhere between the parking lot and the front door.

You looked at her properly then. The exhaustion. The thousand-yard stare. The scratch near her collarbone. The way she was standing, like one wrong word might make her fold.

“Oh,” you said softly, immediately awake now. “Bad shift?”

Trinity gave a short, humorless breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Yeah.”

You shifted carefully beneath Alma. “Come here.”

She crossed the room like her body had made the decision before her mind did. She crouched beside the couch first, brushing Alma’s curls back from her forehead with shaking fingers. Warm skin. Damp little sleep sweat at the hairline. A sleepy sigh when Trinity touched her.

Proof.

Then Trinity lowered herself carefully to the floor beside you, knees pulled up, forearms resting on the couch cushion near Alma’s back. She kept one hand on her daughter like if she let go, something terrible might happen.

You studied her in the lamplight. “What happened?”

Trinity stared at Alma instead of you. “Eighteen-month-old boy. Left in a car.”

Sleep left you all at once. “Oh, Trin.”

“We worked him for almost an hour.” Her voice had gone flat in the practiced way of someone trying not to feel anything at all. “Unknown downtime. Declining before he even got to us.”

You instinctively tightened an arm around Alma. She snuffled but didn’t wake.

Trinity noticed the movement and looked wrecked by it. “I kept seeing her instead.”

Your hand found the back of her neck. “Hey.”

“I know better,” she said quickly. “I know not to do that. But every time I looked at him I saw Alma’s curls. Her size. Her stupid little shoes.” Her breath hitched. “I kept thinking what if it was her.”

“It wasn’t.”

“But it could be.”

The honesty of that sat heavily between you. Parenting had a thousand quiet terrors built into it. Most days they stayed quiet. Some days they didn’t.

You reached down and smoothed your thumb over the back of her neck. “Come up here.”

She shook her head immediately. “No, I’m gross.”

“You’re grieving and smell like hospital. I’ve handled worse.”

That almost made her smile.

“Up,” you repeated. “Doctor’s orders.”

“You’re not my doctor.”

“I’m the only pediatrician in this apartment, so my authority stands.”

With a tired sound somewhere between surrender and heartbreak, Trinity pushed herself up onto the couch beside you. Alma stirred at the movement, frowned in her sleep, then immediately rolled sideways into Trinity’s lap like gravity had changed direction.

Trinity let out a strangled little laugh and gathered her close with desperate gentleness.

“There she is,” you murmured. “Your emotional support toddler.”

“She’s heavy.”

“She’s healing.”

Trinity bent her head and kissed Alma’s curls once, twice, three times. Like making up for hours apart.

“What happened after?” you asked gently.

“We called it.” Trinity swallowed. “His mother showed up after.”

You closed your eyes briefly. “Jesus.”

“She screamed. At everyone. At me.” Trinity gave another empty laugh. “Mostly me.”

“What did she say?”

“That I was too young to understand. That I get to go home and hold my baby tonight.”

You looked down at Alma asleep across both of you, one drool-damp cheek pressed into Trinity’s scrub top now. The unfairness of it was almost unbearable.

Trinity’s jaw tightened. “And she was right.”

“No.”

“She was.” Trinity finally looked at you, eyes shining now. “I came home. He didn’t.”

“That doesn’t make her right.” Your voice stayed soft but firm. “It makes her grieving.”

“I snapped first.”

That surprised you enough to show. “You?”

She glared weakly. “Don’t make that face.”

“It’s an honest face.”

“She told me to save him again. I told her my job was to save the child left in the car.”

You winced. “Oof.”

“I know.” She rubbed at her eyes with the heel of her hand. “I apologized right after. But I said it.”

“You were angry.”

“I was cruel.”

“You were exhausted, devastated, and standing in the blast radius of unimaginable grief.”

“That’s a generous spin.”

“It’s an accurate one.”

She shook her head. “I should’ve handled it better.”

“Probably,” you said honestly. “You’re also human.”

That made her eyes well up. Trinity hated when honesty was kinder than comfort.

Alma stirred then, blinking awake just enough to realize Trinity was present. She made a delighted little noise and immediately reached up to pat Trinity’s face with zero coordination.

“Mumu.”

Trinity caught her hand like it was something sacred. “Yeah, bug.”

Alma patted her cheek again, then grabbed a fistful of Trinity’s scrub top and used it to pull herself upright.

You snorted softly. “Strong independent woman.”

Alma leaned forward and headbutted Trinity lovingly in the chin.

“Ow,” Trinity said, voice breaking with laughter and tears all at once. “Hi to you too.”

The toddler, satisfied, tucked herself against Trinity’s chest and promptly began drifting back to sleep.

There it was again. Trust so complete it was instinct.

You laced your fingers through Trinity’s free hand. “Listen to me.”

She did. Barely.

“There was nothing to be done by the time he got there.”

Her face crumpled. “Don’t.”

“I’m not saying it to soothe you. I’m saying it because it’s true.” Pediatric calm settled naturally into your tone now, the one you used with terrified families and residents spiraling after hard cases. “Unknown downtime. Severe heat injury. No meaningful response prehospital. Progressive decline in transport. You know the physiology.”

“I hate the physiology.”

“I know.”

“No, like really hate it.” Trinity’s voice sharpened. “I hate that I can look at a child and know what organs are failing first. I hate that I knew before EMS finished report he probably wasn’t survivable.”

“I know.”

“I hate that I still hoped anyway.”

You squeezed her hand. “Good.”

She blinked. “Good?”

“Yes. Keep hoping anyway. The day you stop hoping is the day you need to quit medicine.”

That silenced her.

You continued more gently. “You gave him a chance that did not exist before he reached your doors. That matters.”

“It didn’t save him.”

“No,” you said quietly. “But outcomes are not the only measure of care.”

Trinity looked back at Alma, now fully asleep again and drooling on her chest. “I wanted to come home so badly.”

“You did.”

“I wanted something normal.”

On cue, Alma snored wetly and kicked one foot directly into Trinity’s ribs.

You both looked down.

“There’s your normal,” you whispered. “Sticky, loud, occasionally feral normal.”

That pulled a laugh out of Trinity, small and cracked but real.

Then the tears came right after it. She bowed her head over Alma’s hair, shoulders shaking silently while trying not to wake her.

You slid closer, wrapping an arm around both of them. “Hey,” you murmured. “You don’t have to hold it together here.”

“I know.”

“So stop.”

That did it. Trinity folded sideways into you as much as she could with a toddler wedged between you both. She cried hard and ugly and exhausted, the kind of crying that only happens when the danger is over and you’ve made it somewhere safe enough to fall apart.

You kissed her temple. “You did everything you could.”

“I couldn’t save him.”

“No,” you said softly. “But his death is not yours to carry like a personal failure.”

She cried harder at that.

Alma stirred again, annoyed by the movement, and blindly reached a chubby hand up to smack against Trinity’s mouth.

“Rude,” you whispered.

Trinity laughed through tears and kissed Alma’s palm.

“Mumu sad,” Alma mumbled sleepily, eyes still closed.

Your breath caught.

Trinity went still. “Yeah, bug,” she whispered. “A little.”

Alma patted her face once more with all the solemn grace of a stumbling raccoon. “Otay.”

Then she fell back asleep instantly.

The three of you sat there in the dim apartment, tangled together on the couch.

No monitors. No fluorescent lights. No screaming grief.

Just your steady hand in hers. Alma warm in her lap. Your shoulder against hers.

Just the soft weight of what survived the day.

⟡ ───────── ⟡ ───────── ⟡

North-3 is the first one you check on, first thing in your shift, an elderly pneumonia-admit. A boarder, waiting on a room upstairs to free up. You check his IV site, adjust the flow rate, and smooth his blanket when you notice him start to shiver. 

“Too cold?” you ask.

He nods.

“I’ve got you, sir.”

North-5 is next, a child with a sprained wrist and tear tracks drying on flushed cheeks. You hand her a sticker from your pocket and let her choose the color of the wrap. Purple wins out.

When you step back out of the patient bay, Dana hands you a chart without looking up from her own clipboard.

“You’ve also got 8, 12, and 14 now,” she says. “And drink some water, I haven’t seen you take a sip all shift.”

You accept the chart with a roll of your eyes, though it’s comedically unserious. “Yes, mom.”

Dana makes a noise that’s half-scoff, half-laugh.

Across the nurses’ station, Dr. McKay crouches beside a stretcher, speaking softly to a patient whose hands won’t stop shaking. She has this way about her, with calm radiating from her in a way that seems to steady everyone within reach.

Behind you, a crash cart rattles past.

“Labs for you,” Joy calls, sliding a printout onto the counter before disappearing towards triage where she’s supposed to be stationed for a majority of the day.

“Ogilvie!” Dana barks. “If you lean on that desk any harder it’s gonna start to bend!”

The med student startles upright with a mock-salute.

You hide a smile and keep moving.

North-12’s monitor beeps sharply as you enter. You silence the alarm and reposition the pulse-ox so it doesn’t happen again, and jot down updated vitals in the patient’s chart. 

When you step back into the corridor, Dr. Whitaker nearly collides with you, his arms full of supply packs.

“Whoa, sorry,” he says breathlessly. “Have you seen Santos?”

“Saw her at a workstation earlier, charting,” you answer automatically.

He grimaces in sympathy. “She’s been buried in charts all day.”

You bump his shoulder gently as you pass, careful not to knock any of the supplies out of his arms. “It’s emergency medicine, Dennis, we all are.”

He grins at you, already moving again.

At one point, at the furthest workstation from yours, Dr. Langdon flips through a chart with theatrical irritation. 

“Why is triage sending me abdominal pain that’s clearly gallbladder?” he mutters. “They need to be admitted to surgery, not here.”

You don’t look up from the vitals you’re logging. “Maybe they just like you and want you to have the easy cases.”

He scoffs, but the corner of his mouth twitches up in a smile he tries (and fails ) to hide.

The rhythm of the department carries you forward: you reassess, chart, medicate, reassure, and repeat. The choreography is familiar enough to be instinctive by now.

You and Trinity share three patients today.

That’s not unusual. Nothing about the way you work together is unusual. You anticipate her orders before she voices them, she trusts your assessments without question. A glance across the room is enough to coordinate the next step. You’re a well-oiled machine.

Nobody comments on it anymore, they don’t need to. Everyone knows you’re together. You keep it out of the workplace as much as you can, but it slips through the cracks sometimes.

It lives in the extra coffee she brings to you at the nurse’s station, the way you slide protein bars into her pocket between traumas because otherwise she isn’t going to eat her whole shift, the absent brushes of hands when passing charts.

In front of patients, she’s Dr. Santos, but everywhere else, she’s Trinity. The distinction is effortless because of how long you’ve been together.

You finish updating Room 8’s intake and step back into the hallway, scanning for your next task.

Across the department, Trinity stands above a workstation, her shoulders tight and her eyes fixed on the glowing screen with an expression that’s screaming of exhaustion. A half-finished cup of coffee sits abandoned beside her keyboard.

“Dr. Santos?” someone calls from a trauma bay.

A phone rings.

Dr. Whitaker sets a stack of charts beside her elbow. “These need signatures when you -”

“I know,” she says, not looking up from her screen.

Another sound screams for your attention.

You glance at the vitals on your clipboard, then toward her again. Room 8’s blood pressure is down, systolic lower than you’d like. She needs to know.

You make your way into the narrow opening beside her workstation. “Hey,” you say to her quietly. “Room 8’s pressure is trending down, do you want fluids started now or -”

Her hands stop moving on the keyboard and she shoves herself back from the desk with enough force that her coffee cup threatens to tip over.

“Can you just leave me the fuck alone?” she snaps, her voice tight with strain. “I need five seconds without someone bothering me.”

The words echo through the department louder than the surrounding noise, causing multiple people to pause what they’re doing and stare.

No one answers.

Movement starts up again after a moment, keys keep clacking, stretchers rattling past, someone calling for respiratory.

Trinity is already turning back to the screen in front of her, attention swallowed again by one of her many, many unfinished charts. She doesn’t look at you. She doesn’t see the way you freeze.

“Oh,” you say softly. “Okay.”

You step back, pivoting smoothly to avoid Dennis as he rushes past you for the millionth time that day. Your shoes carry you down the corridor with the same steady pace as before, if not a hair faster.

Only when you reach a supply cart as far away from everybody else as possible does your vision begin to blur. 

You blink hard, focusing on the printed vitals until the tears clear from your eyes and the numbers sharpen under your eyes. 

Room 8 still needs fluids.

You look for Dana instead. 

You find her at the nurse’s station, checking inventory of a supply cart against a clipboard that’s balanced on her forearm. She glances up as you approach, her eyes catching yours over her glasses before returning to her list.

“Room 8 needs fluids,” you say. “Pressure’s drifting.”

She nods immediately, logging it on her to-do list. “I’ll get it started.” 

As she takes the chart from you, she looks at you again and her expression softens as she turns her full attention to you. 

“You okay?” she asks.

You busy your hands straightening empty saline bags that don’t really need straightening.

“Fine,” you say. “Just busy.”

Dana watches you for a bit longer than most people would, studying you. “It’s been like that all day, you know,” she says casually. “She’s drowning in charting and everyone wants a piece of her.”

You swallow, adjusting the edge of a label until it aligns perfectly.

“She didn’t mean you specifically,” Dana continues.

“I know.”

And you do. You know. But that doesn’t stop the hurt that’s settled in your heart.

Dana shifts her weight, nudging a tray closed with her hip.

“Try to give her a little grace today,” she murmurs. “She’s having a hard one.”

You nod because Dana is rarely wrong. 

You’ve watched Trinity work herself to exhaustion before, many times. You know the stiffness in her shoulders, the way she forgets to eat, or drink, or sit up straight, the refusal to step away even when she’s running on fumes.

“I know,” you repeat.

Dana studies you for another second before reaching out and patting your arm. Then she turns back to her inventory.

“Go save the world,” she says.

You almost smile. 

The department pulls you back into motion before you can linger in your hurt feelings.

North-5 needs discharge instructions, Room 3 needs a blanket warmed. Joy flags you for a redraw, and Ogilvie nearly drops a specimen cup and you catch it before it hits the floor.

The rhythm continues, and you continue with it.

Across the department, Trinity remains at the computer, fielding questions, signing orders, answering patients. Once, she laughs dryly at something Dr. King says, the sound frayed at the edges in a way that suggests she just wants to be left alone but she’s being polite.

You don’t go to her.

When North-12’s family asks for an update, you route the request through Langdon instead. When respiratory needs confirmation, you send the message through the system. When a clarification is needed, you consult McKay.

Each decision is reasonable, efficient, and totally appropriate.

And each one creates a little more distance as your feelings are hurt more and more.

⟡ ───────── ⟡ ───────── ⟡

Trinity watches you from across the department. She knows it was out of line, yelling at you like that, letting her frustration leak out onto the one person she’d never want to hurt. She didn’t mean for her anger to land on you.

It wasn’t even you she was mad at. It was Dr. Al-Hashimi, for threatening to make her repeat her R2 year if she didn’t catch up on her charts by the end of her shift. Every page, every note, every alert feels like it might decide her fate. She was drowning, and you, unknowingly, had walked right into the water with her.

She swallows the guilt that’s thick in her throat. She’ll make it up to you later.

Somehow.

By late morning, Trinity sneaks off to the coffee machine again, desperate for more energy. Her hands shake as she pours the drink, her own too bitter, but she adds sugar and cream to yours the way she knows you like. Carefully, she sets it on your station in front of you.

She watches, half-expecting a grateful smile like normal.

You don’t look up, or say anything. The coffee sits, untouched, exactly where she’d left it, until a janitor clears the counter several hours later.

Later, while slipping into the bathroom to wash her hands, she texts you about dinner.

dinner at that restaurant up the street tonight?

my treat

Huckleberry’s working a double tonight.

She watches as the Delivered notification changes to Read. Then…nothing. No typing bubble, no reaction. You’ve seen it. You’ve ignored it.

Her stomach twists.

By the afternoon, she has no choice but to approach you about a patient. You’re going over charts, clipboard in hand, and she slides up beside you.

“Hey, you said earlier that Room 8’s vitals -” she begins.

You cut her off, your tone clipped and flat. 

“Already took care of it, Dr. Santos,” you say without looking at her, your fingers tapping notes into the screen in front of you. 

Time freezes for her.

That’s when she realizes: you’re mad.

You’re not tired, you’re not distracted, you’re mad. At her. You never get mad at her, you’re like the sweetest, most mild-tempered person she’s ever met, it’s why your relationship works so well, you balance her out. 

She backs away from your station, watching you with a strange look on her face. This is unfamiliar territory for Trinity.

You don’t even look up.

The rest of the shift passes in a blur of charts, vitals, and emergencies. You move from patient to patient, alert and competent, but there’s a permanent-looking frown on your face that wasn’t there this morning.

Trinity notices, of course, she always notices you, and it eats at her every time she catches you intentionally avoiding her gaze, the way you’re keeping your distance from her.

She tries again and again, bringing you back the special pen she always “borrows” from you because it’s better than the shitty department ballpoint ones, even going so far as to try and consult with you about a lab update in person. But every effort is met with the same wall of polite and professional detachment. 

Dana gives her one of those looks over your shoulder, knowing in a motherly way, but Trinity can’t bring herself to explain. She can’t admit how badly she screwed up. All she knows is the slow, sinking realization that your feelings are hurt and it’s all her fault.

Finally, the shift ends. Patients are signed out, supplies restocked. You grab your bag and head out towards the hospital parking lot. Trinity follows, hunched under the weight of her own backpack.

You reach your car first, keys already in hand, doors unlocked. You slide inside, already settled behind the wheel, waiting to take her home.

Trinity catches up, pausing once she’s in the passenger seat. Her brow furrows and she sighs heavily.

“Hey…” she begins.

You don’t look at her. You don’t speak, your hands remain on the wheel, fingers flexing around the rim as the car warms up. 

She scoffs, incredulous. “You’re really not going to talk to me?”

You remain silent as you pull out of the lot.

“Look,” she says, her voice rattling and a little less confident now. “I - look, I’m sorry about earlier. I didn’t mean to talk to you like that, I’ve just been frustrated and it’s been a really busy day for me.”

It’s an excuse.

It was a really busy day for everyone.

Still nothing from you, your eyes focused on the road, your mouth set in a straight line.

You look pissed.

You make it home in record time, eager to be out of the car. You unlock the apartment door and step inside, shrugging off your coat and hanging it next to the door. Trinity follows behind, her expression unreadable. She lingers at the threshold for a moment as if she’s expecting you to speak, but the silence stretches between you.

In the kitchen, you start dinner. Chopping, stirring, plating. The apartment smells like garlic and the roasted vegetables you’d gotten from a grocery delivery the other day, and at one point you’re pretty sure you hear Trinity’s stomach growl, but it doesn’t ease the tension in the air.

When plates are ready, you set hers down in front of her, serving her the way you always do. Silverware aligned, napkins folded in front of you both. You take your own plate and slide into the chair across from her at the table and begin eating.

She picks up her fork and looks at you expectantly, waiting a moment before setting it down again.

Nothing.

The clock ticks loudly somewhere in the apartment, the only sound other than the scraping of your silverware against the plate.

Trinity opens her mouth to speak, and even takes a breath to start, then stops, blinking at you.

You don’t even look up at her. You take another bite, chew, and swallow, then repeat. 

Her chest aches and her apologies feel inadequate. She knew she hurt your feelings, but she didn’t realize it was this big of a deal. The silence between you two is a presence, heavy and judging, and she hates it.

After dinner, you dump your plate in the sink and head for the couch. You sink into it, phone in hand, scrolling absently through messages, or social media, or literally anything that will keep you distracted. Your body slouches low, heavy with exhaustion, both the physical and mental kind.

Trinity clears her own plate quietly before coming to join you. She pauses at the edge of the couch before carefully sitting beside you, one leg bent up underneath her, her whole body turned to face you.

You don’t look up at her, but even though your eyes are on your phone, your thumb has stopped scrolling. You might not look like it, but she does have your attention. 

She shifts closer to you, hands in her lap.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, leaning into press a kiss to the side of your face, just beside your ear. Her lips linger, a whisper of warmth, an apology she can’t quite articulate. 

Then she sees it.

You glance at her out of the corner of your eye.

Still, you say nothing.

You didn’t pull away when she kissed you, so she reaches for your waist, wrapping her arms around your middle and pulling herself closer as she kisses the side of your face again - closer to your jaw this time.

“So sorry,” she mutters, kissing down to the top of your neck beneath your ear.

Even without the physical response she usually draws from you, she focuses on the spot under your ear and just a little further back - the one that she knows always causes a shiver to run up your spine.

“I miss you,” Trinity mumbles against your skin. “I’ve missed you all day, I’m so sorry.” She kisses your neck between words. “Let me fix this, yeah?”

Your phone still sits in your hands but it no longer holds your attention. It hangs loosely from your fingertips, threatening to fall as your eyes close, too focused on the feeling of your girlfriend’s lips against your neck to really care. 

Her body leans fully against yours, her hands on your waist gently urging you sideways onto the couch. You let her guide you, your mouth still stubbornly shut, but it’s a win to Trinity all the same. She takes the phone from your hand and sets it on the coffee table before climbing over you, hovering as her knees bracket your thighs. Then she sits back on her heels and ties her hair up and out of the way.  

Once she’s satisfied that it won’t get in the way, she bends down to kiss you - but you jerk away far enough that she can’t reach your mouth.

You’re still upset.

You’ve never truly been upset with her before, the two of you almost never fight. 

“Guess I’ll have to earn that, huh?” she huffs, a small, breathy laugh leaving her.

You stare up at her with raised eyebrows, challenging her to try.

Trinity shuffles down your legs until she can part them, which she does with ease, receiving no resistance from you. She makes quick work of the tie of your scrub pants before pulling them down and tossing them somewhere onto the floor behind her. 

She settles between your legs, placing soft kisses over your bare thighs. 

“I fucked up,” she says quietly. “I know better than to talk to you like that.”

Her lips reach the edge of your panties. She runs her tongue along the elastic, and your hips tilt involuntarily toward her mouth. She hides her smirk, knowing that even when you’re stubborn, she still has you. She licks up your slit with a broad, flat tongue over the fabric, and your head falls back against the couch. 

You are not a quiet lover. Trinity loves how loud you can get; you’re her favorite sound, especially when your roommate isn’t home. So when the only sounds escaping you are sighs and gasps and even those are stifled, she knows that you’re holding back on purpose because you still haven’t forgiven her.

Impatient, she sits back on her knees once again and hooks her thumbs into your underwear, sliding them down, a satisfied little smirk on her face as a string of wetness clings to them as they peel away. She watches as your thighs twitch, resisting the urge to close.

“Looks like you’re enjoying the apology,” she whispers, her nose wrinkling just a little as she smiles. “Fuck, baby, you’re ready.” 

She trails her fingers up your slit, collecting the slick that’s gathered, the pressure of them increasing just a little when she reaches your clit.

When she looks up, you’re watching through half-lidded eyes, your lips parted and breath shallow. She settles in, arms sliding beneath your thighs to hold you open to her.

She spares one more glance up at you. Your eyes lock and she pauses, waiting.

For permission.

That’s how you know this is an apology. Aside from the beginning of your relationship when you didn’t know each other that well, Trinity rarely ever asks for permission. She knows you like the back of her hand, she knows what you’ll say, what you’ll want. She knows she doesn’t have to ask permission, but she is.

Your hand, which had been laying limply at your side, reaches for her. Fingers wrapped around her ponytail tightly, you pull her face to your cunt.

Permission.

Her tongue darts out, sliding against your clit. She groans into you, her own eyes rolling back at your taste, her grip tightening around your thighs like she’s afraid you’ll run from it.  

“Ah!” the involuntary whimper echoes through the living room and you clasp your hand over your mouth.

Too late.

The sound spurs Trinity on and she untangles one arm from underneath you, reaching up to blindly smack your hand away from your face. When she’s satisfied that you’re not going to try and muffle your sounds again, she uses that same hand to shove up your scrub top and the long-sleeve you wore under it, followed by your bra, exposing your breasts. 

Your stubbornness waivers as she rolls a nipple between her fingers. Cries begin to fall freely from your lips as she refuses to let up on your clit. Her mouth seals around it and her cheeks hollow, pulling a particularly broken moan from you.

Your grip tightens in her hair, trying to pull her closer as your hips rock against her face, demanding more.

Her other hand slips free, sliding under her chin so her fingers can prod at your entrance. You wiggle, trying to grind down onto them. You can feel the smirk on her face as she slips two into you easily, immediately curling against that spot inside you that she knows by heart.

The one that causes you to throw your head back, a guttural moan torn from your throat as you’re shoved over the edge of your orgasm so suddenly it makes your head spin. Trinity’s fingers don’t let up, fucking you through it until you’re shoving her away. 

She’s off you in a second, practically jumping to her feet and disappearing into the kitchen. She returns shortly with a water bottle, tossing it onto the couch beside you.

“Drink that,” she says, still a little breathless. “I’m not done apologizing yet.” With that, she disappears into the bedroom.

You’ve barely taken a couple of sips of the water before she returns, her own scrubs discarded, clad in only her sports bra and the familiar harness around her hips. Hanging from the ring is your favorite of all the toys you own: the dark blue one with the curve that hits you just right when you’re on your back or riding her.

Trinity knows it.

“Get your ass in there,” she demands, jerking her head toward the bedroom behind her. 

You scramble to stand, flustered as you pass by her just in time to earn a stern smack on your ass. 

“On your back,” she says once you reach the bed. 

She reaches for you and for a moment you think she’ll pull you closer, but instead she’s pushing you gently onto your back, hand on your sternum guiding you down until you lay exactly where she wants you.

Climbing over you, Trinity bends your knees, sliding her own under your thighs to angle you up toward her cock. You’re still soaked from your orgasm, a fact she doesn’t let you forget as her thumb massages over your clit while the tip of the strap nudges at your entrance. 

You huff as she stays there, dragging it up and down your slit but not pushing inside you yet.

“C’mon, quit teasing me.”

Trinity pauses. It’s the first thing you’ve actually said to her. Her eyes flit up to your face, noting the impatient look you now sport. The corners of her mouth lift.

“Yes ma’am,” she mock salutes as she slowly pushes into you.

The stretch is intense, the strap bigger than her fingers but also managing to nudge that same spot over and over as she begins to thrust in and out of you at an annoyingly slow pace. It’s good, it feels good, but it’s not enough, not to get you off. 

You wiggle, trying to meet her thrusts, but her hands pin your hips in place. 

“Take what I give you,” she mutters, her eyes trained on the blue silicone sliding in and out of you.

You glare at her, propping yourself up on your elbows. “I thought this was supposed to be my apology?”

Again, her gaze lifts and she catches your eyes, amused. 

“It’s actually my apology to you, babe,” she says, her thrusts slowing further. 

You know what she wants from you, what would get her to do what you want. But she’s being a brat, and you know rewarding this behavior will have you paying for it later. But the need, the desire burning inside you is overriding the thought. You don’t care, you just want her to move.

“Please, Trin,” you plead, your head tipping to one shoulder. 

Her hips stutter and her lips part even as her throat goes dry.

You don’t stop there. “Please, please fuck me, Trin,” you start to babble, tears of frustration pricking at your waterline. “I need it, please -”

That does it. 

Trinity’s fingers dig into your thighs hard enough to bruise as she hoists them up to her shoulders. She lifts on her knees so she’s towering over you as she begins to drill into you at a punishing speed.

The switch up has you crying out so loud you’ll receive an angry note on your apartment door the next morning, alternating between unintelligible sounds and Trinity’s name on repeat.

“T-Trin, too much, s’too much…”

She chuckles above you, the sound airy and breathless from exertion. “It’s not too much, baby. This is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

You try so hard to not focus on Trinity’s words, making a conscious effort to stop yourself from cumming so fast, but her thumb resumes its circles over your clit and you’re lost to it.

So close.

“Go on, baby,” Trinity goads, leaning further over you, the new angle of her body doing nothing to slow the movement of her hips. “Accept my apology, c’mon, cum on my strap.”

Those words do you in, the white hot fire consuming you from the inside out as your walls spasm around the silicone, your entire body seizing up from the pleasure. But Trinity doesn’t stop her thrusts even as your body goes limp under her, and you whine as overstimulation begins to creep in. 

“Trin – Trin, stop, I already came,” you protest weakly.

She doesn’t stop her bruising pace or the swiping of her thumb at your clit, even as sweat causes her hair to stick to her forehead. 

“You’ve got another one in there,” she pants. “I know you do.”

She’s not wrong. Almost immediately the pressure is building inside of you, but you know the difference between an orgasm and what she’s trying to do to you.

“I – I can’t, Trin, you have to -” You’re cut off with a loud moan as the hand that hasn’t busied itself with your clit begins to press down on your lower abdomen, right where her cock lands inside you every time her hips meet yours. 

Your wails jump an octave as she wrings your third orgasm out of you, bullying your cervix with every thrust. Your whole body convulses as she drags you over the peak, her pace never faltering, almost animalistic in nature.

Your cunt gushes around the strap, soaking not only yourself, but Trinity’s lower abdomen and thighs as well. 

“Holy fuck, babe,” Trinity groans, her mouth agape at the sight, at the absolute filth of a mess you’ve created all over both of you. Her hips falter and slow until you’ve stopped shaking, before she slowly withdraws from inside you.

You throw an arm over your eyes. 

You’re going to have to wash the sheets. 

And shower. 

The bedroom is quiet except for your uneven breathing and the creak of the mattress as Trinity stands to unhook the harness and set it aside.

You don’t move, your forearm still draped over your eyes, your body boneless against the sheets.

A warm hand slides over your stomach.

“Hey,” Trinity murmurs from somewhere above you. “C’mon, let’s get cleaned up.”

You groan but don’t resist when she slips an arm beneath your shoulders and pulls you to the side of the bed. Your cheek presses against her shoulder as you stand, smelling like sweat and the coconut deodorant she always wears.

She guides you to the bathroom, nudging the door shut with her hip before letting go of you to turn the water on. She tests it with her wrist until steam begins to curl into the air, and then she nudges you in, following after you.

Warm water cascades over both of you, rinsing sweat and salt and the evidence of everything that just happened down the drain. Your muscles loosen under the heat.

Her palm glides down your spine in long, soothing passes.

“I never should’ve snapped at you.”

It’s said so quietly you almost don’t hear it over the sound of the shower.

“No matter how frustrated I was, taking it out on you wasn’t right.”

Water beads along your skin as her arms slide around your waist, holding you from behind. 

“It wasn’t about you,” she continues softly. “Al-Hashimi’s been on my ass this week, threatening to make me repeat my R2 year, and I’ve been drowning in charting and trying to prove that I deserve to be here…but that doesn’t excuse it.”

Her grip on you tightens a little. “I’m really, really sorry.”

You tilt your head back just enough that it rests against her. 

“Still mad at me?”

You’re quiet just long enough to make her shift nervously behind you.

Then you sigh, sinking back into her chest. “…I’m considering forgiving you.”

A little laugh bursts out of her as she presses her face into your wet shoulder. Her lips brush the back of your neck softly. 

Your arms bend, reaching backward to hold her body against yours and you turn your head to kiss her.

“You’re forgiven.”

⟡ ───────── ⟡ ───────── ⟡

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You still remember the first day you met Trinity Santos. It was on the Fourth of July, so it was extra memorable.

When you came to PTMC, you were a third year med student. Despite your bubbly personality, you were so nervous. Your nerves settled, however, when you found out Joy Kwon, who you went to med school with, was on the same rotation as you.

"So what are your thoughts so far?" Joy mutters under her breath to you.

"I like it, everyone seems nice."

"Even Ogilvie?"

You shrug. "He's kind of annoying at times, but he's fine."

"Damn, there's really nothing that gets under your skin."

"Sure there is", you say as you prop your forearms on the counter of the nurses' station in front of you. "Aside from the obvious like abusers or bigots, people who talk over others, people don't have good hygiene, people who chew loudly or with their mouth open, people who don’t use turn signals, people who hate avocados—"

"Amen to that", someone cuts in. You look to your left and see a girl about your age enter the nurses' station. She sits at the desk opposite of the counter you're leaning against and looks up at you. "Add liars to that list too."

Somewhat in shock, you look down at her, expecting her to introduce herself. But she just looks at you confused.

"What?"

