This is Nothing
Part 6
Trinity Santos x dynamic disability!reader
Summary: Ever since your ex-wife left you because you became "too much" you've kept everyone at a distance so why is this R2 you're keeping things casual with getting under your skin?
word count: 7.7K
Warnings: Chronic pain flare, storm/barometric-pressure-related pain, mobility aid use, wheelchair use, mentions of migraines/nausea/medication/pain patches, accessibility frustrations in public spaces, brief public ableism toward a wheelchair user, emotional vulnerability, internalized insecurity about being wanted versus being “useful,” caretaking, mild financial insecurity around groceries, romantic tension, domestic intimacy, and light swearing
Authors note: I wanted to take these two out on their first real outing. This takes place just before part 4 so they're still in that casual, but things are becoming more of a relationship before either of them says it in part 4
The storm announces itself before the rain does. It starts in your hip. Then your spine. Then the base of your skull, a low pressure ache blooming behind your eyes before you even open them. You lie there for a second, staring at the ceiling, and consider becoming one with the mattress. A medically sound plan.
Beside you, Trinity is still asleep on her stomach, one arm shoved under the pillow, your shirt twisted around her waist. She has been staying over more. No conversation about what it means that her toothbrush is in your ensuite, her canned coffee is in your fridge, and her hoodie has colonized the chair in your bedroom like a soft little invasive species.
Still. She is here. Again. You turn your head and look at her. Her hair is a mess. There is a faint crease on her cheek from the pillow. She looks younger when asleep. Less sharp. Less braced for impact. Then thunder rolls somewhere far off, low and dull. Your hip answers immediately.
“Rude,” you mutter.
Trinity stirs. One eye opens.
“Are you talking to the weather?”
“It started it.”
She blinks a few times, then lifts her head. Her voice is rough with sleep.
“Pain?”
“Yes.”
“Bad?”
“Getting there.”
That wakes her more. She pushes herself up on one elbow, squinting at you like she can diagnose barometric pressure through sheer hostility.
“Storm?”
“Storm.”
“Fuck.”
“Elegant clinical summary.”
She rolls onto her side, facing you fully.
“What do you need?”
There it is. No pause. No sigh. No tiny reluctance dressed up as concern. Just the question. You look away before your face does something stupid.
“Groceries.”
Trinity’s brows pull together.
“What?”
“We need groceries.”
“We?”
You sit up slowly, grimacing when your lower back objects.
“Yes, Santos. We. The fridge currently contains half a lemon, three string cheeses, your morally questionable canned coffee, and a container of rice I no longer trust.”
She props herself up more.
“You’re going grocery shopping?”
“Yes.”
“Today?”
“Yes.”
“In storm pain?”
“I would like to go before it’s swamped with people and my pain gets too bad from this storm we’re getting.”
Trinity stares at you. Then laughs once. Not mean. Confused. Like she is waiting for the punchline to crawl out from under the bed.
“Okay.” You look at her. She smiles faintly. “Have fun.”
You blink.
“Have fun?”
“Yeah.” She gestures vaguely. “I’ll, I don’t know, clean up here. Or steal more of your gum.”
“You’re coming with me.”
Her smile freezes.
“What?” Her face scrunches up more.
“You’re coming with me.”
She sits up fully now. The blanket falls to her lap. For a second, she looks almost offended by the physics of the sentence. Then she laughs again.
“Oh wait.” Her eyes search your face. “You’re serious.”
“Yes.” You reach for the water bottle on your nightstand. “And I’d like to go before it’s swamped with people and my pain gets too bad from this storm we’re getting.”
Trinity just looks at you. Something in her expression shifts. Small. Quick. Gone almost before you catch it. Not annoyance. Not dread. Something more like surprise with a bruise under it.
“You want me to go grocery shopping with you?”
“Yes.”
“Like…outside?”
You pause. Then turn toward her more fully.
“Santos.”
“What?”
“Do you think I keep you in the apartment because I’m embarrassed by you?”
Her mouth opens. Closes.
“That is not what I said.”
“No. It’s what you looked like.”
She looks down at the blanket, thumb worrying the edge of it.
“I just…” She shrugs. Too sharp. Too false. “People don’t usually want the whole normal thing.”
“The whole normal thing being cereal and pharmacy aisle negotiations?”
“Kind of.”
Your chest aches. You hate that answer. You hate how small she makes it. You hate that she sounds like someone who has been invited into bedrooms, into secrecy, into late-night emergency wanting, but not into the bright fluorescent mundanity of buying bananas. You set the water down.
“Trinity.”
She looks up.
“You are not a houseplant.”
Her face goes blank.
“What?”
“I’m not leaving you here by the window and hoping you photosynthesize until I get back.”
She stares.
Then snorts.
“That was the worst reassurance I’ve ever heard.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I’m not a fern.”
“No. Ferns are calmer.”
She kicks your shin very lightly under the blanket. You smile despite the pain simmering under your skin. Then you soften.
“I want you to come with me.”
Trinity goes quiet.
“That’s all?”
“That’s all.”
“Because you need help?”
“I do need help.”
Her face does the thing. The little tightening. The old calculation.
“So I’m useful.”
You catch it immediately.
“No.”
She looks at you.
“You are helpful,” you say. “That is not the same as being useful.”