"Oh, sorry, we just haven't met before." You give the girl your name, and tell her that you're a third year med student and today's your first day.

"I figured. You have this sparkle in your eyes, and a smile that won't go away", she tells you, her tone sarcastic. "The longer you're here, the most depressing this place gets."

"Trust me, nothing's going to bring her down", Joy chimes in from beside you. "This is just who she is."

You look at Joy, an amused smile tugging at the corner of your lips. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

"It's not at all, I'm just jealous of how happy you are all the time. You have this… constant chipperness."

"You mean my natural charm and beautiful smile?" You say, flashing your pearly whites.

The girl who still hasn't given you her names scoffs, so you look back to her to find her staring at you. "Are you really this sunny 24/7?"

"Are you really this grouchy 24/7?"

"Pretty much", she says with an exhausted sigh despite it not even being noon yet.

"You still haven't given me your name", you tell her.

She grabs her name tag that's dangling from her scrub top pocket, tugging it slightly forward to emphazie it. "I presume you know how to read."

You lean a little closer and read the name Trinity Santos. She's a doctor. You can't help but notice how cute she looks in her ID picture despite having a straight, grumpy face.

"Well, nice to meet you Dr. Trinity Santos."

"Likewise", Trinity replies, not looking up at you, instead sorting through paperwork.

You point to one of her tattoos that's showing, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows. "I like your tattoo."

Trinity glances at you to see you pointing at her arm. She looks down, and then back up to you. "The tiger? Thanks."

For a brief second, you could've sworn you saw a hint of a smile trying to surface and replace the frown on her face.

"I've always loved tigers. They represent bravery and strength."

Trinity continues to stare at you, her expression unamused. "Yup."

You push off the counter. "Okay then... see you later Dr. Santos."

"Goodbye, sunshine."

As you turn around, a smile spreads across your face. You walk away, Joy at your side.

"Sunshine? Your first day and you've already gotten a nickname."

"I guess so." The faintest blush creeps up on your cheeks. "Sunshine", you affirm.

After a month of working in the Emergency Department of PTMC, you've fallen into a groove, and the once unfamiliar rhythm of the department now feels almost natural. While you wouldn't classify any of your coworkers as friend friends, you do have a handful of work friends.

Aside from Joy, you work well with Samira Mohan, and you see yourself in her in a lot of ways. Victoria Javadi is someone else who you consider a work friend. You even send each other TikToks off the clock. Mel King, a third year resident, is another person you've come to admire as not just a friend, but as a person.

Then there's Trinity Santos. You're sure she would not consider you guys friends — you're not even sure if you do — but she has opened up to you. Just a little bit.

Trinity seems to like working with you, even if she won't confess it or outright show it. You learned that she took in Dennis Whitaker because he didn't have a place to stay which warmed your heart. A week ago she told you about the situationship she's in with a hardass surgeon, Yolanda Garcia.

Based on what Trinity told you, it appears that she's falling for Garcia, more than she'd like to admit. However, the deal between them is strictly casual, and Garcia has made that evidently clear. Even though Trinity didn't ask for your advice, you gave it to her anyways. Speaking from personal experience, you advised her to get out now because it'll only hurt more down the line.

Yesterday, Trinity told you that she finally ended their arrangement. You asked her if there was anything she needs, but she said no. Trinity is hard to read at times, but you could tell she was hurting more than she let on. She's been in a worse mood than usual since she stopped seeing Garcia.

"Hey, Whitaker", you say as you jog up to his side, walking with him.

"Oh, hi."

"I have two Crumbl Cookies that I want to give to Santos, you can have one of them. I was wondering if you would be willing to give them to her? Sorry if that's weird, I know we don't really know each other very well, I actually don't even know Santos that well, but I just thought she'd appreciate it."

"That's so nice of you, of course."

"Great", you say with a smile.

"Can I ask why you don't give it to Trinity yourself?"

"I know I have this natural pep, and I don't want to annoy her." Your voice lowers, "Especially today after you know."

Confused, Whitaker looks at you. "Wait you know about her and Garcia?"

"Yeah, she told me. I thought most of you guys knew."

"As far as I'm aware, I'm the only person who she told besides you. I think some other people might know, but it's not because Trinity told them."

"Oh", you say, blinking a few times. "Um, well, I didn't tell anyone."

Whitaker shakes his head, a fond smile growing on his face. "No, it's okay, I'm just surprised she told you, that's all."

"At the end of our shift can I give the cookies to you?"

"Yeah, yeah, that works", Whitaker replies as he comes to a stop at the nurses' station. "Do you want me to tell her it's from you?"

"You don't have to. If you want, you can take the credit", you say with a small chuckle.

"Wow, thanks. I know she'll appreciate it, she definitely has a sweet tooth."

You nod, a smile still painted on your face. "You're welcome."

Then, you walk away to attend to one of your patients you picked up with Mel. It takes less than 10 minutes to follow up with him, all you had to do was go over blood test results, so now you're leaving to check on another patient.

As you open the curtain and take a step out, you ram into someone. "Sorry", you mumble. When you look up you see Trinity.

She inhales deeply before exhaling, her shoulders still tight. "It's okay." Trinity looks at you for a beat, and then continues the path she was on.

You hesitate for a moment before joining her, your steps in sync with hers. "Are you okay?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" Trinity replies fast and sharp.

"Sorry, just checking. I know ending something casual when you have feelings and the other person doesn't is hard." You take a breath before continuing your rambling. "And I know you're not me, but I've been through it, and it was hell. I had a crush on this girl long before we started hooking up, and I confessed my feelings a few months later, and she told me she still wants casual and doesn't think of me how I think of her. It was..." you huff out a laugh, "heartbreaking."

All of a sudden, Trinity comes to a stop in front of pedes. You stop as well and turn your body to face hers. "Thanks", she mutters. She then rambles at the same pace as you just now. "I'm trying not to think about it, but yeah, it fucking hurts. I mean Garcia has seen so much of me that no one else has, and not only does she not want to be in a relationship, I don't think she cares about me at all. I've told her a lot of shit, I've shown her a lot of shit, and she just..." Trinity scoffs out an irritated sigh. "Doesn't care."

You nod, taking in everything Trinity just shared with you. "I'm sorry, you deserve better." You spot doubt and a little bit of insecurity in her eyes as she's likely assuming you're just taking pity on her. "I mean it, Santos."

"Thank you", she tells you with a hint of vulnerability in her voice. Trinity crosses her arms and takes a steady breath, centering herself. "So, sunshine", Trinity starts, her tone now teasing, and her mouth twitching into a smirk, "you know what a lesbian situationship is like, huh?"

With a laugh, you shake your head. "Oh, trust me, I do."

Trinity laughs too, and you realize it's maybe the third or fourth time you've heard the sound of it since you've known her. For a few moments you just look at each other, awkward tension brewing in the air around you two.

"Do you want to come over and watch a movie tomorrow with me and Huckleberry?" Trinity suddenly blurts.

Taken by surprise, your eyes widen, and you stare at her. Never in a million years did you think Trinity liked you, let alone enough to invite you to hang out outside of work.

"Sorry, you don't have to", Trinity begins, shoving her hands in her pockets. "Just forget—"

"Yeah, I'd love to you." You smile warmly, hoping to reassure her.

"Oh, okay, cool. I have your number from the work group chat, so I'll shoot you a text about it later. Huckleberry is playing house farmer's boy edition tonight, so it would just be us if we did it today."

You nod, unsure if Trinity is mentioning that because she wants Whitaker there for the hangout, she wants it to be just the two of you and she's giving you an in, or simply to explain why she picked tomorrow. If Trinity wanted to hang out with only you, she would've asked you to come over today… right?

"Anyways, I'm gonna go", Trinity says, her hands raising to grip the ends of the stethoscope around her neck. "See ya, sunshine."

"Bye", you murmur, still in shock.

Hm, maybe Trinity Santos liked you more than you thought.

You had just finished changing out of your scrubs, now dressed in a pair of grey sweatpants and a tank top. You sling your bag over your shoulder and lean against your locker, waiting for Trinity and Dennis.

A couple minutes go by, and they enter the locker room. You hear footsteps, but your eyes are glued to your phone.

"Yo", Trinity calls out.

You look up and see them. You greet them with a smile and slide your phone into one of your sweatpants' side pockets.

"Are you meeting us at our place?" Dennis asks you.

"Yeah."

"Cool. Do you have our address?"

"Yes", Trinity cuts in, her voice dramatic and sarcastic. "I obviously sent it to her."

"Obviously", you hear Dennis mumble mockingly. You press your lips together in an attempt to hold back a laugh, although, a smile still surfaces.

"We'll walk you to your car", Trinity tells you as she grabs her stuff out of her locker.

You lead the way, Trinity on your right, and Dennis on hers. No one is talking, and the quietness is kind of awkward.

"So a movie is your idea of a good Friday night, huh?" You ask Trinity, breaking the silence with a teasing smirk.

"Sunshine, don’t think I'm boring. I go out. I bar hop. I club."

"I go out like that on occasion, but it's not really my scene."

Trinity nudges your shoulder with hers. "That's because you haven't gone with me."

You look down at the ground and smile before looking back up and speaking. "Who do you usually go with?"

"I've dragged Dennis along a few times, once with Crash, but I usually go with a couple of my friends. Ever since I started med school, we've drifted apart and now with me working as a doctor, we have even less time for each other. When we go out, that's when we catch up. In between drinks and dancing." Trinity says that last sentence with a bitterness in her voice.

"I'm her only friend", Whitaker chimes in, his tone laced with humor.

"Shut the fuck up", Trinity says through a chuckle. "They're still my friends, they just don't know that much about me anymore."

"But Whitaker does", you say somewhat as a question, but more so as a confirmation.

"Dennis", he tells you, "but yes."

Trinity scoffs, and you catch a small smile on her face. Her smile makes you smile.

You point ahead at the car two spaces away from where you guys are currently at. "This is my car."

"It's blue", Trinity points out.

"Yes, it is. You're very observant", you joke.

Trinity rolls her eyes playfully. "Uh, huh."

Her and Dennis come to a stop behind your car as you walk over to the driver's side. You pull out your keys and unlock it.

"Thanks for walking me", you tell them.

"Of course", Trinity and Dennis say at the same time. They then turn to each other, something akin to disgust and offendedness on their faces. You giggle, finding it cute.

You open the driver's side door. "Okay, I'll see you again in like 15 minutes." You give a quick wave, and then get into your car.

After you set your bag on the passenger seat, you program Trinity and Dennis's address into your GPS. On the drive over you listen to a soft rock playlist.

Once you arrive, you wait outside the apartment complex for Trinity and Dennis to come and show you to their apartment. You're only waiting for a minute before they get here.

The walk over to their unit is filled with sibling-like bickery between Trinity and Dennis. Something about Trinity leaving her laundry in the dryer, and Dennis eating all the Lucky Charms. A chuckle escapes you every now and then upon hearing some of their comments and complaints.

Once you reach their apartment, Trinity unlocks it and steps inside. The duo gives you a mini tour, pointing out the kitchen, living room, and bathroom. They tell you to make yourself at home while they change.

Dennis comes back from his room not even two minutes later. He's wearing sweatpants like you along with a blue t-shirt that has a vintage style print of a state, you think it's Nebraska. You're on the couch, and he joins you, sitting on the opposite end.

"Do you want something to eat?"

Truth be told, you are hungry, but you don't want to impose. Instead, you just shrug. "Eh, I'm okay."

Dennis examines your expression for a few seconds before standing up. "We have some leftover lasagna I'm gonna heat up. I made it a couple days ago. Can I get you a plate?"

"Yeah, that would be good, thank you."

He nods and heads to the kitchen. You watch from the couch as he scoops servings for you and him. He also grabs a third plate, you assume for Trinity.

After Dennis heats it up, he brings you your plate and sets his own on the coffee table. He then goes back into the kitchen to grab the third plate. On his way back over to the living room, Trinity comes out.

"So what movie are we going to watch?"

You turn to her. Trinity's now wearing a pair of baggy boxers and a white tank top. You don't even realize how intense you're staring, but then Trinity makes eye contact with you. Immediately, you look away.

"I'm okay with anything", you say.

As Trinity and Dennis's paths cross, he hands her the plate of lasagna that’s in his hand. "What about Happy Gilmore? It's a lighthearted film", Dennis suggests.

"God, you have such bad taste. I forgot how much I still need to teach you", Trinity says with a small chuckle as she sits on the sofa. Dennis sits in the same corner he was previously at.

"Hey, I teach you things too. You really love my farmer's casserole."

"Don't flatter yourself, I like any casserole."

As the two settle in, you take a bite of the lasagna. "This is pretty good", you say after you finish chewing. "I didn't realize you cooked."

Dennis chuckles, almost embarrassed. "I don't really. Just a few family recipes."

"And they're all bomb as fuck", Trinity compliments even though she just made a jab about Dennis's home cooked meals a second ago.

You notice how she's sitting, her back against the cushion and her legs spread. Dennis leans against the arm of the couch and stretches his legs onto her lap.

"But seriously, what are we going to watch?" Trinity asks again.

"A musical?" Dennis answers, providing another suggestion.

"Aww, musicals are so cute", you say.

"Trinity loves them."

"Shut up, dumbass", Trinity tells Dennis, lightly smacking one of his ankles.

Dennis looks at you and lowers his voice despite Trinity being in the middle of you two. "She's embarrassed."

"This is shocking news", you giggle. "I would've never guessed."

"And that's why she's embarrassed."

"Fucking close your mouth", Trinity mutters, although there’s no real bite behind it.

You raise your eyebrows at Trinity, a grin still plastered across your face. "What's your favorite musical?"

She looks away from you and glances down at the plate in her hands, scooping a bite of food. "Hades Town", Trinity admits in a quiet grumble.

"I saw that on Broadway when I was 21."

You can see Trinity's face light up. She finishes her bite before responding to you. "Lucky."

"It was really good."

"How about Grease?" Dennis cuts in.

"Oh, I love Grease", you beam.

"Okay, yeah, let's do Grease", Trinity says.

But neither Trinity or Dennis move except to eat. After 10 seconds, Trinity turns to Dennis, an annoyed look on her face.

"What?" Dennis asks her, sass in his voice.

"Aren't you going to start the movie?"

He rolls his eyes and sets his plate down on the coffee table. He grabs the remote, finds the movie, and starts it. Then he puts the remote on the coffee table and swaps it out for his plate.

You're enjoying watching a movie with them. Occasionally you'll glance over at Trinity and see her mouthing the lyrics, probably completely unaware that she's doing that. She'll make some witty comment every so often, and surprisingly Dennis even does once or twice.

Right after There Are Worse Things I Could Do, a song you learned is one of Trinity's favorites from Grease, Dennis gets a phone call. He excuses himself and goes to the kitchen. Trinity pauses the movie for him.

When he returns, he collects the dishes from the coffee table as he updates you and Trinity. "Amy's baby has a fever. His temp is barely 100°, but I'm going to go check to ease her mind and help out." He seems to be done talking, but then you see a flicker of realization cross his face as he glances at you. "Oh, Amy is this woman I help out. She lives on a farm", Dennis informs you.

"Cool."

"Damn, Huckleberry, that woman has got you whipped."

"Shut up", he says, annoyance in his voice but not any anger. "You better be nice while I'm gone." Dennis eyes Trinity, and then you, and then Trinity once more.

You've never seen this side of him before. It's… entertaining. The two of them together are endearing.

"I'm always nice", Trinity shouts as Dennis puts the dishes in the sink. "Just not with people who always eat my avocados!"

Dennis slides on his shoes and side eyes his roommate from the entryway, waving her off before leaving. After you hear the door shut, you look to Trinity, holding back a laugh.

"That was…"

"Annoying? Yeah, sorry. He can be a real fuckleberry sometimes."

"It was kind of cute."

Trinity's eyes snap to yours. "What do you mean cute?"

"Just, you know, seeing how you interact with one another, your relationship."

She crosses her arms, almost offended. "There's nothing cute about it."

"I beg to differ", you say in a sing song voice.

"How is us annoying each other cute? I hate living with him sometimes", Trinity tells you, slumping against the couch. You can see right through the wall of feigned toughness she’s trying to put up.

"Sometimes?" you tease.

"Whatever", Trinity replies, shrugging you off.

You laugh softly, and you see a small smile spread on Trinity’s face. Her eyes meet yours, and you hold each other’s gazes for a few seconds. Trinity looks away first.

"Thanks for the cookies."

"Cookies?" You look at Trinity, confusion written on your face before it clicks. "Oh, right. Dennis told you they were from me?"

"Yeah, was he not supposed to? Why would you not want the credit?"

"All I cared about was getting you the cookies, and I didn't want to overwhelm you or annoy you or anything."

"Oh. Um, well, thank you. That was nice."

"You're welcome."

"And you wouldn't have annoyed me."

"Oh", you say in surprise.

You're about to make a joke or sarcastic comment back like "could've fooled me" or "that's a plot twist", but you can hear the sincerity of her tone. So instead you just nod, not really sure what to say, but luckily for you, Trinity talks first.

"Ready to start the movie again?"

Your eyes linger on Trinity a longer than necessary before you turn your attention back to the TV. "Go ahead."

Ever since movie night at Trinity and Dennis's apartment, Trinity has been talking to you much more than before. You love to annoy her with your liveliness and smiles. You think she secretly loves it too.

Most people just assume you're cheerful all the time, but what they don't know is that you've battled your own demons. As a teenager, you developed depression which carried into adulthood. You've since seen a psychiatrist and now go to therapy, so it's much better managed.

But that's why you try to appreciate the little things, look on the bright side, and raise people's spirits — especially being in this line of work. Because you know what it's like to have dark days and how it feels when life isn't worth living. And so, your shine can never be dimmed.

"Did you hear about the patient that pissed on Whitaker earlier?" Joy asks you.

"Yeah, poor guy", you say with a pout.

"You have to admit it's a little funny."

"Maybe, but would you be laughing if it happened to you?"

"Yes", Joy replies instantly without even thinking about it. "Maybe not in the moment, but yes, it's funny."

You chuckle and shake your head. "It is kind of funny", you admit. Before you can say anything else, another voice pops in.

"Can I talk to you for a second?" You turn around and see Whitaker.

"Yes." You look back to Joy. She has a questioning look on her face, and you mouth "I don't know" before turning back to Whitaker. You walk with him around the corner. "What's up?"

"Just, uh..." Dennis shifts his weight nervously. He hesitates for a moment like he's not sure if he should be asking you this. "Has Trinity said anything to you today? Anything that might raise any red flags?"

"What? No. What do you mean by that? Is she okay?"

"She seems kind of down, but she won't talk to me. I know that she found out last night that Garcia is seeing someone else, so it might be about that. I don't want Trinity to do anything... self destructive."

You nod, taking in this information. "I've only spoken to her a couple times so far today, and it was all case related besides me telling her a little bit about a show I just started. She seemed a little off, but I didn't want to push her."

"That sounds about right. I'm surprised she wasn't short with you at all."

"Do you want me to talk to her?"

"Eh, it's really up to you. I don't think you'll get anywhere, but you never know."

"I'll catch her at some point."

"Thanks, I appreciate it."

With a comforting smile, you give Dennis a nod. Then, the two of you go back to work. You head to the nurses' station, and look up at the board to find a new patient. But out of the corner of your eye, you see Trinity.

You look to her, but her back is turned to you. She's in front of a suture cart opening a drawer. You take a grounding breath before walking over to her.

But before you get there, you see Trinity tuck a scalpel into her pocket. You watch as she walks away, never noticing you. In your gut you have a bad feeling, so you make the choice to follow her.

Trinity enters the bathroom, and you pause outside of the door, unsure if you should follow her in. But something is telling you to go after her.

When you enter, Trinity's not in view. You bend over slightly and see only one pair of shoes, ones you instantly recognize as Trinity's. Cautiously, you walk over to where she is, the second to last stall.

You stand outside of her stall in thought. On one hand, Trinity might need space, something you know she needs more than the average person. However, on the other hand, you know Trinity isn’t good at accepting help.

So you decide to help her.

"Trin?"

Silence.

"Trinity?"

"What?"

"Can I come in?"

"No", she scoffs.

You bend down, getting on all fours and crawl under the stall door. Once you’re all the way in, you sit on tile, your back against the door. Trinity’s sitting on the toilet but not using it.

"What the fuck", Trinity mutters under her breath. You see her tuck something behind her. "I could've been peeing."

"I knew you weren't, and you wouldn’t open the door", you say as you bend your knees to rest your forearms on them.

She glances down at her feet. "Because I didn’t want you in here."

"I know."

You sit there in silence for about 20 seconds, not wanting to pressure Trinity, but letting her know you’re here.

"Why are you even here?" Trinity asks, finally meeting your gaze.

"Because I want to make sure you’re okay."

"I am, I just…" she draws in a shaky breath, "I'm fine, just tired."

"Trinity."

She holds your stare, your eyes locked like it’s a contest. She’s the one who loses. "Really, I'm fine, I just needed a little break", Trinity tells you, rolling her eyes.

"Hey", you start, your voice softer. "What did you hide from me when I came in?"

"You mean when you broke in."

"When I crawled in technically."

A small chuckle escapes both of you, and then silence sets in again. The air feels still and heavy.

"Trin."

With a sigh, she grabs what she tucked away. "It’s just this", Trinity tells you, holding the scalpel up, but not saying the actual name of the object. "For a patient I was going to go to."

"What patient was that scalpel for?"

"Um… oh, there's a kid with an abscesses."

"What room?"

"I don't remember exactly, south 17?"

"South 17 is my patient."

"South 16 then. I told you, I don't remember."

"Can I have it?" You extend your hand out to her.

"Why?" Trinity asks, her voice trembling just slightly.

"Because…" you pause, trying to figure out the most delicate way of saying this. "Now I’m not sure if you were going to, but I don’t want you to hurt yourself."

Trinity’s eyes flash to yours for a second before looking back down at her shoes. Hesitantly and without looking at you, she hands you the packaged scalpel. You tuck it in your pocket, and then gently touch one of her knees.

"I'm just going to stay with you if that's okay."

She looks up to you, her eyes glossy, and then nods and looks back down. "Fine", she whispers.

You rub circles around her knee, your touch light and careful. The two of you sit like that for at least two minutes before she breaks the silence.

"How did you know?" Trinity asks, her voice small and her eyes filled with hurt and something else you can’t quite place.

Slowly, you stand up. You then grab the waistband of your pants and tug them down.

"What are you— I don't need a strip show."

"Just look", you tell her sternly.

When your pants are just above your knees, you leave them there and put your attention back onto Trinity. She’s looking at you, confusion sketched all over her face. As she looks down and examines you, she lets out a small chuckle.

You follow her gaze and realize Trinity is looking at your hip tattoo of a star that's peeking out of your underwear.

"Nice tattoo, but I don't get why you're showing me this."

"Not that."

Trinity glances up at your face again before looking back to your legs. She leans in closer, and that’s when she sees it.

Lines of faint yet small rough bumps that make up a cluster of scars on your upper thighs. Trinity's eyes widen slightly as she takes in the marks on your skin. You hear her suck in some air, almost like a gasp. After a few moments, you pull your scrub bottoms back up.

"That's why."

"I'm sorry", Trinity says, her voice barely above a whisper.

Trinity stands, her pants pulled down but her underwear still on. When she was sitting on the toilet before, she was leaning forward and you couldn’t see her thighs very well. But now you can, and you see scars just like yours.

Trinity waits just long enough so you can get a quick look before pulling her pants back up. "I haven’t, um..." Trinity swallows, almost like she's getting rid of a lump in her throat before continuing, "I haven’t in little over a month."

"That’s good", you tell her with a soft smile. "I know you may not want to, but you can always call me, okay?" You pause for a second. "So… can I ask what drove you to do this today? You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, Trin."

She crosses her arms and takes a deep breath. "Fucking Garcia."

"Garcia?"

"I know, it’s so stupid. I just found out she started fucking someone else, and it shouldn’t hurt me, but it does. Also, Whitaker has been spending so much more time at the farm, he’s barely home, and I just… I just have nobody."

"You have me", you reply immediately. "And Whitaker is there for you more than you know."

Trinity looks at you, for once with all her walls down, and nods. "Okay."

"I mean it. You're important Trinity. To patients, to the staff here, to Whitaker, to your friends, and to me."

Her breath catches in her throat for a moment.

"You don't have to if you don't want to, but I think it would be a good idea to talk to Whitaker. He's worried about you."

A half scoff, half laugh escapes Trinity, a small smile forming on her face. "He's so annoying", Trinity complains affectionately.

"Because he cares about you", you reply with a chuckle.

"Yeah, I know." Trinity's voice is soft — gentle even.

"Are you ready to get back to work or do you need more time?"

"I think I'm good."

"Are you sure? I can cover for you."

"No, no, really, I mean it."

You can see the genuineness in Trinity's eyes, her features seemingly lighter than when you first saw her. You give her a small, tender smile. "Okay." You turn around and unlock the stall door before turning back to Trinity. "After you."

It's been a little over a month since that day in the bathroom with Trinity. She ended up calling you once at midnight when you were about to go to bed. Instead of sleeping, you came right over to her place, and brought some of her favorite snacks.

Since then, Trinity's been doing better. She doesn't just say that she is — you can see a difference in her. While Trinity is still crabby at times, you've noticed that she smiles and laughs more. Last week Dennis even brought that up to you.

You were laughing at a joke Trinity told. Whitaker and Javadi were with you too. Trinity walked away to check on a patient, and that's when Whitaker turned to you.

"You know, she smiles more when she's around you."

"What?"

"It's true", Victoria chimes in.

You look between them, a smile still on your face, but now you have a puzzled look as well. "Trinity? Maybe I'm just naturally adorable."

Dennis lets out a little laugh, more so to himself. "You nailed it in one."

Skeptically, you raise your brows. "What does that mean?"

Victoria and Dennis exchange a look and chuckle. "Think about it", Victoria tells you before walking away.

"You'll figure it out", Dennis adds, a smirk on his face.

You stand there confused as ever for a few moments. Were they implying that Trinity thinks you're cute?

For the last week that's been on your mind. However, yesterday after work you went to pick up food and ran into your ex. So now you can't shake that interaction.

You ran into your ex-girlfriend last night when you were tragically looking exhausted and wearing smelly scrubs. You broke up because she cheated on you. It happened almost two years ago, and you haven't dated anyone since her. Her actions really screwed you up, so you've guarded your heart since.

It would be one thing to just see her, but she was with someone else. To see her unexpectedly and after a long shift really hurt. So far today you've been distracted, your mind dwelling on the past.

You and Joy are near the nurses' station, presenting a case to Robby. Joy has just finished debriefing him on a diabetic patient the two of you are treating.

"Labs?"

"Ordered", Joy replies to Robby.

"What did you include?"

"Glucose levels, CBC, and CMP."

Robby says your name, pulling you out of your thoughts. Your eyes flicked up to him. "Hm?"

"Anything else to add?"

"Oh, uh, nope. Joy's got it covered."

"You're talking a lot less than usual", Robby says with a small snicker.

You shrug and force a smile. "I've just had a long week."

Robby nods and decides not to press further. "What about an EKG?"

"Yup." Joy turns to you, expecting you to confirm.

"Oh, hm? I thought you ordered that", you tell Joy.

"No, I did the labs."

"Someone better order it", Robby says.

"Fuck", you mutter under your breath, anger in your voice. "I got it."

You don't mean to leave as dramatically as you do, but you end up storming away. As quick as you can, you order an EKG, feeling stupid for not having already done it. When you're finished, you head to the break room, in need of a short rest, even if it's just for a minute or two.

As you enter, you notice that no one else is in here. From the fridge you grab a bottled Starbucks frappuccino that Trinity gave you this morning. Then you walk over to the table and sit down, slumping in a chair and covering your face with your hands. "Fuck", you curse to yourself.

The sound of the door opening makes you sit up straighter and remove your hands from your face. You see Trinity, her expression has that meep face you've always found cute. She walks over to you, almost hesitant.

"You... okay?"

"Yeah, fine", you reply instantly, your voice flat.

Trinity nods and takes a seat in the chair across from you. "Are you sure? That wasn't like you back there with Robby and Joy."

You scoff, completely unaware that Trinity was even in the vicinity of you in that moment. You take a sip of coffee before replying. "I know I fucked up, you don't have to remind me."

"All you did was forget to put in an order for an EKG. It's barely a mistake", Trinity tells you, attempting to reassure you.

"I still forgot. I never forget." You sigh and rest an elbow on the table, putting your face in your hand.

"What's up with you?"

"Nothing", you bite out.

"Damn, you're starting to sound like me."

A hollow laugh leaves you and cuts through the air. "Am I not allowed to just be unhappy for a minute?"

Trinity's silent for a few seconds, not really sure what to say. Guilt creeps up on you during the suffocating quiet. With a sigh, you look at her.

"Sorry", you tell Trinity, your voice barely loud enough for her to hear.

"So are you going to tell me why you're acting like your grandma died?" Immediately, Trinity cringes. "Shit, that was a bad joke, we're in an emergency room for fuck's sake. Did someone actually die? Shit, I'm sorry."

Your lips curve upwards, just a tad. You know Trinity was just trying to make a funny comment, likely to make you smile, but her backtracking on her words is what really gets you.

"No one died", you say, your tone a little softer and a little lighter.

"Oh, okay, good."

You draw in a shaky breath and clasp your hands together, fidgeting with your fingers. "I ran into an ex yesterday. She cheated on me, and it ended really badly, and it was just a terrible time in my life."

"Shit. I'm sorry, Sunshine."

Hearing the nickname Trinity gave you makes your mouth quirk up into a small smile. You don't even realize that you're even blushing a little bit.

"Hey, there's my Sunshine", Trinity tells you, a smile of her own crossing her face.

You chuckle and meet her gaze. There's something soft in her expression, something you've seen a few times before but haven't been able to pinpoint what it is. Affection? Nervousness? Care? Shyness? Possibly even… love?

"C'mon." Trinity stands up and extends a hand to you. You look up to her and take it, a sly smirk on your face.

You're surprised by how hard Trinity actually yanks you up. She pulls you with such strength that once you're standing, you stumble closer to her. Your eyes meet Trinity's, her hand still on yours.

Whatever you see in Trinity's eyes deepens, and suddenly she's pressing her lips against yours. You're taken by surprise, your body going still for a brief second, but after the initial shock, you kiss her back.

Trinity tastes like cherry chapstick, and her lips are soft and tender. You close your eyes, your mind going blank.

But Trinity pulls back and drops your hand. You feel her body tense as she does so up until there's no more contact.

"Oh, fuck. I-I, fuck, I'm sorry", Trinity stammers.

Your brows pull together, trying to figure out what Trinity's thinking right now. You can see a measure of anxiety scrawled all over her expression. Trinity looks away and fidgets with the hem of her top.

"I'm so fucking sorry. Just—"

Before she can finish, your hands find her cheeks. You look at her for a few seconds, communicating more than you ever could with words through your eyes. Then, you lean in and kiss her.

The kiss starts off soft and slow, like how it was when Trinity first pulled you in. However, this time, it deepens. You feel Trinity's arms wrap around your waist, bringing you closer to her body. Your hands leave her face and trail to the back of her neck, pushing her face further to yours.

After 20 seconds or so, you break the kiss. You kiss Trinity's cheek before resting your forehead on hers. Trinity stares deep into your eyes, taking in every detail of you. She then leans forward, her lips barely brushing yours.

When Trinity pulls back, your arms are still around her neck and her hands are on your hips. You're so smiling and so is she.

"You should smile more", you tease.

"But I love to frown", Trinity replies with a playful pout.

You chuckle softly. "And it's just as cute."

Trinity gives your lips a quick peck before giving your jaw a few kisses, moving up to your ear. "I'll smile as long as you're around, Sunshine."

The night had been going perfectly. Well, the whole day had been really.

Trinity coincidentally had the day off, and you managed to swap around your shift, practically begging Victoria to switch with you so you could spend Valentine’s Day with your girlfriend.

While the holiday didn’t mean too much to either of you, it was your first one together, and you saw it as the perfect excuse for a romantic day together, one filled with nothing but each other. After a slow morning, which consisted of you and her making pancakes together—most of the batter ending up on each other than on the stove—Trinity dragged you out of the apartment, despite your insistence you were fine with a cozy day in.