Her brows knit. You continue before she can wriggle out of it.
“I want you there because I like when you’re there. I need help because my body is being a weather instrument. Both things can be true.”
She swallows.
“Annoyingly reasonable.”
“Psychiatrist.”
“Hot.”
“Santos.”
“What? Barometric pain honesty is hot.”
You sigh and swing your legs over the side of the bed. Your hip complains with feeling. Trinity is up before you can pretend it did not. She does not grab you. She simply steps around to your side of the bed and offers her hand. You take it.
“Chair day?” she asks.
You glance toward the bedroom doorway, toward where your wheelchair is folded open near the wall because you had been too tired to put it away last night.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“You sound relieved.”
“I am. Grocery stores are big and people are stupid.”
“That should be printed on the entrance.”
“I’ll make a sign.”
She helps you stand, then watches while you transfer into the chair. No hovering. No fussing. Just enough presence to make the room feel less hostile. Then she starts moving with sudden purpose.
“Okay. Clothes. Meds. Water. List.”
You blink.
“List?”
“You have one, right?”
“On my phone.”
“Rookie mistake. Phones die. We need paper.”
“We?”
She points at you from the doorway.
“I’m committing to the normal thing.”
You look at her. She freezes. Then flushes.
“I mean. Grocery shopping.”
“Mm.”
“Do not look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you heard me.”
“I did.”
“Terrible habit.”
She disappears into the kitchen and comes back with a notepad from your built-in study nook and a pen she stole from your desk. You frown.
“That’s my good pen.”
“It lives in a communal space.”
“My study nook is not communal.”
“It is when we’re emotionally meal planning.”
You close your eyes.
“I regret inviting you.”
“No, you don’t.”
You do not. That is the problem. The two of you get ready in pieces. Not efficiently. Not gracefully. Your body refuses efficiency on principle. Trinity brings you clothes that will not make your skin angry. Soft pants. Loose shirt. Hoodie. Compression socks. She kneels to help with the socks, then glances up.
“Okay?”
“Yes.”
She slides them on carefully, thumbs smoothing the fabric without pulling too hard. Then she gets dressed in jeans and one of your hoodies. You look at it. She looks down.
“What?”
“That’s mine.”
“It likes me better.”
“You are going grocery shopping in my hoodie.”
“Do you want it back?”
You do.
You very much do not.
“No.”
Her smile is small but bright. Victory, but fragile. In the kitchen, you dictate the list while Trinity writes. She has stolen the notepad from your built-in study nook and one of your better pens, which she is pretending is not theft because apparently your apartment has communal property laws now.
“Bread.”
“Bread,” she repeats, writing it down with unnecessary seriousness.
“Eggs.”
“Eggs.”
“Rice.”
“You don’t trust the old rice?”
“It has seen too much.”
“Relatable.”
“Soup. Ginger tea. Electrolyte drink. Electrolyte packets. Pasta. Chicken broth. Crackers. Fruit.”
“What kind of fruit?”
“Whatever looks good.”
Trinity looks horrified.
“That’s not a plan.”
“It’s fruit.”
“Fruit requires vibes.”
“Fine. Grapes, oranges, strawberries if they don’t look tragic.”
She writes very seriously.
“Safe foods?” she asks.
Your voice catches for half a second. She does not look up. That helps.
“Toast stuff. Yogurt. Applesauce. Peanut butter. Frozen waffles.”
“Storm snacks?”
You look at her.
She shrugs.
“I assume that’s a category.”
It is.
You hate that she figured that out.
“Pretzels. Dark chocolate. Saltines. Maybe kettle chips.”
“Maybe?”
“Definitely.”
She writes kettle chips with unnecessary flair.
Then adds something else beneath it.
You lean forward.
“Did you just write canned coffee?”
“For me.”
“This is my grocery list.”
“I can pay for my coffee and snacks,” Trinity says quickly. “Anything that’s for me.”
You laugh. Not cruelly. Just surprised enough that it slips out before you can catch it. Trinity’s face tightens.
“What?”
“Why would I let you do that?”
Her brows pull together.
“Because I can pay for my own things?”
You look at her. Really look. At the defensive tilt of her chin. At the way her fingers grip the pen like she is ready to cross herself off the page before you can. At the way she has learned to make herself cheap in other people’s lives. Temporary. Low maintenance. Easy to return.
“Oh, moja Słoneczko,” you say, soft and a little amused. “I make six figures. You aren’t paying for anything that’s in my house.”
Trinity goes still. Completely still. The pen hovers over the notepad. Her mouth opens, then closes again. You can practically hear the gears grinding themselves into sparks. “That’s not…” She stops. Starts over. “That’s not fair.”
“To whom?”
“To you.”
You raise an eyebrow.
“I am devastated by the financial burden of canned coffee and sour gummy worms.”
“Don’t be an ass.”
“I’m Polish. It’s cultural.”
“That is not how that works.”
“It is today.”
Her face is still pink. Not just embarrassed. Moved. Cornered by kindness in a kitchen. A terrible place to be cornered by kindness, really. No exits except pantry and emotional collapse. She looks back down at the list.
“I don’t want you to feel like I’m taking advantage of you.”
“You’re not.”
“I’m here a lot.”
“I noticed.”
“I eat your food.”
“You also cook when I can’t.”
“Well…yeah….”