“No,” she protested, the firmness of her tone contrasting the tenderness with which she wrapped the scarf around your neck. “You planned tonight, so the day is mine.”

Giggling, you could only agree. “Okay, Romeo, so what are we doing?”

“I figured we’d go to grab coffee before popping into that bookstore you love. On me,” Trinity had suggested it casually, but you knew strolling around, looking at books wasn’t exactly her idea of fun, and that this was her way of expressing her love for you.

“Really?” Your eyes lit up and you wrapped your arms around her. “Thank you, baby” you murmured against her lips.

“Don’t mention it.” She smirked into the kiss, pecking the corner lips once more before lightly pushing you towards the door. “You just better make it up to me tonight.”

You laughed and shook your head. “Oh, I will.”

And you made good on your promise.

You had booked dinner reservations at her favorite Japanese place downtown, the one she’d only been to twice but wouldn’t stop raving about anytime someone brought up food. The restaurant did its job of setting the mood for the evening, with its dim lighting and soothing music, but you couldn’t wait to get home.

When Trinity opened the door to her apartment, her lips parted. There were candles glowing around the room, heart shaped balloons stuck to the ceiling, and a trail of rose petals that led down the hallway.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” you mumbled against her skin as you wrapped your arms around her midsection from behind and buried your face in the crook of her neck.

“When..how?” Trinity uncharacteristically sputtered, turning around in your embrace.

“I made Dennis help me before his shift,” you explained softly. She raised her eyebrow at the mention of her roommate working a night shift. “It’s a long story.” You shook your head, and she easily accepted your answer.

“Wanna take a bath?” You wiggled your eyebrows as you intertwined your fingers with hers, pulling her further into the apartment.

“Is that even a question?” Trinity let herself be dragged along the path of roses and into the bathroom.

So, yeah, after a whole day with your girlfriend, a lovely dinner out, and a warm, romantic bath, you’d say it was going perfectly.

And it was, well, until Trinity broke her nose.

---------

“I think I’ll be thinking about that sashimi for the rest of my life,” Trinity called, still in the bathroom.

You adjusted your pose on the bed, the nerves swirling in your stomach as you waited for the other woman to come out. Wanting to surprise your girlfriend, you had managed to sneak away to a boutique earlier that week and pick out a new lace lingerie set, one that you knew would have Trinity begging.

“The ramen also looked–” The words died on her tongue as she exited the bathroom and saw you lying on the bed, clad only in a matching bra and underwear that left little to the imagination.

Trinity froze and let the towel she’d been using to dry her hair fall to the floor, her brain starting to malfunction.

“Trin?” You stifled a giggle as you watched your girlfriend’s pupils dilate. You knew you’d get a reaction out of her, but you had no idea she would be rendered this dumbstruck. “You good?”

Trinity could only nod with a small squeak as she started to take a step towards you. However, she really should have been paying more attention—which, she would later protest was impossible given the way you looked—because she completely forgot about the towel she’d dropped, her foot catching on it as she tripped to the floor

This time, you couldn’t stop the laugh that escaped your mouth as you pushed yourself up to check on her.

“Ouch,” Trinity groaned, your laughter only dying down slightly when you saw the blood streaming from her nose.

“Oh, honey,” you sighed, amusement still shining in your eye, and you slid off the bed so you were sitting next to her on the floor. Instinctually, you checked her pupils for dilation, the lingering desire making it difficult for you detect a possible concussion. “You really fell for me, huh?” You couldn’t help but tease as your hands gingerly steadied her face so you could get a better look at the injury.

“Shut up,” she grumbled, causing you to chuckle.

“Any nausea? Dizziness?”

“Only completely mortified,” Trinity retorted before adding, “and my nose hurts like a bitch.” She winced as your fingers prodded a little too close.

“Okay, let’s get you to the hospital,” you decided, the swelling and the amount of blood telling you she definitely had a nasal fracture.

“What? No.” Her eyes widened as you helped her to her feet, wincing as the movement caused the throbbing in her head to increase. “Absolutely not.”

“Trin.” You lowered your voice, warning and almost scolding, as you went to the bathroom and returned with a washcloth in hand.

“It’s my day off. I do not want to go to work,” she insisted and took the cloth from you and held it against her wound to stop the bleeding.

“You have a broken nose and likely a concussion,” you deadpanned, already slipping on a pair of sweatpants and the closest hoodie you could find.

“You’re a doctor.” Trinity petulantly waved her free hand in the air, her words coming out rounded and muffled by the rag. “Doctor me up!”

“See, now I know you’re concussed,” you sassed with an eye roll. “Come on.” You softened as you wrapped your arm around her, guiding her towards the door. “I’ll make sure Dennis keeps his comments to a minimum.”

This caused Trinity to groan again, and you swore you heard a “fucking Huckleberry on the fucking night shift” come from under her breath.

“Fine,” she agreed reluctantly, as you clearly weren’t backing down and the pain was becoming unbearable, not that she’d ever admit it.

“You know this is your own fault,” you goaded with a light squeeze to her hip. “We could be having so much fun right now.”

Another groan. “I hate you.”

“You love me.” You pecked her temple gently before grabbing your car keys and ushering her out the door.

---------

Flashing your badge, you walked through the waiting room and into the ER, your hand never leaving the small of Trinity’s back.

“What are you two doing here?”

You frowned when you saw Dana standing behind the nurses’ station instead of Lena. “What are you doing here?”

The charge nurse ignored your question, her confused expression turning worried when she spotted the bloody cloth in Trinity’s hand. “What the hell happened?”

You snorted. “Trinity’s too gay to function.”

“Would you shut up?” She whined before her eyes found Dana’s with a pleading look. “Make her stop.”

Dana relaxed slightly at the sound of your usual banter. It was no secret that you and Trinity were dating, nor did you try to keep it one. If they didn’t find your flirting so entertaining and, yes, endearing, the department would’ve called your relationship sickening, your sassy yet light-hearted nature a perfect match for Trinity’s snarky bravado.

“(Y/L/N)?” Dana fought back a smile as she addressed you, waiting for a diagnosis.

“Type two nasal fracture and possible grade one concussion,” you rattled off as you followed the nurse as she led your girlfriend to an empty bay.

“How did this even happen?” Dana started her evaluation with practiced ease, discarding the bloody rag so she could examine the severity of the wound.

“Trinity fell when–” you snickered before the injured woman cut you off.

“Babe, don’t you dare finish that sentence.”

Dana raised a brow. “Do I even want to know?”

Before you could reply, the curtain was pulled back to reveal Whitaker and Mohan, gloves on and ready.

“What are you guys doing here?” Dennis entered quickly. “What happened?”

This time, you got your words out quickly. “Trinity tripped and fell when she saw me in my new lingerie.”

The room stilled for a moment, no one really sure if they’d heard you correctly, but it wasn’t long before a laugh erupted from Samira and Dennis let out a disbelieving “oh my god.” Even Dana couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Jesus christ,” Trinity mumbled and closed her eyes as if that would make her disappear. “Just kill me. Kill me now.”

“Oh, baby, don’t be like that,” you cooed, your voice nearly void of all teasing. You plopped down in the stool next to her and took her hand, rubbing soothing circles on her skin with your thumb. “Want me to kiss it better?”

Trinity sighed, exasperated, but still squeezed your hand, finding the contact comforting.

“And that’s my cue.” Dana snapped off her gloves and grabbed her tablet before turning to the pair of on-duty residents. “Pop that puppy back into place and get those two out of here.” She then pointed at you. “Be nice to your girlfriend.”

“I was trying to be,” you called out but the nurse was already gone, more serious patients needing her attention.

“Okay–” Samira sat down in front of Trinity to get a better look at her nose– “it doesn’t appear too severe. I’ll get it realigned, stitch up that nasty gash, and you should be good to go.”

“Great,” Trinity muttered as the adrenaline of it all wore off and the pain, along with embarrassment, settled in. “Just get on with it.”

Samira paid no mind to the other woman’s tone, understanding the discomfort Trinity must be in. “Okay, ready?” She braced her hands on Trinity’s nose. “3..2..” Before she finished counting down, there was a loud crack and you felt your hand get crushed by Trinity’s tight grip.

“Jesus, fuck!”

“It’s over, Trin,” you soothed, patting her thigh. “And Mohan’s the best and fastest out of all us when it comes to sutures.”

Samira nodded in agreement, forceps and wire already in hand.

“You’ll be out of here before you can say lingerie,” Dennie chimed in, clearly enjoying himself.

“Huckleberry,” Trinity growled with a glare. She didn’t move an inch, aware of the needle weaving in and out of her, but the stillness made her all the more intimidating. “Do you want a place to sleep after your shift?”

“Um, yes?”

“Then get out!”

“Right.” He scurried out, haphazardly closing the curtain behind him, causing you to giggle.

“I’ll put in an order for some pain meds, then you should be good to go.” Samira finished the stitches and stood up.

“Thanks, Samira.” You gave her an appreciative smile, and Trinity echoed you, “Thanks Mohan.

“Just doing my job.” She returned the smile and nodded before going to find some meds, leaving you and Trinity in the bay alone.

For a moment, neither of you said anything, the buzz of the pit doing all the talking.

“I’m sorry I ruined our Valentine’s,” Trinity whispered as she fidgeted with your fingers. She was still getting used to being vulnerable, even around you.

“What?” You frowned.

“We’re sitting in the ER, and I have a broken nose, ten stitches, and a concussion,” Trinity stated the obvious, looking up to meet your gaze. “That doesn’t exactly scream romance.”

“Really?” You titled your head in faux confusion. “Because I met my really hot girlfriend in the ER. You wouldn’t say that’s romantic?”

“(Y/N),” she sighed, and you let out a small laugh before sobering.

“Trin, our Valentine’s Day was perfect, broken nose and all, okay?” You stood up so you were now at her eye-level, your hand instinctively cupping her face.

“I love you,” Trinity sighed and you knew it was her way of saying she understood. Grinning softly, you leaned down and kissed her gently, careful not to touch her nose.

“I love you too.”

The rest of your trip to the ER was quick and easy, as Samira came back with a bottle of pills and protocol instructions about healing procedures, ones both you and Trinity knew like the back of your hand but were nonetheless grateful for.

As you guided your girlfriend towards the exit, the two of you softly murmuring to each other, Samira watched from the nurses’ station.

“They’re cute,” she mused aloud, knowing Dana would be listening, the charge nurse’s eyes also on you.

“(Y/L/N), she is injured,” Dana yelled at you when she noticed you playfully shove Trinity’s shoulder. You at least had the audacity to look sheepish, raising your hand in apologies before dropping it to rest on your girlfriend’s waist. Samira bit back a chuckle while Dana simply shook her head.

A/N: Trinity Santos needs a freaking hug this season.

Sorry this is so dark, I’m dumping my own vehicle trauma on you right now because fanfiction is nothing if not self-indulgent.

It’s late and I’m tired and I worked on this non-stop starting the moment I posted my Cassie McKay piece because I’ve been waiting for this one’s turn.

Anyway, I’m done yapping. Sorry if you don’t like it.

Based on this request:

⟡ ───────── ⟡ ───────── ⟡

Trinity Santos has been on edge all day and it’s impossible to ignore. She’s been pacing the Emergency Department like she’s trying to shake off this feeling that’s been gnawing at her since the moment she left her apartment. Call it Mercury retrograde, the stars aligned against her, whatever you will. Normally she would shrug it off, she’s good at that. But today, every little thing is setting her nerves on fire because she knows inherently that something is wrong, she just doesn’t know what it is.

The phone rings and Dana is answering it with her usual “Go ahead, Medic Command.”

Trinity doesn’t even glance up, her fingers flying across the keyboard as she tries to catch up on her backlog of notes that have been piling up all day. 

“Incoming trauma,” Dana calls out after hanging up the phone. “MVC, one occupant, unknown injuries. ETA is two minutes.”

Dr. Robby’s voice rings out loudly across the department. “Whitaker, Kwon, gown up and meet me in the ambulance bay.”

“On it!” Huckleberry comes back almost immediately. “C’mon, Joy.”

Joy is groaning audibly from somewhere behind Trinity, something about her feet hurting and how little time two minutes actually is to be prepared for anything, but Trinity is hardly listening. She’s still hunched over her notes despite the nagging feeling that refuses to leave her gut. She shakes her head, trying her best to brush it off. 

The wail of ambulance sirens cuts through the department as the doors slide open to let Robby, Whitaker, and Joy out into the bay. 

The ambulance skids to a halt outside with tires squealing against the concrete. Whitaker and Joy are already halfway across the bay with gloves snapping into place on their hands. Paramedics swing open the back doors. The stretcher tilts, a patient strapped into a cervical collar coming into view as they exit the ambulance. Eyes half-lidded, drifting in and out of consciousness, shallow breathing a vivid reminder of how fragile life is.

Whitaker freezes mid-step as he spots you, his usually-confident voice catching on a stutter he can’t hide. “Uh…Robby…I - this…it’s - it’s - uh…”

Robby’s eyebrows lift. “Dr. Whitaker? You okay?”

Dennis swallows hard. “She’s…this is Santos’ girlfriend. Trinity - she needs to be warned. Don’t let her see her, she’ll - she’s gonna freak.”

Robby nods without hesitation. “Joy, go get Dr. Santos out of the central ED, now. Somewhere she can’t see her. Do it quietly, move.”

Joy rips off the gown she’d been tying. “Uh…okay, but…she’s still charting, I don’t even know what to say to her.”

“Just get her out,” Robby snaps, already starting to push the stretcher.

Hesitating as she re-enters the ED, Joy falters with how to corral Trinity without raising any alarms. “Uh…Dr. Santos, hey, we need you - just step over here for a sec.”

Trinity glances up, annoyance already evident on her face. “For what?”

“Paperwork. Some sort of audit,” Joy waves her hands vaguely as she steps back to give Trinity space to stand and follow her, but she doesn’t move fast enough. By the time Trinity is halfway out of her chair, the stretcher is already being wheeled past the edge of the central ED towards Trauma-1.

Trinity catches sight of the patient on the stretcher and time stops because it’s you.

Every thought in her head dissolves into pure panic. She knows it’s you immediately, she recognizes you past the tubes, the c-spine collar, the mascara that’s run down your face from tears. She knows it’s you.

The words leave Robby’s mouth before Trinity even realizes she’s moving toward them.

“Santos, don’t -”

She’s following anyway.

Joy grabs her arm, fingers closing tightly around her sleeve in an attempt to stop her. “Dr. Santos, you can’t -”

Trinity shakes her off violently. “Don’t touch me.” Her voice sounds pissed and dangerous, nothing like the woman who was hunched over a workstation thirty seconds ago. 

The door to Trauma-1 slam open, and the chaos that follows a patient in a trauma bay suddenly feels unfamiliar to Trinity.

“Oh my count - one, two, three!”

Hands move in sync, lifting you from the stretcher onto the trauma table. Your head is locked in place thanks to the rigid plastic of the c-spine collar, the rest of your body limp except for the occasional weak twitch as you drift in and out of consciousness.

Trinity stops at the foot of the platform, fingers digging into the metal of the table so hard that her knuckles are turning white. She looks like she might combust if she moves any closer.

Robby doesn’t look up. “Santos, you shouldn’t be in here.”

She doesn’t respond.

“Cutting,” Whitaker says. Trauma shears slice through your clothes, cutting away your shirt, your pants, everything in the way falling open to expose your skin, which is already mottled with bruises that are blooming an ugly shade on your skin.

Trinity’s stomach lurches and she thinks she might actually be sick.

There’s a thick band of purple spreading across your lower abdomen, the unmistakable imprint of a seatbelt. Another darkening bruise climbing over your collarbone, swollen beneath the skin.

“Damage from the seatbelt,” Robby says as he spots it. “She’s bleeding into her abdomen.”

“Clavicle looks bad,” Whitaker adds. “Possible break.”

“Pupils?”

“Reactive but sluggish.”

Your eyelids flutter weakly as Whitaker releases them. Your eyes are unfocused and unseeing.

Trinity takes a step forward, which draws Robby’s attention. “Santos, out!”

Nothing.

“Reflexes,” he snaps, his attention turning back to Dennis.

Whitaker presses hard along your abdomen. Even through the fog of semi-consciousness, you react with a strangled cry.

Trinity flinches, understanding why they usually don’t allow family in the room during a trauma.

“Guarding,” Whitaker confirms.

“We’re going to need ultrasound in here right now,” Robby says. “And call for a portable X-ray, I want a full spinal view.”

Someone moves past Trinity at a run and machines are wheeled in with alarming speed.

Your hand twitches against the table underneath you, fingers curling like you’re reaching for something. For her, she knows it.

Trinity doesn’t realize she’s crying until her vision fully blurs. But she barely even moves to wipe the tears away, she doesn’t hardly move anything at all. She just stares at you like if she looks away for even a second you might fade away.

“Dr. Santos,” Robby finally steps directly into her line of sight. “You cannot be in here.”

She opens her mouth to speak but nothing comes out. Her breath is ragged like she doesn’t know how to breathe at all.

Behind him, Dennis’ voice rings out. “BP’s dropping.”

The ultrasound tech barely has time to gel the probe before Robby is speaking again. “FAST exam, let’s go.”

Cold gel spreads across your abdomen and the probe presses down, firm and searching. Your face tightens painfully and a tiny whimper leaves your lips.

Trinity’s nails dig into her palms hard enough to hurt, but she welcomes the pain because it’s the only thing keeping her on her feet right now.

The monitor flickers with shifting grey shapes: fluid, shadows, nothing Trinity can interpret fast enough. But Robby goes still, and not the good kind of still.

Robby sighs. “There it is.”

“Free fluid in the abdomen,” Whitaker nods. “From the seatbelt?”

“Yeah,” Robby confirms. “Likely internal bleeding.” He looks over his shoulder. “Page General Surgery, I want Shamsi down here right now.”

Your blood pressure alarm screams as your pressure tanks.

“Someone get me a liter of O-neg.”

“No,” Trinity cuts in. “She’s A-positive.” She’s unsteady on her feet, enough that Joy is hovering close by like she’s ready to catch her if she drops.

Robby glances up at her, annoyance at her presence still evident on his face. “Are you sure?”

“One-hundred percent,” she confirms. “We donate together once a month.”

Robby eyes her hard before nodding, resigning himself to the fact that she isn’t leaving unless he gets Ahmed to drag her out. “Someone get me a liter of A-positive, then.”

A portable X-ray machine rumbles into place at the head of the bed. 

“C-spine is still immobilized?” the tech asks.

“Do not move her neck,” Robby commands. “Shoot as-is.”

Plates are slid beneath you carefully, and your body barely reacts. You’re too weak, too hurt, too far gone.

The machine whirrs and clicks again and again as the films are shot.

Time stretches thin while everyone waits for the images to load. The only sounds are the beeps of the monitors and the rasp of your breathing. 

Then the films appear.

“Jesus,” Whitaker breathes.

Robby leans in, his eyes scanning the images. “L3…L4…L5.” He takes a deep breath through his nose as he straightens up. “All fractured.”

Whitaker shakes his head. “Not just fractured.” He points to the limited space between the vertebrae. “They’re compressed.”

They’re just words, they could be dust particles floating through the air the way they don’t register in Trinity’s brain. She only catches pieces. Numbers. Vertebrae. Broken.

“Spinal instability,” Robby says. “Keep her immobilized, nobody touches her without clearance.”

Dennis points to the screen again. “Clavicle’s gone too, a clean break.”

Trinity finally makes a sound. It’s small, barely there, a heavy huff that’s half a sob. She can picture it: the force it would take, the violence of impact, the way your body would have been thrown forward, caught the seatbelt, and then crushed backward against the seat. 

Robby closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to see the look on his R2’s face as she processes the extent of your injuries. “We’ve got internal bleeding and major spinal trauma. Shamsi needs to take her straight up to the OR the second she gets here.”

Your fingers twitch again, aimless but searching in nature. Your eyelids flutter again, your eyes unfocused and glassy with confusion. They drift toward Trinity but don’t quite land on her. She can see that you don’t really see her.

But it’s close enough that she feels it, and it destroys something inside her. She steps forward before anyone can stop her, but her hand hovers over yours like she’s both afraid to touch you and afraid not to.

Your breathing catches, but whether it’s because you’re aware she’s there or because your pressure is still dropping, she isn’t sure. But you make a sound, something she’s never heard you make before, one made out of pain.

“Hey,” she whispers, her voice shaking so badly it barely sounds like a word. “Hey, it’s okay. I’m here.”

Dr. Shamsi arrives like a storm, flanked by a transport team already snapping gloves into place. It takes less than a minute for her to look at the scans, the bruising, the monitors, before she’s confirmed the decision to take you. There’s no hesitation or debate, lines are checked and tubing untangled.

“On three.”

Your body lifts again, transferred onto the transport gurney with care to keep your spine aligned. The collar stays locked in place and straps are cinched down across your chest, hips, and legs to hold you together because your body can’t do it on it’s own.

Shamsi is already walking, ignoring Trinity’s hovering between the table and the gurney. “Let’s move.”

The team pushes away fast, wheels rattling over the threshold as they disappear down the hallway toward the transport elevators.

And just like that, you’re gone.

Trauma-1 falls eerily quiet as machines are powered down and people clear out, leaving only the nauseatingly sterile smell of antiseptic hanging heavy in the air.

Trinity is still standing exactly where you left her. Her hands are empty, eyes fixed on the doorway you just disappeared out of.

Robby steps closer to her carefully. “Trinity,” he says softly. “She’s with the best surgical team we’ve got, Dr. Shamsi is -”

“Don’t.” The word is hoarse, but she doesn’t know what it’s for. Don’t try to comfort her? Don’t tell what she already knows?

She shoves past him before he can say anything else, shoulder checking him hard enough to make him stumble despite the height difference. The door slams open as she spills back into the main ER.

Nothing has changed outside of those doors.

Monitors are still beeping, nurses and doctors alike are still walking through the ED, some casually and some not-so-casually. Her workstation is still unlocked, which is probably some sort of policy violation.

The world is still turning. How is the world still turning?

Huckleberry follows her a second later, tearing off his trauma gown and pulling his gloves free of his hand as he tosses them into the nearest bin.

“Trin-”

She doesn’t stop walking. Her hands are shaking violently now and she has no specific destination in mind, she just needs to get out of here. Her vision is tunneling and she needs to not be here right now.

Emergency surgery, internal bleeding, spinal fractures, hypotension.

Her brain does what it’s trained to do: it calculates. It’s cruel, really, all of her years of learning and studying turning on her in a second.

Mortality rates for emergency laparotomy, complication risks, blood loss thresholds, numbers slamming into her one after another. 

Patients in hemorrhagic shock have a mortality rate of -

No.

Spinal trauma combined with internal bleeding increases risk by -

Stop.

Delay to surgical intervention correlates with -

Please.

She can’t stop it. The statistics cascade like water in her mind, faster and louder until they drown out everything around her even as she pushes through the doors into the stairwell.

“You’re going to die.”

The words slip out under her breath even when she has no intention of speaking them out loud.

Huckleberry catches up just as she staggers to a stop, gripping the railing like it’s the only thing keeping her on her feet because it is.

“Hey, hey - don’t do that,” he says quickly. “She’s in surgery, that’s where she needs to be. Dr. Shamsi’s incredible.”

Trinity shakes her head hard, her eyes are wild and filled with unshed tears. “You didn’t see her pressure drop,” she whispers. “You didn’t see how much fluid there was, you didn’t -” her voice cracks. “People don’t come back from that.”

“I did see,” he insists gently. “I was there, remember?”

That doesn’t help.

Her breath catches, her chest is tightening like a vice. “What if she bleeds out on the table? What if they can’t stabilize her? What if - what if she arrests and I’m not there?” Her hands fly up to her head, fingers digging into her hair. “I should’ve been there with her. I should’ve - I should’ve -”

She can’t even finish the sentence because there’s no version of reality where she could’ve stopped a car traveling at fifty-five miles an hour from slamming into you.

Dennis steps closer to her, his palms open and his voice softer than Trinity’s ever heard it. Which sounds stupid, given the guy doesn’t have a harsh bone in his body. “Trinity, she’s still alive.”

Her knees almost buckle. 

You’re alive. You’re not safe, not stable, and you’re definitely not okay. You’re just…not dead. A temporary state that could change at any second behind closed operating room doors.

He reaches out to rest a careful hand on her shoulder. “You don’t have to go through this alone,” he says. “I’m right here.”

The next few hours are a blur.

Robby is gentle when he tells Trinity to clock out. He’s not being authoritative, but it’s firm in a way that doesn’t give her room to argue, not that she would argue in the first place right now. She can’t make decisions for herself in this state, let alone care for patients. He doesn’t ask if she’s okay, and he doesn’t tell her everything will be fine. He just walks her to the time clock, waits until the screen confirms she’s off-shift, and then directs her toward the elevators to go upstairs.

Dennis stays glued to her side the entire time. Robby doesn’t object when he follows her into the elevator, it’s obvious she shouldn’t be alone. Not when her hands won’t stop shaking and how unfocused her eyes are as she stares at the floor, silent in a way neither have ever seen her before.

The surgical waiting room upstairs is far too bright and cheerful for the disaster that’s going on behind the OR doors. Trinity sits because Dennis steers her into a chair, not because she wants to. Her body is rigid, hands locked together between her knees, she’s wound tight enough to snap.

Time moves too fast and not at all.

Hours pass without her noticing. Dennis keeps track because someone has to - counting minutes by the sweep of the wall clock, by the number of times Trinity’s breathing turns shallow and he has to remind her to calm down in the gentlest tone he can muster up. She doesn’t speak or check her phone and she doesn’t cry again. She just stares at the doors that she knows Shamsi will eventually walk through, regardless of the news she delivers.

When they finally do open, it’s not a surgeon stepping out.

It’s Mel.

She walks toward them with purpose, her stethoscope still hanging loosely from the pocket of her scrubs. There’s no surprise on her face and she isn’t asking questions, and Dennis is certain word has spread throughout the pitt already. She kneels in front of Trinity’s chair instead of taking the empty one beside her, bringing herself down to Trinity’s level. 

She doesn’t say much, just resting a hand silently over Trinity’s clenched ones. She stays just long enough to make it clear that Trinity isn’t alone, that someone heard, someone came. Then she squeezes her fingers, gives Dennis a small nod, and leaves as quickly as she arrived, pulled back downstairs by the gravity of the ER.

Another stretch of time slips by before the doors open again.

Dr. Mohan arrives next, shoulders rising and falling with heavy breath like she walked a little too fast to get here. She pulls a chair close, angling toward Trinity without trying to crowd her. She talks quietly, but not about surgery or outcomes, just neutral things meant to anchor someone who’s clearly spiraling. She stays longer than Mel did, and when she finally leaves, it’s with a reassuring touch to Trinity’s shoulder and a promise to check back in when she can.

Cassie McKay arrives next, bringing a calm energy with her that seems to resonate with Trinity just a little more than anything else. But her worry is obvious, written plainly across her face. She doesn’t even know you, it’s worry for her coworker, maybe the worry of someone who’s had their own someone to care about in a hospital before. Trinity doesn’t respond to anything Cassie says, but she does lean in her direction, a telltale sign that the effort isn’t completely wasted.

Yolanda Garcia is the last, and most surprising, to appear. 

She seems to hesitate in the doorway before committing to crossing the room with an uncharacteristic lack of confidence on her face. Not because she doesn’t care, but because history complicates things. Whatever they once were, whatever they never fully resolved, none of it matters when a person sees another person like this.

She doesn’t try to sit close. She takes a chair across from Trinity instead, giving space while still being present, arms folded loosely.

By the time she arrives, the waiting room doesn’t feel like a place for strangers anymore, even though Trinity and Dennis are the only constant in it. It feels like something bigger, something Trinity struggles to put a name to until it dawns on her.

A village.

Not everyone stays at once. People come and go as their shifts demand, as patients need them. But there’s never a moment when Trinity is alone. Someone is always there, a stream of steady presences in the chair beside her, a witness to her fear. But more importantly, a reminder that she doesn’t have to hold herself together by herself. Not this time.

Through it all, she barely moves. Her eyes remain fixed on the doors almost like if she looks away, she might somehow change whatever is happening behind them. 

Huckleberry never leaves her side.

The doors open one final time and this time it is a surgeon. Not just any surgeon, but the one she’s waiting for.

Dr. Shamsi is still wearing her surgical cap, mask hanging loosely off one ear, fatigue etched into the harsh lines around her eyes.

Trinity is on her feet before Shamsi even fully clears the doorway.

“How is she?” her throat is raw, voice hoarse and breathless. “Is she - did she -”

Shamsi’s expression is guarded with professionalism. “I can only discuss patient information with immediate family.”

Trinity’s face crumples in a way that makes Dennis’ chest ache to see.

“I am her family,” she says, more conviction in sound than sight. “She doesn’t have anyone else. There’s nobody to call, it’s just me.”

Shamsi studies her warily for a moment, taking in Trinity’s red-rimmed eyes, her trembling hand.

“You’re her partner?”

“Yes.”

She’s quiet for a moment more before Shamsi sighs, some of the steel leaving her shoulders. 

“Surgery went well.”

The words slam into Trinity like a brick wall. She nearly loses balance, and Dennis’ hand comes up automatically at her back. 

“We were able to control the internal bleeding,” Shamsi continues. “There was significant damage to the lower abdomen, but no major organs were damaged beyond repair. Her spine fractures are serious, but stable for now. Orthopedics will manage those moving forward.”

Trinity swallows hard, struggling to process anything except the tone, which is calm and measured.

“She’s…she’s going to live?”

Shamsi nods. “Yes, she’s going to live.”

The sound that leaves Trinity is half-sob-half-laugh and disbelieving. Her hands come up to her face as she sighs deeply.

“But,” Shamsi adds gently, “it will be a long recovery. Weeks in the hospital at least, and months of rehabilitation. Long-term pain management, potentially mobility challenges. This isn’t something she’s going to bounce back from anytime soon.”

“I don’t care,” Trinity says immediately. “I don’t care how long it takes.”

Shamsi’s gaze softens completely now as she takes in the relief on Trinity’s face. “She’s in recovery. Still intubated while the anesthesia wears off.” There’s a small pause before she adds, “You can see her if you want.”

Trinity doesn’t wait for permission.

Dennis follows close behind as Shamsi leads them down the hallway, past stile doors and down a set of unfamiliar hallways, into the recovery ward.

You’re lying in a bed surrounded by machines. A ventilator hisses, familiar tubing disappearing between your lips and IVs snaking from both arms. Bandages peek out from hospital blankets. You’re pale, skin drawn tight, with deep-set bruising blooming darkly along your collarbone as it peeks out from the top of the gown.

But your chest rises and falls.

Trinity stops at the foot of the bed, hands flying to her mouth and eyes flooding with tears. “Oh my God,” she whispers. She moves closer on shaky legs, reaching out until her fingers brush your arm.

Dennis stays back, giving her space, though he doesn’t leave.

Trinity leans down and presses her forehead carefully to the side of your head, mindful of every tube and wire as she presses her lips tightly together to keep her jaw from wobbling.

Time blurs again after that.

Hours pass in the recovery room, marked only by the rhythm of the machines and the shuffle of nurses that come every hour or so to check your vitals. Trinity never leaves the chair at your bed, not for food or water or even to go to the bathroom.

She sits with one hand wrapped around yours, her thumb stroking circles across your skin. Sometimes she talks about mundane things or updates you can’t hear. Sometimes she slips into Tagalog without realizing it, the words a mixture of murmured prayers and endearments that her brain reaches for when English feels like too much work. The language of her home, of comfort, of her childhood.

Every so often she leans forward to press a kiss into your hair, carefully because she’s still afraid of hurting you even now. 

Night deepens, and Dennis finally leaves at Trinity’s insistence that she’s okay, that the worst part is over now, and with the dark pinky-promise that she’s not going to throw herself off the roof in his absence.

The ventilator continues it’s steady, mechanical breathing. Until it suddenly doesn’t match yours.

Your chest jerks, throat tightening around the tube. A strangling sound escapes you and Trinity jumps upright.

“Hey - hey - hey!” Panic detonates inside of her at the sight of you choking. She slams the call button. “I need help in here!”

Footsteps approach quickly, a nurse slipping into the room with significantly more calm than Trinity is currently feeling.

“It’s okay,” she says immediately, checking your monitor. “She’s not choking.”

Trinity is shaking again, hands trembling so hard she can barely keep hold of yours. “She can’t breathe -”

“She is breathing,” the nurse reassures gently. “She’s breathing over the vent, that’s a good sign.”

Trinity freezes. Of course, of course that’s what it is. She knows this, she’s seen it a thousand times. But knowing something is very different from watching it happen to the person you love. 

She steps back enough to give the nurse space to remove the tube from your throat. It slides free and you cough weakly, breath shallow but at least it’s your own.

The nurse wipes your mouth gently. “There you go, you did great.”

Trinity edges forward again to your bedside, afraid to blink for the millionth time today.

Your eyelids flutter. And then, very, very slowly, they open.

Your gaze is unfocused at first, just like the last time she saw your eyes open. Your eyes drift lazily across the ceiling, the lights, through the unfamiliar room until they land on her. She sees the recognition as it dawns in your eyes.

“Hey,” she whispers, her voice breaking even in all its quiet. 

Your lips part like you want to speak but no sound comes out. But your eyes stay locked on hers.

Trinity lets out a shaky laugh that dissolves into tears, not noticing as the nurse backs out of the room to give you privacy, even though she definitely should be logging your vitals as you wake. Trinity presses kisses against your head and cradles your cheek in her hand with infinite care as she whispers reassurance into your hair. 

“I’ve got you,” she murmurs. “You’re okay, I’m right here.”

⟡ ───────── ⟡ ───────── ⟡

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The dating scene was terrible and really it was no use when you had feelings for someone else. 

You walked into the department with a coffee in your hand and smiled at the brightness of the day. 

“Someone’s excited to be back.” You turned and saw Jack Abbot with his bag slung over his shoulders, ready to leave for the day. 

“What can I say, being a nightcrawler is something one can only do for so long before you get tired of the terrible attendings.” Jack placed a hand on his heart and playfully cried. 

“Oh you wound me Nightengale. I knew I always hated you.” You bursted out laughing and hit his arm as he left the building. 

“Nag.” You called after him.

“Mule.” He laughed as he left. You giggled to yourself as you walked towards the nurse’s station as fast as you could being almost nine months pregnant. 

“Ugh, I knew I heard you! You’re really back?” Your head turned to the side as Perlah rounded the corner with Princess on her heels. You smiled at the women as they both gave you a hug. 

Their hands hovered over your belly, in silent question, for a moment before you nodded and they both relaxed their hands. Your baby immediately kicked upon hearing them talk. 

“Ah see, he knows who his Titas are.” Perlah gushed and the baby flutter kicked even harder. 

“No, she knows who her favorite Tita is going to be.” Princess jested. 

You had no idea if you were going to have a boy or a girl. You liked the idea of being surprised, but it quickly became the biggest betting pool the ED had ever seen. They were all betting on day, sex, and time. You didn’t mind one bit, as long as you weren’t shelling out any money. 

This baby was going to be a true Nightengale either way which meant stubborn and would definitely do things in their own way. 

You smiled at the two women fawning over you. PTMC really had become your family and you were eternally grateful. 

Growing up you didn’t exactly have the best home life which is how you ended up at the hospital for the first time after breaking your wrist while riding your bike. It was then that you met Dana for the first time and your whole world changed. 

From the age of eight until now Dana had taken you under her wing. You grew up with her daughters practically as your own sisters and it was almost a no brainer when you chose your future profession. 

Dana liked to joke that you were her only daughter that took after her. Granted, she had tried to talk you out of becoming a nurse, but you were stubborn and when your mind was made up it was going to take a lot to change it. 

“Oh thank God, I’m so glad you’re back, kid.” Dana crossed the floor to meet you and pulled you into her arms as best she could. 

“Happy to be back D.” You kissed her cheek as you handed her the coffee you’d brought for her. You personally hated the stuff, but knew she needed it. 

“See, this is why you’re my favorite.” Princess and Perlah shared a pout before getting back to work. You stuck your tongue out at them playfully and they each gave you the finger. 

“Damn, already being mean to you on your first day back. You should sue.” Your heart stuttered as the familiar voice filled your ears. Trinity appeared out of thin air with Dennis at her side. She was holding a bag of something that smelled incredible. 

“Been thinking about it. Whatcha got there Santa?” Trinity rolled her eyes at the nickname as she held the bag just out of your reach. 

“Thought you deserved a treat for finally leaving the darkside, but now I’m not so sure.” You pouted and gave Trinity your best puppy dog eyes. She rolled her eyes at you, but felt her heart lurch into her throat as she handed over the bag. 

You squealed with excitement when you realized it was your favorite breakfast sandwich from the bakery down the street. 

“Trin you didn’t!” You immediately took a bite and practically moaned at the taste. Trinity’s heart raced as she watched you before Dana cleared her throat, startling both of you. 

“As much as I love that you’re here kid, let’s get to work. Breaks are necessary, but not before you’ve even started your shift.” You smirked at the woman as you gave her a salute. 

“You got it Sarge.” She playfully whacked at your shoulder as she gave you your assignments. 

“See you later, Mockingjay.” Trinity called to you as she walked off in another direction. From your peripheral vision you could see Princess and Perlah gossiping and you quickly snapped your head towards them. 

They immediately busied themselves as though they weren’t just talking about you in Tagalog. You may not have known what they were saying, but you knew their codename for you was Birdie. Since the pregnancy started you had ears like a bat. 

You carefully gestured from your eyes to them and they just mimicked you in response. They were always watching, just as you were. 

…

You’d had a relatively nice first shift back, but that definitely had something to do with everyone giving you the simple cases. You didn’t mind too much. It gave you time to practice on your sutures and get to know a few patients. 

For someone who practically waddled around the ED you brought in patients surprisingly quickly and were able to help make some headway in chairs. 

The simplicity of the day could not be said for the rest of the crew. There’d been trauma after trauma and it wasn’t until the very end of the shift that they finally were able to breathe. 

You were sitting at the nurse’s station, filling out your final chart for the day when some of the pittlings decided to congregate around you. 

“I need a drink.”

“Look at you Crash, finally letting loose.” Trinity joked at the younger girl. Victoria rolled her eyes at the Filipina, but she didn’t really mean it. 

Dennis sat next to you with a huff. 

“You joining us Nightengale?” Dennis asked, getting your attention. You pretended to not be listening to their conversation and raised your eyebrows at the boy who looked completely wrecked from the day he’d had.

His face reddened as he realized that he’d asked you, the pregnant woman, to go get drinks after work. 

“Oh, right. Duh. Sorry.” Trinity patted his back as the two of you busted out laughing. 

“She's pregnant Huckleberry, not incapable of making her own decisions. Besides I'm sure greasy bar food or carbonated drinks are available. And maybe a dance or two if she's feeling up to it.” You blushed as Trinity came to his rescue, effectively defending you. 

“If I'm dancing tonight then someone's massaging my feet afterwards.” You joked. You caught the blush on Trinity’s cheeks as she raised her hands in surrender. You rolled your eyes at her antics as you got up from your chair. 

“Woah there, where are you going? I thought we’d finally get a chance to have family dinner again now that you’ve seen the light.” Dana playfully questioned as she handed you your things. 

“Oh D, I.” She smiled at you and squeezed your shoulder. 

“I’m only messing with you. We have all the time in the world for dinner. Go have fun. Text me when you get home.” Dana kissed your temple before waving to the rest of the pittlings. 

You quickly went to the bathroom and changed out of your scrubs. You felt like a completely new person. It was nice to have some comfortable clothes on even if they weren’t exactly the typical going out clothes. 

You were way past trying to dress up, but your sweatpants and tank top were way better than the scrubs you’d been wearing. Much less itchy, that’s for sure. Plus it was breathable and with all the hormones you got hot way too easily. 

When you exited the bathroom everyone was waiting for you, chatting amongst themselves. Trinity’s jaw practically dropped on the floor when she saw you. You were wearing grey sweat pants that perfectly hugged your hips and a low cut black tank top that accentuated your breasts. 

She felt her mouth watering before Victoria “accidentally” elbowed her in the ribs. 

“Jesus Crash.” You’d barely noticed them as you exited the bathroom and fished your glasses out of your bag. You’d been wearing contacts all day and your eyes were having none of it. 

“You’re staring.” she chastised in return. The two argued quietly as you approached. You turned to Emma and furrowed your eyebrows. 

“You don’t want to know.” You smiled at Emma and looped your arm with hers as you led the pack outside. It was only fair that they all had to move at your pace. 

Emma led you to her car as the other three went to Trinity’s. You promised to meet them at the bar. You could still hear the other three arguing from a distance. 

“Those three are going to drive each other insane.” You commented. Emma nodded as she drove away from the hospital. You’d taken the bus to the hospital that morning so you didn’t have your car. It wasn’t exactly comfortable driving anymore. 

“Just be grateful you were in chairs today, because those three would not shut up. Especially not when it came to cases. They were acting like animals. It’s no wonder they’re tired.” You laughed and groaned slightly as you felt a rough kick to your bladder.

Emma’s eyes widened in concern. 

“Don’t worry Bubbles, the kid is just deciding to be mean and stomp on my bladder.” You let out a slow breath and regained your composure. 

“Tell her that Tatie Emma says to be nice.” The baby seemed to respond to that and lightly move their hand across your belly. The sensation almost tickled, but you were grateful it wasn’t another hard kick. You did not want to piss yourself in Emma’s car. 

“Kicking?” 

“More like poking.” You joked as you took Emma’s tentative hand and placed it on your belly so she could feel the baby moving. From what you could tell your baby had always been active and tonight was no different. 

“Woah, she’s feisty. But, with you for a mom that’s to be expected.” You smiled in agreement and held your belly as Emma pulled into the parking lot of the bar. 

The two of you got out of the car just as Trinity pulled in and honked. You jumped slightly, but Emma was the one to grab your arm. 

“We should’ve known she was going to do that.” Trinity had always enjoyed scaring the pair of you. You were both just so easy to scare and it usually made for a completely hilarious memory. 

“She’s an ass.” Emma joked, but it had no bite. 

“Yeah, but she’s our ass.” You stated almost dreamily. Emma raised her eyebrow at you, but you barely noticed as you watched Trinity get out of the car. She smiled at you and rushed to your side. 

She hooked her arm in your free one and the three of you walked in together. 

“What are those two planning?” You asked, throwing your head back to the two trouble makers. 

“They’re trying to see whose dick is bigger.” You and Emma gasped. 

“Trinity, there are impressionable ears.” The two of you laugh. 

“My apologies Bubbles.” She said as she practically curtsied in front of the two of you. 

“Hey, that’s my nickname for her.” You pouted playfully. Trinity mimicked you with her own pout as she rested her hand on your belly and the baby immediately kicked in response. 

“Not anymore Mama.” Heat rushed to your cheeks as she walked over to the bar where Dennis and Victoria were waiting. 

“Oh girl.” You turned to Emma as your blush darkened. You hoped it was hidden at least partially by the darkness of the lights. 

“You’re still down bad.” Emma observed. You groaned as she stated the obvious and hid your face in her shoulder. You and Emma had taken a seat in an open ‘U’ shaped booth.

It was large enough for all five of you to fit including your bump. You liked the cushion of a booth, but there wasn’t always enough space for you anymore. Thankfully, you didn’t have an issue here. 

“I can’t help it, Em. I thought being on night shift would change something, but it hasn’t. And these damn hormones only make it worse.” 

“Well have you tried telling her because clearly…” 

“Telling who what?” Trinity asked as she brought over two Shirley temples for you and Emma. She had a drink of her own, but you were surprised to see she didn’t have a shot with her. 

“No shots for you Santa?” You pivoted. She shrugged and slid into the seat next to you. 

“Not tonight. Someone’s gotta watch the kids. And I think they need the drinks more than me. They’re having some super secret conversations at the bar.” You nodded, but was grateful to her for bringing you a drink and intrigued by the possibility of the conversation. 

“Oh, and I placed an order for food while I was up there.” 

“You really are magical, Santa Clause.” Trinity hid the blush on her cheeks as she looked at the two troublemakers. 

“Where did that nickname even come from?” You bursted out laughing as you thought about the simplicity of the name. You both could hear Trinity groan from beside you. 

“I used to call her Santi because of her last name and she’s always bringing me morning gifts in the form of food so overtime it became Santa Clause and now just Santa.” 

Trinity moved to defend herself, but Emma beat her to it. 

“No wonder she practically threw a hissy fit when I asked what was in the bag this morning.” 

“Oh look Crash and Huckleberry are calling me over to the dance floor.” Trinity was gone in a flash, leaving the two of you laughing. 

You and Emma enjoyed being able to catch up with one another after such a long time. You’d seen her over the last few months, but nothing like this. You’d missed being able to talk to the nurse. 

When Emma started working at PTMC the two of you easily bonded on account of being two of the youngest nurses there. Emma also reminded you of your sister that you hadn’t seen in years. It warmed your heart being around the girl and it seemed like the feeling was mutual. 

When the food arrived your mouth watered and the other three immediately joined to dig in too. Dennis and Victoria were pleasantly giggly and in higher spirits. Trinity tucked into your side as she passed out plates for everyone to use. 

Before you could even lift a finger she was placing food in front of you like it was a normal thing. You swallowed thickly as you blushed, but ate the food nonetheless. It just so happened that everything on the table were some of your favorites.

Once the food was gone the five of you made your way onto the dance floor. The music was loud, but nostalgic. You danced through more songs than you could count and as the night wound down you were beat. 

Along the way Dennis and Victoria had downed a few more shots and were completely gone. Victoria wouldn’t stop babbling as she hung off of Dennis. He was beet red, but still smiling at it made you happy seeing them together, normally would’ve joined right in on the fun.

The five of you walked out of the bar all giggling. 

“Alright, I hate to break up the two musketeers, but it’s time to go home. Vic, you’re with me. Den, you’re with Trinity and Nightengale” Emma said as she wrapped her arm around Victoria’s middle. 

“Nooo.” The two of them whined, but they were really in no state to argue properly. 

“We take Vic home, Trin?” Dennis tried to negotiate. 

“Vic lives closer to Emma.” Dennis sighed as he climbed into the back seat of the car. 

“You’re a mean Santa.” You hid your giggle behind your hands as you climbed into the passenger seat. Trinity wagged her finger at you.

“Don’t you start.” You held your hands up in surrender, but couldn’t help the laugh that escaped you. You waved at Emma and Victoria as the three of you pulled out of the parking lot. 

In the back seat Dennis was making disgruntled noises. The alcohol was finally catching up to him. 

“Let’s get him home first.” Trinity nodded at you in agreement. She did not want Dennis throwing up in her car. 

You helped Trinity bring Dennis to his room as best you could before collapsing on the couch.

“Jesus, I don’t remember him being that difficult to bring into the apartment.” You joked, trying to regulate your breathing. 

“Yeah well Huckleberry’s been spending more time on the farm. He’s hiding some muscles under all that mouse. Besides, you were only one and now you're almost two.” Trinity calls from the kitchen. She brought Dennis a glass of water and some Advil for the morning before joining you on the couch and passing you a glass of ice water. 

You took the glass from her, but Trinity could tell there was a shift in your demeanor. You took a few sips before drumming your fingers on your belly in thought. You looked back up at Trinity to see her already looking at you. 

“Where’s you go?” Trinity’s emerald eyes warmed as you made eye contact with her. 

You sighed as you suddenly became aware of just how much had changed in the last couple of months. You’d enjoyed being pregnant and were proud of your baby, but it didn’t mask how different you felt in your skin. 

“What if I never get my body back?” Your voice was barely above a whisper. Trinity’s heart clenched as she heard the break in your voice. She carefully shifted closer to you and pulled your legs up into her lap. 

“What are you…” The question died in your throat as Trinity began massaging your feet. Her hands moved smoothly along your skin. You wanted to be embarrassed about your callused feet, but Trinity didn’t seem to mind.

“You were dancing.” Trinity shrugged like it was the most normal thing for her to do. Part of you wanted to pull away, but you couldn’t help melting into the Filipina’s touch. Her thumbs applied perfect pressure onto the arch of your foot. 

You gasped as she continued to massage every bit of the exposed skin. You closed your eyes in pleasure as you heard Trinity’s voice again. 

“You were beautiful before pregnancy and you’re absolutely glowing now. Even in a tank and sweats. I have no doubt you will still be a stunner even with some extra weight, no matter where you carry it.” 

“Trin.” You practically moaned as her fingers dragged up the back of your calves. She pressed firmly as she traveled up and down the length of the aching muscle. Trinity pressed her thighs together involuntarily as she watched the effect she was having on you, but didn’t stop what she was doing. 

Having you this close to her made her realize she didn’t want to let go, she couldn’t. 

She’d been circling you for months, even before you switched to nights, and today only further solidified that she could not hide her feelings any longer. 

She was in love with you and there was no denying it. 

“Come on, let's be real. You’re growing an entire life right now. Screw what society says because even a person who’s blind wouldn’t be able to deny your beauty.” You giggled at her words as another gasp escaped your lips and your entire body flushed. 

This woman was driving you insane.

“Laying it on pretty thick there, aren’t you?” You were practically panting as you opened your eyes and looked at her again. Trinity’s eyes were mostly black now with the smallest ring of green around the edges. You bit your lip in hopes of hiding how turned on you were, but it was no use. 

“I mean every word Nightengale.” Trinity pressed once more into your other calf as she turned on the couch, kneeling next to you. She wanted nothing more than to pull you close to her and show you just how serious she was about you. 

“I really want to kiss you right now.” Trinity could tell she was practically begging at this point, but she was beyond caring. You could see her chest rising and falling faster with every second that passed. Her cheeks were bright red and you were sure you looked the same. 

You knew you were worked up and you wanted her. You’d always wanted her and she wanted you too. 

“I wouldn’t stop you if you tried.” You breathed. Trinity smirked as she carefully maneuvered herself closer to you. She braced herself on the arm of the couch as her lips parted in anticipation. 

You could feel the heat radiating off of her body. 

You licked your lips excitedly as Trinity took her time leaning in. Her body was practically vibrating and you just wished she’d hurry up. Part of you was happy that she cared enough to take her time. Just before her lips touched yours a loud crash rang through the apartment. 

Trinity’s breath ghosted your lips for a moment before she pulled away and groaned. 

“Fuckleberry.” You giggled as you adjusted yourself on the couch and watched her leave the room to go check on the boy who no doubt fell onto the floor in his sleep. 

Your heart was hammering in your chest as you blindly reached for your phone on the table to text Dana that you wouldn’t be going home. Your stomach dropped when you looked at the phone and realized it wasn’t your lock screen. 

You’d accidentally grabbed Trinity’s phone and the message she’d received made your blood boil.

Garcia😷: We had fun the other night. You should come over again Sunday afternoon

You couldn’t help the tears that fell down your face as you reached for your phone and hurried out of the apartment as fast as you could. You felt like a total idiot. 

You’d really believed Trinity. You should’ve known better. She was Trinity Angela Santos and she did not do complicated. And who were you kidding, you were pregnant for Christ sake. What was going to happen when your baby was born?

Trinity did casual. Her and Garcia were casual. But it didn’t matter anymore. If her and Garcia were going to be together then that’s their business, but you were not going to get involved. 

Your heart broke the more your thoughts spiraled. Thankfully they were interrupted by a car pulling up in front of you. A car you recognized very well.

“Oh kid, come on. Get in.” You waddled over to the car and climbed in as quickly as you could. You couldn’t even bring yourself to look back at Trinity’s apartment. It was all too much for one night. 

You and Dana were already halfway down the street by the time Trinity returned to the living room area to find that you weren’t there anymore. She figured you were maybe in the bathroom, but when she sat down and felt her phone under her she knew something was wrong. 

She checked the bathroom, but you weren’t there. You’d essentially vanished in the fifteen minutes it took to wrestle Dennis back into bed and clean up his floor. She grabbed her phone off the couch to call you when everything clicked in her head, but she tried anyway. 

Trinity screamed into one of the couch pillows that Dennis insisted on buying when you didn’t answer your phone. You’d gotten it completely wrong, but somehow she still didn’t blame you for the misunderstanding. She would’ve thought the same thing if she’d seen that message. 

Trinity tried calling you one more time before settling on sending you a text message and going to bed. She was pissed off, but there was nothing she could do until she saw you tomorrow at work. 

Hope flooded through her as she heard her phone buzz. 

Nightengale 😍: went home, not feeling too good. tonight was a fun night out with friends

The word friends hit Trinity straight in the gut. It only solidified her worst fear. You and her were not friends. 

…

Dana helped you inside her house where your room was waiting, already made up for you. You’d lived with Dana for a few years when you were younger before being able to afford your own apartment. She decided it was best to bring you with her because she did not want to leave you alone like this. 

Dana tucked you into bed and sat with you, cradling you in her arms. 

“I don’t know what I did wrong D.” She sighed as she kissed the top of your head. 

“Nothing, hon. You did nothing wrong tonight. It’s not your fault.” You cried into her shoulder, unable to stop the tears.

“How bad must I have been in my past life to get cheated on, left alone to have a baby, and then get dumped by the girl of my dreams before the relationship even started.” Before Dana could respond she heard you snoring softly, completely exhausted from the day. 

“Oh my girl, you did nothing wrong. And if Santos doesn’t get her head out of her ass soon she’s going to regret it. I promise you’re not alone. Not when you have me and this little bean.” 

Dana kissed your forehead and held you as close to her as she could. She too was exhausted from the day and fell asleep with you, her kid, in her arms. 

When you woke the next morning you were alone, with an uncomfortable pain in your lower stomach. You pushed it out of your mind as the entirety of the previous day rushed back to you. 

You pinched the bridge of your nose as you felt a migraine coming and got out of bed to get ready for the day. 

Dana was waiting for you downstairs with breakfast and a soft smile. 

“How’d you sleep buttercup?” You shrugged. 

“Okay, my body hurts a bit, but that’s nothing new. I’m not sure I’ll sleep comfortably for the next few years at least.” Dana huffed and nodded at you. 

“You’re telling me kid.” You followed her out of the house and she drove the two of you to the hospital. 

You dreaded being inside the hospital, but decided it was best to just get the day over with. There was no hiding from the truth or from Trinity. It was going to be a long day, but oh well. 

You walked with Dana to the hub and found a bag with your name on it. It was in Trinity’s handwriting. You carefully opened the bag to find a muffin, but you refused to eat it. You could feel the tears prickling at your eyes as you pushed it away. 

“Don’t worry, I got it.” Perlah said as she came behind you and rubbed your back soothingly. Perlah gave Dana a confused look and she silently warned her not to ask. You thanked Perlah as Dana gave you your orders for the day and you were off.

You immediately got to work and hoped everyone in chairs would distract you from the mess that was your emotions. You couldn’t even blame the hormones this time. 

You were just grateful you didn’t see Trinity when you walked in. 

No one stood in your way as you waddled around the ED, the pain in your stomach only growing. 

“Stupid Braxton Hicks.” You murmured to yourself as you moved in between patients. 

You were hardly paying attention as you moved to another room and almost barrelled into Trinity. Her heart stopped as she reached out to steady you. You closed your eyes at the touch before manualling removing her hands from your body. 

“Can we please talk?” 

“I have patients and so do you, Dr. Santos.” You completely ignored the woman and headed in the opposite direction, away from your patients. Trinity got called into a trauma before she could go after you again.  

You had to pee, badly. It felt like you'd been to the bathroom a million times already just to barely even tinkle.

You assumed this time would be no different. You walked into the bathroom and immediately felt a gush of liquid. 

“Okay Baby, we're doing this.” You turned out of the bathroom and tried to not make more of a mess than you already had.

“Dana,” you called. The woman barely looked up from her iPad before you called her again. The second time she heard you she was moving like the wind to your side. 

Princess was right behind her in an instant with a wheeled chair for you. 

“Don't worry about anything, D. I already called upstairs. You're gonna do great. The world is ready for another Nightengale.” You smiled at Perlah at the station as the first real contraction hit. 

It wasn't terrible, but it definitely wasn't pleasant either. 

Another, more powerful contraction hit while the two of you were in the elevator. Your heart raced as you scrunched your face together in pain. 

“Breathe hon, breathe.” Dana rested her hand on your shoulder as she moved you into a room where doctors were already waiting. 

“You're about eight centimeters dilated Nightengale. You're doing great.” You gave the doctors a tight lipped smile as they hooked you up to all the monitors. 

You breathed with Dana as more contractions took over. You tried to focus on the woman next to you but all you could think about was that you wanted a certain sarcastic Filipina by your side. 

When Trinity left the trauma room she immediately searched for you, but Perlah and Princess stopped her. 

“Where is she, Perlah? I know there's some nurse's code or something, but I need to talk to her.” Trinity practically begged after running around the entire ED. 

Perlah gave Trinity a stern look and crossed her arms over her chest. 

“Her water broke, Dana's upstairs with her. I don't know what's going on with you two today, but you better fix it and fix it fast.” Trinity's heart dropped as she bolted to the stairs. 

“And people say we're dramatic. She could've just taken the elevator.” Princess called from over Perlah's shoulder. The two women laughed together for a few seconds before duty called again. 

Trinity made it up the stairs in three minutes flat, faster than the elevator. She was breathing heavily as she ran through the floor looking for you. 

When she found your room she stuttered. Her breathing had normalized, but she wasn't so sure she deserved to be in that room with you. Or that you even wanted her there. 

It was then that the two of you made eye contact. Your eyebrows furrowed and Trinity thought she was done for. 

That's when you reached your hand out in her direction. A smile spread on her face as she rushed to your side before she could stop herself.

“I'm so sorry.” Trinity quickly rushed out as you squeezed her hand. 

“Shut up. Talk later. Just hold my hand now.” You practically growled. Trinity and Dana shared an amused but terrified smile as another contraction ripped through your body.

“It's time.” One of the doctors said as they got ready to deliver your baby.. 

“What?” You yelled incredulously. Trinity rubbed your shoulders soothingly which surprisingly calmed your nerves. You pushed for the first time when the next contraction hit. 

“That’s it hon, you’re doing great.” Dana mumbled as you squeezed her hand hard. You were able to push two more times before it became too much. You were completely exhausted. You barely knew what the hell was going on anymore.

“Just one more push Nightengale and your baby will be here.” You shook your head at the doctor between your legs. You couldn’t do it. 

“I can’t. It’s too much. I can’t.” You were panting and sweating. You weren’t sure you had any energy left in you to possibly push again. 

“I don’t want this little bean to be alone, like me. I can’t do this. I can’t.” You looked over to Dana with big puppy dog eyes. 

“I’m scared Momma.” Dana cupped the back of your head. 

“I know baby, I know. You’re doing amazing, just one more push and it’s all over.” You could feel another contraction coming, but you still weren’t convinced. You buried your head in Dana’s neck as a new set of tears streamed down your face. 

“You aren’t alone, Nightengale. You have all of the staff wrapped around your finger just like this baby will. You have Dana and you definitely have me. You are loved, this baby is loved, and you can do this. You will do it. Just one more push mahal, we’re right here with you.” 

Trinity placed a tender kiss on your forehead just as the final contraction hit and you were able to push one more time. 

“That’s it honey, you did it.” As crying filled the room you were finally able to breathe again. You gave Dana’s hand a final squeeze as you turned to look at Trinity with tears of relief streaming down your face. Her free hand cupped your cheek as she kissed your forehead. 

“You were amazing.” Trinity whispered as she took you in and pushed your hair behind your ears. 

“Congratulations on your baby boy, mom.” The doctor turned back to you with your son in her arms and placed him on your chest. He was absolutely gorgeous. You wrapped your arms around him. 

“Oh my sweet boy. Mama loves you so much.” You cooed at him for a few minutes. You ran your fingers over his forehead and pushed his hair out of his face. He was perfect and everything you wanted. 

You looked up to Dana who was smiling at the both of you with tears in her eyes. 

“Say hi to Nana baby boy.” You carefully handed your son over to Dana as a new set of tears washed over the eldest woman. 

“Nana?” She whispered quietly. You nodded. 

“You’ve always been my mom, D. And I think it’s only right that he gets to grow up with you in his life too. He may not be the first grandchild, but I know you’ve loved him since the moment I told you I was pregnant.” She smiled at you and down at the tiny boy. 

“Nana’s going to spoil you rotten.” Dana kissed the back of his head before holding him close. After a few minutes he got a little fussy. You got a little nervous hearing him cry, but Dana looked over to Trinity.

Dana walked around the bed, placing the boy in her arms. He immediately stopped crying and it absolutely melted your heart. Looking at Trinity holding your baby boy made everything even more real. 

No matter what had happened you were still irrevocably in love with Trinity Santos. 

Dana quickly checked her phone before putting it back into her scrub pocket. 

“Nana will be back as soon as she can.” She kissed his feet before turning back to you and pulling you into as tight a hug as she could without hurting you.

“I am so proud of you kid. I’m so proud of my girl.” She kissed you on the forehead before leaving. She promised to cover for you and Trinity. You squeezed her hand in response and she knew you were thanking her for being there. She could tell. She’d learned to read you exceptionally well over the years. 

When she got back dow to the ED everyone waited in anticipation, hoping you were alright. 

“She had a boy! My kid had a boy. I have a grandson.” Dana gushed as she gave Perlah a tight hug. 

“That’s amazing, D! I knew I was right.” Perlah turned back to Princess and smiled widely. 

“Who won the pool?” Dana asked playfully. She knew she hadn’t won considering she thought you’d give birth on your due date, not before. Ahmad turned to the board and quickly scanned the votes. 

“That little shit.” Dana pouted as she saw who won after he handed her the results. Perlah raised her eyebrows in confusion. 

“Santos won the fucking pool.” Dana said and Perlah rolled her eyes playfully. 

“Putang ina.” Princess cursed to herself. 

…

Back upstairs you turned your attention back to Trinity who was still holding your son close to her chest. She was singing to him softly in a language you did not recognize, but it was beautiful. 

She felt your stare and looked up at you with a blush on her cheeks. She realized then she’d been hogging your son all to herself. You beckoned her closer and moved over as best you could to make some room for her to sit by your hips. 

Trinity fit perfectly in the spot and had one knee up on the bed to balance herself. You sat up a little straighter and placed your hand on his head.

“A few weeks ago I went to church for the first time in forever. It was the anniversary of my dad's death and I wanted to feel closer to him.” Trinity started as she looked at you nervously before pretending to continue talking to your son. You squirmed a little in the bed, but listened to what she had to say. 

You wanted to say something, but decided it was best to just let her talk. 

“Garcia happened to be there with her nieces; they're kid gymnasts and when they found out I used to be one they wouldn't stop begging me to give them tips. I've been kinda coaching them ever since. That's what Garcia was talking about when she said I should come over. She meant after church with her, her nieces, and Walsh, her girlfriend of three months.” Your mouth hung open as Trinity explained what had really happened and you felt even more like an idiot. 

“Garcia and I are not together. Her and I are way in the past and I'm kinda hoping this right here can be my future.” Trinity finished as she looked between you and your son. 

“And just in case I didn't make it absolutely clear, I'm in love with you and have been for months. I've just been too scared to say it out loud before now, but the thought of losing you is scarier.” 

You bursted into tears as you reached out towards Trinity. She smiled at you, with tears streaming down her own face. She easily got up and placed your son into his bassinet before walking back over to you. She took a deep breath and pulled you into a messy, tear filled kiss. 

You tangled your fingers in her hair at the nape of her neck and pulled her impossibly close before pulling away with an embarrassingly loud smack only to breathe. 

“I love you so fucking much Trinity Santos.” You and Trinity giggled together as she retook her place at your side. You took a deep breath and looked at her seriously.

“I am so sorry I didn’t give you the chance to explain. I should’ve…” Trinity cut you off with another kiss on the lips. 

“Nope, enough of that. I know how that text looked. You were upset and rightfully so. I probably would’ve done the same thing if I was on the other side of everything.” You huffed but nodded as you leaned in and captured her lips again. 

Soon enough the two of you were breathing heavily and the crying of your baby boy fully pulled you apart. 

“I think someone is hungry.” Trinity said as she got up to bring your son over to you. You were a little nervous as you moved your shirt out of the way to hopefully have him latch for the first time. 

You’d helped birth plenty of babies over the years and watched just as many women breastfeed. You knew it wasn’t always easy, but you hoped it wouldn’t be too much of a struggle. 