“You made eggs.”
“I burned one side.”
“Protein with texture.”
She huffs, but it is weak. You soften.
“Trinity.”
She looks up.
“I want your coffee in my fridge.”
Her face changes. Tiny. Devastating.
“You do?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you drink it. Because you’re here. Because you get cranky if you have to drink my energy drinks.”
“Your energy drinks are too much.”
“My energy drinks have gotten me to where I am.” She smiles and so do you. “Add the canned coffee.” She looks down at the notepad. Then slowly writes it again, darker this time, like she is making it official. Canned coffee. Then, after a pause, she adds sour gummy worms. You see it. You say nothing. She glances at you anyway.
“For the household,” she says.
Your chest does something inconvenient.
“For the household,” you agree.
The pen stops again. Her face changes the second the words settle between you. The household. Not your house. Not her snacks. Not guest food. Household. The fridge hums. Rain taps once against the balcony glass. Then again. Trinity stares at the list like it has betrayed her. You lean back in your chair, giving her room to breathe.
“Add actual food too,” you say. “You cannot survive on canned coffee and spite.”
“Watch me.”
“I have. It’s medically unimpressive.”
She laughs then. Small, shaky, real. Then she writes down pasta sauce, bananas, and the specific protein bars she likes but always pretends not to like because they are overpriced. You notice. Of course you notice. This time, you do not tease her. You just let her add herself to the list. One item at a time.
𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆ 𓂃 ₊ ⊹
The grocery store is still quiet when you get there. Not empty. Never empty enough. But early enough that the parking lot has gaps, the carts are not all missing one wheel, and the produce section is not yet a battlefield of retirees, tired parents, and people blocking entire aisles to contemplate bananas. The sky overhead is bruised gray. Rain clings to the windshield in thin, nervous streaks. Thunder rolls somewhere in the distance, low and heavy enough that your hip answers before the sound even finishes. Trinity looks over from the passenger seat.
“You’re doing the face.”
“I have several faces.”
“The one where your skeleton is sending legal correspondence.”
You sigh.
“Poetic.”
“Pain?”
“Loud.”
Her mouth tightens, but she does not spiral. Not outwardly. Instead, she unbuckles.
“Chair?”
“Chair.”
“Okay.”
She is out of the car before you can tell her not to rush. You watch her in the side mirror as she gets the wheelchair from the back. She has learned the sequence. Brakes first once it is open. Footrests out. Seat bag attached. Check the side pocket. Leave enough space beside the car. She does it carefully, but not like the chair is precious. Like it is practical. Part of the choreography. Part of you getting through the store with less damage. That distinction matters more than you want it to. She comes around to your side and opens the door.
“Ready?”
“In spirit, no.”
“In body?”
“Also no.”
“Excellent. We’re aligned.”
You huff a laugh and transfer into the chair.
Your hip sparks sharply, and your hand tightens against the car door.
Trinity sees it. Her hand lifts. Stops. Waits.
“Can I?”
You nod once. Only then does she steady your elbow. Warm. Firm. No grabbing. No assuming. When you settle into the chair, she crouches briefly to adjust the footrest. Then she looks up at you.
“Okay?”
“No.”
“Store okay?”
“Yes.”
She stands and closes the car door.
“Terrible sentence. Accepted.”
You glance toward the entrance. The automatic doors are framed by displays of bottled water, charcoal, and patriotic paper plates that look like July Fourth threw up on capitalism.
“Cart,” you say.
“On it.”
Trinity grabs one from the corral and gives it a test push. It wobbles violently. She stares at it.
“No.”
She returns it and picks another. This one squeaks. She narrows her eyes.
“Also no.”
“Santos.”
“I’m choosing a steed.”
“You’re choosing a cart.”
“A cart with bad alignment could ruin us.”
You let her try a third. It rolls smoothly. She looks triumphant.
“See?”
“You are very brave.”
“I know.”
Inside, the fluorescent lights hit first. Then the smell. Produce mist. Coffee from the little kiosk near the front. Bakery sugar. Wet coats. Cleaning solution. The thousand tiny grocery store smells that become one large grocery store smell. Trinity slows beside you. You can feel her attention sharpen. Not on the shelves. On you. She notices how you pause just inside the doors to orient yourself. How your eyes move through the front section quickly. Produce on the left. Bakery ahead. Pharmacy far back. Frozen along the wall. Checkout near the exit. A map made in seconds because you have learned to conserve movement the way other people conserve money. You point toward produce.
“We start there.”
“Yes, captain.”
“Never call me that again.”
“Noted, captain.”
You look at her. She grins. She pushes the cart beside you, trying to keep pace. At first, she does it badly. Not because she does not care. Because she does. Too much. She keeps drifting too close, then overcorrecting. She almost clips a display of peaches and mutters an apology to the fruit. You stop. She stops too fast.
“What?”
“You’re hovering.”
“I’m not.”
“You are. You’re doing cart-based hovering.”
She looks down at the cart like it has betrayed her.
“I don’t know how to do this.”
The admission comes out sharper than she means it. You soften.
“I know.”
Her face flickers.
“I don’t want to be in the way.”
“Then don’t guess. Ask.”
Her fingers flex on the handle.
“Okay.”
“You can walk beside me when the aisle is wide. Behind me when it narrows. If I need something high, I’ll ask. If people are blocking the aisle, do not turn into a tiny hospital security guard.”
“I am not tiny.”
“That was your takeaway?”
“I need boundaries too.”
You smile despite yourself.
She breathes out and nods.
“Okay. Beside when wide. Behind when narrow. Ask instead of hover. No tiny security guard.”
“Good.”
“Can I still glare?”
“You may glare recreationally.”
“Thank god.”
You roll toward the produce. Trinity walks beside you this time, leaving more room. She notices immediately why it matters. The store is technically accessible. Aisles wide enough on paper. Floors flat enough. Doors automatic. But the produce section is full of little obstacles no architect drew into the plan. A damp floor sign jutting too far out. A display of tomatoes angled into the path. A stack of baskets near the apples. A man standing in the middle of everything, reading a text like he has taken a vow of spatial ignorance. You navigate around them without drama. Small turns. Tiny adjustments. A practiced arc to avoid clipping the wheel against a wooden crate. You do it so smoothly that Trinity almost misses the effort. Almost. Then she sees your hand flex after a turn, your jaw tighten when the wheel catches slightly on the edge of a, the way you scan for the cleanest route before you ever move. Her face changes. You can feel it. The quiet anger. Not at you. At the store. At the world. At every inch you have to calculate while someone else just walks in and complains about avocado prices.
“You’re doing it again,” you say.
She blinks.
“What?”
“Getting loud internally.”
She looks down at the cart.
“The tomato display is a crime.”
“It is.”
“Why is it sticking out like that?”
“Because people think accessible means there was technically a path before they filled it with seasonal produce.”
Trinity’s mouth tightens.
“That’s stupid.”
“Yes.”
“And normal?”
“Also yes.”
She looks furious now. You reach for strawberries before she can decide to fight a crate. She catches the motion.
“Those?”
“Check them.”
She grabs a package and turns it over with solemn intensity.
“Tragic.”
You look. Mold.
“Good call.”
She gets another.
“Less tragic?”
You inspect it.
“Acceptable.”
She places it in the cart carefully, like the strawberries have passed a residency interview. Next are grapes. She holds up a bag.
“These look firm.”
“Too many loose ones.”
She grabs another.
“These?”
“Better.”
She adds them. At the apples, she starts to put them in one of the thin plastic bags and immediately gets into a fight with it. The bag refuses to open. Trinity glares. You watch for five seconds.
“You’re losing.”
“This bag is defective.”
“It is a bag.”
“It has chosen violence.”
You take it from her, rub the edge between your fingers, and open it easily. She stares.
“Witchcraft.”
“Experience.”
“That’s worse.”
You hold the bag while she puts apples in. The domesticity of it is stupid. Tiny. Sharp in the ribs. You, holding the bag open. Trinity choosing apples. The storm pressing against the roof. The cart slowly collecting evidence that she is allowed to want things in your house. At the end of produce, the aisle narrows near a promotional display of patriotic cupcakes. Trinity starts to move beside you, then catches herself and drops behind. You notice.Do not comment.
She says, quietly,
“Behind when narrow.”
“Good.”
Her voice is casual. Her face is not. You continue into the bread aisle. This one is worse. A stock cart blocks half the space. Someone has abandoned a basket near the bottom shelf. A woman with headphones is standing in front of the sandwich bread, completely unaware of the universe. You stop at the end of the aisle. Trinity looks from the stock cart to you.
“Can you fit?”
“Yes.”
The answer is technically true, but not without turning your chair at an angle and scraping your knuckles if you misjudge by half an inch. Her jaw works.
“Do you want me to move the basket?”
“Yes.”
She does.
No commentary.
No big dramatic “let me help you.”
She just moves the basket to the side and returns to the cart. Progress. You angle through the space.The wheel brushes the stock cart. Your hand bumps the rim and pain sparks through your knuckles. Trinity inhales. You glance back.
“Recreational glaring only.”
“I am recreationally furious.”
“Keep it in your hobbies.”
She exhales slowly. When you reach the bread, she grabs your usual loaf, then pauses.
“Sourdough?”
You look at her. She looks at the shelf. Trying very hard to seem normal. Failing in high definition.
“Do you want sourdough?”
“Yes.”
“Then get it.”
“For your apartment?”
“Our toast can have diversity.”
She goes very still. Only for half a second. Then she grabs the sourdough and puts it in the cart with the regular bread. No joke. No deflection. Just a small swallow, a pink flush at the tips of her ears, and the cart moving forward again. In the snack aisle, the store starts waking up. More people. More carts. A child crying two aisles over. A man laughing too loudly near the chips. Your head throbs. The storm pain blooms heavier through your pelvis and up your spine. You slow. Trinity notices without staring.
“You want to do pharmacy next and skip the rest?”
“We need the rest.”
“We need you not wrecked.”
“I am already wrecked.”
“More wrecked.”
You look at her. She looks back, stubborn but careful. Not ordering. Not yet. You give her the list.
“Find kettle chips. Pretzels. Dark chocolate with sea salt. Sour gummy worms. Saltines. Graham crackers.”
Her eyebrows lift.
“You trust me alone in the snack aisle?”
“No.”
“But?”
“But it will save me one loop.”
She looks at the list.
Then at you.
“Stay here?”
“I can move down the aisle.”
“Do you want to?”