Thankfully he didn’t have a problem latching and Trinity moved around the room to get you a pillow from one of the closets to prop up your arm. She didn’t want your arms getting tired too quickly. She wasn’t sure how long you’d have to hold him there either.

She couldn’t really call herself a baby expert, but she was definitely willing to learn. There were a few things Trinity had learned over the years and she was going to try her hardest to make sure you were as comfortable as possible. 

Trinity was absolutely captivated by you while she watched you with your son. You looked up at her between your lashes and blushed. She was staring at you incredibly hard. 

“Not exactly how I expected you to see my boobs for the first time.” You joked, trying to lighten the mood. You were clearly very new to all of this and even with the declaration between you two, you weren’t exactly sure where you and Trinity stood on all of this baby business. Loving you was one thing, but loving your son was something else entirely. 

“You are perfect, Nightengale. I meant it last night when I said your body is beautiful and there's nothing more beautiful than this. You created his life and now your body continues to provide all the nutrients he needs. Don't ever feel embarrassed for any of the things that come with motherhood. Besides, I am more than happy to admire you.” Trinity ran her fingers through your hair and kissed your cheek a few times. 

You sighed and leaned into her more. After a few minutes your son seemed to be satisfied and you felt yourself dozing off. 

“I got him mahal.” Trinity gently took the baby from your arms as you made yourself a bit more comfortable. 

“Sleep my love, you did so good. I'm so proud of you.” She pressed a final kiss on your forehead before you finally fell asleep. 

For the first time in who knows how long you actually felt well rested and completely ready for whatever lied ahead.

When you woke up Trinity was holding the baby, softly talking to him while they both looked out the window together. 

“Will you stay?” Trinity turned to you and understood the question immediately. 

“I'm not going anywhere. You two are my family now and I'm going to love you both for the rest of my life.” Your heart soared as you moved over in the bed and made room for her to join you fully on the bed. 

She handed you the baby while she sat herself a little higher so she could wrap her arm around you and you could rest your head on her chest. 

“So, what’s his name?” Trinity questioned with a dreamy look in her eyes. 

“Our son’s name is Evan Angelo Nightengale.” Trinity took in a deep breath as she moved to look you in the eyes. 

“You want to name him after my dad? Are you sure?” You nodded as you looked at her with pride in your eyes. 

“He’s named after his two amazing grandparents. And if I do say so myself, it fits him perfectly.” Trinity had a shit eating grin on her face as she pulled you into her chest. She was addicted to the feeling of being close to you. 

“It really does. And one day I can’t wait to share a last name with you and our son.” Trinity pulled you into a searing kiss. This was exactly what you’d been waiting for. Her, and the safety she brought you and your son. 

Your perfect little family.

***

Masterlist - Archive of Our Own - Taglist

your first impression of Trinity Santos wasn’t exactly flattering.

it was your second shift in the pitt, and practically downpour outside the hospital walls as you scrambled to keep up with the work load. MVC, only 2 hours into the day, all hands on deck.

you were practically scurrying around the nurses station trying to discharge patients as quick as possible, free up some beds, move others to the hall if possible.

jackson peterson can go to the hall. he’s stable enough, plus he just finished getting iv fluids half and hour ago.

mrs richardson is good to go home, she just needs her paperwork.

kelly anderson is still waiting for CT but she’s stable, vitals are good, she can sit in the hall via wheelchair.

you pause, brows pushing together as you try to think back on what else dr robby had asked of you.

you turn, feet on a swivel without a glance.

“watch it hun,” dana.

she’s passing you right as your shoulder nearly collides with hers, and although her voice is strict her eyes are soft, amused beneath her glasses. noted. look both ways.

“i hope we get something good,” santos jogs to catch up with you, elbows bumping as you exit to the ambulance bay where you can already hear the distance sirens incoming, “dibs. watch and learn.”

she’s cynical, you can tell by the edge in her voice and the way she doesn’t bother to glance your way. rude. you didn’t even catch her first name, she didn’t even ask for yours. double rude.

your eyes narrow, about to retort at the brunette when suddenly your eyeline has gone vertical, hands shooting out as your body loses momentum, shoes squeaking against the rainwater.

one minute you’re approaching your attending, and the next your ass is smacking hard against the pavement. if your tailbone was sentient it would be cussing, a dull throb crawling up your spine.

the worst you’d get is a bruise if it wasn’t for the eyes that have followed you down, a few ooos and damn’s coming from your colleagues that make your ego shrink beyond repair.

“oh my g-, that was,” santos. she’s still beside you, maybe a few steps ahead but she’s now doubled over in laughter, clutching her stomach like it’s so funny it hurts, “that was beautiful.”

damn her.

mohan is already at your side, brows pinched in concern, a hand extending to aid you. you take it gracefully, as gracefully as someone who just embarrassed herself front of her higher up’s can manage. you’re pulled to a stand, groaning low at the soreness presenting itself across your ass. you would rub at the pain if it wouldn’t make you look even more like a moron.

…and santos is still laughing, so much so you’re positive you can see tears in her eyes. okay it wasn’t that funny.

“my day is made, nothing can top that,” she’s acting like you didn’t get hurt, granted it’s a superficial bruise of an injury but still, have some decency, “thanks for the show, slip.”

oh. oh no.

you were there when javadi collapsed. in fact you managed to catch her halfway to the ground. you remember the way santos rolled her eyes, arms crossed like it was an inconvenience.

you were there when she prodded at poor victoria and thus crowned her, ‘crash’. but javadi was a student still, passing out happens all the time for them. you were a resident, technically an equal to santos, both interns, both R1’s. and now what, you’ve been demoted by someone on the same level as you to slip?

it’s not even a creative nickname.

______________________________________________

“head in the clouds slip? or just running on fumes.” two hands grasp at your shoulders with a jolt, they’re off in a second but the way it shocks you out of your stupor lasts. you turn just as the short ponytail of brunette hair flicks to the opposite side of you. trinity leans against the counter of the nurses station beside you, a look on her face that says tell me all.

you sigh half heartedly, ignoring the way you can still feel the warmth of her palms against your shoulders, turning to face her.

“just thinking about the first time we met.” you chuckle, it’s a funny memory now thankfully. trinity eyes you for a second, you swallow, slightly shrinking under her gaze.

“oh yeah,” she says it like she’s too cool to think about it, lips pursing in a way that tells you she’s actually holding back a smile, “and you ignored me for weeks after.”

you snicker. yeah, you remember that part too.

however it wasn’t because you were mad per say, more because of the embarrassment you felt whenever you saw her… okay and you were a little mad.

“i’ve grown to appreciate your comments, no matter how annoying they can be.” you tease, nose wrinkling to really emphasize your point. trinity scoffs but the look in her eyes doesn’t change, gaze locked with yours.

“plus if i didn’t put up with you,” you lean in, mischievous grin creeping onto your lips, you miss the way trinitys throat bobs as you invade her personal space, “you’d be all alone.”

it’s a jab you know is a lie, and so does she, but you still chuckle as you grab your patients chart from the counter and briskly pass her.

the hum of the er drones.

you’re oblivious to the way her body turns towards yours as you leave, like it’s magnetized, green eyes following your frame until you turn the corner and disappear from sight.

trinity sinks forward into the counter, a harsh breath leaving her lips as she plants her elbows and places cheek to palm.

“am i intruding?” trinity’s head snaps up, eyes falling on dana now sitting across the desk. she’s looking over the glasses perched on her nose, a knowing smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth.

“do i sense tension?” samira smiles as she approaches, handing a chart off to dana. she’d seen the interaction, she’s seen all of them. her and dana exchange knowing looks as trinity’s back straightens, face sinking into an expression that reads ‘i have no idea what you mean’.

“i’m gonna get details on the nun with syphilis.” trinity turns to leave, not bothering to address the two women.

“gonorrhea.” dana corrects without a glance up.

“tomato, tomahto.”

—————————————————————————

“how do you put up with it?”

you look up to find victoria standing in the doorway of the break room, hands wringing awkwardly. you pause, sandwich halfway to your mouth.

“uh, context?” you laugh, placing your lunch back down on its wrapper as victoria takes the empty seat across from you.

“santos. she’s, pretty mean,” she continues, that uncomfortable look on her face that just screams victoria javadi, staring into your eyes, “like, how do you deal with that stuff.”

you’re not sure how to answer that. you just don’t really mind. for whatever reason.

“huh, i’ve never put too much thought into it,” you ponder, the question she’s asking now sparking your own interest, “i think it’s just her way of communicating.”

“by belittling?”

“unfortunately.” you chuckle, watching how victoria shifts in her seat. you can tell she wants to say more, it’s like she’s holding a jumpy frog in her mouth.

you glance up and down, taking in the way she clutching her lavender jacket closer around her body like a safety blanket.

“you want me to talk to her?” that gets victorias attention, her eyes widening like a frightened puppy put on the spot. her hands shoot up in mock surrender, palms waving.

“no, that’s not necessary,” she replies, tone a little panicked and speaking quicker than you’ve ever heard her.

“i won’t mention this conversation, i’ll make it seem like it was all me,” you continue, nodding, “i won’t throw you under the bus.”

victoria pauses, hands falling into a clasp on the table.

“um, sure. if you’re cool with that.” she goes to stand, smiling in that way she does where her lips slightly curl into her teeth. you pick up your sandwich, ignoring the dollop of mayo that drops onto your thumb.

then she pauses again, freezing for a minute at the doorway before angling herself so she can address you properly.

“she still calls you slip.” she says, voice a tad softer than before.

you smile. easy.

“i’ve grown to like it.”

______________________________________________

“did you hear about the guy in chairs who’s eye popped out of the socket?” was the last thing you wanted to hear as you took a sip of lukewarm, watered down coffee shen had offered you before he left.

you swallowed with a grimace as trinity stuck her phone in your face, zoomed in on a picture you can only imagine she took in an effort to make you puke. you shove the device away from your face, face screwing up as trinity just laughed like it was the best thing in the world.

“ew. gross trin.” you suck in a breath, watching trinity eye the picture again before slipping her phone in her back pocket.

“you’ve definitely seen worse,” she quips, leaning her backside against the nurses desk, looming over you like a dark cloud as you sit in the chair dana always claimed. you were just keeping it warm for her, “i didn’t take you for a lightweight, slip.”

if your eyes rolled any further back you’d lose them.

“i’m not, but come on i was eating.” you nod to the dunkin cup in your hand, trinity follows your eye-line, landing on the few inches of ‘coffee’ left.

“you don’t eat coffee, babe.”

you freeze before your lips can wrap around the orange straw again, hand unknowingly gripping the plastic cup harder. your eyes are on the counter beside trinitys hip, blinking like a moron.

your lashes flutter, eyes glancing up to land on the woman mere feet from you. a harsh breath escapes your throat when you take in the way she’s seemingly frozen as well, if you just lean in a bit closer you can faintly see what appears to be a pink hue coloring her ears.

“that’s a new one.” you cough.

“shut up,” trinity squeezes her eyes shut, running a firm hand across her face. you follow the movement.

she opens her eyes to glance down at you, and you suddenly feel very small under her gaze, the fact you’re sitting down and she’s standing doesn’t help the situation. nor does it calm the racing of your heart or the fuzziness in your brain.

“um, i-,” trinity starts, the stutter in her voice catching you off guard in a way that’s concerning. however she’s cut off by a frazzled whitaker appearing out of thin air, body practically collapsing while still standing before the two of you.

he’s huffing like he ran a marathon, however you know for a fact the two patients rooms he’s been managing are both only several meters away.

“alien hand syndrome.” he announces it like the two of you are supposed to have a clue what he’s referring too. you and trinity lock eyes, she shrugs and it makes you smile.

“huckleberry, you don’t have to make up excuses for why i caught you jerking it the other day,” trinitys arms cross, leaning further into the desk. that gets a laugh out of you, even though you feel slightly bad at the way dennis’s face drops.

his face says ‘not this again’.

“trin.” you chuckle, bringing the coffee back to your lips.

“what? no!” dennis waves his hands like he’s been accused of a crime, like he’s in defensive mode or fight or flight and he’s about to book it down the hall. how can someone look so much like a soggy, depressed napkin?

“my patient, mr davidson? he was brought in for causing a disturbance at the gym down the street,” he continues while shaking his head like she’s waiting for trinity to keep her joke going, her silence is worrying, “he has alien hand syndrome, i’ve never seen it in person.”

he seems both parts greatly excited and deeply confused. typical dennis. trinity looks back to you, brows raising when she catches your eye, then back to dennis.

she snorts a laugh through her nose.

“it’s okay, we all need time for ourselves.”

whitaker takes a breath, eyes falling shut.

“mr davidson-,”

“is that what you named your penis?” okay. she just says things in a certain way that you find so funny. you choke on a laugh, smacking a hand against trinitys knee as she just smiles at dennis, you don’t notice the way her eyes occasionally glance towards you.

“who named their penis?” oh my god. robby walks up from behind you, crossing his arms in a way that mirrors trinity. he looks amused, however you can also see the urge to reprimand the three of you sitting behind his eyes. your back straightens like you’ve been struck by lightning.

“dennis.” you respond calmly, holding back the howl you want to let out at the way dennis’s soul appears to leave his body. trinity seems to be doing the same, hunched over with her shoulders trembling.

robby eyes the three of you. he shakes his head like a disappointed father. you think you see a brand new wrinkle form on his forehead in real time.

“do i have to say it?” he says, hands on his hips.

you grab trinitys hand, standing to her left as you use your free hand to pick up the chart you’d been using earlier.

“nope! in fact labs are back so we’ll be on our way,” you tug trinity with you, past whitaker who looks like a kicked puppy, “i’ll let you know when mrs martin is discharged!”

you drag trinity along with you, grinning without teeth towards robby one last time as you leave the nurses station.

“um, we’re not on the same case?” trinity whispers, leaning so close you can feel how her breath tickles your ear.

“we just needed to get out of there, robby had that look on his face.”

______________________________________________

it’s been an awful day. there’s no other way to spin it. you’ve had patients die, you’ve had your hands on them as they’ve taken their last breath. you’ve seen children die, so young it hurts your soul and makes you find yourself on the roof. you’ve had belligerent patients, family, you’ve been shoved and hassled by people in chairs.

but that’s the job. and maybe that’s what it is, without a break in so long you slowly sink into the hopelessness of it all. thankfully you can go home at the end of the day, most times at least, flop onto bed still in your scrubs and just try to forgot. but it still takes a toll.

as you stare down at the blood coating your gloved hands, it draws your attention to the red bleeding through your scrubs into the clothes beneath. it’s tacky and growing cold, the edges of crimson around your shoes browning to a rust color.

your fingers tremble, bottom lip quivering. you’ve cried before on shift, it happens. it just always sucks.

“you did a great job.” mohan is beside you, you feel the steadiness of her palm plant on your shoulder. she’s always been kind, she always knows what to say, and yet this time her words fail to ease back the panic in your stomach.

“he still died,” you say it as a fact. his body is still only a few feet away, mckay is currently covering his face with a sheet. red bleeds through, “what’s the point if they just die.”

“sometimes no matter what you do, and no matter how good you are, they still don’t make it,” samira states, you can’t bring yourself to look at her, “it’s not a failure on our part.”

she’s right.

you know she’s right.

but it still stings. you can’t help the shaky breath that leaves your lips, shoulder moving in a way that lets samira know you appreciate the gesture but don’t want to be touched. she listens, grip falling from you.

“how much longer is your shift?” mckay asks and as she approaches, you can see the sympathy all over her face. something about it makes you uneasy. why would she feel bad for you? you didn’t die. he did.

“3 hours,” you reply, but it’s hollow, concerning. samira and cassie exchange a look, “i’ll be fine.”

and it’s the truth. you will be fine, you’re always fine. it’s just difficult sometimes, doesn’t mean you can’t pull yourself out.

“how about you clean up and then get some fresh air before returning, okay?” cassie tells you, and you can tell she’s telling, not asking, “i’ll let robby know. he’ll understand.”

you don’t bother arguing, just nod quietly as mckay motions for you to leave the room first. you do so in silence, head hanging a bit more than usual.

mckay and mohan give you another once over before dispersing.

you tug the gloves off your hands, tossing them in a nearby waste disposal bin, there’s a bit of blood near your wrists, having soaked in right below your sleeves. just as you turn to walk outside and follow the instructions you’d been given, you feel someone flick the back of your head.

you turn, coming face to face with trinity. her eyes widen, and for a second you think something reassuring is about to leave her mouth. you could use a hug from her, make just a pat on the back. someone you trust, someone you like, someone you…

your heart sinks when she smirks.

“damn carrie, who came in with the pigs blood?” it’s funny. really, it’s a good reference, it makes sense, if you saw her like this you’d probably say the same. but her words lodge in your ribs and wiggle up into your chest cavity in a way that makes you want to lurch over and lose your lunch.

you can feel how your face drops further, unfortunately for you, trinity was looking at your once white sneakers now red, when it did.

“seriously, did you actually kill someone on purpose?” she shuffles closer. eyes narrowing like she’s analyzing you, waiting for you to reveal a knife or chainsaw. you shake your head half heartedly, trying to muster up a smile.

“no.” you say it with a tone so forlorn you can see how trinitys brows furrow slightly, like she’s a bit taken aback.

she pauses.

“yeah, no shit,” normally her laughter would brighten your day, make a bad shift good. but right in this moment, you wanted nothing more than to hear it stop, “i don’t think i’ve ever seen you cry.”

she chuckles like that’s supposedly funny. you suck in a breath, you can feel the heat behind your eyes returning.

dammit. don’t cry. not now.

“come on, i thought you weren’t as sensitive as the others,” you know she’s trying to be funny. you can recognize it in her tone, you know her. she’s not trying to be malicious but man, she’s really making this worse for you. this is the last thing you needed.

you can feel your pulse pick up, the shake in your legs coming back full force. you need to get away from all of this, it’s embarrassing, you don’t want her to see you like this, it’s not her fault.

it’s not her fault, so why do her words hurt so much?

“scrubs exchange.” is all you can get out without it sounding like you’re about to burst into tears, keeping your voice calm and level. hopefully she gets the message as you move to scurry past her, shoulders brushing at the close proximity.

trinity can feel her smile droop, thrown off by your behavior. did she go too far? no, if you actually felt bad you’d tell her. you know you can trust her, right? her mouth opens and closes, trying to find the words.

come on, say anything.

her thoughts are begging her, she wants to grab your arm, pull you back in. but she doesn’t, because if you were really, actually feeling upset, you’d tell her.

so she turns before you get far, jogging to catch up with you. maybe if she can make you laugh you’ll tell her you were just messing with her, it was a joke, to see her reaction.

yeah. that’s probably it.

she places a hand on your arm, pulling it a little as she manages to stop you in your tracks. you stay facing the other direction.

“come on don’t be such a baby, i’m messing with you,” she jokes, chuckling awkwardly like she’s fixing something, “don’t be so pathetic, slip.”

mistake.

trinity braces herself for you to shove her, faux anger and whip back with you own retort. you always do, you’re slip, she’s santos, it’s your thing.

sniff.

trinity’s smile drops faster than her stomach, like she’s going to be sick. her grip on your wrist tightens subconsciously, which only furthers to splinter her chest in two when she feels you tug.

and then you rip your arm from her, like her touch has burned you, like you can’t stand to be touched by her, like it’s disgusting.

“hey, i-,”

the words die on her tongue when you whip around and she’s met with something that just utterly destroys her.

your face is blotchy with tears, cheeks swollen, bottom lip riddled with marks where your teeth dug into it, the flesh quivering uncontrollably. rivets of tears spill down your face, washing past and carrying drops of blood that had lingered.

then you made a sound, this soft, heartbreaking, whimper of a sob that thankfully isn’t loud enough for any other staff to hear but isn’t too quiet that trinity misses it.

trinity can feel her throat go dry, what? no, no no no, why is she crying?

her hands feel clammy, fingers twitching like she’s resisting balling up her fists, no matter how much she wants to dig her nails into her palms and draw blood.

“wait-,” she sputters, face contorting in fear. what’s she scared of? please, please don’t tell me i just lost her, “don’t cry, i was-,”

“it’s not funny.” you sound so sad so, so sad and she wants to scream. it’s like all the fluorescent lights above trinity are aimed at her. it’s cruel, the way her chest in heaving with heavy breaths she can’t seem to catch.

she watches as you wipe at your cheeks with open palms, which does nothing to clear the wetness of your face as more tears fall.

she wants to grab you, hold you, tell you she’s sorry, probably more sorry than she’s ever been. she’s never once felt bad poking and prodding at anyone before, but now? this? she feels as though she’s staring at the scene of a crime.

a crime she caused.

her hand is shaking as she reaches out, you have to know she’s sorry, right? you know her, she would never intentionally make you feel like this. if you could just take her hand, allow her touch, she could prove it to you.

all the movement does is cause you to take an unsteady step back, then another.

“just, leave me alone, santos.” and you’re turning on your heel again, pretty much speed walking as fast as you can away without getting told to slow down.

trinity stands with her had frozen mid air, fingers extended like an idiot.

her hand drops to her side, balling into a fist.

god. why do her eyes sting so much.

santos. you called her santos

not trinity, not trin, not idiot. you hadn’t called her santos since you’d first been acquainted, since the time period where you’d do anything to avoid her. she never wants to go back to that time, not after knowing you, not after…

she hangs her head, trying to get a grip, gain her momentum back. she can feel the sweat blossoming across the back of her neck, nervous, shaky. she takes a deep breath, and exhales.

she had to fix this. but how, when you didn’t even want to look at her?

______________________________________________

“do you think if i fling myself hard enough off the roof the impact will kill me instantly?” okay. wow.

whitakers head snaps up, eyes wide and rapidly blinking like he’s trying to rationalize that he didn’t actually hear what he thinks trinity just said. his mouth opens, then closes, fingers gripping at the binder in his hands.

“pardon, i, what?” he’s clearly taken aback, still blinking like it’ll shed some light.

“maybe i can blow myself up,” she continues, the serious look on her face fairly concerning, “hospitals have oxygen canisters, it’s possible.”

dennis takes a deep breath, glancing both ways like someone will come and save him from this conversation.

“you’re, joking right?” he needles in, hoping for the love of all things holy she breaks character and starts cackling like normal. instead she turns to him, face blank with a look of utter defeat. everything trinity is not.

“i fucked up.” she concedes. which is rare for her, so much so dennis does a double take, a little dramatic in a way that would make trinity roll her eyes if she wasn’t so damn bothered.

“i made her cry.” she confesses, lowering her voice a bit like anyone else knowing what she’s done would actually end her.

dennis blinks.

he says your name as a question.

“i’ve made people cry before, nothing bad”, she shakes her head, “but like, i have.”

she’s picking at her cuticles, pulling back skin and drawing blood. if it’s painful at all she doesn’t let on, stare empty as she looks to the tile floor.

“so what’s the issue?”

yeah. what is the issue?

“the issue is,” she inhales like it’s the last breath she’ll ever take. she wants the earth to swallow her up, maybe if she grovels enough it will, “she won’t look at me, won’t speak to me.”

a heavy pause.

“it’s been 3 days.” there it is, what’s caused the exhaustion to be present on trinitys face. it’s like in these three days, she’s gone through war.

“everything feels wrong.”

“maybe you should talk to her?” dennis tries, all it gets is that same blank look, like obviously, she’s tried that.

it’s like she has the plague. the day of the incident you finished your shift without looking her in the eye once, which she’ll admit was pretty impressive. even when you ran a code together, you managed to help the patient, stop a major bleeder, speak to her professionally like nothing had happened, and yet after you finished you left the room before she could say your name.

the next day trinity came into the pitt feeling a bit better, obviously you wouldn’t still be upset. you had a whole night to think, lament, hate her, get sleep and rest. maybe you’d come up and forgive her, maybe you’d act like nothing had happened. she just needed to know the two of you would be fine.

that’s until you came in with your coffee, looking well rested, and walked right past her. she watched you walk up to samira and begin chatting. and yeah, you and samira were friends, but you’d never ignored trinity to talk someone else.

however what hurt more wasn’t the fact you’d ignored her, it was how happy you looked. samira made a face and said something she couldn’t make out and you broke into laughter like it was the best thing you’d ever heard.

she was supposed made you laugh. trinity did. not mohan, not dennis, not dana. not anyone.

yet there you were, treating her like a stranger and fluttering around like you hadn’t a care in the world. you’d walked into the break room when she was finishing leftover lasagna, and caught the redness your eyes still had, most likely from the other day. it made her throat tighten, and suddenly she wasn’t hungry anymore.

the third day trinity hadn’t gotten any sleep. she spent the night rolling from one side to the other, her pillow was warm, her fitted sheet kept popping up, and her thoughts was running a mile a minute.

what if she never speaks to you again?

she jolted into an upright position, heaving like she hadn’t just been laying down. no, she couldn’t let that happen.

she was knocked from her thoughts by someone clearing their throat. oh yeah, she’d walked out with javadi to check on chairs and make sure no one had kicked the bucket.

“i’ve been here for 4 hours, 4!” the man before them states, having stood up to block their path down the aisle. he’s taller than both of them, chest heaving, eyes wide and bulging.

“we see patients based on severity, so-,” javadi starts, mouth clamping shut when the man focuses on her, taking a bold step forward.

“severe? i could have a brain bleed, my heads been fuzzy for hours now and no one wants to do their damn job!” he shouts, now catching the attention of others, the room quieting down at his level of noise.

javadi checks her chart, locates his name, and nods.

“um, so you were seen briefly to rule that out, unfortunately we can’t bring you back just yet-,” she’s cut off again when trinity speaks up, expression like she can’t be bothered to deal with this.

“you’ll be seen when you’re seen, if you don’t want to wait,” she looks towards the door, angling a thumb at it to catch the man’s attention, “you can sign an AMA and leave.”

it blunt, it’s honest, and it clearly enrages the man.

“you know what, bitch-,”

he looks like he’s about to explode on them, hopefully not physically, they would never find out as dana and security come running up from behind.

“okay! okay no,” dana gets between, hands up like she’s ready to throw a punch if need be, “that’s what we’re not gonna do here.”

“sir if you can’t sit down and be an adult, i’m afraid we’ll have to get the police involved.” dana minces no words, glaring the man down like she really needs him to consider his options. thankfully it seems to have worked, his angered expression not leaving, yet he lowers himself back into the seat and crosses his arms. it’s like watching a petulant child get put in timeout.

javadi releases the breath she was holding, leaving back to the double doors to the pitt.

dana has already began speaking with security, pointing out who they need to keep a better watch on.

trinity sighs, and although her shift only started a few hours ago, she just wants to leave. she begins to follow Javadi, looking up from the various shoes of the people in the waiting room before her gaze falls on familiar eyes.

you stand a few yards away, seemingly having arrived with dana seconds ago which she hadn’t noticed to due facing the other direction. she’s ready to see you retreat, go back to treating her like dust under your sofa. but you don’t. you’re standing with wide eyes, lips parted like you can’t take in air fast enough. and suddenly you’re walking towards her, grabbing her hand before she can ask why, before she can worry you’re just going to say this is the last time you’ll ever touch her.

but you’re dragging her back through the doors, away from the noise of people. she can see you glancing around from behind you, like you’re searching for something. then she’s being yanked into an empty patient room, one that had just been discharged, drops of blood still on the floor.

you release her hand just to turn and yank the curtain shut, pausing after the light from outside dims and the silence becomes overwhelming.

“what, were you thinking?” you say before even turning to look at her, and trinity is properly confused, her hand still tingling from where you’d been grabbing her. she felt something like a caged animal all of a sudden, but maybe not seeing as there’s no where she’d rather be.

“w-what?” there’s that stutter again.

it’s your turn now, shifting to face her with an expression she’s never seen aimed at her before.

“you just riled up a guy twice your size, not to mention he was already pissed before you even opened your damn mouth!” that makes her jaw drop, brain back to static, confused.

“you care?” she replies, not snooty, not in a nasty way. she says it smooth, like a saturday morning, like she needs the answer to be yes or she’ll die right here and now.

you blink, taken aback.

“of course i care,” you say it like it’s easy, like you couldn’t even think of anything else you’d say to that. you don’t approach, you just stand their, staring at her like you also share her confusion, “you think i’d cry over someone i don’t care about?”

that’s a gut punch, and trinity would physically grab her gut if she didn’t think it would make her look even more stupid in front of you.

“i’m sorry.”

she says it barely above a whisper, eyes casting down like she’s ashamed. and quite frankly she is, she wouldn’t be in this predicament if it wasn’t for her and her annoying deflections.

your mouth shuts, processing.

“i didn’t like seeing you cry,” she continues, “i actually would rather go my whole life without seeing it again.”

the air feels heavier, weighing down on the both of you.

“especially considering i was the reason.” she can see the way your face falls at her words, and wishes nothing more than to pull you in and comfort you. but you probably don’t want that, especially after she treated you, after she hurt you.

“trin-,”

her breathing catches in her throat at the nickname, one you didn’t call her often but enough that whenever you did it felt like something real.

“i’m not mad at you.”

“you have every right to be.” she scoffs, lip curling like she has no right for you to forgive her. she’s caught off guard however when you take a weary step forward, rocking back and forth as you balance into the motion.

“i was upset, yes, but i was never mad,” she wants believe you but part of her is also jarringly aware that something in her brain wants you to be mad at her. she deserves it, she aimed her remarks at the one person she never wanted to see crumble from them, “my patient died that day.”

you say it with hesitation, and trinity has to physically hold herself back from approaching you and wrapping an arm around your shoulder, tugging you into her side.

she can see how your throat bobs, inhaling deeply like you’re preparing for a difficult conversation. she’s ready, ready for you to be done with her. she laughed at you when you’d lost a patient, she’d made it worse even unintentionally, how do you come back from that?

“i was having a rough week, and i was down,” you sigh, pained at the thought, “i’m sorry.”

trinity blanches. you’re sorry?

“what?” she speaks before her brain catches up with her mouth.

you nod, looking forlorn.

“i ignored you, which wasn’t very mature,” you’re clearly putting a lot of thought into your words based on the scrunch between your brows, “i think i was embarrassed, that what you said got to me so much.”

“don’t.”

you look up at that, finding a conflicted expression plastered across trinitys face. she looks distraught, pieces of hair have fallen from her ponytail to frame her face, she doesn’t bother push them back.

“don’t apologize, please,” she whispers, and it’s the more genuine you’ve ever heard her, “i’m the one who needs to, please.”

that’s probably the most you’ve ever heard trinity say please and it’s been twice, and aimed both times at you.

“i’m not good at this.” she huffs.

“this,” she waves a hand between the two of you, “being close like this with someone, not wanting to hurt them so badly it makes me feel sick.”

it’s your turn for your breath to catch.

“i never meant to hurt you,” she continues, as if you would start talking again, like you weren’t standing there at a loss for words, “i’ll never do it again, believe me.”

she’s begging.

if anymore desperation were to pour off her she’d been on her knees, looking up at you and hoping you wouldn’t slam the door in her face.

she doesn’t know how to do this, apologize, actually be sorry. she’s felt remorse, she’s not that emotionally reserved. but this is different, this is you. if she can’t talk normally to people her own age, family of patients, how is she supposed to explain how she feels to someone she’s…

she doesn’t have too.

because before her mouth can open again and spew more sorry’s, she’s pushed against the empty gurney behind her as your body collides with her. it’s warm, the way your hands wrap around her back, pull her weight into yours. your face is shoved in the crook of her neck, breath tickling the hairs at the back of her nape.

her hands shoot out, bracing a second too late and pausing before her brain catches up and she’s realizes what’s happening and wraps her own arms around you. her fingers dig into your scrubs, hands gripping at your waist like she’s scared you’ll slip away or disappear or, god forbid, ignore her again.

she can feel the breaths you take as your chest is pressed to hers, she doesn’t think she’s ever been this close to you. it sends her thoughts on a spiral, she’s so glad, overjoyed that you’ve obviously forgiven her but man.

she can feel the heat flood her cheeks, burning her face as if the ac wasn’t currently is blasting. her fingers tremble against your body, suddenly too aware of every part of you tucked into her. she’s happy, the relief she feeling is overwhelming, however the next breath she takes in is shaky.

“i take that as a-,” she wants to joke, make a quip that you didn’t stay mad long, how she can’t blame you, you must have missed her so much.

until you lean back enough to catch her eye, faces nearly nose to nose, and your head tips forward.

hold on.

trinitys aware of what’s happening. how couldn’t she be when she’s thought about this moment for months, unfortunately so often sometimes you’d catch her staring and make a tease about her being oh so in love.