You pause.
Honest answer.
“No.”
“Then stay here.”
She says it like it is simple. Like staying still is not a failure. Like making the route shorter is not surrender. You stay. Trinity goes down the aisle with the cart. You watch her. She reads labels. Gets the right chips. Grabs pretzels.
Hesitates between two dark chocolate bars, then picks both because apparently restraint died at chocolate. She finds sour gummy worms and tosses one bag in. Then, after a second, adds another. She grabs the slatines you always have, she goes for the store brand of graham crackers then looks at you, you shake your head then she grabs the name brand and you nod.
A woman tries to squeeze past you without saying excuse me, then stops when she realizes she cannot get by unless you move. You look up. She smiles tightly.
“Can I just…”
There it is. Just. The magical word people use when they want you to become furniture. Before you can respond, Trinity is back. Her voice is pleasant. Too pleasant.
“She needs the aisle too.”
The woman blinks.
“Oh. I just need to get by.”
“Then you can say excuse me and wait for a safe place, like a person.”
Your eyes close briefly.
“Trin...”
“What? Recreational.”
The woman mutters something and backs up enough for you to turn into a wider spot near the endcap. Trinity watches until she passes. Then looks at you, suddenly uncertain.
“Too much?”
“A little.”
Her face falls.
“But not wrong,” you add.
She exhales.
“I’m working on delivery.”
“Clearly.”
“I wanted to bite her.”
“I gathered.”
“She talked about you like you were a cart.”
“Yes.”
“That happens?”
You glance at her. She regrets the question immediately. Not because she does not want the answer. Because she knows it now.
“Yes.”
Trinity’s hands tighten on the cart. Then she nods once. No joke. No quick anger dumped into your lap. Just nods.
“Okay.”
In the pharmacy aisle, the lights feel brighter. Your body is tired enough that the shelves blur a little. You reach for pain patches, but they are on the second shelf and tucked too far back. You could get them. It would hurt. You would do it if you were alone. Trinity sees the calculation happen.
“Which ones?”
You point.
“Blue box.”
She grabs them.
“Two?”
“One.”
“Storm.”
You sigh.
“Two.”
She adds the second. Electrolytes, ginger chews, nausea lozenges, migraine meds. She does not flinch at the pile. That is the thing. She does not make the pile strange.No little sympathetic face. No joke to make herself comfortable. No quick glance around like someone might see. She just organizes the boxes in the cart so the bread does not crush. You watch her do it. Something in you unclenches by one careful inch.
“Thank you.”
She looks up.
“For what?”
You nod toward the cart.
“For not making it weird.”
Her expression changes. Soft. Almost offended.
“I don’t think your body is weird.”
The sentence hits too hard for fluorescent lighting. You look down at your hands. Your knuckles are reddened from the wheel. Your fingers ache. Your hip pulses with the storm.
“That’s a dangerous thing to say to me in a grocery store.”
Her mouth curves.
“Too real by the nausea meds?”
“Deeply inappropriate location.”
“Okay.”
She does not take it back. By frozen foods, the store is officially getting busier. Carts rattle. Voices stack. The rain outside turns harder, drumming on the roof. Your pain climbs with it. You stop in front of the waffles. You can see the blueberry ones through the freezer door. You also know that opening the door from this angle will pull your shoulder wrong. You stare at it for maybe two seconds too long. Trinity steps beside you.
“Blueberry?”
“Yes.”
She opens the freezer door and grabs one box. Then a second. You lift an eyebrow.
“Storm,” she says before you can object.
“That has become a very flexible argument.”
“It’s a strong brand.”
She adds frozen soup dumplings. You look at her.
“For me,” she says.
“Are they going in my freezer?”
“Our freezer is welcoming.”
She freezes the second she says it. You both do. A teenager behind you opens another freezer door with no awareness of the domestic grenade that just rolled across the aisle. Trinity looks at the dumplings. Then at you.
“I can pay for those.”
You tilt your head.
“Moja Słoneczko.”
She closes her eyes.
“Oh no.”
“You aren’t paying for anything that’s in my house.”
Her ears go red.
“Our freezer?” you ask.
She points the dumplings at you.
“Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You said it with your face.”
“My face is allowed to participate.”
“Your face is smug.”
“You like my face.”
She looks at you.
Caught.
Then says, “Unfortunately.”
You smile.
“Dumplings go in the cart.”
She puts them in. At checkout, she unloads everything. Not because you cannot. Because it is faster, and your hands are shaking now. She notices. Mel would notice. Dana would notice. Robby probably would not notice until you were already on the floor, but he would feel bad about it afterward. Trinity notices immediately.
“Hands?”
“Storm.”
“Pain?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want me to bag?”
“If you want.”
“I want.”
She says it quickly. Firmly. Then she bags with the intense concentration of someone trying to prove care can be competent. Cold with cold. Heavy at the bottom. Soft things separate. Pharmacy items in their own bag. Your safe foods together. Her canned coffee with the refrigerated things. The cashier scans the sour gummy worms and smiles faintly.
“Storm prep?”
Trinity says, “Household necessity.”
You have to look away. The total appears. $253.86. Trinity’s hand twitches toward her pocket. You catch it.
“Santos.”
She freezes.
“I was just…”
“No.”
“It’s a lot.”
“I know how much groceries cost.”