“i can’t blame you trin, im just too pretty.”

you’re right, you can’t blame her, because that’s just a fact. a fact running through her mind as the plush warmth of your lips press to hers.

of course she tastes good, she’s always smelled amazing, this shouldn’t be shocking.

but it’s shocking enough that she stumbles a bit, the backs of her thighs catching on the gurney. and oh god, your hand is now in her hair, tugging at the roots, adjusting her back like she’d go anywhere.

it’s mean how you’d nails rake across her scalp, tongue darting out to lick at the seam of her bottom lip, it’s pure evil.

right as her mouth opens, heart thudding so quick she’s worried you’d feel it against yours, you pull away.

fuck.

there’s a string of spit connecting your lips, your hand swiftly coming up to wipe at the glistening on your chin an breaking the connection.

“i forgive you.” you say it in this soft voice, all casual like you hadn’t just rearranged her mind and weakened her self control. she can’t help but snort, eyes rolling as her heart continues to race.

“uh, no shit.”

You hear the phone ring and then the voicemail kick in; you don’t need to pull it out to know who’s calling you. The only real doubt that could arise is which of the two of them has actually worried enough to call you. Well, maybe you know that answer too. You finish the cigarette and stub it out on the cement beneath you; as you do, your fingertip barely scrapes against the cement and that faint pain numbs you completely, along with the cold air and the sound of the traffic below. You glare with resentment at the empty pack of cigarettes in your pocket and a small huff leaves your lips. You settle yourself more comfortably on the ledge, not paying much attention — as if you weren’t literally one step away from death.

A small, melancholic smile curls your lips and a jolt of pain strikes your right cheek; by now a bruise has surely formed, no doubt about it. You don’t need to have studied medicine for ten years to figure that out, and you don’t need a mirror either. You feel it in every facial movement you make; every single crease of the skin reminds you coldly of what happened today and the reason you find yourself on this rooftop.

It’s not the first time a patient has thrown a punch at you, but it is the first time that the father of a child — John, six years old, with a cardiac malformation for which you could do nothing except fifteen desperate minutes of cardiac massage on your part — screams at you that it’s your fault his child is dead, punches you in the face, and then, according to the evening news, throws himself off the nearest bridge to the hospital. Dead on impact. Only Dana had recognized the man on the news, and her gaze had settled on you with a sweetness and a concern that only that woman was capable of. But, as was your habit, you had downplayed it and reassured her and, above all, you had begged her not to tell anyone.

Not that anyone knew about your relationship. A relationship involving three people is never an easy confession, and in a workplace? A nightmare.

Everyone in the ER knew about THEIR relationship, but you stayed in the shadows, with fleeting quickies, stolen kisses, and a shared apartment twelve minutes by car from your workplace.

You had started working at the Pitt alongside Trinity, and gradually she had grown close to a certain surgeon, and then, well, the duo had become a trio. With Yolanda’s hands roaming over your body while your mouth found warm shelter between Trinity’s legs. Before long, your casual relationship had grown more serious until you decided to move in together, and you fit together so well that it seemed a shame not to have met them sooner; a sacrilege, almost. Trinity had opened up about her scars, you about the depression that had consumed you for most of your life, and Yolanda about her battle with — and eventual victory over — the obsessive-compulsive disorder that, over the years, had transformed into the control she so often displayed in the operating room. You were imperfect, but you loved and accepted one another completely in a way you had only ever dreamed of.

You slide your fingertip over the wheel that strikes the lighter’s flame; it takes three tries for the fire to rise and for the empty cigarette box, resting on the cement of the ledge, to catch fire.

You’ve been up here for hours by now; you don’t know what you want to do, you don’t know if you want to take a step forward and end all of this forever or take a step back and return to the arms of your partners, at home. John isn’t the first child you’ve lost, but you had grown attached to him like you never had to anyone else. In one month, you had seen that little human being more than most of your own family; he had made you laugh, cry, have fun; he had drawn you a beautiful picture: three figures holding hands in front of a building with an asterisk drawn on top, at the center of which was a serpent coiled around a staff. One night, while you were checking his vitals, you had told the little one that you loved two people and not just one, like other people. You had told him that everyone says you can only love one person at a time, and that they said it because they had never met two extraordinary people at the same time.

The next day, when you had entered his room for the routine checkup, you had found him sitting on the bed — surrounded by machines that a child shouldn’t even have to see, at his age — clutching triumphantly, in his tiny little hands, that piece of paper. He had handed it to you with the biggest smile you had ever seen him make, and in a proud voice he had said that he too loved many people: his father, his cousin, his teacher… and he understood what it meant to love more than one person. You had cried that day, because a child had explained and understood what many people couldn’t even conceive of.

The world had lost a beautiful person today.

It wasn’t your fault, you know that; rationally, you know that you did — that all of you did — everything you were capable of doing. But grief… grief is never rational.

What remains of the pack is a little pile of ash; you brush it away with the back of your hand, letting the wind carry it off with a gust. The way you too would like to fly away, without the weight of everything you feel on your shoulders right now.

“To jump or not to jump, that is what I wonder”… you chuckle bitterly at the thought; after all, the great Shakespeare would not be very pleased with this butchered quotation.

The phone rings again, three, four, five times. And then, the rooftop door opens with a creak.

You don’t even turn around, you don’t feel the need and even less the desire. Whether it’s one of your colleagues or one of your partners doesn’t matter; you don’t owe explanations to anyone, everyone comes up here, whether for the view or for other reprehensible reasons is beside the point.

“Hey kiddo, I haven’t seen you come down in a while. The night shift has arrived and Lena too, finally. I can’t wait to get home to my boys. Maybe it’s time for you to do the same.”

The unmistakable voice of the head nurse rings through the noisy silence of the roof, drowning out the hum of car horns dozens of meters below. You hear the click of a lighter, and without turning around, you understand she has just lit a cigarette.

You don’t answer. You don’t turn. The sound of her steps approaches slowly, unhurriedly, as if she had all the time in the world — and perhaps, in a way, she does. Dana isn’t the type of person who rushes you; she’s the type of person who sits down next to you, on the cold cement, a meter from the edge, and smokes in silence as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“I lied for you today, you know? Santos called me, about an hour ago,” she says, after a long drag. Her voice is flat, free of judgment. “I told her you were still at the hospital, that you were finishing some charts. She pretended to believe me.”

Your stomach drops. Not because of the lie itself, but because Dana had had to construct it, think it through, make it believable. For you. Because you hadn’t had the courage to answer the phone.

“You didn’t have to,” you murmur.

“I didn’t have to, but the alternative was telling her the truth, and I don’t know if I was ready for that conversation.”

You don’t ask what the truth is according to Dana. You don’t need to. You saw her watching you walk out of the family room with the bruise already forming on your cheek and your eyes hollow.

“I’m not going to jump, Dana,” you sigh, but not even you believe your own words because, as a matter of fact, a very large part of you would just like to have the guts to take that last step.

“I didn’t suggest that, kid, but I’m definitely not going down from this roof without seeing you get off that ledge first. You’ve been up here for hours and I doubt it’s just to admire the view.”

You hear a long breath and then a little cloud of smoke rises to your right. The woman has probably moved closer, without you noticing.

You swallow. The metallic taste of smoke scratches your throat and the inhaler in your pocket weighs like an accusation.

“It was a bad day, Dana. Nothing more.”

“A bad day…” Dana chuckles bitterly, weighing every single word and shaking her head a couple of times before tossing the cigarette on the ground and crushing it with the toe of her shoe.

For a few seconds, the only sound surrounding you is your breathing, the wheeze in your bronchi that you are trying with all your might to silence. Your abs ache from how hard you’re straining not to cough, but from the gaze you feel burning against your back, you understand it’s futile.

“How much,” she says. A single word, dry as a slap.

“Dana—”

“How much did you smoke, y/n.”

“A pack.”

Dana drags a hand over her face. From bottom to top, slowly, pressing her fingers against her closed eyes as if she were trying to erase something from her own sight. You’ve seen her make that gesture only after the worst shifts — the ones after which you find yourself in the parking lot staring at the steering wheel for twenty minutes before you can turn the key.

“A whole pack,” she repeats, and her voice trembles now. Not with anger. With something deeper, rawer. “You’re asthmatic. You’re asthmatic, for fuck’s sake, y/n, and you’re a doctor, you know what it does to your lungs, and the wheeze I can hear in your breathing is proof of it. Where’s your inhaler? Christ…”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see her turn toward the city for a second, toward the lights flickering on one after another in the growing darkness. You see her hesitate, open her mouth and then close it again as if she were afraid of what she’s about to say might cause. You’ve never seen her doubt anything.

“Santos and Garcia won’t be happy about this, you know that, right?”

An icy chill runs down your spine, and it’s not from the cold.

“W-what?”

“I’ve worked in the ER for twenty years and I notice everything that happens inside it. You’re the only person Santos doesn’t vent to during a shitty shift, and the other day I saw Garcia adjusting the stethoscope around your neck with a smile I’d only ever seen her direct at Santos. It didn’t take me long to figure it out… and it’s fine, I’m not judging you, kid. I’m not judging any of you three, and actually, I’m glad you’ve found someone to talk to. You don’t need a medical degree to see that you love each other.”

Dana smiles and, slowly, takes a step toward you, and only when she’s sure you won’t make any sudden moves does she rest her hand on your arm.

You can’t speak. Your throat has closed and it’s not the asthma, this time. You had guarded that secret so jealously that now, hearing someone else say it out loud is like being stabbed right in the chest. You had been so careful; you had told everyone that you and Trinity had moved in together — for financial convenience, obviously — and the relationship between her and Yolanda was common knowledge by now. You never would have thought that your glances would give you away.

“I don’t care, Y/n. I’ve never cared. Who you love, how many people you love, how you love them… that’s your business. What I care about is that two people who love you are a few minutes’ drive from here and they’ve been looking for you for hours. They’re looking for you and you’re up here, alone, in the cold, with a pack of cigarettes in your veins and a bruise on your face and a deafening wheeze in your lungs. Punishing yourself.” Her voice cracks, barely, on the last word. “Punishing yourself for something that isn’t your fault.”

“I know you know it but knowing it and believing it are two different things, kid,” the knot in your throat tightens, “and until you believe it, you can’t be up here alone. I don’t trust your choices right now.”

“Well… I don’t trust myself right now either.”

Dana squeezes your arm as another coughing fit strikes you.

“That child was special,” she says, and her voice has changed again, lower, softer. “Every time I walked past his room and saw you in there telling him things, making him laugh, checking the machines pretending everything was normal… every time I thought that boy was incredibly lucky to have you as his doctor.” Pause. “And today the world lost something irreplaceable. But not because of you, Y/n. Not because of you.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your eyes burn and your throat is a tight knot and if you open your mouth now you know what will come out is a strangled sound, a cry of pain that you don’t want Dana to hear — not here, not now.

“It’s time to get off that ledge, y/n. Go home to your girls.”

A long silence settles between you. The traffic below continues as always — indifferent, constant, stupidly normal — and the sky has gone completely black now, without that orange strip on the horizon left to hide behind. Dana is standing, less than two meters from you. She hasn’t moved closer but she hasn’t moved away either. She guards that space the way one guards a border.

“You know what he told me, once?” you say, and you don’t know why you’re saying it, you don’t know where it comes from, but the words come out before you can stop them. “John. One evening, while I was checking his vitals and he couldn’t sleep, he asked me why I became a doctor.”

Dana doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. She listens.

“I told him I became a doctor because I wanted to help people and make them feel better. And he looked at me with those big eyes that were impossible to say no to, Dana, and he said: ‘But then why do you cry when you leave my room?’” Your voice breaks, you can’t help it, as the memory of that sweet child invades your mind with force.

You bite your lower lip so hard you taste blood.

“A six-year-old child… and he noticed I was crying. He noticed that every time I left his room I leaned against the corridor wall and cried because I knew — I knew, Dana, from the very first day — that he wasn’t going to make it. That every probability I had studied in my medical textbooks testified to how his story would end. And he knew I was crying and he never said anything until that evening when he asked me and I didn’t know what to say, I didn’t know how to explain to a child that I was crying because—”

You stop. The sob takes your throat like a hand and squeezes. You lean forward, your hands on the cold cement, and for one horrible second the world tilts — the edge is right there, less than a few centimeters away, and your body weighs too much and the void pulls —

Dana’s hand grabs your arm with force. So hard that you feel every single finger through the fabric of your jacket. She pulls you back and for a moment you find yourself with your back against her chest, her arm around your shoulders and her heart pounding against your back.

Not the calm heartbeat of a woman who has everything under control, but the terrified heartbeat of someone who has just seen what could have happened.

“Don’t move,” she says, and her voice is unrecognizable. Hoarse, broken, stripped of all professionalism, of all distance, of every role. “Don’t move, y/n. Stay here, stay still.”

Her arms tremble around you.

Yours tremble against her body.

And you stay like that for a time you can’t measure — seconds, maybe, or minutes, or hours compressed into a heartbeat — until Dana drags you off the ledge, setting you with your back against the cement you were sitting on just moments ago.

“He answered me himself, you know,” you whisper, and your voice is a whisper, the thinnest thread barely audible, the ghost of a sound. “I apologized for not knowing how to answer him and he said: ‘Maybe you cry because you care about me. My dad cries too and I know he loves me.’”

Dana doesn’t answer, but her arm tightens around you and her breathing becomes irregular, short, broken — like the breathing of someone fighting not to cry and succeeding by the thinnest margin.

“And he was right,” you say. “I was crying because I cared about him. And now I’m crying because he’s gone and his father is gone and I’m on this fucking roof wondering if—”

“Enough.”

Dana lets you go. She shifts, moves in front of you; kneeling on the cement, her hands on your shoulders, her face thirty centimeters from yours, and in her eyes you see something you’ve never seen in twenty years of emergency room condensed in that woman: fear. Pure, naked, total fear.

“Enough,” she repeats, and her voice trembles but holds. “Listen to me. That child loved you. His father was destroyed by grief and did the things that grief makes people do. And you’re here, alive, with a bruise and a heart that hurts too much, but you’re here. You’re here, Y/n. And I need you to stay here.”

She takes your face in her hands. Her fingers are cold and rough against your skin.

“I need you to use that inhaler. I need you to get up from this cement and come down from this roof and let me drive you home and let those two women hold you tight tonight. I need these things, Y/n. I need them. Can you do them for me, if you can’t do them for yourself?”

You don’t answer. Not with words. But your fingers find the jacket pocket — the one without the phone — and pull out the inhaler. The metal is ice-cold. You bring it to your mouth. Press. Inhale. Hold for a few seconds.

The bronchi open. Air flows in and the wheeze, finally, fades.

Dana nods. She releases your face. She sits next to you, shoulder to shoulder, and for a full minute you stay in silence, seated on the cement with your backs against the ledge you were sitting on just moments ago.

“That child is the reason you get up from this roof,” Dana says. “Not for me. Not for your job. Because that child — you are not allowed, y/n, do you hear me? — you are not allowed to turn that child into a memory of something that was lost.”

You stand up.

Your legs tremble, your knees protest, and for a second the world spins, darkness closing in at the edges of your vision, but Dana quickly grabs you by the elbow to keep you from falling.

“Easy, kid,” she says. “Easy.”

She holds your elbow a few seconds longer than necessary, until she’s sure your legs can hold on their own, and then lets go — but doesn’t move away. She walks at your side toward the roof door, half a step behind, close enough to catch you if you fall and far enough not to make you feel like an invalid.

“My keys are in the locker,” you say, your voice hoarse. “I need to—”

“Oh, you don’t actually think I’m going to let you drive, do you?” She turns to you as if you had just told her you’d removed a lung from a healthy patient, arching her right eyebrow.

“Dana—”

“I’m driving you home. End of discussion. Your car will get some rest.”

You don’t have the strength to argue. You don’t have the strength to do anything, really. The adrenaline left a long time ago and what remains is an exhaustion so total that it feels like you’re moving underwater. You follow Dana through the ER — emptied out at this hour, thanks to some divine miracle — until you reach outside, the parking lot, where the cold night air makes you shiver.

The drive home is blurred, the warmth of the car lulls you and the devastating emotions of the day drain you so much that you think you closed your eyes at some point. You don’t even remember telling Dana where you live, actually; and yet, when you open your eyes you recognize the façade of your apartment building.

You turn toward her. In the darkness of the car, her face is lit in flashes by the orange streetlight and her dark circles seem deeper, her gaze more tired. She spent her evening on a roof, in the cold, for you. She should be home with her boys by now, and instead she’s here.

“Dana.”

“Tell me.”

“Why did you come up?”

She looks at you for a few seconds and then, with a tired smile, answers, “Because I don’t only have two children to look after, but also many other doctors just like you, kid — Santos and Mohan and Javadi and Whitaker. You’re all my godchildren, and I have to make sure my godchildren are safe.”

“Thank you,” you say, and the word is so inadequate, so small compared to what it contains, that you’re almost ashamed to say it.

Dana huffs a half-laugh — dry, tired, real — and then hugs you.

“This pain will pass, y/n, but until then, turn to the people who love you.”

She gives you one last squeeze and then gets out of the car to open your door for you, walks you to the entrance and waits patiently while you find the keys inside your jacket. The head nurse waits until you’re inside the building and then, with one final nod, walks away.

“I expect not to see you at work tomorrow, and when you come back, we’ll have a talk about what happened tonight. It’s not optional.”

Dana closes the front door, with you inside, and heads toward the car. You hear her start the engine only after you step into the elevator and the doors close behind you.

You arrive in front of your door without realizing it; you slip your hand into your jacket pocket to pull out the keys again and open the door.

The smell hits you first. Lavender — Trinity’s detergent. Coffee — Yolanda. Something burnt — the toaster, probably, forgotten somewhere in the chaos of the day by Trinity; Yolanda keeps everything under control, after all. Home. The sound of that word in your head hurts in a way you didn’t expect.

“Finally.”

Yolanda’s voice comes from the living room. The tone is the exasperated one she uses when you come home late; irritated, a bit annoyed, but fundamentally calm. The tone of someone who thinks they already know what happened: long shift, charts, the usual delay. You hear the sound of the couch deforming under the weight of someone getting up and then her footsteps — barefoot, quick — in the hallway.

Yolanda appears from the doorframe; she’s wearing your gray sweatshirt, sweatpants, and her hair is tied up. She’s gripping the phone in her hand and slipping it into her pocket with the automatic gesture of someone who has just stopped checking the screen.

“I know you were finishing charts, but you could have at least—”

She stops.

The words die in her mouth. You see it happen in real time: the sentence fading, the lips remaining half-open, the eyes moving from your eyes to your right cheek. And staying there, pinned.

Her face changes and the irritation vanishes, the relief vanishes. What remains is something bare, sharp, surgical.

“Y/n.”

Your name sounds different from how you’ve heard her say it a thousand times. It sounds like an alarm sounds.

“What the hell happened.”

It’s not a question. You know her well enough to know that when Yolanda phrases things like that — flat, dry, without a question mark — she’s not asking. She’s demanding an answer.

“Trinity.”

She says it without turning around, without taking her eyes off yours, raising her voice just enough for it to reach the living room. Trinity’s name spoken in that sharp, urgent, clinical tone is the same one she uses in the operating room when something goes wrong and she needs another pair of hands.

You hear Trinity get up from the couch, her hurried steps in the hallway, and then you see her appear behind Yolanda, with the blanket still clutched in one hand and the expression of someone expecting a complaint about the lateness who finds something else entirely.

She looks at you, her gaze quickly finds the bruise on your face and stops there. The hand gripping the blanket opens and the fabric falls to the floor without a sound.

“Who,” she says. A single syllable. Low, hoarse, charged.

“Can we sit down? I’ll explain everything, but—”

“Who the fuck did that to your face, y/n.” Trinity has taken a step forward. She’s in the hallway now, less than a meter from you, and her eyes haven’t left the bruise for a single second. Her hand rises toward your cheek — slow, controlled, with the gentleness of someone handling something broken — and her fingers stop a centimeter from the skin. She doesn’t touch. She feels the heat of the inflammation through the air.

“Close the door,” says Yolanda, behind you. You hadn’t realized it, but the front door is still open, flung wide onto the landing. You push it. It closes. The sound of the lock clicking shut is final. For one single instant you had the temptation to run away, but it wouldn’t solve anything now. If anything, it would only make things worse.

Trinity takes your chin between her fingers and turns your face toward the hallway light. Her lips tighten. You see her clench her jaw once, twice; a gesture she makes when examining victims of violence.

“It’s not a fall,” she says. “It’s not a locker. It’s not a cabinet door. It’s a punch, y/n. Someone punched you.”

Silence. That she was good, you already knew, but this…

“Why didn’t you answer the phone?” Yolanda speaks. She has come closer now, and you feel her to your left. Her tone is low, careful, controlled with a visible effort, like someone walking on a glass floor. “We called. Messages. Dana said charts. But you weren’t answering. Why?”

“Because I couldn’t.”

“Couldn’t or wouldn’t?”

The difference, right now, seems irrelevant to you.

Trinity releases your chin. She takes your hand — the right one, the one with the fingertip scraped by the cement, which fortunately she doesn’t notice — and guides you to the living room. She sits you on the couch and then sits beside you, so close that her thigh touches yours, and she doesn’t let go of your hand. Her fingers are warm. Yours, on the contrary, are ice-cold.

Yolanda stays standing. Arms crossed, leaning against the TV cabinet, facing you. The news is still on — the volume low, images scrolling across the screen — and for a second your eyes fall there, on the screen, and you pray they’re not replaying the bridge story because if they see it now, before you—

“Turn that thing off,” Trinity says to Yolanda, and from the tone you can tell it’s not because of the noise. She noticed your gaze. She saw where you were looking. She doesn’t know why yet, but she saw it.

Yolanda picks up the remote and turns it off. Silence. Only the refrigerator humming, the bathroom faucet dripping, your breathing.

“Talk,” says Yolanda.

You look at them. Both of them. Trinity is at your side, with your hand in hers and her eyes fixed on you — those eyes you’ve learned to read like an open book and that are now full of something that oscillates between fear, fury, and anguish. Yolanda stands before you, arms crossed, with the expression of someone performing an emotional triage.

“John died this morning.”

A shadow passes over Trinity’s face. She knew — they both probably knew, departments talk — but hearing it from your mouth, in your broken voice, is different. Her hand squeezes yours.

“Cardiac malformation. Fifteen minutes of cpr. He didn’t make it.” The clinical chart tone; the wall every doctor hides behind, with great effort and very often without great results. “His father was in the family room. I went to notify him of the death. He… let’s say he didn’t take it well.”

“The bruise,” says Yolanda. Hers is not a question.

“He screamed at me that it was my fault, that I had killed his son, and then he punched me.” You gesture toward your cheek with a nod. “Outside the room. No one was around.”

Trinity’s hand contracts in yours. A reflex, a jolt; the body reacting before the mind. Her breathing has changed — it’s shorter, quicker, her chest rising and falling in jerks.

“And you didn’t tell us,” says Trinity.

“That’s not all.”

Yolanda pushes off the cabinet, takes a step toward you. Her arms have uncrossed and her hands are at her sides, open, and there’s something in her posture that reminds you of the way she approaches the operating table when she already knows the surgery is going to be long and complicated and isn’t going to go the way it should.

“He… left the hospital after hitting me. He jumped from the bridge on Eighth. Died on impact.” You swallow. “They reported it on the evening news, in the afternoon. Dana recognized him… she’s the one who brought me home.”

The silence that follows is not silence. It’s the sound of two people processing information too large, too heavy, too full of implications to be absorbed in a single breath. Yolanda has stopped moving; she stands in the middle of the living room, two steps from the couch, with an expression you’ve seen only once — in the operating room, when she lost a patient on the table and took off her gloves and set them in the bin with a calm that had frightened everyone. Trinity, beside you, has closed her eyes.

“The charts,” says Yolanda. And the word falls into the living room like something heavy, something dirty. “Dana told us you were finishing charts.”

“Dana lied for me. I had asked her not to say anything.”

“And where were you.” Yolanda whispers, her gaze concealing the need for a denial that, however, doesn’t come.

“On the roof.”

One second.

“On the roof,” Trinity repeats, and opens her eyes. “For how long.”

“Since four. Maybe earlier. I don’t know.”

“Four hours,” says Yolanda, and her voice trembles. “Four hours on the hospital roof without answering the phone, after a man punched you in the face and jumped off a bridge.” She inhales. “Were you on the ledge?”

You don’t answer. But the way you avoid her gaze is answer enough.

“God.” The word leaves her like an exhalation. She brings her hands to her face, presses them against her eyes, drags them down slowly, and when her eyes reappear they’re glistening. Glistening in a way you’ve never seen. Glistening in a way that frightens you more than anything that has happened today, because Yolanda doesn’t cry — she never cries. “Y/n… You were on the ledge.”

“I wasn’t going to—”

“You weren’t going to?” Trinity stands up, and her voice rises with her. “You don’t know if you were going to or not. You don’t sit on a ledge for four hours when you know what you want to do, y/n!”

She’s right. She’s right and you know it and she knows it and the silence that follows is the proof.

“The charts,” says Trinity, and her voice has changed. It’s fragile, wounded. She takes her hands from her face and her eyes are red and wet and full of a desperation that devastates you. “We believed it. I believed it, Y/n. Dana said you were finishing charts and I said ‘ok, she’s doing charts’ and I stopped calling because I thought you were working and you were on the ledge. For half an hour longer I didn’t look for you because someone told me a lie and I believed it and you were—”

Her voice breaks. She turns her back on you and takes three steps toward the kitchen before stopping with her hands pressed on the tabletop, arms straight, head bowed. Her breathing is loud, ragged — the breathing of someone trying to hold the pieces together by sheer force of will. It’s the breathing you’ve heard her do many times before… just before a panic attack.

“Trinity, sweetheart—” you stand up.

“Sit down.” Yolanda. She isn’t looking at you. She’s looking at Trinity and then, with three quick steps, reaches her. She places a hand on her sternum and presses gently, to make her feel her presence. She presses softly, with an open palm, a gesture that both of you use to help your girlfriend — to give her something physical to focus on when her breath escapes her.

Trinity inhales, once, twice. Slowly, fighting against the panic rising in her chest. Her hands are still on the table, knuckles white with the effort and arms trembling under the weight of a body that wants to give in.

You stay on the couch, motionless, while guilt devours you. Not only for everything that happened today but also for this. For the fact that Trinity, one of the two women you love with all your heart, is having a panic attack in your living room, and the cause is you.

“Breathe, love,” Yolanda murmurs; her voice is calm, low, steady… completely different from the one she just used with you. It’s the voice she reserves for Trinity in the worst moments. “Look at me. Breathe in with me. That’s it. Good.”

Trinity raises her head. Her eyes find Yolanda’s and cling there, like an anchor. She inhales when Yolanda inhales. She exhales when Yolanda exhales. They do it three times, four, five, until the rhythm stabilizes and Trinity’s hands on the table finally stop trembling.

“I’m sorry.”

You say it from the couch, with your hands on your knees and your voice trembling like a child’s. You say it looking at them and the inadequacy of those two words crushes you.

Trinity pulls away from the table. She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, with a rough, almost angry gesture, as if the tears were a personal offense. She inhales once, deeply, and then crosses the living room and comes back to you.

She kneels on the floor in front of the couch, and her hands take your knees. She looks up at you from below and her face is devastated and furious and full of love, and all these things together shouldn’t be able to coexist on the same face, yet on Trinity’s they do — they always have.

“I’m not done,” she says. Her voice is still hoarse, still unsteady. “I’m not done being angry with you. I’m not done being afraid. I’m not done—” She stops. Swallows. “But first I need to know one thing. And I need you to tell me the truth, love — not the version you think is less painful. The truth.”

You nod.

“On the ledge. For four hours.” Her fingers tighten on your knees. “At any point during those four hours, did you think about jumping? I’m asking you if the thought crossed your mind, even for one second.”

The living room is so silent you can hear your own heartbeat in your ears. Yolanda stands at the kitchen entrance, motionless, arms at her sides and eyes fixed on you. She waits. They both wait.

And you could lie, you could say “no, never” with the same ease you said “I’m fine” to Dana this morning. You could protect — again, still, always — and add another layer of lies between yourself and the people you love.

But you stopped lying tonight. You’re tired, and you can’t do it with their eyes on you.

“Yes.”

A single syllable, so brief and yet the heaviest you have ever spoken.

Trinity closes her eyes. She doesn’t move, doesn’t pull away, doesn’t remove her hands from your knees, but her face does something that destroys you: it contracts, for a second, as if she had received a physical blow — a real, bodily pain — and then recomposes itself. When she opens her eyes there are tears, but beneath the tears there is something else — something hard, determined, unshakable.

“Ok,” she says. “Ok.” She’s shaken, visibly shaken, but she’s trying to process somehow the bomb you’ve just dropped.

Yolanda has moved. You didn’t hear her, but now she’s behind you, on the couch, and her hands are on your shoulders. The weight of her hands on your tense muscles is warm and steady and says: I’m here, I’m not going anywhere.

“And Dana?” asks Yolanda, from behind you. Her voice is controlled, but her fingers on your shoulders tremble, just barely, betraying everything else. “Dana knew? That you were on the ledge?”

“She came up. She found me there and — she pulled me down.”

A sound escapes Yolanda’s throat. It’s not a word; it’s a strangled sob. Her fingers tighten on your shoulders, once, hard, and then relax. She leans down, leaves a kiss in your hair, and you feel her hands stiffen slightly.

“You smoked.”

“I—”

“Goddammit, y/n,” Yolanda whispers, her voice still trembling, but with anger now.

Trinity doesn’t react — not immediately, at least. Her face stays motionless, perfectly still, for three whole seconds, and then something breaks. You see her rise from her knees, sit next to you on the couch, and rest her head against the backrest, eyes on the ceiling. She inhales. Exhales. Inhales again.

“You’re asthmatic,” she says, to the ceiling. As if she were telling the universe and not you.

“I know.”

“You know.” A pause. “You know, and you smoked.”

There’s no anger in her voice. There’s something worse: there’s weariness. The exhaustion of someone who spent hours fighting against imaginary scenarios and now discovers that reality was worse than all of them.

Yolanda has moved. She’s no longer behind you; she’s gone to the bathroom to get something. When she returns, she has the stethoscope gripped in her hands, along with your backup inhaler — the emergency one, with the corticosteroid and not just the bronchodilator.

“Yolo—” you sigh.

“Don’t piss me off more than I already am right now, please.”

She sits to your right and makes you turn toward her; she slides the bell first across your chest and then your back, ordering you to breathe in and out when she tells you to.

“I can still hear the wheeze. Take a puff.”

You grab the inhaler; her look brooks no argument, and you’re not sure how much further you can push the rope before it snaps, so you follow her orders to perfection, and when, a few minutes later, she checks again, she’s satisfied enough to put the stethoscope away.

She lets herself fall onto the couch, at your side, and her arms wrap around you, together with Trinity’s; the surgeon rests her forehead against your shoulder, and her body trembles. You feel something warm and wet soaking through the fabric of your shirt where her cheek is pressed, and you realize she’s crying. Yolanda is crying. In silence, without a sound, with tears falling without permission, and you’ve never seen her cry in your life, and the fact that she’s doing it now, here, against your shoulder, tells you everything there is to know about what you’ve done to her tonight.

You stay like that.

You don’t know for how long. Time stopped mattering the moment you stopped lying, and now all that exists is this: three bodies on a couch, three broken breaths trying to find each other again, the living room that smells of lavender and cold coffee, and the world outside the window going on without you.

It’s Trinity who moves first.

She stands — eyes swollen, red, but her gaze steady, present — and removes your jacket. She does it slowly, sliding it off your arms one side at a time, and the smell of stale smoke rises from the fabric like an animal waking up. She folds it with care — too much care for a jacket that should just be tossed in the corner — and takes it to the hallway. When she comes back, her hands return quickly to you, to your face; she touches you as if that could anchor you, in her mind.

Trinity sits next to you again. She takes your chin between her fingers and turns your face toward the lamp. She examines the bruise, with light, professional fingers — the touch of a doctor assessing a trauma. As if she weren’t assessing the battered face of the woman she loves.

“Ice won’t do much good at this point,” she says, softly. “Tomorrow it’ll be worse. But nothing’s broken.”

“I know.”

“I know you know.” A shadow of something crosses her lips. “But you don’t get to decide, today.”

Yolanda’s eyes are still glistening but she’s no longer crying; her breathing has stabilized — not as controlled as usual, but certainly better than before.

“Tomorrow we talk,” she says. “About everything. The cigarettes. The asthma. Dana. The roof. The ledge. The phone. About how we make sure this never happens again.” Pause. “I can’t go through another evening like this, y/n. I can’t do it. Not a second time.”

“Neither can I,” says Trinity, from the other side, quietly.

“Tomorrow,” you say. It’s all you have. Your voice emptied out, your body exhausted, and their bodies at your sides, and the blanket — picked up from the floor by one of them, at some moment you didn’t register — around your shoulders.

You don’t promise anything. You don’t say “it won’t happen again” because you don’t know if that’s true and you’ve stopped lying tonight. You rest your head against the backrest, close your eyes, and let the weight of your body give in toward them. Toward Trinity, on your left, who takes your hand under the blanket and laces her fingers with yours. Toward Yolanda, on your right, who squeezes your arm and presses her cheek against your bicep.

You surrender. To them. To this. To the fact that you are alive and you are here and it hurts and tomorrow it will hurt again, but at least you won’t be alone.

Three figures holding hands.

All three of them standing.

Just like in John’s drawing.

Heyy, sooo… It’s been a while uh? At least, I was really inspired for this one. I hope u liked it and yes, I fell in love with Santos and Garcia (what I have to say, toxic yuri is my kryptonite). Anyway, requests are open (as always) and have a great day!

When you finally stepped into the spray, the heat was an instant, overwhelming shock to your system. For a few seconds, it felt like heaven, washing over your aching shoulders and easing the chill in your bones. But your blood pressure, already dangerously low from lack of fluids, reacted poorly to the sudden heat. The blood rushed away from your brain.

A sudden, terrifying wave of dizziness hit you, far worse than any of the wobbles you had experienced in the bedroom. The bathroom began to tilt. The steady hum of the running water grew distant and muffled, replaced by a loud, high-pitched ringing that filled your ears. You reached out blindly for the tiled wall, your wet fingers slipping uselessly against the slick surface.

Your knees buckled beneath you, losing their strength entirely. As you fell, your temple clipped the edge of the heavy ceramic soap dish mounted on the wall before your shoulder slammed into the edge of the tub, and your head bounced hard against the cold porcelain floor.

Above you, the shower continued to spray, washing over your limp form. But as the minutes ticked by, the apartment building's old water heater began to lose its struggle. The soothing steam slowly dissipated, and the water transitioned from a comforting, hot stream to a lukewarm drizzle, and finally to a freezing, relentless downpour.

When the front door of the apartment finally clicked open fifteen minutes later, Trinity was practically vibrating with the residual adrenaline of a grueling twelve-hour shift. She toed her trainers off by the entryway with a heavy sigh, her shoulders dropping as she finally let her professional guard down, looking forward to curling up next to you.

"Hey, babe? You will not believe what shit Langdon tried to pull today," she called out, her voice echoing in the quiet space. She walked further into the flat, her brow furrowing when no one answered. "Babe? Are you asleep?"

The absolute silence of the apartment stopped her short. She noticed your shoes by the door and your keys on the counter. A subtle, instinctual knot tightened in her stomach, the kind of gut feeling she had learned to trust in the trauma bays of the Pitt. As she walked down the hall, she heard the faint, hollow hiss of the shower.

She knocked lightly on the bathroom door, her tone carrying a slightly impatient but fond edge. "Babe, come on, are you planning on saving any hot water for your tired girlfriend?"

There was no response. She knocked again, harder this time, the wood rattling in its frame. "Hey, answer me. You're starting to scare me a bit."

The lack of an answer made her chest tighten. She turned the doorknob, finding it was unlocked. Pushing the door open, she was met not with a wave of warm, comforting steam, but with a damp, frigid draft that made her shiver. What she saw inside made her ER-hardened heart completely stop.

You were lying crumpled on the floor of the tub, your body awkwardly twisted, with the freezing cold shower head mercilessly drenching you. Trinity didn’t even hesitate. She lunged forward, completely ignoring the spray of cold water that immediately soaked through her clothes as she shut the faucet off with a harsh, metallic jerk.

"Fuck! No, no, no," she breathed, dropping to her knees on the wet bathmat. Her hands trembled violently as she reached into the tub to pull your upper body into her lap, cradling you against her chest. "Hey, hey, look at me. Open your eyes for me, sweetheart, please."

Your skin was shockingly cold to the touch, goosebumps covering your arms. She pressed two fingers firmly against the side of your neck, holding her breath until she felt a pulse, but it was rapid, weak, and thready. It was then that she noticed the dark, oozing gash near your hairline.

"Come on, baby, wake up for me," she pleaded, her voice cracking as she gently patted your cheek. She rubbed her warm hands up and down your freezing arms, trying to friction some heat back into your skin. "Please, just open your eyes. You're okay, I've got you. I'm right here."

You groaned, a low, pathetic sound that vibrated in your chest, and your eyelids fluttered weakly. They opened just a crack, unfocused and glazed over, staring blankly past her. Trinity let out a shaky breath, her thumb gently wiping a mixture of water and blood away from your eye so she could get a clear look.

"There you are," she whispered, her voice incredibly tender as she pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your uninjured cheek, her tears mixing with the water on your skin. "Stay with me, okay? Keep those pretty eyes open for me."

She leaned in close, her fingers gently prying your eyelids a little wider to inspect your pupils. Even without her penlight, the bathroom light was enough to show her what she feared. Your left pupil was noticeably wider than the right, sluggishly responding to the light, while the other remained constricted.

"Hey, look at my nose, sweetheart. Try to focus on me," she coaxed softly. When your gaze just drifted aimlessly, her clinical brain forced its way through her panic. "Okay, shit... okay, you've hit your head really hard, and you're freezing. I’m calling an ambulance."

"No..." you mumbled, your voice incredibly thick and slurred as you tried to shake your head, only for a sharp spike of agony to make you wince. You clawed weakly at her soaked sleeve, your wet fingers barely holding onto the fabric. "No hospital... Trin, please. No doctors."

"Baby, you have a concussion, and you're severely dehydrated," she explained, her voice a mix of fierce medical authority and deep, aching affection as she pulled you tighter against her warmth. "Your pupils are totally unequal. I can't treat this here. I need to get you to the ER."

"Hate it... hate the lights," you whispered, a tear slipping down your pale face as you buried your nose into the crook of her neck, seeking shelter. "Don't make me go. Just let me stay here with you. Just let me sleep it off, please."

"I know you hate it, I know," she murmured into your wet hair, rocking you gently while her shaking fingers dialled 911 on her phone. "But you're bleeding, and you're in shock. I love you too much to let you stay here like this. I promise I won't leave your side. Not for a single second."

Within minutes, the distant, wailing siren began to echo down the street, growing louder until the flashing lights began to dance across the frosted glass of the bathroom window. You cringed at the noise, the high-pitched squeal feeling like a physical drill boring straight into your damaged brain.

"Shh, I've got you," Trinity whispered, wrapping her arms securely around your head and pressing your face into her chest to muffle the sound. "You're safe. I’ve got you."

When the paramedics finally entered the apartment, the bathroom suddenly felt suffocatingly crowded. Trinity took charge immediately, her voice crisp and authoritative as she rattled off your presentation, her medical shorthand flowing naturally while she still held you tightly against her.

"Syncopal episode, likely from dehydration. Patient was exposed to a cold shower for a short period of time. Visible head trauma with a laceration to the left temple, and they have positive signs of anisocoria," she told them, her hand never ceasing its soothing strokes through your hair.

The paramedics moved efficiently, wrapping you in dry, heavy blankets to combat the hypothermia. The transition from the bathroom floor to the stretcher was a chaotic blur of movement that made your stomach violently heave. You let out a soft, miserable whimper as the motion sent a fresh wave of vertigo spinning through your head.

"I'm right here, sweetheart, squeeze my hand," Trinity insisted, her voice a steady anchor in the chaos as her warm, solid fingers slipped into yours, locking tight. "Don't open your eyes, just listen to my voice. I'm not going anywhere."

She walked alongside the stretcher as they wheeled you out of the apartment and down the hallway. The cold outdoor air hit your face, making you shiver violently under the layers of blankets. The paramedics lifted the stretcher into the back of the ambulance, the loud clinking of the metal tracks scraping against your raw nerves.

The interior of the vehicle was blindingly bright, the harsh fluorescent tubes overhead sending a sharp, stabbing pain directly behind your eyes. You groaned, squeezing your eyes shut and trying to turn away from the glare. Trinity climbed in right after you, quickly taking her seat on the bench beside the gurney.

"Turn those overheads down, please," Trinity requested of the paramedic in the back, her tone sharp but polite. She immediately leaned over you, using her own body to shield your face from the remaining light. "There we go, baby. Close your eyes. I've got you, you're doing so well for me."

The ambulance ride was a miserable, jarring blur. Every time the vehicle hit a bump in the road, the motion sent a sickening wave of vertigo through your head, making you squeeze Trinity’s hand with everything you had left.

"I know, baby, I know," Trinity whispered, leaning down so her breath brushed against your ear. She kept her free hand firmly over your eyes, creating a dark, safe cocoon against the harsh, vibrating environment. "We’re nearly there. Just breathe through it. You're doing so brilliantly."

When the ambulance finally screeched to a halt, the rear doors flew open, letting in a rush of cool air and the overwhelming, sterile smell of bleach and alcohol. The sound of shouting voices, rolling wheels, and high-pitched monitors hit you like a physical blow. You groaned, trying to shrink away from the noise.

"Keep your eyes shut, sweetheart," Trinity murmured, her voice a steady anchor as the paramedics wheeled you out. She kept pace with the stretcher, refusing to let go of your hand as they pushed through the double doors of the Pitt. "I'm right here. I'm not leaving you."

The transition into the assessment bay was chaotic. Nurses and doctors swarmed the stretcher, their voices overlapping as they took the handover from the paramedics. The bright overhead fluorescent lights pierced straight through your eyelids, causing a sharp, blinding spike of pain that made you wince and try to turn your head away.

"Can we dim these lights, please? Patient has a significant concussion and severe photophobia," Trinity commanded, her sharp, authoritative doctor voice cutting through the room's chatter. The nurses instantly complied, clicking off the harshest of the overhead rows, plunging the bay into a much softer, shadowed glow.

"Thanks, Trin," one of the attending doctors, Jack Abbot, muttered, recognising her immediately. He stepped forward to look at your unequal pupils. "Let's get an IV started and get a head CT booked just to be safe. We'll get that gash cleaned up and stitched too."

At the mention of needles and scans, panic flared in your chest again. You weakly tried to pull your arm away, your breathing turning shallow and frantic. "No... Trinity, please. No needles. Let's just go home. Please, I want to go home."

"Hey, hey, look at me, baby. Just look at me," she coaxed softly, stepping into your line of sight so her face was the only thing you could see. She gently cupped your face with both hands, her thumbs wiping away a fresh tear. "I know it's scary. But you're severely dehydrated, and your body needs this fluid to help your head stop pounding."

"I hate it," you whimpered, your slurred voice cracking as you stared into her dark, fiercely protective eyes.

"I know you do, sweetheart, and I hate seeing you in pain," Trinity whispered, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead, avoiding the bleeding cut. "But I'm going to stay right here. Hold onto me as tight as you need to. Dr. Abbot is amazing, and I won't let him do anything without telling you first."

You slowly nodded, completely exhausted and unable to fight any longer. Trinity shifted to your side, wrapping her fingers tightly around yours as the nurse stepped up with the IV line. When the sharp prick of the needle pierced your skin, you hissed out a breath and squeezed Trinity's hand so hard her knuckles turned white.

"You're okay, you're doing so well for me," Trinity murmured, using her free hand to gently smooth the damp hair back from your forehead. "The worst part is over. Now we just get you warmed up and sorted out."

The next few hours passed in a quiet, hazy rhythm. The warm saline fluids slowly dripping into your vein began to lift the heavy, suffocating fog in your brain, though your head still thudded with a dull, persistent ache. Trinity never left your side, sitting on a plastic chair right next to your gurney.

She carefully cleaned the gash on your temple herself, her movements incredibly gentle and precise as she applied a few stitches to close the wound. Every time you winced, she paused, whispering sweet, quiet praises until you relaxed enough for her to finish.

After your head CT came back clear of any internal bleeding, Jack finally signed off on your discharge papers, agreeing that you could recover at home under Trinity's strict supervision. The taxi ride back to the apartment was infinitely quieter than the ambulance journey, your head resting heavily against Trinity’s shoulder as she kept her arm securely wrapped around you.

When the front door of the apartment finally clicked shut behind you, the familiar, quiet warmth of your own home felt like a massive relief. The bathroom had been entirely cleaned up, Trinity must have done it quickly while the paramedics were loading you into the ambulance, and everything was blissfully dark and silent.

"Come on, let's get you into some proper clothes," Trinity said softly, guiding your shuffling, unsteady steps toward the bedroom.

She helped you sit on the edge of the mattress, carefully pulling a soft, oversized jumper over your head and helping you slide into a pair of thick, comfortable sweatpants. Every movement was slow and deliberate, Trinity constantly checking your face to make sure the dizziness wasn't returning.

Once you were changed, she gently peeled back the heavy duvet, helping you settle down into the pillows. She climbed into the bed right after you, pulling the covers up over both of your shoulders and carefully drawing you back against her chest.

"How's the head feeling now, sweetheart?" she whispered into the dark room, her fingers lightly combing through your hair, avoiding the neat row of stitches at your temple.

"Still hurts," you mumbled, your voice small and muffled against her shirt. You shifted closer, hooking your arm over her waist, soaking in the comforting, familiar scent of her skin. "But it's better. Thank you for coming home when you did. And for... everything."

"You don't ever have to thank me for that," Trinity murmured, her voice thick with sudden emotion as she tightened her grip around you, pressing a soft kiss to the back of your neck. "When I saw you on that floor, my heart completely stopped. I was so terrified, baby."

"I'm sorry I scared you," you whispered, closing your eyes as the warmth of the bed and the safety of her arms finally began to pull you under.

"Just promise me you won't try to be a hero next time you're ill," she replied, a tiny, familiar hint of her usual sarcasm returning to her tone, though it was drenched in absolute affection. "If you feel faint, you call me. No matter what time it is. Deal?"

"Deal," you breathed, your eyelids growing too heavy to keep open.

"Good. Now go to sleep, sweetheart," Trinity whispered, closing her own eyes and resting her chin gently on top of your head. "I’ve got you. I'll be right here when you wake up."

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You glance at the clock and a frustrated groan escapes your lips. It’s only two in the afternoon, and you seriously doubt you’ll be able to leave the ER before another four hours, given the holiday crowd. People tend to be exponentially more stupid around the holidays and, above all, more irritable.

The second sigh you let out is loud enough to make three of the six people at the nurses’ station in the center of the ER turn around. Including Dana.

“Everything okay, kid?” Dana slides her glasses down her nose, lifting her gaze from the chart she’s reviewing for just a moment. Oh, that’s not a good sign. Everyone at the Pitt knows that move — the subtle shift between the kind head nurse and the one who doesn’t take a no for an answer.

You nod; a tight smile pulls at your lips as you look at the board in front of you. “I’d be fine if I had five minutes of peace, not—”

You sway. A sudden dizziness forces you to grab the first thing you can reach as vertigo hits. The nurses’ station tilts to the left - no, you’re tilting, the station is exactly where it’s always been - and your fingers curl around the edge of the counter with so much force your knuckles go white.

“Woah, sit down, kid. I don’t want a doctor on the floor of my ER.”

“I–I’m fine, I’m just tired,” you murmur, but your voice comes out thin, unsteady, and your legs are doing a terrible job of backing up your words. The world keeps swaying - back and forth, back and forth - as if someone had picked up the ER and set it on a boat in the middle of the ocean.

Dana doesn’t give you time to lie again. Her hand is on your shoulder before you can react - firm, warm, heavy as an anchor - and she pushes you down with a gentleness that leaves no room for argument. You sit. Not in a chair, there isn’t one within reach, but on the stool behind the nurses’ station - the one with the broken wheel that only turns one way, the one Dana sits on during night shifts when she thinks nobody’s watching.

“Head down,” she says, and her hand slides from your shoulder to the back of your neck, pressing your head toward your knees. “Easy. Breathe.”

The blood flows back. Your brain protests - a dull buzzing behind your eyes, a tingling that runs down your spine - and then, slowly, the world stops swaying. Not completely. But enough to tell the floor from the walls.

“When did you last eat?”

It’s not a question. It’s the tone Dana uses when she already knows the answer and just wants to hear you say it out loud, because things said out loud become real, and real things can’t be ignored.

You think about it. The alarm at four-thirty, the shower, the coffee drunk standing in the kitchen while Trinity was still asleep and Yolanda had already left for her surgery shift. Before the coffee, there’s nothing.

“We’ve been going nonstop, you know how holiday weekends are and—” you protest weakly, the excuse already on the tip of your tongue before any accusation is even made.

Dana moves and disappears from your sight for a second, then a plastic cup appears in your field of vision, held by a hand with short nails and a bandage on the thumb.

“Drink. All of it. And don’t move until I say so.”

You drink. The water is lukewarm, tastes like hospital, and your body receives it with a gratitude that has nothing to do with taste and everything to do with survival. Your stomach clenches at the first sip - a brief, dull cramp, the complaint of an organ that forgot it was an organ - and then relaxes, surrenders, accepts.

You lift your head. Slowly. The world stays still. More or less still. Still enough.

Dana has gone back to her chart. She’s watching you - you can tell, the way she glances at you sideways over the top of her glasses without turning her head - but she says nothing. She gives you time. She gives you her stool with the broken wheel and a cup of water and her silent surveillance.

And it’s in that moment, with the plastic cup still tight in your fingers and your heart beating just a little too fast for someone who’s sitting down, that you see them.

Yolanda and Trinity.

They’re moving quickly through the ER, side by side but not together. There’s something about the distance between their bodies that feels wrong to you, something in the rigidity of their shoulders that shouldn’t be there. They don’t normally walk like this. Normally Trinity is right next to Yolanda, or a step ahead - never behind, never behind, because your relationship is one of absolute equals - and their rhythms sync effortlessly, like two instruments playing in the same key. Now Yolanda walks like she’s going somewhere with a specific purpose, and Trinity follows a step behind, jaw clenched, hands balled into fists at her sides and an expression on her face that you recognize - oh, you recognize it - that expression which is the brick wall behind which Trinity hides everything she doesn’t want the world to see: the pain, the anger, the frustration, the fear. All of it compressed, crushed down, held inside with a brutal force that one day, you know, won’t be enough anymore.

They turn left. Toward the stairwell.

Your body moves before your brain does. You get up from the stool. Your legs protest, your knees make a sound that shouldn’t come from someone your age, and the world sways for a tenth of a second - a ghost of the earlier swaying, a warning you ignore completely.

“Hey! Kid, where do you think you’re-”

Dana’s voice reaches you halfway down the corridor but you don’t stop. You can’t stop. Not with that image in your head. The stairwell door has closed behind them and their expressions were definitely not those of people about to sneak off for a quickie at work.

The door is heavy. You push it open with a shove that costs you more energy than it should, and the sound of metal hitting the concrete wall echoes through the empty space but it’s immediately swallowed by something else.

Yolanda’s voice.

“I don’t care how you frame it, Trinity. Langdon has been rehired. The decision has been made, administration approved it, and the fact that you keep acting like it’s a personal affront is creating an unsustainable environment for everyone. Especially in front of patients.”

The sound reaches you before the sight. The stairwell is gray - concrete, metal, the yellowish light of a fluorescent tube that’s needed replacing for months - and their voices bounce off the walls and multiply, growing larger than they are, filling the space with a tension you can almost touch.

They’re one floor below. They haven’t heard you come in. From your position at the top of the first landing, you can see them: Yolanda standing in the middle of the landing in her green surgical scrubs, arms crossed over her chest, back straight as a steel rod. Trinity across from her, leaning against the railing with her arms at her sides, chin lifted, and the look of someone bracing to take a hit without showing it hurts.

“A personal affront?” Trinity. Her voice is low, controlled, too controlled. The voice of someone speaking through a clenched jaw. “Yolanda, that man was using drugs. He was stealing medication. He was stealing medication from the ER where we work, where people I trust work, and now he’s back like nothing happened. It’s not a personal affront. It’s a matter of safety. Of principle. If it had been anyone else - God forbid, a woman, an R2 or anybody that’s not the “golden boy”- they would never have been rehired. Never.”

“And that gives you the right to treat him like a criminal every time you pass him in the hallway? The right to stare him down until he looks away? To answer in monosyllables when he asks for a consult? To create an atmosphere so hostile that half the department walks on eggshells whenever you’re in the same room?”

The words land on the landing like grenades. Precise, calibrated, devastating. Yolanda never yells, she never needs to, but her voice carries a weight that presses down on your chest even from a flight of stairs away. Every syllable is an incision. Every pause is the moment the surgeon checks how deep the cut is before going in again.

Trinity doesn’t move. Her body is still, anchored to the railing as if it’s the only thing holding her upright, and her eyes — her eyes that normally burn with life, with energy, with everything that makes Trinity Santos who she is, her eyes are flat. Dead. The brick wall is up, solid, impenetrable.

But you see it. You always see it. You see the tremor in her jaw, the way her knuckles go white on the railing, the nearly imperceptible movement of her throat when she swallows something that isn’t saliva. You see everything Trinity is desperately trying to hide, and the fact that Yolanda can’t see it — or worse, that she sees it and chooses to keep going anyway — lights something in your chest. Something hot and dangerous that goes beyond the protectiveness you feel toward your youngest girl.

“Langdon had a problem,” Yolanda continues, her voice not giving an inch. “He had a problem, he faced it, he went through a rehabilitation program, and the medical board deemed him fit to return. It’s not your decision, Trinity. It’s not your tribunal. And the way you’re treating him isn’t just unfair and immature-”

The word immature bounces off the concrete walls and hits you like a slap. And something inside you, something primitive, visceral, irrational, catches fire.

Your feet move down the stairs. One, two, three, four. The sound of your footsteps echoes off the concrete, and both their heads turn toward you at the same instant, like two deer hearing a branch snap in the woods.

“Y/N?” Yolanda speaks. Eyebrow raised, posture stiffening further. In her eyes, the flash of someone caught doing something they didn’t want seen.

“Immature, Yolo, really?” you say, and your voice is harder than you expected. Flat. Sharp. Without the filter you normally keep between your brain and your mouth, the filter that lets you be diplomatic, conciliatory, the one who mediates between the two. That filter is gone right now. The exhaustion has dissolved it. The weariness has eaten it. “You just called Trinity immature because she can’t accept that a colleague who was stealing medication has been rehired like nothing happened?”

“This doesn’t concern you,” Yolanda says. The tone is the one she uses when someone walks into the OR uninvited: cold, territorial.

“Doesn’t concern me?” A sound escapes your throat, something halfway between a laugh and a growl. The disbelief is more than evident in your voice. “Yolanda, they’re my partners. Everything that concerns them concerns me. And what you’re doing right now isn’t a confrontation. It’s an execution.”

The silence that follows is nuclear. Yolanda stares at you with something that looks like shock, she wasn’t expecting those words, not from you. You, who are always the calm one, the reasonable one, the one who stands in the middle and holds everything together.

“Trinity has every right to be pissed,” you continue, and every word costs you something because the world has started swaying again, faintly, at the edges of your vision, but you ignore it because you can’t stop now, not with Trinity’s face trembling on the other side of the landing. “She found out a colleague was using drugs and stealing from the place where she works, where we all work, and now she has to pretend everything’s fine? She has to smile and hand him charts and act like nothing happened?”

“Nobody is asking her to pretend-”

“Yes, you are! That is exactly what you’re asking her to do! You’re asking her to swallow the anger and the betrayal and the fear and just sit there quietly like nothing happened because the board decided so, and who is Trinity Santos to question a board?”

Your voice echoes through the stairwell. It comes out of your chest with a force that surprises you, that frightens you, a force you didn’t know you still had after ten hours on your feet and one glass of water and nothing else in your stomach.

Trinity hasn’t said a word. She’s stayed leaning on the railing, motionless, her eyes moving from you to Yolanda and back again. And in her eyes there’s something that twists your stomach: gratitude. Wounded, painful gratitude, the gratitude of someone who isn’t used to being defended and doesn’t know how to react when it happens.

Yolanda takes a step forward. Her arms drop from her chest and fall to her sides. Her face has changed; the surgical armor has cracked, and through those cracks something raw seeps through, something less controlled.

“And so what do you propose?” she says, and her voice has lost the cutting edge from moments ago. It’s lower, rougher, the voice of a woman who’s bleeding underneath the armor. “That Trinity keeps treating Langdon like a pariah until he leaves again? That she poisons the atmosphere of the department because she can’t-”

“Can’t what? Trust? Yes, Yolanda. She can’t trust. And you know better than anyone how hard that is for her. You know what’s behind that wall. You know, and you’re using it against her.”

The words come out before you can stop them. When Trinity has that look, a part of you has always been afraid she might fall back into old, unhealthy habits, and you can’t let that happen. But the moment those words hit the air, the moment they bounce off the concrete walls and fill the stairwell with their weight, you know you’ve crossed a line. You see it in the way Yolanda stiffens. You see the flash in her eyes, not anger. Pain. The raw, naked pain of someone who has just been accused of the thing they fear most. Of hurting the person they love.

And in that same instant, with the same speed that the anger had flooded in, the realization hits you like a freight train.

Yolanda isn’t using anything against Trinity. She’s trying to protect Trinity from herself, from her temper, from the consequences that temper could have on her career, her reputation, her life. She’s doing it the wrong way - with a scalpel instead of open hands, with surgical precision instead of tenderness - but she’s doing it out of love. The exact same love that drove you down those stairs. And you just told her she was using it as a weapon.

Your mouth opens. The words are there - “I’m sorry,” “I didn’t mean it,” “Yolo, wait” - they’re there, on the tip of your tongue, ready to come out, ready to repair what you just broke.

But your body decides otherwise.

The floor moves. Or rather, you move. You sway, lose your vertical axis, feel your legs turn to cotton and the world tilt thirty, forty, fifty degrees to the left. It’s not the gentle swaying from before, the kind you could hide behind a tight smile. This is a violent tilt. The gray concrete of the floor rushes up toward the ceiling and the ceiling drops toward the floor and everything in between - Yolanda, Trinity, the stairs, the yellowish light - blends into a vortex of shapes and colors that your brain can no longer organize.

Your hands reach for something. Anything. A handhold, a railing, a wall. Your fingers find fabric. They close, instinctively, desperately, with the blind force of a body that is falling and refuses to fall, around the fabric, and the fabric is Trinity’s scrubs.

You grab her with both hands. Your fingers contract around the fabric with a strength you didn’t know you had, and your weight pulls Trinity downward. You feel her body thrown off balance by your sudden dead weight, hear her shoes scrape against the concrete of the landing as she tries to plant her feet and not go down with you, hear her voice explode somewhere above your head.

“Y/N!”

But Trinity can’t hold you. Your weight is dead, inert - the weight of a body that has stopped cooperating - and her legs buckle under the effort for one terrifying instant; you feel her lose her balance, feel her body tilt downward, toward you, toward the floor before she catches herself with a brutal jerk, planting one foot behind her and dropping her right knee to the ground.

But your fingers lose their grip. The fabric of her scrubs slides between your sweaty, trembling fingers. And the floor arrives.

Your knees hit the concrete first. The pain shoots up your thighs like an electric current, then your palms, open, scraping against the rough surface. Then the rest of your body following forward, and your head dropping, and your hair falling over your face like a curtain, and through that curtain you see nothing but the gray of the floor and the dark patches of worn paint and your shadow on the concrete.

The silence is total. The argument is dead. The words are dead. The accusations, the anger, the scalpel, the brick wall, Langdon, the medication, the cruelty, the trust, all of it, dead the moment your body hit the concrete. As if someone had muted the world, and the only things left are the sound of your short, ragged breathing and the beating of your heart in your ears.

Yolanda moves first.

Her medical brain switches on before her emotional one , it always does, it’s how Yolanda Garcia functions when the world collapses: she becomes machine, becomes protocol, becomes the sequence of actions she’s repeated thousands of times until they’ve become reflex. Her knees hit the concrete beside you and her hands are on your body before you can register her presence: one on your wrist, fingers seeking the radial artery with the precision of a heat-seeking missile, the other on your sternum, between your collarbones, feeling your breath through the fabric of your scrubs.

“Sweetheart… Y/N, look at me. Open your eyes.”

Her voice is completely, radically different from thirty seconds ago. The scalpel is gone. The surgeon dissecting Trinity’s behavior with autopsy precision is gone. It’s Yolanda. Just Yolanda. Your Yolanda. With her knees on the cold concrete and the woman she loves beneath her fingers and that woman’s pulse beating too fast, too weak, too irregular.

Trinity is on the other side. She threw herself down - she didn’t kneel with Yolanda’s caution, she threw herself, her knees hitting the concrete with a force that will leave bruises tomorrow - and her hands are on your shoulders and her face is fifteen centimeters from yours and her eyes are wide, and the wall has collapsed and behind the wall there is everything: the fear, the love, the terror, the helplessness.

“Don’t you dare pass out,” says Trinity, and her voice is an order and a prayer at the same time. “Love, look at me. Stay with me.”

You’re not passing out. Or maybe you are. The boundary between consciousness and unconsciousness has become a dotted line that your utterly exhausted brain can no longer follow. You know you’re on the floor. You know the concrete is cold under your palms. You know Yolanda has her fingers on your wrist and Trinity has her hands on your shoulders and the fluorescent light is yellow and the world is still here, even as your vision narrows at the edges like someone is drawing the theater curtain closed.

“I’m here,” you murmur. Your voice is a thread. “I’m here. I’m not passing out. I’m just-”

“If you say ‘tired’-” Trinity starts, and her voice cracks in the middle of the sentence like glass under too much pressure, and she doesn’t finish, because her hands on your shoulders are shaking and her eyes are bright and Trinity Santos does not cry - does not cry in front of people, does not cry when she’s on her knees on a floor, does not cry, period - but she’s close. Very, very close. Because of the shitty day she’s had, and because you are paler than a white sheet.

“Thready pulse. Tachycardia,” says Yolanda, and she’s talking to Trinity, not to you. She’s talking about you as though you weren’t there, and normally it would drive you insane, but right now your pride is somewhere on the floor alongside your knees and you don’t have the strength to pick up either one.

“Dana gave me water before, I think I’m just tired and dehydrated, that’s all,” you say, and your voice sounds distant even to your own ears. “At the nurses’ station. I had a dizzy spell and she made me sit down.”

“A dizzy spell,” Trinity repeats. Her hands leave your shoulders and take your face. She turns you toward her with the delicacy of someone handling a trauma patient. “You had a dizzy spell and you decided to come down a flight of stairs?”

“I saw you heading toward the stairwell and I-”

“And you came down the stairs,” she repeats, and it’s not a question. The blade in her voice is aimed at herself. She hates herself right now. You can see it in her eyes as clear as an X-ray: she hates herself because she was fighting with Yolanda while you were collapsing, because her pride and her anger at Langdon had taken up so much space in her head there was none left for you.

And Yolanda, who is still on her knees beside you with her fingers on your wrist and her mind racing ; she looks at you and in her eyes you see exactly the same thing. The same guilt. The same horror. She had been dissecting Trinity with the scalpel of her logic while you hadn’t eaten in a day and a half and were swaying at the nurses’ station, and neither of them had noticed because they were too busy waging war on each other.

“I need to get up,” you say.

“Wait a second,” says Yolanda. “Slow. Trinity, hold her left arm. I’ve got the right. On three.”

Their hands are on you. Four hands. The warmth of their palms passes through the fabric and reaches your skin, and for a second the only thing you feel is this: them. Their hands on your biceps. Their strength compensating for your weakness. The way their bodies coordinate without speaking, without looking at each other, as if they were programmed to function together whenever you stop functioning on your own.

“One. Two. Three.”