“I eat some of this.”
“You better.”
Her mouth shuts. You tap your card before she can spiral into another argument. The machine beeps. Done. Trinity looks at the bags instead of you. You let her have the privacy of pretending that did not matter. Outside, the rain is worse. Trinity leaves you under the covered part of the entrance while she brings the car closer. You want to object. You do not.
That is the bravest thing you do all morning. She pulls up, hazards blinking. The rain dots her hair when she gets out. She loads the bags first, then brings the chair close to the passenger side.
“Ready?”
“Not remotely.”
“Great. On three?”
You transfer with her steady at your elbow, the rain loud against the pavement, thunder muttering overhead like an old god with joint pain. Once you are in the car, she folds the chair and puts it in the back. Her hoodie is damp when she slides into the driver’s seat. Your hoodie, technically. Not that either of you are litigating that anymore. She sits there for a second before starting the car. You look at her.
“What?”
She shakes her head.
“Nothing.”
“You remain terrible at nothing.”
She grips the wheel.
“I didn’t know.”
“Know what?”
“How much you’re doing all the time.”
You look at the rain sliding down the windshield.
“Most people don’t.”
“I don’t mean that like pity.”
“I know.”
“I mean…” She exhales, frustrated with the shape of her own thoughts. “You make it look normal. Not easy. But normal. Like you’ve already planned for every stupid obstacle before anyone else even sees it.”
You are quiet. She glances at you.
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It is.”
Your honesty surprises both of you. Trinity’s face softens. Then hardens. Not at you. For you.
“I’m sorry.”
“You didn’t design the tomato display.”
“I might still fight it.”
“Later.”
“Okay.”
She starts the car. As she pulls away, one hand leaves the wheel briefly and lands palm-up on the console. Waiting. You look at it. Then place your hand in hers. Her fingers close around yours. Warm. Damp from rain. Steady. The grocery bags rustle softly in the back as she drives. Bread, sourdough, storm snacks, canned coffee, frozen waffles, dumplings, pain patches. All of it going back to your apartment.
Your house, your fridge, your shelves, your life, and Trinity, who had thought you were joking when you invited her, now drives through the rain like she is carrying something fragile and newly named. By the time you pull into your spot, the rain has fully committed. Not drizzle. Not the dramatic first few drops of a storm pretending it might behave. Heavy, silver, insistent, drumming over the roof of the car and turning the windshield into a sheet of moving glass. Trinity parks and keeps both hands on the wheel for a second, staring at the apartment building like she is calculating load-bearing emotional logistics.
“You stay here,” she says.
You turn your head slowly. She looks at you. Then winces.
“I heard it.”
“Good.”
“I meant, I’ll bring everything in first, then you.”
“No.”
“Okay, terrible plan. You first, then groceries.”
“No.”
Her brows pull together.
“Then what?”
“We both go in. You take the heavier bags. I take the lighter ones. We do not turn this into a hostage negotiation in a parking lot.”
“It’s pouring.”
“I noticed.”
“Your chair is going to get wet.”
“My chair has survived worse than weather.”
“You’re in pain.”
“Yes.”
“And you still want to carry groceries?”
“Trinity.”
She goes quiet. You soften your voice before the edge gets too sharp.
“I am not decorative.”
Her face changes immediately. That lands. Harder than you meant it to, maybe, but not unfairly.
“I know,” she says.
“Do you?”
She swallows.
“I’m trying to.”
You nod once.
“Then let me help.”
The rain hammers the roof.
For a second, neither of you moves.
Then Trinity exhales and unbuckles.
“Okay. Lighter bags.”
“Lighter bags.”
“No soup cans.”
“No soup cans.”
“No glass jars.”
“Santos.”
“I’m making rules because I’m nervous.”
“I noticed.”
She smiles faintly despite herself and gets out into the rain. By the time she gets your chair set up beside the car, her hair is already damp at the edges, your hoodie darkening across the shoulders. She locks the brakes, checks the footrests, then opens your door.
“Ready?”
“Not even slightly.”
“Honest. Nice.”
You transfer carefully, expecting your hip to scream the way it had in the store. It does not. Not as badly. You pause halfway into the chair, hand braced on the car door. Trinity notices instantly.
“What?”
You settle into the seat, testing your weight.
“The rain broke.”
“Yeah?”
“The pressure’s dropping. Or settled. Whatever it is.” You roll your shoulder once, then breathe out. “Less pressure in my joints.”
Her eyes move over you, cautious.
“Good less?”
“Less bad.”
“I’ll take it.”
“So will I.”
She looks relieved enough to make your chest ache. Not because you are suddenly fine. You are not. Your body is still tired from the store, from the bar last night, from the storm warning it gave you before the sky finally opened. But the sharp pressure has eased. The deep, awful packed-glass feeling in your hips has loosened by a fraction. Enough that the world feels possible again. Enough that carrying a bag of bread and gummy worms into your own apartment feels less like stupidity and more like dignity. Trinity opens the back door and starts sorting.
“Heavy,” she mutters, putting one bag aside. “Heavy. Heavy. Why did we buy soup like we’re feeding a bunker?”
“Storm.”
“I hate when you use my arguments against me.”
“Growth.”
She hands you a bag with bread, sourdough, chips, and the sea salt chocolate.
“Approved?”