They lift you. Centimeter by centimeter. Your knees protest, throbbing where they hit the concrete, and the world sways again - that goddamn swaying - but their hands hold you. They hold you and they don’t let go, and the world can sway all it wants because between your body and the floor there are Yolanda Garcia and Trinity Santos, and no force on earth is strong enough to make you fall when they’re both holding on.

You’re standing. More or less. Leaning on Trinity from one side and Yolanda from the other, legs trembling, dignity somewhere on the concrete beside the patches of worn paint.

Nobody speaks. The stairwell is quiet. The fluorescent hums. The noise of the ER filters through like a distant memory of a world that still exists, somewhere, on the other side of the concrete and metal.

It’s Yolanda who breaks the silence. As always.

“You were right,” she says. She says it looking straight ahead, not at you, not at Trinity. She looks at the gray wall as if it were a simpler conversation partner than the two women flanking her. “About the way. The way I talk to Trinity when I’m angry. The way I use… the precision.” She swallows. “To hurt. You’re right. And I don’t realize I’m doing it while it’s happening, which is probably the worst part.”

Trinity says nothing. But her arm around you tightens, just slightly, and her gaze slides toward Yolanda for an instant. A very brief instant, almost furtive, as if looking at her in this moment of fracture were an act too intimate even for someone who shares her bed every night.

“And you were right about Langdon,” you say to Yolanda. The words come out before you can censor them. “About Trinity’s behavior. About the way she’s treating Langdon. The fact that he stole medication and was using drugs doesn’t give her the right to make his life impossible. Not in a hospital. Not when he’s trying to rebuild himself. And not in front of patients, sweetheart.”

Trinity stiffens at your side. You feel it - the tension that runs through her arm like a current - and for a second you’re afraid you’ve cut the wrong wire at the wrong moment.

But Trinity Santos doesn’t run from the truth. She hates it, sometimes. She screams at it. But she doesn’t run.

“I know,” she says. Two words. The hardest she’s ever said. She says them looking at the floor, jaw set, the arm around you trembling. “I know she’s right. But I couldn’t hear it the way you were saying it, Yolanda, because the way you were saying it made me feel like I was a problem to be solved, not a person who made a mistake.”

The hum of the fluorescent. Your breathing. Three different rhythms: yours, short and shallow, Yolanda’s slow and controlled, Trinity’s uneven, jagged, filling the stairwell like an out-of-tune symphony.

Yolanda raises her free hand and rests it on the back of Trinity’s neck. A small gesture. Silent. Nothing surgical. Her fingers press gently into Trinity’s hair and stay there.

Trinity closes her eyes. Just for a second. The brick wall collapses completely, and what’s left is only her - no armor, no defenses - just Trinity, exhausted, wounded, with the woman she loves touching the back of her neck in a stairwell and the other woman she loves hanging from her arm like a weight she wouldn’t let go of for anything in the world.

“You’re not a problem to be solved,” says Yolanda, softly. “You never have been. I’m sorry if I made you feel that way.”

Those two words - I’m sorry - she doesn’t say them often. Almost never. And when she does, they land like stones.

Trinity nods. Doesn’t speak. Her hand finds Yolanda’s and their fingers intertwine behind her head, an awkward, uncomfortable, beautiful gesture.

Then both their eyes come back to you. Simultaneously. As if they remembered in the same instant that the woman they love is barely standing between them, with scraped knees and a stomach that’s been empty for twenty-four hours.

“And now,” says Yolanda, and her voice has changed completely, the voice of the woman who only exists in your apartment, the Yolanda who tucks your hair behind your ear and brings you tea when you can’t sleep: “now we go upstairs. We get you somewhere to sit, you eat something, and your shift is over.”

“I can’t leave the-”

“Yes, you can,” says Trinity. “Because the alternative is you collapsing again, and next time there might not be my scrub to grab onto.”

You don’t argue. You don’t have the strength. You move. One step at a time. Slowly. With a slowness that is the opposite of everything you are - three women who run, who save, who never stop - and which is now the only speed possible.

You reach the locker room with great effort. Your forehead is damp with sweat when you finally manage to sink onto one of the benches you use to change your shoes. The locker room is empty, thankfully. You’re really not in the mood to explain why you’re being escorted around the hospital by an R2 and a surgeon while looking like you’re about to pass out.

You take two slow breaths, recognizing in the air the familiar smell of alcohol and stale sweat that belongs to this place. Yolanda is digging through her locker looking for her water bottle while Trinity is rummaging through her bag for a protein bar to give you. You sigh, quietly. Your head still feels light, and yet there’s only one worry occupying a deep corner of your subconscious right now, eating you alive. You watch Trinity; her shoulders are rigid and she looks like she’s carrying the weight of this entire shitty day on them. It’s in this moment that you decide you need to know, hoping she’ll tell you the truth.

“Trin…love.”

Yolanda turns briefly, pausing her search for a moment. She’s recognized the tone in your voice, and her gaze examines you with surgical precision while you watch the awareness slowly dawn in her eyes. Of course she understands.

“Mm?” Trinity responds, still in her desperate search for a source of nutrition for you — she hasn’t noticed how the room has suddenly gone quiet. You feel your heart beating in your ears and have to clear your throat before speaking again.

“Honey, did you hurt yourself today?”

The question drops into the locker room like a glass hitting a marble floor.

Trinity stops. She doesn’t turn around, not right away, but her hands stop moving inside the bag. You see them freeze mid-motion, her fingers tight around something that is not a protein bar ; it’s just a reason not to look at you, not to look at Yolanda. Her shoulders, already rigid and weighed down, bowed under the burden of a day that should never have been this long and this cruel, drop just a little further. Only a few inches, but you notice. You always notice everything about Trinity, even when you wish you didn’t, even when noticing means seeing what you don’t want to see.

Yolanda is motionless. The water bottle is in her right hand, suspended in midair, and her eyes are fixed on Trinity with an expression you have only ever seen on her face in the operating room, when the monitor makes a sound it shouldn’t make and the body under her hands does something that wasn’t supposed to happen. The expression of someone who has understood before the words have made the thought real.

The silence lasts three seconds. It feels like three hundred.

“Trin… sweetheart. Did you hurt yourself today?”

You repeat the question. You repeat it because silence is not an answer, and because the way Trinity’s shoulders have gone stiff is, in fact, an answer you refuse to accept.

Trinity turns around. Slowly. With the slowness of someone dragging their body through something dense, like water, like freshly poured concrete… or fear. And when her face comes into your field of vision, the wall isn’t there. There’s no mask, not the impenetrable mask that Trinity builds between herself and the world every time the world asks her a question she doesn’t want to answer.

The question came too fast, and it came from the one person Trinity cannot lie to, even when lying would be easier and less painful. Her eyes are bright. Her lips are trembling. And her voice, when it comes out, is not the voice of Trinity Santos. It’s the voice of a tired, frightened girl, caught doing something she had promised herself she would never do again.

“Yes.”

One syllable. The most insignificant phonetic unit in the language and the most devastating, right now.

The world doesn’t stop. Not like in the movies, not like in stories — not with a dramatic silence and the lights dimming. The world keeps going - the locker room fluorescent hums, the faucet in the bathroom next door drips, outside the door the ER buzzes and patients wait and monitors beep their steady beeps - the world keeps going because the world doesn’t care, the world has never cared, the world moves forward with the same indifference with which it moves forward when you lose a patient or when a father jumps off a bridge or when the woman you love says “yes” in the voice of a child, in a locker room that smells of pure alcohol and stale sweat.

But your world - the small one, the one that exists between these three walls and your three bodies - your world splits. It splits in two like a bone under too much pressure, with a sound that isn’t a sound but that you feel nonetheless, in your bones, in your chest, in your empty stomach contracting around nothing.

Yolanda sets the water bottle on the bench with a motion that is the opposite of everything Yolanda Garcia is: uncontrolled, imprecise, almost clumsy. The bottle bounces on the wooden surface and rolls a few inches before stopping, and the metallic sound it makes is the only noise in the locker room for one full minute.

Then Yolanda moves.

Not the way she normally moves; not with grace, not with intention, not with that calculated fluidity that is the hallmark of the surgeon. She moves the way she moves when a patient is going into arrest on the operating table: fast. Direct. With a trajectory that tolerates no obstacles. Two steps, two strides that swallow the distance between her and Trinity as if that distance were a personal insult, and then she’s in front of her.

“Let me see.” Yolanda. Her voice is flat. Flat as a monitor when the heart stops beating. Flat as the voice of a woman using every single fiber of her being not to shake. “Trin, let me see.”

Trinity looks at her. Her eyes find Yolanda’s, and what you see there is shame. Pure, naked, total shame. The shame of someone who has done something they promised never to do again and cannot hide it and cannot justify it and cannot do anything other than stand there, in front of the woman they love, and show what they have done.

Trinity’s hands find the hem of her scrubs. Her fingers are trembling — you can see the fabric shift under the unsteady grip of her fingers — and then, with a slow, hesitant gesture full of a fear that makes you clench your teeth hard enough to feel them creak, Trinity lowers her waistband.

The left side. The pale skin of her thigh -that strip of skin you know by heart, that you’ve kissed, that you’ve caressed, that you’ve pressed against yours in the darkness of your shared bed - that skin now tells a different story.

Three lines. Thin. Red. Horizontal. Parallel to each other with a precision that is a stab to the chest, because it is the signature of someone who has done this before. Of someone who knows where to cut so it won’t be seen, how hard to press so it hurts but not too much, how to clean so it won’t get infected. Of someone who knows the map of their own body the way a surgeon knows the map of a patient, and has used that knowledge against themselves.

They’re not deep. That is the first thought your medical brain produces; they’re not deep, they don’t need sutures, the bleeding has stopped, the edges are clean, precise, made with something sharp and sterile. And the second thought, the one that arrives a tenth of a second later and wipes out the first like a wave wiping out a sandcastle; the second thought is: her hands were steady. When she did this, her hands were steady.

Yolanda looks. She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t move. She looks at the three red lines on Trinity’s skin with the surgeon’s eye, and for five seconds that is all she is: a doctor looking at a wound. A doctor breathing through her nose at a controlled rhythm; the same she uses in the operating room when things go wrong and panic is not an option.

Then the doctor ends. And the woman begins.

Yolanda’s hands rise, slowly. You watch them descend in slow motion; fingers open, palms up, the universal gesture of someone who doesn’t want to frighten, who approaches something fragile with the care reserved for things that cannot be broken twice. Her fingers stop one centimeter from Trinity’s skin. One centimeter. They don’t touch. They stay suspended in the air, trembling; the hands of Yolanda Garcia are trembling, the hands that never tremble, that have never trembled, are trembling over three clean red lines on the skin of the woman she loves. Who wouldn’t tremble.

“Can I?” Yolanda whispers. And the word comes out broken, snapped in two as if her voice had buckled under the weight of it.

Trinity gives the smallest nod of her head. Her eyes are closed and her lips are pressed into a line that quivers.

Yolanda touches.

Her fingers rest on Trinity’s skin, beside the lines, and the reaction is immediate. Trinity’s body flinches. A small, involuntary flinch - the reflex of a body that has been touched in the exact place it didn’t want to be touched, the exact place where the shame lives - and her hands close into fists at her sides and her eyes squeeze tighter shut as if she could erase this moment simply by refusing to see it.

Yolanda’s fingers move. Professional. Precise. They trace the edge of the first line, assessing the depth, the consistency of the borders, the stage of coagulation. They move to the second. Then the third.

Her face is a perfect mask, but beneath the mask - where you can see because you love this woman and knowing someone deeply means seeing their fractures even when they hide them - Yolanda Garcia is breaking apart.

You can see it in her breathing, in the way her chest moves: too fast, too shallow. You can see it in her jaw, in the way the muscles tighten and release and tighten again. You can see it in her eyes, which don’t leave Trinity’s skin, which trace the lines with fierce concentration, and which shine. They shine with a light that is not professional and not surgical and has nothing to do with medicine. They shine with tears that Yolanda is refusing to shed with the same force she would use to refuse to let a patient die on the table.

“They’re not deep,” says Yolanda. Her voice is steady as a rope pulled to the breaking point. “They don’t need stitches, but I have to dress them. Now.”

She doesn’t wait for an answer. She turns, goes to the small medicine cabinet in the locker room - the one with the faded red cross on the door, the one everyone uses for bandages and ibuprofen and the small emergencies of everyday life - and opens it. Gauze. Disinfectant. Butterfly closures. She takes them out with precise, automatic movements , the movements of a body running on muscle memory because her mind is somewhere else, somewhere dark where three red lines on the skin of the woman she loves overlap with all the old scars she has touched in the darkness of their bed, whispering “these don’t define you” and meaning it. Really meaning it.

You’re on the bench. You haven’t moved. You haven’t moved because your legs won’t move - not by choice but by incapacity, by the total and complete exhaustion of every physical and emotional reserve your body possessed - and your hands are in your lap, with your scraped palms turned upward. Tears run down your face and you do nothing to stop them. You can’t do anything other than watch Yolanda returning with the gauze and the disinfectant, watch Trinity standing with her waistband lowered and her eyes closed and her face wrecked, watch Yolanda’s hands trembling - trembling, goddamn it, Yolanda Garcia’s hands are trembling - as she opens the disinfectant and pours a little onto the gauze.

“It’s going to sting,” says Yolanda. She says it in the doctor’s voice. She says it because it’s what she says to patients, every time, before disinfecting a wound. A warning. A professional courtesy. But that touc, healing, gentle, necessar, is also a touch that hurts, that hurts all three of them.

Trinity inhales when the gauze touches her skin. A short, sharp breath, the hiss of air through clenched teeth. Her body goes rigid but doesn’t pull away. She stays still. She lets Yolanda do what needs to be done, because she knows that resistance would only make things worse.

Yolanda cleans. First line. Second. Third. Her fingers work with her characteristic precision, small, circular, exact movements, and her face doesn’t change expression. Not a muscle. Not a crease. The mask holds.

When she’s finished cleaning, she takes the butterfly closures. She applies them one by one, closing the edges of each line with the same care she’d give a surgical wound. Three closures. Three small white wings on Trinity’s skin, covering what was done without erasing it. Because nothing erases it. Not bandages, not time, not love. However much of it you can give to your youngest girl.

Yolanda’s fingers take hold of the waistband of Trinity’s scrub pants and gently pull it back up. The fabric hides the lines from your sight but not from your minds.

And then Yolanda’s hands fall to her sides. As if someone has cut the strings holding them up. They fall, lifeless, her fingers still stained with disinfectant, and her entire body changes posture: her shoulders drop, her back curves, her head tilts forward just slightly, just a few degrees, enough to cast a shadow across her face. And her breath breaks, with a long, thin tremor that starts in her chest and passes through her shoulders.

“Yolo—” Trinity begins, and her voice is pure terror, because one of the two women she loves is on the verge of shattering and it’s her fault.

“Don’t,” says Yolanda. And her voice… is destroyed. Wounded. “Don’t talk for a second. Give me a second.”

The second lasts twenty. Then thirty. You count them in your head - not by choice, but because counting is the only thing your brain is capable of right now - and in those thirty seconds Yolanda breathes. Inhales. Exhales. Inhales. Exhales. With her eyes closed and her hands at her sides and her body trembling and her face fighting something that wants to come out, that she doesn’t want to let out, not here, not now, not yet.

Then she opens her eyes, and her eyes are red. When she speaks, her voice is unlike any voice you have ever heard from her; it is the voice of someone who has just been wounded in the deepest way possible and who is trying, with every gram of strength they possess, not to wound in return.

“I had my hands on your skin last night,” says Yolanda. She looks at Trinity. As if you weren’t in the room. “My hands were on your skin. We were in our bed. I touched you exactly where those— those—” She can’t say it. The word cuts lodges in her throat like a piece of glass. “And they weren’t there. Last night they weren’t there. Which means you did this this morning. You did it today, in this hospital, while I was three floors above you in surgery and you were in the bathroom of the ER with something sharp and I didn’t know. I didn’t know, Trinity.”

Her voice breaks. Trinity’s hands are at her sides, her fingers stiff and tense — the fingers of someone who wants to reach for the person in front of her and doesn’t know if she has the right. Tears run down her face and her mouth opens and closes, searching for words that don’t exist.

“I didn’t… I don’t know how to explain—” says Trinity, and her voice is unrecognizable. Thick. Wet. The voice of someone speaking through the rubble of a collapsed wall. “When Langdon… this morning, I— I was fine. I was fine, I swear. And then I looked at him and I thought about what he did and about how he’s back here now like nothing happened and then Al-Hashimi practically told me I’d have to repeat my residency year if I didn’t get through those charts and then it was just… it’s like a noise. A noise that keeps getting louder, and the only way to make it stop is—”

She stops. Swallows.

“It’s the only way I know to make it stop,” she whispers. “I know it’s wrong. I know. I’m a doctor, I take care of people. But then I go into the bathroom and— I know it’s wrong.”

You get up.

You don’t know how. You don’t know where the strength comes from - your body hasn’t eaten, hasn’t slept, nearly collapsed on a concrete floor less than ten minutes ago - but you get up. Your legs are shaking, the world sways for a second, but you get up and take the two steps that separate you from Trinity and you take her face in your hands. You place them on her wet cheeks and turn her toward you and you look at her.

“Listen to me,” you say. And your voice isn’t strong. It’s not the voice from the stairwell. It’s the voice of someone who loves another person so much they feel their pain in their own body, like an echo. “Listen to me, sweetheart. The fact that it’s the only way you know doesn’t mean it’s the only way that exists. It just means nobody ever taught you another one. And that is something that can change. Not in a hospital bathroom with the door closed and steady hands. With us. With someone.”

Her tears wet your fingers. Her lips tremble beneath your palms. And her eyes - those eyes you’ve loved since the very first day, those eyes full of fire - those eyes look at you with something that is bigger than shame and stronger than fear. They look at you with the desperate, hungry, wild hope of someone who wants to believe you, who needs to believe you.

Yolanda steps closer. She stops behind Trinity and her hands rise and settle on Trinity’s shoulders.

“I’m not judging you,” says Yolanda. And the way she says it, with a low voice stripped of all its armor, breaks something in your chest that you didn’t know could break any further. “I don’t judge you, Trinity. But I need — I need you, the next time you feel that noise, instead of going into the bathroom, to come to me. Or to Y/N. Or to both of us. I don’t care where we are, I don’t care what we’re doing. Just come. And if you can’t come, send us a message. One word. Any word. And we’ll be there. This cannot happen again, sweetheart.”

Yolanda’s hands on Trinity’s shoulders tighten. Hard. So hard you can see her knuckles whiten and her fingers press into flesh through the fabric of the scrubs. It’s the touch of a woman trying to hold something together by sheer force of will.

“Can you do that?” Yolanda asks. “Can you promise me that?”

Trinity closes her eyes. The tears keep falling and her body trembles between your hands and Yolanda’s, between your palms on her cheeks and Yolanda’s fingers on her shoulders, between two bodies holding her from the front and the back like the walls of a safe place.

“I’ll try,” she says. “I can’t… I can’t promise you it will never happen again. That wouldn’t be honest. But I can promise you that I’ll try. To come to you. Not to close the door. Not to- not to use my hands for this.”

It’s not enough. All three of you know that. It’s not enough because “I’ll try” is not “yes” and “it will never happen again” is a sentence no honest human being can make. But it’s all Trinity has. It’s all she can give, right now, on this floor, in this locker room, after this day. And you accept it. You accept it because the alternative - demanding a promise she can’t keep - would be another form of violence, and your girl has suffered far too much already.

“And you talk to someone,” you say. “A professional. Not us. Someone who knows how to help you with that noise.”

Trinity opens her eyes. She looks at you. Then turns her head, just slightly, and looks at Yolanda. And in her gaze there is something that resembles surrender.

“Okay,” she says. “Okay.”

Your hands leave her face and Yolanda’s hands drop from Trinity’s shoulders and she wraps you both in her arms from behind, her long arms around both your shoulders, her chest pressed against Trinity’s back.

You stay like that. Under the fluorescent light of the locker room, with the smell of alcohol and disinfectant and stale sweat, with your three shadows overlapping on the wall of lockers like a single misshapen and beautiful silhouette. You don’t speak. There’s nothing to say that hasn’t already been said or that can’t wait. The silence is full of your hands, your breathing, the beating of your hearts that slowly, beat by beat, begin to synchronize.

Then the locker room door opens.

Dana.

Of course it’s Dana. With her crooked glasses, her dangling badge, a sandwich in her left hand and a juice box in her right and an expression on her face that is an entire encyclopedia of unspoken things. Her eyes sweep the room in under a second: you, pale, with wet cheeks; Trinity, with red eyes; Yolanda, with her arm around both of you. And in that second Dana catalogues, files, understands, and decides. Everything. Without any of you having said a single word.

She doesn’t ask what happened. She doesn’t ask if you’re okay. She doesn’t ask anything that requires an answer, because Dana knows - Dana always knows everything - that there are moments when questions are a luxury and answers are a burden.

She sets the sandwich and the juice box on the bench beside you. She looks at you, then at Trinity, then at Yolanda.

“Mohan has your patients,” she says, addressing you. “Javadi has yours,” to Trinity. “Walsh is covering your surgery,” to Yolanda. “Don’t look at me like that, Garcia. Walsh is perfectly capable.”

Yolanda doesn’t protest. Not this time. She doesn’t have the strength or the will to protest, and honestly maybe she doesn’t even want to. She nods. Once. A small movement that says thank you without saying the word.

Dana looks at all of you for another moment, then her gaze settles on Trinity and something in her face changes. It softens. The lines around her eyes smooth out. Her jaw relaxes. And for a moment Dana is the woman with kids at home. The woman who climbs onto rooftops and opens locker room doors and sees the things nobody wants seen, and guards them with the same ferocity with which she guards her ER.

“Go home,” she says. Quietly, without threat, without irony, in the voice she uses at three in the morning with young colleagues who have just lost their first patient and don’t know how to get up from their chair. “All three of you. Go home.”

She leaves. The door closes. Her footsteps recede down the corridor and then her voice - “Javadi, 4 north, let’s go. Break time’s over” - and then nothing. Just the hum of the fluorescent and the drip of the faucet and your breathing.

Trinity is the first to pull away. She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand and her gaze falls on the sandwich Dana left on the bench.

She picks it up, unwraps it, and holds it out to you.

“Eat,” she says.

You eat. Yolanda takes a sip from her water bottle and passes it to Trinity, who drinks and then passes it to you. The juice box you open afterward, in the car, sitting in the back seat with your legs touching and your hands intertwined, Yolanda at the wheel with her eyes checking on you both in the rearview mirror every thirty seconds.

The city flows past the window. Fireworks. Flags. Barbecues. Everyone else’s Fourth of July.

Your Fourth of July is here, a jungle of emotions in a car that smells of a day that went on too long and of dried tears. With three red lines beneath a butterfly closure, a fragile pact, and a juice box passed from hand to hand like a quiet prayer.

It’s not enough. It’s not a cure.

But it’s a start. And it’s yours.

Thanks for reading! Here we are with another Trinity x Yolanda x reader. I’ll be honest — the last episode made me genuinely furious. At who? I’m not even sure. I’m angry at Yolanda because she treated Trin like dirt, but at the same time, I know Trinity may have taken things too far, so this is how I let it out. (I know, I need to bring the word count down — we’re getting a little out of hand here.) Anyway, thanks again for reading, requests are always welcome, and I’m leaving the Ko-fi link below. Leave likes and comments; for a writer, it really does mean everything. Have a great day!!

P.S.: I’m currently working on something with JFK Jr., Carolyn, and reader — I just haven’t decided whether to post it yet.

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For the first time in your life you had an Alpha to help soothe your heat, make the ache go away, to fulfill that primal need to be bred. The bruises on your hips and wrists ached in the best way possible, reminding you of the strong wolf hybrid that scented, tracked and marked you against your will because she knew what your body needed even when you didn't. Said wolf hybrid however won't leave you alone, with her claiming bite mark on your neck you couldn't expect Sevika to leave and she didn't. In fact all she's done since is try to calm your mind... and heat.

Over and over again.

The mere thought and memories of the past few days spent tangled in the sheets is enough to have your scent sweetening like honey, which Sevika picks up on immediately and is instantly at the bedroom door, ready to provide. "What do you need bunny? I got you... just tell me what you need." Within seconds she's on you, laying on top of you, her weight grounding you. She pushes a comforting scent to soothe you, purring low as she kisses the mark on your neck. Her mark.

"I'm okay... I was thinking about... well..." No matter how soothing, how reassuring she'd been since that first night you were still so shy around her, which was understandable considering her aura, energy and... well she was fucking hot.

"Mmm I know bun. I know exactly what my bunny needs." She kisses her way down your collarbone, claws extending to carefully rip off your nightgown. The third one she's ripped this week. "Good girl bunny, gonna breed you again. Get you nice 'n full for me." Pulling the fabric away she strips your, baring your skin to the cold air of the cabin. Instantly your nipples pebble, hard and inviting as the waft of your arousal hits Sevika.

Unable to hold back her mouth encloses around one of your peaks, sucking and nipping the sensitive nub as her own hands work to get rid of her pants. Despite fumbling with her belt her mouth never falters, she laps, nips and sucks at your breast like it's her favourite meal on the planet. Once her pants are off and she's free her length slaps against her lower stomach, smearing pre cum over the curling thick hairs of her happy trail. If there was one thing Sevika was always ready to provide, it was a good breeding. "Please 'vika... need you..."

That breathless, quiet whimpering was music to her ears, she loved how easily you've submitted to her since she claimed you, loves how much you need her even if you're shy about admitting it. "I got you bunny, I've got you. Lie nice 'n pretty for me while I make it all better, okay?" Licking her way back up to your neck she bites down on the mark she gave you, re-claiming you again. Reminding you exactly who you belong to and that she will always take care of you... Sevika would never admit it but you bring out a softer side to her when you're needy like this.

Her large hands grip your plump thighs bringing them up around her hips as she lines herself up, dragging her cock through your slick, weeping cunt. "Breathe for me bun, let me in..." her tip leaks pre cum, mixing with your own wetness as she brushes her mushroom tip over your clit, encouraging you to relax and let her in. Even though she's bred you multiple times by now you're still so tiny, or she's just so large... Either way it's always a tight fit.

Sevika pushes your thighs up towards your chest opening you up wider for her. The tip nudges your opening, the scent of you overwhelming her senses as she holds back from ravaging you... again. A low, pained grunt escapes her lips as her hips buck, forcing another inch inside. Your slick weeps out around her shaft, creating enough natural lubricant for her to slide right in- though she remains slow, gentle.

"Bigggg stretch... good girl letting me in. Gonna get you bred nice 'n proper." Her hips retreat before pushing forward once more, repeating it over and over, going an inch deeper each time until she's fully sheathed inside your warm heat. Keeping your spread open Sevika finds a rhythm, pulling out until just the tip remains before sliding back home. Her bulbous tip stretches you out nice and deep, the head bullying you g-spot with each snap of her hips, earning her those pathetic little whines and squeaks from your lips.

"V-vika!" Calling her name is the only word you can form, all other thoughts are clouded with pleasure as she keeps you nice and full, soothing the ache that was lingering from your heat. Sevika leans down to kiss your neck, pressing soft, gentle kisses on your sticky, sweaty skin in time with her thrusts. She continues her kisses upwards until she reaches your twitching nose, tiny and scrunching up with pleasure as each time she bottoms out. "Cute little thing..."

Her weight keeps you grounded, trapped beneath her unable to do anything but take it. It's exactly where you want to be. The wet 'plap plap plap' of your pussy is obscene as her shaft forces the air out of you. If you had any semblance of thought you'd be embarrassed by how needy your heat sounds, though thoughts were long gone in your mind. All your brain was screaming was 'breed breed breed' like it always does when Sevika is around, flooding your senses with her.

Her scent wraps around you like a warm blanket, dominating your own sweet scent with hers. It was musky, like woodsmoke and whiskey. Sevika notices how far gone you are, your little "Uh uh uhh's" panting in her ear with each buck of her hips. To ground you she starts to purr, low and soothing in your ear as she grinds into you now, keeping herself deep and your heat full. "Doing so good for me bunny. I'm so close, gonna fill this belly up."

Bringing one hand down between the apex of your thighs she thumbs your clit, smirking and purring louder to soothe you when your hips buck and twitch from the sensitivity. "Cum for me bun, come on baby please... give it to me." It's all too much, too good. Sevika holds you close, purring and pressing soft kisses to any skin available to her as she brings you to the edge. There's no rush in her movements, no need to get you to finish right now and that's what does it. No expectation, no pressure, no demanding, only gentle coaxing, as if she wants to see you fall apart.

God you do. Hard.

Sevika picks up the pace again when your tight heat pulses and contracts around her cock. Her thumb is still going, working you through your orgasm as her own builds, cock twitching inside you with the primal urge to fill you up. "Good girl bunny, god you're so pretty like this bun..." her praise only heightens your pleasure, sending shockwaves through every nerve ending. Eventually Sevika stops holding back and lets go, she gives all of it to you. The warmth of her seed filling you up and settling in your belly has you whimpering, tears streaming down your cheeks from the ecstasy of finally fulfilling that need, the ache that's been lingering.

Wrapping your legs around her hips Sevika finally lays down, keeping you close, still inside you as she brings you back down to earth. "There's my girl. You did such a good job, bunny. I'm so proud of you." Her praises don't stop. Whispers in your ear along with the scent she's pushing- it's comforting. Warm and homey like she knows exactly what you need after being so thoroughly ravished. Low, quiet purrs in your ears, her chest rumbling against yours, soothing any fears or worries you might have.

This version of Sevika was a stark difference to the one who tracked you down, broke in and took what she wanted. Though that was exactly what you needed, a strong alpha able to do both and give you what you need before you realise you need it.

“cassie?” you say, venturing out of your shared bedroom butt naked. you spot your girlfriend by the sink, cleaning up the dinner that she made. “hey, cassie?”

she doesn’t look up from the sink, barely acknowledging you. “hm?”

“i’m sorry.”

“it’s fine, baby,” cassie mumbles.

“no like i feel really bad. i’m really sorry, babe.”

“i said it’s fine,” cassie says as she puts the pot she just washed on the drying rack.

“i feel like i need to apologize again. i’m so sorry, i should’ve—”

“oh, damn.” cassie lets out a small whistle as she finally turns to look at you. surprised to see you naked, her wide eyes bulge out of her head as they trail down your gorgeous body.

“i should’ve used the other towel,” you continue, your apology not even reaching cassie’s ears. “i’m sorry i ruined your favorite towel, and i’ll try and find a replacement.” nodding as if she’s listening, cassie licks her lips and takes a step closer to you. still apologizing, you take a step back. “you can be mad at me, i get it. it wasn’t a life or death thing.”

“mad?” cassie asks, her eyes shooting up to your face for the first time in the last 10 seconds. “why-why would i be mad?”

“because i stained your favorite towel.”

“huh? what? oh! uh…” cassie’s eyes travel down your body again, spending a lot of time staring at your bare chest before focusing on your exposed pussy. “oh, i, uh, um… wasn’t… mad at you. just the situation, you know? it’s… fine,” cassie tells you as she takes a couple steps forward, closing the gap between you both.

but you gently push her shoulder, putting distance between you two. “cass, i’m really sorry,” you reiterate. “i just— hey! stop, stop!” you softly exclaim, getting distracted by your girlfriend ogling you and so clearly not paying attention to a word you’re saying. “hey, babe.” you grab her chin to make her look at you. cassie keeps her eyes on your body, meeting your gaze at the absolute last second. “do you accept my apology?” you ask as you bat your irrresistable doe eyes.

“baby, i was never mad at you,” cassie tells you as she wiggles out of your clutch, her hungry gaze returning to your body. she licks her lips, probably not even realizing it, and her mouth remains slightly open, drool about to spill out.

“but do you accept my apology?”

“wha? yes! yes, of course.” cassie makes eye contact with you then, a begging look etched onto her face. “please let me touch you, baby. i need to touch you,” cassie pleads pathetically.

you stay quiet for a couple of seconds, letting cassie’s desperation hang in the air for a moment longer. “okay,” you murmur when you can tell cassie’s about to burst.

cassie puts her hands on your hips, pulling you to her. she then backs you up against the kitchen counter and gets on her knees. looking up at you, cassie spreads your legs apart. “thank you,” she mutters breathlessly before diving into her dessert.