You glance inside.
“No soup cans. No jars. No frozen things.”
“Look at me respecting boundaries.”
“Miraculous.”
She grabs two heavier bags, one in each hand, and closes the car door with her hip. You roll toward the covered path, rain splashing against the footrests and misting your pants. Trinity keeps pace beside you. Not in front. Not hovering behind. Beside. The bags pull at her arms, but she does not complain. The automatic entrance doors open with a soft mechanical sigh, and the lobby air hits warmer than outside, smelling faintly like wet pavement and carpet cleaner. You shake rain from your hands. Trinity glances down at the wheels.
“I’ll towel them when we get in.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
She pauses.
Then corrects herself.
“I want to.”
You look at her.
That one is better.
You let it pass.
The trip from the lobby to the apartment is easier than the store, but it still works. The hall is wide enough, the turn toward your door familiar. Your building had been another choice made with your body in mind. Wide doors. Flat thresholds. Enough room for the chair to move without every corner becoming a tiny duel.
Trinity notices that too now. You can tell. She watches the way you angle toward your door without scraping the frame. The way you shift the grocery bag to your lap before reaching for your keys. The way the entry gives you enough room to get inside without folding yourself into some impossible shape. She has been here plenty of times. She has slept in your bed. Showered in your ensuite. Stolen your hoodie from the chair by the robe. But this is different.
This is her watching the apartment work for you. Not perfectly, but intentionally.
Like the place itself knows better than to make everything harder. You unlock the door.
Inside, the apartment is dim and warm, soft gray light coming in through the balcony doors, rain streaking down the glass beyond the living room. You roll into the entry and set your bag carefully on the floor near the dining table. Trinity steps in behind you, dripping slightly.
“Shoes,” she says automatically.
You lift an eyebrow.
She points at herself.
“Mine. I was talking to me.”
“Mm.”
She kicks off her wet shoes by the door, then takes your keys from your hand and drops them into the bowl. The little ceramic sound rings through the entry. Keys in the bowl. Shoes by the door. Groceries on the floor. Rain against the balcony. The whole normal thing. Trinity looks at the bags.
“Okay. You direct. I’ll unload.”
“I will also unload.”
Her mouth opens. You stare. It closes.
“Lighter things,” she says.
“Excellent recovery.”
She takes the heavy bags to the kitchen first, setting them on the counter by the pantry and fridge. You roll after her, keeping the lighter bag in your lap.
The apartment’s open center makes it possible, the dining table just ahead, kitchen tucked to the right, living room beyond. There is enough circulation space for you to turn without bumping cabinets or asking Trinity to move every three seconds.
You set the bread on the counter yourself. Then the sourdough. Then the chips. Trinity watches you for half a beat too long.
“Santos.”
“I’m not stopping you.”
“You’re watching like I’m defusing a bomb.”
She looks down at the bread.
“Sorry.”
You soften.
“I know you’re nervous.”
“Yeah.”
“But this is the part I can do.”
She nods once.
“Okay.”
Then, after a second,
“What do you want me to do?”
That is better too.
Not assuming.
Asking.
You point toward the pantry.
“Soup cans go bottom shelf.”
“Yes.”
“Pasta next shelf.”
“Okay.”
“Electrolytes in the bin by the fridge.”
“The weird medical-looking one?”
“The storm survival bin.”
“Hot.”
“Santos.”
She grins and starts putting things away.
You handle the counter things.
Bread into the bread box.
Chocolate in the snack drawer.
Kettle chips in the pantry because if you leave them out, you will eat half the bag before dinner and pretend it was a pain-management strategy. Trinity sees where you put them.
“Coward.”
“Future me deserves protection.”
“Future you sounds boring.”
“Future me has impulse control.”
“Unproven.”
You roll your eyes and reach for the sour gummy worms. There are two bags. Of course there are. You hold one up.
“The household appears to have a gummy worm problem.”
Trinity turns from the pantry, one soup can in hand.
“The household has taste.”
“Our household?”
She freezes. Just slightly. The soup can hovers over the shelf. You wait. The rain taps steadily against the balcony glass. The fridge hums. Somewhere outside, thunder grumbles farther away now, less threatening than before. Trinity sets the soup can down. Then looks back at you.
“Our household,” she says, quieter.
This time, no correction. No panic joke. No immediate scramble for cover. Your chest warms. Dangerous. You look away first, because apparently you can sing at your ex-wife in a bar but cannot survive two words in your kitchen.
“Gummy worms go in the snack drawer.”
“Yes, doctor.”
“You’re doing that on purpose.”
“Always.”
She puts the rest of the pantry items away while you handle the fridge. Canned coffee goes on the shelf beside your electrolyte drinks. Not hidden or shoved into the back like it is temporary. Right there. Visible. Trinity comes over and sees it. Stops. You keep arranging yogurt.
“Problem?”
“No.”
“You’re staring at the coffee.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
She reaches out and touches one can with the tips of her fingers. Just a light tap. Like checking if it is real.
“You put it next to your stuff.”
“It is stuff.”
“My stuff.”
“In my fridge.”
She glances at you.
You do not look away.
“In your fridge,” she says.
You shrug.
“That’s where cold things go.”
Her mouth twists.
“You are so annoying.”
“I’ve been told.”
She takes the frozen bags next. Waffles. Dumplings. Ready made meals.
You roll toward the freezer to help, but she stops and looks at you before saying anything. You notice the effort. The whole little battle against her own instinct.
“Do you want to put some away?” she asks.
“Yes.”
She hands you the waffles. Not the heaviest thing. Not nothing. A middle choice. You take them and open the freezer. Cold air spills over your hands. You slide the waffles into place, both boxes, then make room for her dumplings. Trinity steps in beside you, close enough that her shoulder brushes yours.
“Dumplings?”
“Our freezer is welcoming,” you say.
She makes a wounded little noise.
“You remembered.”
“You said it.”
“I say a lot of things.”
“Unfortunately.”
She puts the dumplings in and closes the freezer door. For a moment, you are both quiet. The kitchen is half-unpacked now. Bags crumpled on the counter. Rain on the balcony. Your chair angled between the dining table and pantry, exactly enough room to turn. Trinity standing in your kitchen in your damp hoodie, hair curling at the edges from the rain, her canned coffee in your fridge, her snacks in your drawer, her dumplings in your freezer. The whole normal thing. It should feel too big. It does.
The rain has taken some of the pressure out of your joints, and maybe that is not the only place pressure has eased. You reach for the last bag on the floor. Trinity beats you to it, then stops herself halfway. You lift an eyebrow. She hands it to you instead.
“Light.”
You check. Crackers, ginger tea, nausea lozenges, migraine meds.
“Approved.”
She smiles, proud and sheepish at once. You put the crackers in the pantry. She puts the ginger tea on the little shelf by the kettle because she has noticed where you reach when nausea hits. Neither of you says that. You both know. By the time the groceries are away, your energy is thinning. Not gone. Thinning.
Your body has given you a little grace now that the rain has broken, but it is still keeping receipts. You back your chair toward the dining table and lean forward, elbows on your knees for a second. Trinity notices from the sink, where she is folding the reusable bags.
“You done?”
You inhale.
“Almost.”
“That means yes.”
“It means almost.”
She dries her hands and comes over, stopping beside you.
“Water?”
“Yes.”
“Pain patch?”
“Probably.”
“Heating pad?”
“Definitely.”
“Toast?”
You look up. She looks almost nervous asking. Like toast means more now that there is sourdough on the counter and both of you know who it belongs to. You nod.
“With our bread?”
Her face goes soft. Ridiculously soft.
“Yeah,” she says. “With our bread.”
You huff.
“You are very easy.”
“I am not.”
“You are when carbs are emotionally significant.”
She points at you.
“You bought two kinds of bread and called it toast diversity.”
“Accurate clinical language.”
“Psychiatrists are a scam.”
“Why do you think I make so much?”
She smirks as she turns toward the counter and starts making toast. Your toast. Her toast. Regular bread for you because your stomach is fussy. Sourdough for her because she likes it and now apparently your kitchen knows that. You sit at the dining table while she works, watching rain slide down the balcony doors beyond the living room. Your hip still aches. Your spine still hums. Your hands are still tired, but the storm has shifted from threat to weather. From pressure to release. Trinity sets a plate in front of you. Toast. Peanut butter. A few strawberries sliced messily on the side.
“Chef Santos,” you say.
“Do not mock my plating.”
“Your strawberries look panicked.”
“They were cut under emotional conditions.”
She sits beside you with her sourdough toast and a canned coffee. Her canned coffee. She cracks it open, takes a sip, and sighs like it has restored several organ systems. You stare.
“That stuff is horrifying.”
“It’s delicious.”
“It smells like a battery that went to business school.”
She nearly chokes. You smile into your water. For a while, the two of you eat in comfortable quiet. The rain keeps coming down. The apartment holds around you. Everything where it should be. Everything easier than it used to be in other places. Trinity looks around slowly, like she is only now seeing all of it together. Not just your apartment. Your access. Your patterns. Your life. Then she looks at you.
“You did more than I thought you’d be able to.”
You pause.
Her face immediately panics.
“Not like that. I didn’t mean…”
“I know what you meant.”
She closes her mouth.
You take a sip of water.
“The rain helped.”
“Less pressure?”
“Yes.”
“And you wanted to do it.”
“Yes.”
She nods slowly.
“I think I need to learn the difference between helping and stealing things from you.”
You look at her.
“My gummy worms?”
“My independence.”
The honesty in it makes the room go quiet.
You set your glass down.
“That is a very good distinction.”
She looks at her toast.
“I’m going to mess it up.”
“Yes.”
Her head snaps up.
You shrug.
“So will I. I’m going to snap when you’re only trying to help. You’re going to hover when you’re scared. I’m going to say I’m fine when I am objectively not. You’re going to offer to carry seventeen bags and call it efficient.”
“I could carry seventeen bags.”
“I know, Atlas.”
She smiles faintly.
You soften.
“We learn.”
Her eyes search yours.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Rain runs down the glass. The kitchen smells like toast and coffee and wet pavement. Your body still hurts, but less sharply now. There is less pressure in your joints. Less pressure in the room. Less pressure in the space between what this is and what neither of you has called it yet. Trinity reaches under the table. Palm up. Waiting. You put your hand in hers. She squeezes once. Then goes back to eating her toast like she did not just fit herself into another corner of your life. The groceries are put away.
The storm is here and so is she.
